The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  Dunstan tugged on the lines. How his muscles ached.

  “You have need of anything else?” Shakespeare asked. “Dry hose, perhaps?”

  Though Dunstan’s were soaked, he answered, “Mine are dry enough.”

  Shakespeare asked, “Where is your brother?”

  “Opposite side.” Dunstan’s voice was hoarse from screaming, raw from the blow of cold wind. “At the stern, near the companionway, manning the boom gallows.”

  “I’ll see if I can be of service to him. There shall we continue our discussion of the merits and detriments of pistols.”

  Dunstan smiled, then grew serious. “How fares Becca?” he asked. “Does she talk with you much?”

  “She’s stingy with her words, altogether miserly with her thoughts.” Shakespeare hesitated, then said, “I fear she is as unstable as the water upon which we sail. May God keep her strong.”

  “And safe and warm.”

  “Amen,” answered Shakespeare.

  The men bowed their heads piously, then eyed each other. The two of them, alone, battling the vagaries of the enemy Neptune, each one dependent on the other for survival. An alliance at last? Slowly, they smiled at one another.

  Self-righteous bastard, thought Dunstan.

  Machiavellian prick, thought Shakespeare.

  Chapter 36

  Rebecca’s eyes opened suddenly. She was awakened not by sound nor touch nor bad dreams, but by an intangible aura that told her something of significance was about to occur.

  She’d been resting at the rear of the ship, her back against a pile of nets, a bag full of clothes resting in her lap. Her face felt numb, her fingers stiff. Since she was alone, she slipped out of her punk costume and dressed in mariner’s garb. Though chilled, the clothes were roomy and dry, thanks be to God. She double-gloved her hands, wrapped a cloak and two blankets around her shoulders, and attempted to stand. It was a balancing act accomplished in pitch black. Every time she tried to upright herself, the boat would rock and she’d fall down—a terrible feeling to be unable to walk. She crawled about on hands and knees, her fingers scratching at the wet deck like a cat without claws, her eyes incapable of penetrating the shroud of icy darkness. Needing help, Rebecca almost called out for Shakespeare. Then she remembered: no real names, nothing that could link them with the pirating of the boat. She shouted out “Arden,” Shakespeare’s mother’s maiden name, and waited for him to respond. After a minute which seemed like an hour, she heard approaching footsteps.

  “Annie!” answered a voice. It was Dunstan’s.

  “Aye,” said Rebecca, on her knees. “I need help standing afoot.”

  “I’m coming.”

  “Where’s Arden?” she yelled, trying to be heard over the tide.

  “Wait a moment,” Dunstan said.

  A few feet beyond her eyes Rebecca could make out Dunstan’s figure, his profile and extended hand. She reached out and he pulled her upward. The boat reeled portside and she careened into Dunstan’s chest. He embraced her tightly.

  Dunstan said, “Gods, you’re warm and dry.”

  “And you’re wet,” Rebecca said, squirming in his grip.

  Dunstan released her. “Sorry,” he said.

  She could see her cousin clearly now. His teeth were chattering. Salty spray had frozen to slivers of ice that coated his mustache. Rebecca held his face, brought his cheek to her mouth and kissed him softly. For a moment her warm lips stuck to his skin.

  “Take a blanket, Dunstan,” Rebecca said. “I have two.”

  Dunstan shook his head. “The blanket is dry. Save it for necessity.”

  “Did you bring a change of clothes amongst your provisions?”

  Dunstan nodded. “Several sets.”

  “You must get out of these—”

  Dunstan brought his fingers to her lips. “Worry not about me. Just keep yourself warm, eh?”

  “Where’s Shakespeare?”

  “Watching Krabbey steer the ship.” His voice had become harsh. Rebecca ignored his tone.

  “Anything new?”

  “Krabbey claimed he smells something.”

  “What means that?” asked Rebecca.

  “I don’t know. I don’t speak to the man directly,” Dunstan said. “Tommy and I are hidden from the churl’s eyes. Shakespeare says that Krabbey insists he smells something in the air—the Spanish ship.”

  Rebecca nodded in agreement. “I smell it as well. The stink of the Spanish jolted me awake.”

  Dunstan said, “All I smell is rotting fish.”

  The boat swayed upward and the sea threw handfuls of water onto their clothing.

