Scarface

by Andre Norton

  “A very simple one, Scarface.” Luckily the Captain was not annoyed, indeed he appeared to be pleased by such bold tackling. And as usual he enjoyed an audience to which he might display the wisdom and ability of Jonathan Cheap. “I am meeting Sir Robert Scarlett with full force at long last. And this time the tune is of my choosing. He has one sloop of war in the harbor. And Master Shrimpton has a tall brig of which he is not unduly proud. At sea Sir Robert has a brig, a ketch, and two more sloops—and some faint call upon such of Her Majesty’s navy as is cruising these waters. And I— Damme, I’m an admiral! I have a fleet within call—”

  “A fleet!” It was not necessary to pretend to be impressed —he was. And such a feat was not beyond reason. Had Cheap been able to win over even one or two of the other Lords he might well have a fleet at his service.

  “Look at the goggle eyes of him!” Cheap bade his companions. “Aye, Scarface, ’tis time Captain Cheap proves his mettle. That brig in the harbor sails tonight—with a new master. You are fronting him now, boy. The old one was a cautious man and Danby Johns’ tall tales have grown with their repeating along the water front. A captain must be paid more than Shrimpton’s before he runs through pirate boarding-fire of his free will. We’ll rendezvous with my fleet and then—”

  Creagh smacked fat lips as if over a full measure of ale and Quittance gave a sharp sound, half laugh, half grunt of approval. Whatever Cheap’s plan might be, he had won these two to full agreement with it.

  “We did well to wait this last day—it always behooves a man to be prudent in small matters,” observed the Captain. “By waiting I have added two fine recruits to our company—our old friend Scarface and Sir Francis here.”

  Justin moved up to the table. “You don’t want the boy,” he said. “He’s a milk and water suckling and will only be an hindrance to you. I’ve had the governing of him this past week and am heartily sick of his tempers.”

  At this outburst Sir Francis lost a little of his ready assurance; he stared at Justin as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a familiar companion. But Cheap’s smile widened into a mocking grin.

  “Sooo— And yet, since Sir Francis has been kind enough to return a lost trinket of mine, thus laying me under obligation to him, I cannot so cross his wishes. He is all afire to be one of us—or so he has said. And I am not one to bind youth too closely to peaceful ways—green years yearn for adventure and should have what they wish. Then, too, he has some loving kin hereabouts and in time to come—when our plan is finished and we have won—mayhap they will be glad to receive him back, at a fitting price, of course. No, curb your impatience, Scarface. Sir Francis sails with us. And you too. I trust that you now have no reason to remain ashore?”

  “I?” Justin was able to force a laugh which sounded halfway natural in his own ears and which none of them seemed to find amiss. “Why should I wish to remain here? Cocklyn would have the head off my shoulders if you left me and took the boy. And here I am neither fish nor fowl. A-sea I may be fish again—”

  Cheap nodded. “Aye, that you may. And now, since Major Cocklyn has seen fit to place Sir Francis in your care, who am I to quarrel with his judgment? When first we met I was much impressed with the Major’s wisdom. So the lad will continue with you and you shall be answerable to me for him. Remember, this time no running away. While we are still ashore Creagh shall have an eye to the both of you. And you know Creagh. Now Quittance, ’tis time to be going. Let us see to our night’s work.”

  The Captain and his mate left them to the doubtful company of the boatswain who dropped down heavily on the stool Quittance had occupied and fell to peeling his broken nails with his sash knife. For the first time since he had been pushed into this company Justin drew a really full breath. He wanted to talk with Francis but what he wanted to say could not be voiced before Creagh and Nat showed no intention of leaving them. As far as Justin could see they were fairly trapped and there was no escape—unless Amos had roused the Major and they had ordered out the soldiers to beat up the district. Even then there was no certainty of the boys being found in this rats’ hole. If Francis had only done as he had been bid and had carried that message! But if he were going to start listing the “if onlys” he could spend the rest of the day at that profitless employment and receive nothing in return. There must be a way out of this—a way a clever man like Sir Robert could see in a trice. Only he wasn’t that clever—he’d be lucky if he lasted out the night without landing in the sea with a cracked head.

