by Andre Norton
“Vhy ve do zis?” asked Roder. “Tie de fellow up und flog it out o’ him!”
“With the baser sort that would be the solution, aye.” Cheap nodded. “But this is a fish of a different school. He would die before he would give us any satisfaction, being of the type who will let themselves be battered into pulp before they will open their cursed mouths. But sometimes they can be won by more subtle means. He already has hopes of gaining your sympathy, brat, since your play-acting with the water by the hatch—Aye, you may squirm at my knowing that. Roder told me. But as it works well with my present desires we shall say no more about it. Only try not to outwit me again, you meal-worm! Go now about your good Samaritan tricks and report to me directly when you learn aught of value.”
So dismissed Scarface went to the galley where he dug out of a pannikin a fistful of grease. And he also snatched, while Peter's wide back was turned, a leathern jack which still held a half-gill or so of rum. To the world he might be the obedient cabin boy, but within him was a tiny flame of steady rebellion. He could see no hope of winning in this game he had been set to play and revolt made him cold against the role of spy.
Cheap had all through these years kept him to hand only because he was an object of some mysterious value. But now, in his dreams of taking Barbados, the Captain seemed ready to use him too. Cheap was always the gambler who risked all for the last-come prize.
And if he, Scarface, were to lose that shadowy protection which he had long sensed the Captain extended to him, well, then he might lose everything—including his life. The best he could hope for was to die cleanly by steel. The other ways of departing this life that he had seen something of—they did not bear thinking on.
He kicked open the locker and got to work on his patient, rubbing the grease with steady sweeping fingers into the cracked and burned skin. It was the only remedy he knew and it would have to serve.
The Major roused under this Spartan treatment and Scarface held the jack to his lips. The fiery stuff set him to coughing. And then he was quiet, venturing only a single protest.
“Not so stern over the ribs, good abigail. I am strangely tender thereabouts.”
There was an odd catch in his voice as he made this remonstrance and Scarface, with sudden wonder, realized his charge was laughing!
Chapter Four
* * *
A KNIFE IN THE NIGHT
* * *
“SO THIS captain of yours has a use for me?” Cocklyn's voice was muffled by the biscuit which he worked about in his mouth to spare his broken teeth. “Now I wonder what that may be.”
“Who knows—save Cheap?” Scarface returned sullenly.
“He gives no man his counsel until he pleases. But he is no lack-wit.”
“So I have long since heard,” agreed the Major. “That is why I must now puzzle at this game he plays. He wants you to be my friend, Scarface—in return for what, boy?”
That shrewd guess, the sharp question came like the crack of a whip. The boy jerked under it as if it had been a rope's end laid about his ribs. It was plain that the Major was no lack-wit either.
“What mean you—” he fenced but the other was brusque.
“Come, let us have plain speaking. You were sent to do me well for a reason. Does your captain think I shall babble what he wants to hear into your ears because you tend me? I had not believed him that simple.”
Scarface's mouth pulled tight. “A plague on the both of you! I'll be no counter in a double game!”
Cocklyn was really looking at him now, favoring him with a long measuring stare which swept him from tangled hair to sea boots. And through it the boy faced him defiantly.
“Hah—” The Major grinned. “There is something in you after all. Were you pressed aboard this ship?”
“Pressed? Mayhap—I was, after a fashion. But I was bred up in this trade. Not that I deem it any cleaner because of long familiarity with it.”
“You're no dunghill cock, in any reckoning. Why do you serve this Cheap?”
“Why?” Scarface lost all patience. “Because I was politely asked! Now look to yourself, Major, I've other duties.” He got out of the locker and tramped off to set table in the great cabin where Cheap dined in lonely state.
Even as he hated Cheap with a dull smoldering hatred, he was coming to hate also this Cocklyn with his prying questions. The soldier had that in him which might put down even Creagh should they meet on equal terms. And the Major's understanding was easily a match for Cheap's keen wit. If the Captain were wise he would knock Cocklyn on the head and dump him overboard. And if Scarface spoke a word or two—that is just what would happen.
If he spoke.
He stood still, a silver platter in his two hands. In its mirror-surface he saw his own face and there was a new look to it. Because he suddenly realized that in his own hand lay some of the cards of this game after all. He was not altogether the dupe for their using. To each man he could report such tales as would save the skin of one Scarface—or at least he could try. Hadn't he promised Pym that when his chance came he would use it? And this might be the long-awaited chance.
“Well”—that was Cheap coming into the cabin with his silent cat walk—"are you minded to make off with that bit from the Don's storehouse? How does your patient?”
“He will serve.” Scarface put down the plate. “But he is no dunderhead. Already he asks why I tend him so.”
“Then use your wits and make a proper story for him. Tell him that you are heartily sick of us and would win ashore. And, since that is no lie, the telling of it should be easy. You have three days to be convincing in. Now—put away those charts and bring me food.”
The rolls of charts went into the wooden case on the stern locker. Cheap knew something of the art of navigation and did not altogether depend upon Quittance's reckoning. All charts were jealously kept under the Captain's own eye. For the first time Scarface wanted to know where they cruised. Later might come his chance to look at the top map he had just laid inside the case. That was the one over which Cheap had been instructing his officers.