  “I must get back to my position afore this whole craft is capsized,” Dunstan said. “I’ll help you walk to Shakespeare if that’s what you desire.”

  Rebecca was seized with sudden fright, instantly aware of the peril that faced them—a gnawing, raw horror that Miguel had braved and overcome for the sake of their trapped brethren. What was Miguel feeling now? Was he as frightened as she? Was he even alive? And Raphael. What thoughts had filled his head as death bore down upon him? With effort she emptied her mind of horrible images and regarded her trembling cousin. He had not the skill of the fence as Thomas did, nor the bravery of Shakespeare. He was just a man—a man with faults, aye—but nonetheless he knew the animal of fear as she did and was ready to fight it. She hugged Dunstan with an intensity he’d never felt before. He returned her embrace, knowing the reason behind it.

  “Don’t worry, Becca,” he said softly. “My life has been good.”

  “Watch well your moves, Dunstan,” she said.

  Dunstan pulled a gleaming firearm out from his cloak. “I shall.”

  “Where did you find the pistol?” Rebecca asked, dropping her arms to her sides.

  “Krabbey had a half dozen lying around the hatch. Better booty than fish, eh? It would be a sin to let them go to waste.”

  “You know nothing of firearms, Dunstan. You’ve never battled in war.”

  “I’ll ’prentice on the job,” he answered tightly. “I need a service from you.”

  “Speak.”

  “The gunpowder is wet. All three of us have been too occupied to find a way to dry it out—”

  “I’ll take care of it. Where are the boxes?”

  “Shakespeare’s hidden them somewhere,” Dunstan said.

  “Then take me to him, to Krabbey as well.”

  “Aye,” answered Dunstan. “Let’s go smell a galleon.”

  “Who is this pissant cuss?” Krabbey said when he saw Rebecca dressed as a man. The captain broke into laughter. “A lad to make merry with when the wench is too busy fucking others?”

  Shakespeare said nothing.

  “I could use a little making merry,” said Krabbey, straining the leather straps that bound his wrists and ankles. “If I can’t have the whore, how about the lad?”

  Shakespeare said, “Leave your prick in peace and concentrate on finding the galleon.”

  Rebecca was propelled forward by a sudden wave and tumbled to her knees. Shakespeare helped her up and she grabbed the masthead for support. Bringing her mouth to Shakespeare’s ear, she asked him about the gunpowder. He whispered back its location.

  “Are you able to walk there without help?” he asked.

  “I’ll help the lad,” said Krabbey. “All he has to do is bend over and I’ll help him but good.” The captain let out an evil laugh. “’Course when I’m done helping him, he won’t be able to walk too good.”

  Shakespeare said, “Your tongue holds more muck than the jakes of Paris.”

  “Piss off,” Krabbey said. He made kissing noises to Rebecca. “Come here, lad, and I’ll show you what it’s like to be a boy on the high seas.”

  Rebecca ignored him. Her eyes turned to the sea as the captain continued swearing. Then she saw it and gasped.

  The galleon grew out of the shimmering fog and displaced the sea—the most awesome craft she’d ever witnessed. A thousand tons of ship with
a mast that reached the moon. It held three open decks, two tiers of guns on the lower decks and a third tier on her half deck and forecastle. There must have been two or three decks below as well. Muzzles peeked out from every porthole and above the ramparts like pins in a cushion. Sheet upon sheet of billowy sail blocked out the sky. Scores of oars pushed away the sea, moving the hulk forward. It was impossible to make out each crew member, but there had to be hundreds of men aboard.

  “Holy Mother of God!” Krabbey cried, open-mouthed.

  Shakespeare felt a sudden sharp pain in his lungs. His knees began to shake. He turned to Krabbey and said, “You did your toil well, Captain. May God grant us the strength to do our job with equal skill.”

  Quickly, Shakespeare slipped the blindfold over Krabbey’s eyes. He said to Rebecca, “Get your cousins. I need help in bringing this corpulent body to the hatch.”

  Rebecca did as told then sat under the mainsail of the ship to dry the gunpowder. She threw a tarp over her head and prayed it would prevent dampness from seeping in and frustrating her efforts. The tinder was mercifully dry, the spark of the flint rock strong. It was skillful business. The warmth of the flame was needed to dry the powder, but too much heat would cause an explosion. Still, it was her duty to perform her task well, and she knew she would succeed.

