by Andre Norton
Sir Francis drew himself up to his full four-feet-three and made answer with the haughtiness of a French duke addressing his tailor.
“I am Sir Francis Hynde. I do not sport with colonials. They are not gentlemanly in their ways nor do they comport themselves as become men of birth.”
Justin bit his lips to control his grin—it might goad Sir Francis into a hot-tempered outburst. But at the same time he puzzled as to how this prodigy had ever come to live under the forthright Major's roof without being reduced to proper stature.
“Francis! Francis!” The call was thin, querulous. And it sounded from close outside the half-open door.
Sir Francis Hynde was smug. “That is my mother,” he said and remained calmly where he was, with a sort of anticipation about him which Justin found disturbing.
Chapter Seven
* * *
SIR ROBERTS IN THE BAY!
* * *
THERE WAS nothing formidable about the undersized lady who swished her wide skirts through the open door —at first sight, although the tall frontage of starched lace perched on her rolls of sausage curls did give a certain dignity to her peevish face. She had the air of one badly treated by fate—Lady Hynde was a martyr and that role suited her very well indeed.
Now she bore down on her son with firm purpose. “Francis, get you to your room as you are bid—instantly!”
Sir Francis wilted. He was speedily deflated from a London beau to a tiresome small boy and without a word started mournfully for the doorway, although there he lingered for one last glimpse of Justin.
“I am waiting, Francis,” his mother repeated. And so encouraged, Francis went.
Justin, since he could not join Sir Francis in his prudent withdrawal—though to do so he would certainly have been tempted had he not been bed-fast—was left to face the storm. For a long moment the lady was content merely to examine this intruder in the best room—though her attitude might have led one to believe that she was inspecting with well-bred horror a loathsome insect instead of a young man who, before her arrival, had begun to think that his fortunes were on the rise.
“My brother, Major Cocklyn,” she fired her opening gun, “informs me that you have been sorely injured. And he has also stated that he owes you his life. Naturally he is a man of honor and must repay his debts. But that does not make you free of his house nor of the company of gentlemen—”
“Such as your son?” In spite of all his good intentions he could not forego that thrust.
The result was that she looked at him as if she really saw him for the first time. And by her expression he and all the world might guess that what she saw she liked even less than she had thought she would.
“You will not have the chance of companying with Sir Francis. I fear that my brother has made a sad mistake, his softness of heart ofttimes betrays him in this fashion.”
“Betrays me in what fashion, Lettice?” Cocklyn came up behind her, but she was in no wit disconcerted at his sudden appearance. And by that Justin judged her—she was no coward.
“Betrays you into trusting those not worth your trust, Humphrey. You do not know the world—”
“So. But, Lettice, I have some knowledge of men.” And those words held some strong meaning for her.
No expression crossed her full powder-masked face or moved the petulant twist of her lips, but in the folds of her full skirt her fat hands clutched and tore. Cocklyn's shot had struck close.
“I hope that your knowledge be as deep as you believe it,” she returned stolidly. “You will excuse me now, Humphrey, I find there is much to set aright in the house. When the eye is not on them these servants are rascals.”
“Just so, my dear. I have always much to thank you for in your endeavors on my behalf.” Cocklyn stood aside and let her pass him. She did not close the door behind her but the Major did before he crossed to stand beside Justin, the frown line between his brows darker and heavier than the boy had ever seen it before.
Justin fidgeted, wondering if he should make any comment upon what his unwilling hostess had said, when the Major spoke—more abruptly than usual.