  Cheap had been unusually amiable this far. But the Captain’s good nature was prone to storms and then he was apt to lash out upon the nearest target. Cheap, Quittance and Creagh—one like water washing through one’s fingers, never to be caught and held, one indifferent to aught but his own concerns, and the last one not to be trusted any more than one would trust a frenzied dog. They’d never let him go but they mustn’t take the boy. Francis wouldn’t survive a week in that company if he lost Cheap’s protection and that was a chancy thing at the best, as who knew better than Justin Blade.

  “Have you killed many men?”

  Creagh was not as astonished at that sudden question as was Justin. It seemed to amuse him and he laughed, the stubs of his yellow teeth showing in the candlelight.

  “Enough t’ please th’ Devil right well, brat,” he returned.

  “With that knife?”

  Creagh held up the weapon with which he had been assaulting his finger tips and eyed it judiciously. “Well, some few, aye. This toad-splitter I did get me from an Injun o’ th’ coast. No doubt ’e ’ad it from a Don. Good steel that.” He rang the blade against the table, and then leered horribly at Sir Francis. “Good for throat-cuttin’.”

  But Sir Francis refused to frighten. Instead he put on an oddly solemn air, as if considering a problem.

  “Sir Robert always says a man needs good tools for his trade. So I expect you need the best knives. But that one isn’t as pretty as the one I found—the one with a horse on it.”

  Creagh shifted on his stool as if he were uncomfortable. It was plain that this interview was not proceeding according to his ideas of what was right and proper. To be faced down by a cub who accepted throat-cutting as part of pirate trade and showed no fear of the cutter—well, that was more than the boatswain had expected. Now he was more puzzled than angered, but Justin knew the hot rage which might rise from such baiting.

  “Do not plague Master Creagh with childish questions!” he ordered Francis. “Be quiet and reflect upon the folly which has brought you here—”

  But such pomposity was only a match to the tinder of Francis Hynde’s temper. He grew quite red in the face and his small hands doubled into fists.

  “Do not speak so to me, you—you unhung rogue! I shall ask Captain Cheap to have you flogged again. He is my friend and a real pirate. He wouldn’t take the Queen’s Pardon to save his neck. He—”

  “Will take the proper steps to shut that mouth of yours, Francis, if you cannot learn to shut it yourself. Captain Cheap has little liking for talk—” ("Except his own,” Justin added silently.) “And you will also be civil if you wish your own back to remain unscarred. Since you have chosen to be a pirate you needs must obey their laws. Now be quiet before your elders!”

  His firmness had its effect. Francis glowered, probably meditating revenge. But Creagh grinned.

  “Mighty ‘andy wi’ yer own tongue, bean’t ye, Scarface? Ye’ve learned more from th’ gentry then jes’ ’ow t’ wear a coat. An’ yer dead right ’bout this ’ere brat. Keep ’is mouth shut on ’im, ’e talks too much.

  A thump on the sliding door put a period to his speech and he got up to go to the opening crack where he listened to a thin whispering. He growled back an answer before spitting over his shoulder at Justin:

  “Th’ Cap’n wants me. Ye stay ’ere an’ try no tricks. Thar’ll be one outside wi’ a knife an’ ’e knows well ’ow t’ use it. Ye bide ‘ere ’til ye’re fetched.”

  He pushed thro
ugh the slit door and promptly closed it behind him, leaving the boys alone for the first time. Justin stood over Francis so that listening ears might not hear all he had to say.

  “Did you give my message to Major Cocklyn?”

  But Francis’ answer was the one he had already expected. “I’m no slave to run your bidding, Scarface. I went to Sir Robert, but he was not at home—and for that I am now glad. Otherwise I would not have met Captain Cheap! And you should be happy for it too, Scarface, since you say that you have wished to join with the pirates again. My uncle and Sir Robert would be pleased to hear of that, wouldn’t they? Mayhap Master Shrimpton was right—mayhap you are a pirate spy! My uncle should be told of that— always prating of you he is, of how you have the proper mettle in you and are well worth schooling—Oh, I have heard him speak with Sir Robert of it. My uncle thinks well of you—Scarface! But he’ll change his mind when he hears of this. And Captain Cheap thinks well of me—he thinks that I have the proper mettle. Mayhap I’ll be governor some day—pirates have been, you know!”