The Captain himself was clearly in a fine humor. So had he been on that day when they had won into Cumana, home port for the Don's pearl fishermen. And true enough that had been a rare exploit, one which had established Cheap among the fabulous “lords” of Tortuga, those great captains who were never without the best of ships or the pick of crews to follow them. Now he was being gracious, having Quittance and Gaspard Pye, the quartermaster, in to dine with him, and play the audience for the plans he no longer wanted to conceal.
“When the lions fight, then do the wolves dine well,” he began, turning his prized tankard around and around as if to admire the way the lantern light was reflected from its burnished surface. “France and Spain are bedfellows because of this new devilment among the kings of Europe. Against them stand the Dutch and the English. So now we have war here in the gulf seas, raiding of colonies, taking of merchant ships, outfitting of privateers. All very well—let them fight. But neither side can spread so thin their men and ships that they can protect each islet or town which looks to them for help. The fleets will be at each other's throats, especially when the yearly plate ships gather, Don sailing home with a French escort. That fleet will be the prize to draw the English, dripping with envy at every jaw.
“And when they cruise after the plate fleet, then comes our time. Barbados is sugar rich and she is open to the sea. How many fighting men not eaten with rot or fever do you think she can put into the field? We can strike and be away before their heavy-bottomed navy will even hear of our attack. I tell you—Morgan made his fortune at Panama and he took divers hard knocks in the doing of it, but we shall take a hundred such fortunes from the whole Main and it shall not cost us a gill of blood to match those rivers shed by Henry Morgan. He ended a king's knight and a governor—as did this rogue Scarlett! A man with gold enough in his fist can buy any pardon at home. And we shall end snug lives in our own goose-down beds when t
his voyage be done. I have private intelligence that Scarlett is cruising north towards Jamaica and the rest of the fleet is well away. This is our chance.
“We shall sail into Bridgetown harbor openly—a privateer about our lawful business, bearing a messenger for the governor—”
“A messenger?” Quittance interrupted.
“Aye, a certain Major Cocklyn, doubtless known to those ashore.”
“But will this fellow play his part at your bidding?”
Pye's thin black brows arose almost to the line of his well-kept hair. “He is, by all accounts, stubborn—”
Cheap filled his tankard and, as an afterthought, the jacks of his officers. “Here will the air of these pestilent islands serve us. Forget you the fever?”
“The fever?” Pye sipped his rum delicately and then touched his pointed beard with a handkerchief pulled from his sleeve.
“Aye. The Major will be suffering from the fever. Too ill to be set ashore. But he will have private news for the commander of whatever miserable fortifications they have managed to throw up against the arrival of the French. So shall we get that officer aboard and nip the head of any organization which might work against us. The planters are a timorous lot and easily cowed. Before we reach Bridgetown we shall touch— Ho, Scarface, bring hither that chart!”
Cheap put his elbows on its surface to keep it unrolled and stabbed into its parchment surface with his knife to emphasize his points.
“By our last reckoning we be here, through the Windwards and coming in from the north. We are sailing openly showing lights, an honest privateer. Well off this cape we pull to until Creagh and a boatload of his choosing bids us good-bye. They will land above Bridgetown with a guide who knows that place well— seeing as how he worked in the fields thereabouts and has a scarred back and a nice hatred for a planter to prove it.
“The Naughty Lass will keep on into port, our signals saying that we wish water and supplies. Also we are to deliver the Major's message. That I think will be your mission, Quittance. You have an open honest look about you and will not smell too high of Tortuga. Also you have a meaching sort of speaking which should sound well in merchant ears.
“So do we entice aboard the commander of the forts and, if fortune favors us, mayhap other worthies of the town. You might mention the fact, Quittance, that we have fared well with the prizes we have lately taken and have a cargo of choice rarities. Aye, that is a good thought! Pye, draw me up a list of such treasure as will make any island merchant's eyes fair pop from his skull. Then you take this list, Quittance, to deliver to the proper authorities ashore. Such bait should draw out to us the biggest of the town rats.
“Then with these aboard we wait until Creagh comes in upon the town from the landward side. He knows well what he is about and he shall seem to be leading a full invasion in force. We, brave and true men that we be shall then land to repel the French and the town is ours—at very little cost.”
“There are many tricks which fate may deal such a plan,” commented Quittance. But his eyes shone and he gulped at his rum.
“There are tricks fate can deal any plan. But no one wins who is not willing to wager. I say—boldly does it! Drink up, men, to the Naughty Lass and the goodly fortunes she will bring us!”
And they drank willingly enough. Scarface stared at the chart. The exploit was truly of Cheap's planning. It had the dash, the dependance upon audacity, which marked the Captain's way. But, as Quittance had pointed out, it left much to chance. Suppose that Creagh would land to find an aroused countryside waiting for him. Suppose that fort commander, those merchants, were not to be enticed aboard the Naughty Lass. Once warned it would be easy for them to catch the ship and her crew in a trap.