“Lady Hynde has had many grievous disappointments in her life and knowing her constant unhappiness we do not hold against her any thoughtless words she may say in a moment of irritation.” Cocklyn was stiff, formal, and his half-apology was being forced from him against his will. “It was my belief when I had you brought hither that she would spend some weeks with friends—”
“I think, sir,” Justin cut in quickly, “that Lady Hynde was displeased to discover Sir Francis with me. It is only sensible to wish to keep your son from companying with pirates—”
At that Cocklyn unbent enough to show a faint shadow of his usual good humor. “Francis would be the better for a voyage under the Black Flag, could we but find one of the Lords of Tortuga who would allow him between decks. He is fast becoming a mirror to reflect all the more unpleasant vices of my late unlamented brother-in-law. If he plagues you again—”
“He didn't plague me. He was only interested in my ruffianish past—he's a strange boy.”
“There you understate.” Cocklyn was wholly himself again. “He is a precocious imp who would be the better for the taste of a whip—no”—he had been quick to note Justin's involuntary start—"I did not mean to bring that to your mind. But the brat is truly a source of misgiving to me. He is all but impossible to live with now—what sort of monster will he be in five years’ time? And yet there must be some good in him—my sister was once a loving little girl.” He sighed before he continued more briskly:
“Now for you, Master Blade. I have had speech with Dr. Hardwell and he says that if you rest and abide by his instructions it is well within the realm of Providence that you may sit up tomorrow and be on your feet once more within the week. Is that good hearing?”
With that he left Justin to drowse through the long afternoon hours. But Master Blade dreamed crazily of Lady Hynde and Jonathan Cheap. And when he was awakened by Kandy bringing his supper he was amused by such a thought. In Lady Hynde even Cheap would find an equal match. Which musing led him most naturally to thinking of the Captain's fate. Cheap had a queer dislike for deep waters and hated to swim, though very few knew that, Justin being one of the few. And since he had not been taken with the rest on the Naughty Lass, where had he disappeared to? Unless he had chosen to drown rather than be held for Scarlett's pleasure—which was well within his character. Not that it greatly mattered to one Justin Blade, who hoped, with all the strength in his mending body, that he had seen the last of Jonathan Cheap in this world and the next one too.
It all went as Dr. Hardwell had foretold. Within the week Justin could move without assistance onto the wide veranda above the garden and there tease the macaw into frenzied speech or watch the labors of the white redemptioner who grew my lady's flowers—but never to her liking. To the mistress of the household and Sir Francis, however, it was as if their unwilling guest did not exist. Not that he minded his isolation greatly.
Cocklyn taught him to play piquet and, finding that he knew his letters, made him free of the small library where Justin chanced upon his old friend Dr. Faustus and re-read him with a relish, to recall with almost every line those cliffs above the sea where Pym had labored to drum some manner of learning into his protégé's head.
Thinking of Pym led him to another exercise when he was sure that Cocklyn was away and that he would not be overlooked. The Major had brought him sword and belt which had been among the plunder taken from the Naughty Lass—having recognized it for that discarded by the boy on the night of their attempted escape. And now Justin, cautiously and with more than a little physical discomfort, began to go through the drill Snelgrave had taught him so long ago. Parry and thrust, parry and thrust, his stocking-covered feet made no more than a whisper of sound on the floor. After some days of patient endeavor he gloried in the slow return of skill and speed as he matched right hand with left.
“You use
either hand!”
Sir Francis had crept up through the garden without his noticing and now stood agape just below.
“Even my uncle cannot do that—and he is an officer,” the boy continued. “Show me how.”
And Justin, because his morning's work had surprised even himself, obeyed, attacking fiercely with one hand, and then tossed the blade into the air to catch and use it as well with the other in a second series of vicious thrusts. Sir Francis was truly entranced. Behind him Collins, the redemptioner, squatted open-mouthed beside a half-weeded flower border until Justin dropped down in a chair panting heavily.
“Again!” demanded the Baronet eagerly but the older boy shook his head.
“I am fair winded. That is enough for now.”
“How did you learn that—to fight with either hand?” Young Hynde came up to seat himself on a neighboring chair.
“I had for teacher one of the best swordsmen in the West Indies.”
“Could I learn to do it too?”
