Four days later they sighted land, and to George’s amazement it proved to be New Providence.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE LIGHT from the fires were angry, a strident red. It made the bay a blanket of rubies, and pressed upon the hillside a net of inexorable crimson. Though the air that frilled the surface of the bay could scarcely be called even a breeze, on the beach it was different. There the fires swung and swayed, their flames erratically rocking, while the sparks that streamed out of them were a riotous rollicking crowd, now here, now over there. Perhaps the reason for this was the movement of the pirates, who never were still but lurched or danced about the fires, with the frenzy of men obsessed, demons.
In truth there was something infernal about that scene. The shadows of the revelers were black, and they were monstrous. They soared and swooped, flapping their arms, making fantastical motions. The sparks sped skyward, wavering, wobbling, as though they were terrified, as well they might be. It was macabre
So bright was the surface that to George it seemed almost unbelievable that he would not be spotted. But—after all, who cared to scan the bay on a night like this? At most somebody might now and then have tossed a glance toward the John and Elizabeth, not two hundred yards from the place of the party. And George, anticipating this, had swum a roundabout course. His head, if seen, might have been taken for a floating coconut, the butt of a log, even a bottle.
Because of this circuitous approach, and also because he swam slowly, never getting his arms above the surface lest he splash, it took him four times as long to reach the sloop as ordinarily it might have done. This was all right. There were four separate fires, four separate groups, on the beach. Even the king would not be immediately missed. For some time it would be supposed by each group that he was with one of the other groups.
Meanwhile, the more drunk the pirates got the slower would be their reaction when at last the truth did dawn upon them.
John and Elizabeth was anchored only by the bow, and by great good fortune she had swung around in such a manner that the starboard side, the side the Moses was on, was away from the shore. George swam to that side.
The women were the only persons aboard of John and Elizabeth. It would hardly be advisable to have them on the scene of the brawl. On the other hand, if anything should go wrong on the sloop—if she started to drag her anchor, for instance—they could not be expected to make themselves heard at that distance above the cacophony of the shore; so the Moses-boat had been left to them, launched in advance.
The smaller tender was tied to the base of a Jacob’s ladder, and the oars were in it.
George climbed carefully. On the deck he was like a cat. He waited until his breeches, the only article of clothing he wore, had ceased to drip.
He regarded the shore. The figures—they must have been madmen—jigged and darted against the light of the fires. The water gleamed like blood.
Though George had studied the sloop from the beach, and was sure that no detail aboard of her could be made out, he could not escape the conviction that he was bathed in light. When he did move it was very slowly.
At last he went to the door of the after-cabin. This night, blessedly, was comfortable. The women, if they wished, could sleep. Did they? He was certain that one at least lay awake, listening for the signal.
Without having entered the companionway, he scratched lightly on the door. Then he backed to the other side of the waist, where in the shadow of the bulkhead he waited.
As a gesture of goodwill—or so he said—he had left his weapons behind him when they all went to the beach to celebrate in advance the attack they’d soon make on Fort Nassau. It would have been churlish, especially in view of the fact that he himself had proposed this party, to carry that which they regarded as the symbol of his power. Generally, indeed, the pirates were leaving their weapons behind them tonight. After all, they could not be surprised. Cayo Jorobado was their own.
Their landfall of the previous day had not in truth been New Providence, as they first supposed, but at least it was one of the Bahamas. It was Watling’s Island, the same that had been Christopher Columbus’s first landfall two hundred and twenty-seven years before. Watling’s was not presently inhabited, nor had they sighted any sail, so they could assume that they hadn’t been seen. From there it would be easy to find their way to New Providence, to Nassau. They could simply feel their way from key to key.
Jorobado was not far off, hardly more than a few miles out of their way, and it was George who suggested that they put up for a few days, to examine the condition of the place, to ascertain if any of the other Brethren of the Coast had lately been there, to make a final refitting, and of course to get drunk. His real purpose had been merely to gain time.
The others, cheering, had agreed. There had not been a single vote against it.
Nor had there been any vote in opposition to an assault on Fort Nassau. This wasn’t even put before the council. It was taken for granted. George himself had been too canny to speak.
When Delicia Rogers appeared from the after-cabin companionway his heart quopped softly. The Angel, truly! She was so beautiful!
She was carrying something in her arms. That was how he had first seen her—carrying something. Then it had been flowers and fruit for the condemned men. Now it was the cavalry saber that belonged to her uncle, the rapier from the galleon, and certain personal articles of her own, not many. Over her shoulders she wore a taffeta traveling cape. It was dun-colored, which was good. Nor was there anything else about her that would have snared a glance—no lace, no jewelry, nothing that would shine or rustle.
She did not carry his pistols. He had told her not to. The pistols were large, they were heavy, and when they worked they were most deplorably loud. The swords would serve. And he had his knife.
She didn’t pause on the threshold but came straight to George. She dropped him a mock curtsey and handed him the steel. He grinned at her, nodding approval. Neither said a word. Immensely proud of her for her coolness, wishing he could kiss her, George staidly slipped a hand under her arm and led her to the head of the Jacob’s ladder.