  All three men were needed to lift Krabbey into the hatch. The captain kicked, spat, and let out inarticulate curses muffled by the gag in his mouth. With Krabbey safely locked away, the men immediately put their plan into action. The English flag was lowered, the Spanish flag raised upon the Good Bounty masthead. Dunstan tore open their bags and handed out the clothes of the Spanish seafarers. Quickly, they began to dress.

  Dunstan said to Shakespeare, “Remember! You’re not to utter a sound, having had your vocal cords severed in battle.”

  Shakespeare nodded and showed Dunstan the scar about his neck—a self-inflicted scratch. He hoped it looked convincing.

  Thomas pulled up knee-high breeches and said, “Well done, Shakespeare. I like how you did all those little nicks. As if you were sliced by a careless hand.”

  “I was,” Shakespeare said. “My own. I’m not very steady without a looking glass.”

  Dunstan said, “Looks all the more genuine that way.”

  Shakespeare wrapped his neck in a dirty scarf. He said, “You’re certain you’re familiar with the Spanish language—”

  “Fluent,” Dunstan said.

  “Fluent enough to fool a native?” asked Shakespeare.

  “Spanish and Portuguese are our native tongues,” Thomas said. “The languages are the least of our troubles.”

  Dunstan threw on a jerkin. He was the first one completely dressed. He said, “Very quickly, let me summarize our plan. The names—I am Domingo, Thomas is Tomas, and Shakespeare is Guillermo. Best it is to keep them as close to our real forenames as possible. We are three brothers, Spanish mariners who—thanks be to the Almighty—escaped from the fierce hands of the English devils. We battled bravely, but alas, our carrack was split and sunk by enemy fire. All we were able to keep from our boat was the Spanish flag.” He rubbed his gloved hands together rapidly. “What next? What next?”

  “Calm,” Thomas said, checking his rapier. He slid it back into its hilt.

  Dunstan continued their story: “We were incarcerated by the English Drake—el Draque—but blessed Jesu showed us mercy and we escaped from the foul Isle in a fishing boat.”

  Thomas said, “You speak to the enemy first, Dunstan. You’re the oldest and look the part.”

  Dunstan frowned but held his tongue. No sense in vanity at a time as this. He muttered, “Where is Becca with the dry powder?”

  Thomas sneered, “You’re not really going to use…guns, are you?”

  “Aye,” Dunstan said. “We need as much protection as God and man can give us. Regard the size of that vessel, brother…. Dear God…”

  Dunstan began praying in a language Shakespeare didn’t recognize. Then he remembered. They were Jews, they spoke to their God in Hebrew. Shakespeare began to say a few prayers of his own. Five minutes later he pulled a pistol from his breeches, offered it to Thomas and said,

  “Take the pistol, Thomas. Dunstan is right. You cannot be overarmed.”

  Thomas stared at the thick slab of metal, the arced barrel. He shook his head. “Twill weigh down my breeches.”

  “Take it,” Dunstan ordered. “As your older brother I am responsible for your welfare—”

  Thomas waved him off and took the pistol. “Anything is better than hearing your lectures.”

  “There’s Becca,” Shakespeare said. He staggered over to her, grabbed her hand and walked her to the others.

  Rebecca said, “I could only dry a small amount of powder on such short notice.”

  “Whatever you have is more than we had before,” Shakespeare said.

  The boat lurched forward.

  “God’s blood!” she swore. “Doesn’t the sea ever tire of kicking its heels?”

  “The winds are not nearly as strong as they were an hour ago,” Thomas remarked. “I can speak without shouting.”

  “Give me what you have, Becca,” ordered Dunstan. “We must get to our station or the boat will sink.” He looked ahead at the approaching galleon. “Marry, what was an armed ship—flying the Spanish flag—doing in England’s port?”

  Thomas said, “It flew the Italian flag while docked in Dover. Or so they told me.”

  Dunstan said, “Well, now she flies the Spanish flag—the two-faced fiends!” He turned to Rebecca. “The powder, mistress.”

  Rebecca handed them each a small packet. “I’ve oiled the leather. It should prevent moisture from seeping inside the pouch.”

  “We’re best off loading the guns now,” Dunstan said.