Justin considered the small butterfly-coated figure. “It means hard work—such as you have never known. I do not think—”
The soft lips pouted. “Always am I thought a make-weight. My uncle deems me of no account, but were he to see me fence like that he might have another word for me. I am no beginner with the sword—I had lessoning in London before we came here. Wait—”
With that, Sir Francis, showing more energy than Justin had ever yet seen him betray, was gone. He reappeared a very short time later, somewhat red in the face from haste, his elaborate wig askew, a small sword in his hands. Wig and coat were thrown at the nearest chair and he came to the motions of the formal salute a little woodenly.
It was true he had been well grounded even if he was slow in his recoveries and stiff rather than graceful in style. From lazy good nature Justin aroused to interest. Then he got to his feet again and his blade met the shorter one, sweeping it easily out of the intended line of attack.
“See? That is not the proper thrust. With this counter your man would have your sword out of your hand. An inch lower now and come up with the point—soooo!” Blade illustrated and Sir Francis watched with eager eyes. Then he attempted the same moves.
“Aye, that is better. But speed is as important as ease in that one. Practice until you have the knowledge of it here.” He tapped the small wrist with his sword point. “Then speed will come too.”
“But the left hand,” persisted Sir Francis. “Can you teach me to use both hands? No other boy on the island can do that!”
“It will be harder than aught you have tried,” Justin warned him. “And Lady Hynde may have a word about the matter—”
“Not if I really wish it—if I cry and say that my head will hurt and that I feel the fever,” began the Baronet with a certain unholy relish.
“No swordsman I teach does that,” returned Justin coldly and fell to polishing with a bit of silk the fine Toledo blade he held. “Such tricks are those of a baby and I do not put good steel into the hands of a child.”
For a long minute it appeared as if Sir Francis was about to indulge in a bout of temper. But he looked at his sword and from that to the one Justin handled so deftly and thought better of it.
“I will have my uncle order you to lesson me.”
“That we shall discuss when Major Cocklyn decides. But I am not one to be forced to any business, Sir Francis. Ask your mother and your uncle and we shall see what then comes of it.”
Sir Francis paused in the dragging on of his modish coat. “Nothing will come of it if you ask my mother, she was loath to have me go to Master D'Arcot at home lest I get some scratch—and she will not leave me be lessoned by a pirate. If I do get my uncle to favor it—will you do so?”
“We shall see when that time comes,” countered Justin, suddenly tired of Sir Francis and his concerns. His back was aching again and he wished for nothing more than to have young Hynde disappear in a clap of thunder or some such disturbance and leave him to drowse at will in the long cane chair he had made his own. But the Baronet showed no sign of leaving. In fact, having re-donned wig and coat, he gave every appearance of one settling down for an interesting chat.
“What is it like to be a pirate?” was his opening shot.
“Deuced uncomfortable,” yawned Justin. “You eat poor, sleep worse, and have naught save hard knocks to show for your pains. Have no mind that piracy is amusing, Sir Francis.”
“But you take ships and find gold on them!”
“We take ships but precious little gold do we find. Look you, I had never slept upon a bed until your uncle brought me hither, nor eaten so well in my life. And remember, if the ships take us—we hang.”
“Aye. But mayhap that was because you were a common pirate—that was why your life was so hard. If one could be a captain—”
“Captains are but greater and blacker rogues. And some are devils out of hell. Have you not heard of L'Olonnis? And Henry Morgan was no better—'spite his King's Pardon and his deputy-governorship.”
“Sir Robert Scarlett was a pirate captain and now he is a governor and a great gentleman. Even my mother says that.”
“I have not had the pleasure of Sir Robert's acquaintance—but he was a rebel-convict and took the King's Pardon when he could. Some men can win free from their misfortunes—and they are stronger than the rest.”
“Were you a rebel-convict?”
Justin closed his eyes. “No. Do I look to be Sir Robert's age?”
“Then how came you to be a pirate? My uncle has said that you are gentle born. Were you pressed from some ship?”