This was at the waist, and the John and Elizabeth was a low craft, so as Delicia stood in the boat and reached up he easily handed her the goods she had brought. The rapier he had strapped on, and the saber, against the chance of a noisy slip, he held between his teeth. It was an old pirate practice when boarding—to hold a sword between one’s teeth. George however was not going at an enemy but away from one. But he was not ashamed. He didn’t have to be.
In the boat he turned from the painter, meaning to set up the oars first. Delicia was motionless in the sternsheets, upright, even rigid. Yet he knew he could trust her. The courage of that girl! He gave her a friendly nod as he worked out the oars. Then he gasped.
There were no tholepins.
He looked at Delicia. This was the shadowed side of the sloop and there was no moon, but he believed that she was too taut, too near panic, to miss the tholes, without which he couldn’t row. He was sure that those pins had been there when the Moses was launched.
He leaned very close to her. His voice might have been a wisp of smoke.
“You’re sure she’s asleep?”
Looking right at him—their eyes were only a few inches apart—Delicia nodded.
George considered.
A tholepin after all was nothing but a small cylinder of wood. It could be improvised—jury-rigged, as the seamen would say. He had his knife. Once they were safely away, out of the bay, in the open waters—provided there had been no alarm—he could take the time to hack a couple of chunks out of the thwarts and whittle these into tholes good enough for a trip to New Providence. It was not what he would have wished, but it was better than going back aboard the sloop. Meanwhile, with an oar each, they could paddle. Everything depended upon speed and silence
He handed her an oar. She looked bewildered, but she took it. He took the other oar, and turned to make loose the
painter.
It was then that he saw Anne Bonney. She had a slim head, and though he couldn’t see her face he knew that she had never looked better. She had assurance now. She didn’t squirm or pout. Even here there was enough of the light from the fires to outline the whole upper part of her body above the gunnels, and outline too the pistol she held.
It was one of George’s pistols.
She gave a small, almost a loving giggle. She cocked the gun.
At that instant, like a fiend emerging from the depths, Jack Rackham appeared by her side. He held the other pistol.
“Were you going somewhere?” he asked.
Upright, holding an oar, George regarded the pistols. He knew them well, Brass-barreled, with ivory ball-butts, they were veiy large, very heavy, and could carry a tremendous charge of powder and a ball the size of the end of your thumb. They had been given to him on his accession to the throne, and as much as the Spanish saber were part of the apparatus of his sovereignty. It was ironical that they should be turned against him.
The muzzles, looking as big as cannons, were no more than six feet from his face. He could not have reached them with his hands. He might have reached them with his rapier—but to draw meant death.
George never left those pistols loaded. When loaded they were dangerous things even to touch. They might go off at any instant—or might not go off at all, even when fired.
Since they were held a little above the level of his eyes George could not see whether there was powder in the pans. Yet he had no doubt that they were loaded. Anne Bonney would have seen to that.
At this distance, if even one of them worked it would all but rip his head off.
The water between boat and sloop clucked pleasantly. From the shore came a burst of song.
George nodded knowingly He felt no fear for the need to concentrate upon their present problem left him no time for nerves. He kept his poise. If he didn’t know what he was about to do next, at least he looked as if he did. He was not unfamiliar with such situations. In a courtroom, fazed, habitually he would stand motionless, a very picture of promise, while his mind whirled with possibilities and his will was beset by doubts he wouldn’t show. Until he had made his decision as to which way to jump, he could always present the appearance of a man whose next step would be so sure, so crushingly right, an answer to all questions, that out of respect for those who watched him he purposely paused, giving them a chance to prepare themselves for pulverization.
Though they may deny it, and indignantly, there is at least a touch of the actor in every barrister who’s worth his salt.
At last, after fully half a minute, George gravely inclined his head. He was careful not to let any other part of himself move.
“My felicitations,” he murmumred. “You have brought it off extremely well.”
Rackham too was wet, and like George he was bare down to the waist. Droplets of water on his shoulders and along the top of his forearms glittered red in the light of the faraway fires behind him, and his hair was a sopped, close-fitting toque.
But the pistols were dry.
Rackham opened his mouth, and George spoke swiftly, purposing to keep the man off his verbal balance.
“There is one thing you forgot. The lady and I are married. What could be more natural than for a new husband to swim out to his wife?”
Anne said harshly: “I’m here.”
“Asleep. And nobody on deck. What an opportunity! Romance can cover a multitude of sins—if they’re small enough ”
He did not dare turn his head to look at Delicia, just as he didn’t dare to move his hands, in both of which he held the oar awkwardly, like a man about to cast a fishnet.
Rackham’s face was not hard to read. Despite the shadow, despite lingering bruises, and cuts even yet not healed, the face told of ambition. Rackham’s pride had been stabbed, and he wasn’t likely to forget it. He might hate George Rounsivel. He might in a queer perverted way love Anne Bonney. But most of his thoughts were concerned with his own position, his power. He had been upon that throne for so short a time! He would get back.