  The festering jealousy boiled out like poison from the twisted lips of the younger boy. Justin drew back the hand he had been about to lay upon Francis’ shoulder as if that unchildish fire had scorched him. How Francis must hate him! And with Hynde in this mood any warning he might speak would fall on willfully deaf ears. The Baronet was as dangerous as a cocked pistol in the hands of a blind fool. Why, the boy would swear to anything, and do it cheerfully, if he thought that it would harm Justin. This was no time to talk to him of escape.

  As for himself—he dared not attempt it without Francis. The boy could not survive among Cheap’s wild crew should the Captain withdraw his protection and if he, Scarface, were there to draw attention now and then to the captive’s value, that protection might hold longer than Cheap’s other whims had done in the past. Just now Francis was a toy, but that state of affairs would not last. No, he himself would have to remain to the end. Only if he sailed now with Cheap there would be no coming back—ever. A man did not gain the Queen’s Pardon twice. And one who had broken his word was hung speedily when taken.

  Justin sighed. What an end to all his fine plans. Life was as it had always been before. Save that he would have the added burden of watching over Francis.

  “Captain Cheap has a small sword to match the knife I found,” the younger boy broke the silence. He was too full of his good fortune to keep mumface with Justin in spite of his jealousy. “He said he will give it to me if I can prove that I can properly use it. Even Sir Robert has not so fine a one!”

  Justin made one last attempt. “Listen to me carefully and well, Francis. Captain Cheap, I’ll grant you, can play the great gentleman when he wishes. But he is not always so, and tomorrow he may, like as not, give you a taste of the rope’s end across your hide—should you raise his ill-humor. It is not a gay life aboard his ships—I can swear to that. But if you escaped now and got back to your uncle or Sir Robert with the news of Cheap and his men being here—then you would be thought a brave boy with a cool head on his shoulders. Would that not be fine?”

  There was a tight, peevish look on the Baronet’s face as if he were—in a manner of speaking—closed to suggestion. And when he shrilled answer it was the one Justin had feared.

  “No. I am going with Captain Cheap as he has promised that I should. And he is not as you say at all—he is a kind gentleman and laughs much!”

  It was dusk when they were at last brought out of the Harp and Bottle—the thick dusk of the tropics which is so soon night. And the stars overhead were bright. Justin glanced back once over his shoulder at the dark mass of Bridgetown where winking lights, softer than the stars, had appeared here and there among the houses. By all reckoning this was the last look he would have at the place and it was a hurried one, for he was hustled into a ship’s boat.

  They were rowed out to the ship which was a darker blot against the water and clambered aboard by the aid of a rope ladder which must be felt, rather than seen, in the gloom. Once on deck neither Justin nor Francis were given a chance to look around, but were pushed below into the great cabin which, they found in some confusion as if a scuffle had taken place there.

  Mechanically Justin righted an emptied goblet which was rolling across the table and picked up from the floor a mass of torn and crumpled papers. Francis had run to the stern lockers and had half hunched his shoulders through one of the narrow windows so that he could look out into the harbor.

  “We’re sailing!” he called. “I can see the shore lights moving.”

  But Justin, shipwise, had already felt the tremble of the timbers beneath his heels. Aye, they were sailing. Almost

  They were rowed out to the ship. . .

  heavily he crossed the cabin to stand behind his companion and watch the lights of Bridgetown fade into the sea.

  This ship was not so well dressed as had been the Naughty Lass. There was a spare, stripped look about the cabin, as if the master who had quartered here had cared little for luxury. He had no silver plate, no rich hangings, not even a strip of turkey carpet across the boards. It was certainly too bare to be to Cheap’s taste.