But if—if a man were to get ashore with a warning—would they believe him—those islanders? They might hang him out of hand. Unless he was known to some among those he came to warn. Unless he was known—
Scarface shifted from foot to foot. Cheap dared much but his cabin boy might dare more. He would have to use a man he still did not trust and Creagh was already suspicious. Twice the boatswain had stood just outside the locker while the boy had taken in Cocklyn's food, listening to every word, watching every move. If Nat did that from now on they had no chance at all.
Then he, Scarface, might be able to free the Major from his bonds, but he could not get them any sort of craft and could they swim to shore? Cocklyn had not been free since his capture and would not be fresh for the venture.
Then—to Cocklyn he was one of this crew. Would the Major believe his tale? Or would he see in it only bait to fresh betrayal?
“Scarface!” That was Cheap, still riding high on his wave of good humor. “Call Creagh and then take yourself away. Nurse the brave Major if you will, he has a role to play soon.”
Creagh came eagerly to the summons. But when the boatswain had stamped below Scarface stood looking to sea.
A speck of yellow light showed in the dark to starboard. Could they have won as close to the island as that? If so, this was the hour, the minute for him to move. But still he stood, the night wind in his hair, the salt of it against his lips. He was thinking of that sun-drenched clearing where he had read aloud the trials of another man who could not make a firm decision and hold to it. What had he said then?
“This Hamlet is a wishy-washy fellow.” Well, this Scarface seemed to be one likewise. Here was his first chance to free himself from all he loathed and yet he hesitated like a witless fool!
The fact was he was no true gambler. He could see too many black shadows in the future, too many slips through which fate might strike. As he chose now, he must choose for all time.
He turned and went across the deck, his tread as soft as Cheap's, his mind upon the man in the chain locker.
There was no lantern in his hand but the Major, needed no light.
“Ha, my nurse-boy again. And what do you have with you this time to tempt me—breast of pheasant or a bottle of Rhenish wine?”
“Your freedom.”
There was no answer, only a long slow breath through the dark where they crouched together, almost breast to breast.
“What cheat now has your captain thought of?” The voice was light and mocking.
“This thought is mine alone. But if you do not trust me—” He was sullen, aware that his foolish hopes were indeed foolish—this man would not have confidence in him.
“I long since learned that trust is a richness the world has little use for. You say this plan is yours alone—well, what is your price?”
“My price?” At this new idea the boy hesitated. Here was a way to make the other believe him. He brought his knife out of his sash. If Cocklyn was willing to bargain then he must put some credence in his companion after all. “My price,” he repeated. “I don't want to hang betwixt wind and wave and feed the gulls. And your Governor Scarlett is a hanging man.”
“True enough. This plan of yours is—?”
“We lie off Barbados. I saw a shore light with my own eyes. Cheap plans to land a force above the town and then sail in himself—using you for bait—”
Quickly he outlined Cheap's plot as he had heard it in the great cabin.
“Clever, clever devil,” Cocklyn observed half in admiration. “It is just reckless enough to win. I am beginning to see some greatness in this captain of yours—it is almost worth the pain of our meeting.”
“Can you swim?” demanded Scarface impatiently.
“Swim? Aye, a little. But I'm no fish for the water. Also at present I fear—”
“If you leave this ship tonight, you swim. I can cut you free and get you across the deck—but from there to land you will have to manage for yourself. There is no boat we can take.”
“We? Do I take it that you propose to accompany me on this mad venture?”
“Aye. Cheap has said that I must answer for you. If I have no wish to be left to Creagh's schooling I go with you.” In the dark the boy felt for the ropes which held the othe
r and began to cut them through.
“They would do that to you?” Some of the sharp mockery was gone in that question.
“So Cheap promised, and he is a man of his word—in such matters. Lie still now so that I can have these off—”
He pulled the cut strands loose and fell to rubbing clumsily the arms and legs of the soldier, guessing how the torture of returning circulation must be cramping the muscles beneath the ridged flesh.
“Have done,” whispered Cocklyn at last. “I can manage now.”
“Creagh is with Cheap in the cabin and so does not watch. And the crew lies forward. We have a strip of deck to cross and then it is over—”
“What are you doing?”
“Swords and boots are not for the careful swimmer.” Scarface pulled impatiently at a stiff buckle. “I am shedding mine now.”
But the escape which had seemed so easy in words was not so in fact. They won to the deck without mishap right enough. But never had the moonlight seemed so revealing, the width of planking so great. Scarface hesitated until Cocklyn gave him a push which almost tumbled him out of the shadows where they crouched.
“Well now, my fine young ruffler. Have you put off your courage with your steel and boots?”
“The Indian Patawamie helps keep the upper deck,” Scarface defended himself. “He can count the feathers on a gull in this light. Let me see to where he and his fellow stand before we try—”
But Cocklyn thrust by him and Scarface, after a hurried glance at the afterdeck, followed.
“Swim under water if you can!” he panted a last order at the soldier.
Their goal, the rail, was easy enough to sight and Cocklyn had hand already on it when Scarface turned his head—to look full into the flat face of the Indian. Hands closed about his throat, but not soon enough to choke back his screech of warning. Cocklyn looked back and then fairly flung himself astraddle the rail. But not before there was the snap of a pistol shot.