“Do you ever do aught but talk?” countered his victim. “Have you no lessons to con?”
“Master Lewis has dismissed me for this day, he has a headache.”
“It is plain to see where he gained it. If you will be still now I'll tell you a story about an island.”
Stories were events of importance in Sir Francis’ life it seemed, for he sat as silent as an ocean oyster, to hear a very strange version of Master Shakespeare's Hamlet, edited and clipped for the young. Some of the characters assumed the skins of Tortugans with ease and the scene was a southern island rather than a coast castle of Denmark. When Justin had at last exhausted both his memory and his power of invention the Baronet sighed.
“I like that a sight better than Master Lewis’ tales— there is never any fighting in them. But this Hamlet— could he use both hands when he fought duels?”
“That I never asked him.”
“Now tell me about the pirates. I have been down to the jail to see them. There is one little man who just sits upon a stool in the corner and wags his head back and forth thus. And he will answer no questions. Tim Davis, the jailer, says that he must be French for he speaks French words sometimes.”
“That must be Gaspard Pye,” said Justin slowly. “But how did you get to see him? Surely Lady Hynde did not suffer you to—”
“Amos took me there when mother was busied in the still room with the new maid. Tell me about this Gaspard Pye—is he a pirate captain?”
“He was quartermaster of the Naughty Lass and the quartermaster ranks nigh to the Captain. But he is an unhappy man. He comes from Jersey, one of the Channel Isles and he was wrongfully pressed aboard a king's ship in James’ day.”
Sir Francis nodded wisely. “Before the Glorious Revolution, I know—”
“Aye. There he was treated so ill that his wits were ever after disordered and he hates all navy men very bitterly. Yet once he was an honest man and one of birth and standing. In his own way he is clever and he is held in high regard by his companions. So they took Pye—eh? Tell me, Sir Francis, did you see among these prisoners one Nat Creagh, a big hulking fellow lacking ears but with a bull's roaring voice and the will to use it often?”
Young Hynde shook his head. “He was not in the room with those Tim Davis showed me. Is he a leader too?”
“He is a man not good to cross, Sir Francis, and an enemy to me. But m
ayhap he was killed in the fighting.”
“Some of the pirates got away. Amos said that my uncle and Lieutenant Griffen were angered at that. It was the bungling of the militia which allowed them to escape.”
“How many won free?”
“My uncle doesn't know. But he was not able to find the captain or his mate afterwards and there may have been others.”
Cheap and Quittance then were not waiting in the jail for justice. And Creagh—what about Creagh? Justin stirred uneasily. He would give much to know the present abiding place of Nat Creagh.
“That's cannon—the harbor cannon! Listen!” Sir Francis was running toward the steps at the far end of the long veranda. A second dull boom brought Justin to his feet. Was Bridgetown being attacked for the second time?
“D'you think it's the French come?” screamed the younger boy. “Should we take our swords?”
But he still ran on towards the gate which gave on the lane. Through its iron work they could catch part sight of a ship dropping anchor below. It bore aloft the red ensign— very plain to see.
“That's the Royal Standard!” chattered Sir Francis. “That's the governor's own brig! He's come back to hang the pirates!”
There was a flurry in the town. A carriage drove past them down towards the wharves. And now a horseman spurred up the hill straight for the gate where the boys stood.
“Hi, Francis!” he called from the saddle and Justin recognized him as Lieutenant Griffen. “Is Major Cocklyn at home? Sir Robert's in the bay!”
Chapter Eight
* * *
HIS EXCELLENCY OF BARBADOS
* * *
IT WASN'T until Sir Robert had been two days ashore that Justin was summoned to meet His Excellency. But those two days had been ones of such activity on the island that the boy now looked forward to this ordeal with some apprehension. Lady Hynde might be the whirlwind in Cocklyn's house, but Scarlett was a hurricane in Bridgetown.