  On the table was a brace of maps and Justin unrolled one—to find himself looking at the indentations of an unfamiliar coastline. Slowly he spelled out the names lettered there. “Cape Cod—Massachusetts, New York—”

  That last name he had heard of before; it stood for the town where the Dutch had lost to the English back in the old King’s day. Was Cheap planning to run north? There had been some talk of late as how some of the northern governors had turned a blind eye on ships in their harbors —providing the cargoes they discharged were rich and the crews spent gold ashore. They were hot against the French, those northerners, since their lands marched with French territory, and mayhap a pirate who claimed to be a privateer could lie soft and safe there.

  “What’s that?” Francis had grown tired of his window perch and now came to pluck at the map Justin held, striving to bring it down to his own eye level.

  “It is a chart such as sailors use. A sea chart of the northern coastlines.”

  “N-e-w—New. Y-o-r-k—York. Where is New York, Justin?”

  “Somewhere to the north. It is on the mainland.”

  “Are we going there?”

  Justin shrugged as he re-rolled the map. “Who knows but Captain Cheap?”

  “True enough, Scarface,” Cheap himself answered from the companionway. “So you would like to see New York, Sir Francis?”

  “I don’t know. Would it be exciting?”

  “As exciting as any foreign port. But it is a greater place than Bridgetown and sports a good fashion. With a fine harbor at her skirts and a big country at her back any city may grow great. But at any rate the merchants of that town stand our friends upon occasion. And more than a few of them have a sticky finger in the Red Sea Trade.”

  “What is that?”

  “Our trade—when carried on across the world in the Grand Mogul’s waters. And a rich one it is there, by all accounts. If you snap up a pilgrim ship or one of the Mogul’s fleet, you can live soft for the rest of your life. After our business hereabouts is done, we may try it ourselves. Would you like that?”

  Sir Francis nodded eagerly but Cheap had done with him for then. The Captain had already turned briskly to Justin with orders.

  “For the present I wish to keep you both close to hand. There is a cubby over there which was meant for the captain’s store room. That’ll serve you for a bed place. And get you to it now both of you!”

  There was a note in his voice then that even Francis did not question and they both pushed through into a black pocket which smelled strongly of the late Captain’s stores, wine, salt fish, and spoiled biscuit. Inside they tumbled over a tangle of blankets and were left to bed themselves down as best they might. Francis, not even taking off his shoes, crawled into the dirt-stiffened covers and was asleep almost before he was fully at ease but Justin crouched by the crack left i
n the panel—the crack which brought them air and also gave him a limited view of the outer cabin.

  For a long time Cheap sat there alone, studying the charts, making a series of notes on the papers Justin had picked up from the floor. He was well pleased with himself; that was shown in every movement of his head, in the almost soundless whistle he shaped with his lips, in the way he smiled now and again at his own thoughts. Life was a very pleasant thing that night to Captain Jonathan Cheap.

  The brig was running sweetly before the wind now. But Justin had no idea as to where they might be bound— north, south, east, or west. His head began to ache dully and he fought off the sleep which pressed down his eyelids. He didn’t dare to move too often and his cramped limbs were numb under him.

  It was Quittance who tramped in to arouse both Cheap and Justin.

  “We’ve raised th’ Lion. Two lanterns to port, one to starboard!”

  “Ha!” breathed Cheap softly. He looked dangerous, like a man who had drawn sword and was advancing to an encounter he had no doubts of winning. “They’re prompt —that’s well. And the others? Have we raised them yet?”

  “They’ve not had time to make it, Captain. One’s no swift sailor with that weight of iron on her. But she’ll be with us by sunrise.”

  “By sunrise!” Cheap shuffled his papers together in one pile. “D’you know, Quittance, ’tis hard to believe in, even yet, that I’ll have the best of Robert Scarlett—after all these years—”

  “Best not speak too much of that, Captain. The Brethren think we’re after the pay ship. They don’t hold with this vengeance talk—”

  Cheap stood straight. “They’ll do as I bid, Quittance. I stand Captain here!”

  He went out, Quittance following him, and the mate showed a mazed face as if his commander had surprised him again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  * * *

  “YOUR WAGES, SCARFACE—”