  “And risk shooting off my ballocks?” Thomas said. “Go ahead, brother. I’ll wait.”

  Dunstan thought a moment, then stowed the powder in his jerkin. “I’ll wait as well. No sense being intemperate.”

  Shakespeare filled a pistol with gunpowder and gave it, as well as a dagger, to Rebecca. He said, “Watch well the captain. And don’t believe a word the cur tells you. Whatever you do, do not free him unless we tarry so long you have no other option.”

  “You’ll need the pistol more than I,” Rebecca said.

  “I have one in my breeches, Becca,” Shakespeare said. He clasped her hands with his. “A kiss for luck, wench.”

  Rebecca threw her arms around Shakespeare and kissed him passionately. Dunstan turned his head aside. Strange it was to feel monstrously jealous at this moment, but he couldn’t help himself. Rebecca broke away from Shakespeare’s lips, quickly kissed her cousins on the cheek. She stared at the men for a moment, standing at the tip of the boat, their tattered clothing flapping in the wind. Shakespeare waved his hand in the air.

  “Go before they see you,” he shouted to Rebecca.

  She nodded, crawled inside the hatch with Krabbey and shut the door. She could smell his foul breath, yet the presence of another was somehow comforting. She rested against the slimy walls and closed her eyes in prayer. She heard Thomas yell for the men to take their positions.

  “Cut to the starboard side, next to the forecastle,” Thomas ordered as he pulled the riggings portside. The boat began to sail toward the galleon—a flea attacking the bear. The Bounty rocked and swayed, but swiftly floated to its desired position. A few minutes later, shouting could be heard from the massive ship. Faces began to form—hundreds of them, staring over the ramparts.

  “Help me drop anchor,” Thomas commanded his brother in Spanish. A minute later the boat lurched forward, strained against the pull of the waves.

  A voice from the galleon yelled, “Amico o nemico?” Friend or enemy?

  Dunstan approached the side of the boat. His throat was dry, his hands shook. Never had he felt such fear, but never had he such an opportunity to overcome it.

  “Amico o nemico?” the voice asked again.


  Still trembling, Dunstan wondered if he should continue the conversation in Italian or switch to Spanish?

  The voice screamed a third time. “Amico o nemico? Rispondi ad alta voce o rischi di perdere la testa!”

  “Come on, Dunstan,” Thomas whispered to himself. He and Shakespeare were crouching behind the boom, hidden by the mainsail. “For once, darken your damn liver.”

  Finally Dunstan stammered out, “Hablo Español.”

  “Che?”

  “Hablo Español,” Dunstan screamed at last. Relief it was to find his vocal cords! He crossed himself and screamed out praises in Spanish to the Almighty for redemption.

  There was a conference on the ship. Dunstan waited, his heart beating swiftly and strongly, filling his body with its frantic rhythm.

  A voice yelled from the galleon, “Amigo o enemigo?”

  Dunstan shouted back, “Nosotros elevamos la bandera del Rey, de La Majestad!”

  “Quien es usted?” demanded the voice.

  Dunstan shouted, “El marinero de la flota de La Majestad, atacan a los malignos Ingleses de mal corazon—el Draque. Nosotros manejamos el bote robado y escapamos. Pero antes no turimos en nuestras manos la bandera Espanola.”

  “Como se llamo el buque?”

  “Que?” asked Dunstan, not hearing the question.

  “El nombre del buque en el cual navegaron?” asked the voice.

  The name of the Spanish boat upon which they had sailed? Invent one, dolt. Just keep talking.

  “La Santa Catalina.”

  “Y como es el nombre del bote Ingles?”

  Dunstan’s thoughts raced. The English boat that grappled and boarded them…He said, “The High Adventure.”

  Shakespeare noted that Dunstan spoke the English name in a perfect Spanish accent. A good player he was.

  The voice asked Dunstan, “Como se llama? Como se llaman vuestra tripulacion?”

  “Rodriguez,” Dunstan answered back. “Somos tres hermanos. Me llamo Domingo….” He wildly waved the othersto come to him. “Aqui estan mis hermanos. Se llaman Tomas y Guillermo.” The trio of “brothers” stood side by side, looking upward to the ship. They could hear rumblings above. The minutes moved slowly. Finally Dunstan whispered,