‘If I am not here,” George started, meaning that if he were permitted to escape, “the council would elect you again.”
“Yes,” said Calico Jack. “And that’s just why I am going to kill you.”
He cocked the pistol.
George carefully cleared his throat, for he wished to be sure that he could speak.
“That won’t do you any good,” he said at last.
“It won’t do you any good either,” Rackham pointed out.
George forced his lips to spread into a small grin of acknowledgement. He gave the tiniest possible bow, as though before superior intelligence.
“Yet if you’ll consider that—”
Ducking his head, he swung the oar. It caught Rackham off guard, knocking the pistol out of his hand so that it plopped into the bay. Anne had a split-second longer, and she used it to step back out of reach of the oar, pulling the trigger as she did so.
There was a blue-purple flare above the pan, and a hiss, but there was no explosion.
Anne did not lose her presence of mind. She fell to one knee, behind the gunnel where George couldn’t reach her with that oar, and she recocked the gun and began to bank it in such a way as to force more powder out of the touch-hole and into the pan. Rackham, his own pistol gone, knelt by her side.
George pushed against the side of the sloop with the oar, meaning to get clearance for the Moses. He had forgotten the painter, and his movement, when the boat was yanked back, all but pitched him over the side.
He whipped out the knife and cut them free. He started to paddle. He could hear Delicia doing the same.
After half-a-dozen strong strokes they could exhale, though they didn’t pause in their paddling. The pistol Anne Bonney held couldn’t throw a bullet more than fifty or sixty feet.
Yet if they didn’t fear a ball they did fear a shot. Even the din of those on the beach would be punctured by such a sound. And the longboat would be launched. Delicia and George alone, clumsily paddling, could not hope to keep ahead of the longboat.
But there was no shot.
When they had slipped through the pass and turned the nose of the Moses toward New Providence, beyond the horizon, they relaxed a little.
They drifted, panting.
“So he thought better of it.” George mused. “I wonder why.”
“I think,” whispered Delicia, “that we haven’t heard the last of that man.”
“My dear,” said George, “I think you’re right.”
He turned, and put a hand on her knee.
“You were wonderful,” he said.
Her oar lay across the thwarts, and she was fussing with something in her lap, a small bundle of personal belongings Her hands trembled.
“Thank you,” she said as calmly as she could.
The tholepins could wait. Distance first. He picked up his oar, noting as he did so that his own hands were not as steady as they had been a few minutes ago.
“With luck,” he predicted, “we’ll make it before the sun gets high.”
CHAPTER XIX
THE FINGERTIPS were most marvelously discreet. This might have been a woman. It was instead a small girlish man named Aki, the governor’s own body-servant, picked up in God knew what remote Pacific island. He was dainty but thorough. Nor was he garrulous, as masseurs, wigmakers, tailors, and such so often were; this was as well, since nobody but his own master could make anything out of what Aki supposed to be English.
The oil he smeared on George’s shoulders and neck and back smelled like coconuts, though not as sweet. He used plenty of it.
They had not made New Providence before the sun got high, or even before noon, and despite an earlier lesson George had embarked upon that perilous voyage without covering for either head or torso. Delicia, using an inner petticoat she had drawn forth without embarrassment or giggle, using also needle-and-thread and a pair of sewing
scissors she produced from nowhere, had manufactured for him a couple of garments calculated to cover the exposed spots. But these were not fully effective, and he seethed in many places, when at last they stepped ashore.
Delicia herself had survived much better. What with her cape and a linen peaked cap she fished from out of its folds, she had kept her skin unscorched. Her eyes had been bright, and her manner light And this morning she remained that way, a bird for movement, as George could see when by moving his head a trifle he looked down upon the courtyard of Fort Nassau.
She was crossing that court. She wore a pert small lace cap, and her hoop-petticoat swung saucily on either side. She carried something in her arms, a familiar position; she was again taking something to somebody.
Forgetting Aki, the only other person in the governor’s tower chamber, George scowled when he saw Thomas Robinson step out from under an archway and salute her with a bow. She responded with a conventional curtsey, a bob, abrupt.
George could not hear what they said, and wouldn’t have cared, but it was clear that Robinson, who no doubt already had congratulated her on her escape, now did nothing more than offer, somewhat elaborately, to relieve her of her burden. She refused. Unchagrined, he fell into step beside her.
That was the least she could do, as the niece of the governor, when she met in so public a place the captain of the guard. All the same, George scowled. He watched them until they had passed from sight.
There was a step, and George rolled his head the other way in time to see Woodes Rogers enter the room.
His Excellency looked much as he had, in this same chamber, how long ago—two months? ten years? Tall, broad of shoulder, a majestic unfaltering figure, when he walked, he limped, and when he spoke it was in a thin, preternaturally high voice.
“You may go, Aki. If you’re through? Yes.”
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