Scarface

by Andre Norton

  “Your wages, Scarface. And how generous I’ve been! Some day you will discover how generous. Ha, Sir Francis, and how did you like our sports?”

  But the boy standing in the companionway was more interested in what Justin held than in the Captain’s question.

  “What is it?” he demanded. “A knife? What wages, Justin? What is the Captain paying you wages for?”

  Cheap laughed. “For value received, Scarface having imparted to us many interesting things about Bridgetown. No, it is not a knife—though in the proper hand it would be a dagger!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  * * *

  TOO LATE IS NEVER

  * * *

  “WHAT DID you tell them?” Francis demanded. Cheap chuckled. “Enough to make us masters of Bridgetown, my small man. I did better than I thought to when I brought Scarface with me. He has a good eye and has used it knowingly. Now do you two bide here until I have need for you. I have no fancy to see either of you underfoot.”

  He equipped himself with a sea-glass from the chest and went out. Justin sat where he had been and so he would have continued to sit—in a half-stupor—if Francis had not run toward him, his small face red, his hands balled into fists.

  “You foul traitor!” and to this opening shot he added a string of oaths more apt from the mouth of a waterside brat than from a gentleman of family. “Now will Sir Robert and my uncle—” He choked on his own rage and added at the very top of his shrill voice, “You’ll hang, you dog! You’ll hang! I’ll tell them—tell them that you were Cheap’s spy—as I know now. All the men aboard this ship know that. Spy!” He spat.

  And Justin stared down at the drop of moisture on his coat front. He wished that Francis would quiet, would go away and leave him to nurse his aching head.

  “I’m thirsty,” he muttered to himself. And his dry mouth roused him to look for water. Only, in that instant he was seeing not the stuffy cabin of the brig but a tree-bordered pool in Tortuga.

  Then the pool was gone and with it Francis. He, Justin, was on his wavering feet, his fingers locked on the back of Cheap’s chair to hold him steady. And that act seemed to break through his shell of pain. He had been talking, hadn’t he? For a long, long time. What had he said that was worth payment from Cheap, payment which was now coiled about his wrist. He held up his arm to examine the bangle more closely. It was obviously very old and the design on the drop had some resemblance to a coat-of-arms, but so faint were the lines of the engraving that he could make out nothing save the outline of an animal’s head. Since Cheap had kept it among his treasures it must be of some value and he would hold it safe. With fumbling fingers the boy tucked it into the pocket folds of his belt sash, putting it there so close to his skin that he could feel its length through the silk against his middle.

  Then he crossed the cabin, clutching at table and wall, to the half-cupboard where the wine was kept. A half glass of Cheap’s brandy burned across his tongue and down his raw throat—but its fiery passage seemed to clear his head that he might think of the future again. And so he looked about him for his fellow prisoner.

  Francis was curled up on the stern locker, staring out over the water, showing no interest in his companion.

  “Francis!”

  Young Hynde hunched his shoulders stubbornly and made no other answer.

  “Francis, listen to me. We must lay our plans—”

  The younger boy could hold his pose of indifference no longer. At that appeal he came around right enough to front Justin, but he showed a stormy face.

  “I’m not listening to you—you—you dog of a spy!” he shouted. “When Sir Robert gets you again, he’ll show you how he deals with pirates! He’ll crook your neck with the rope fast enough!”

  “Doubtless he will,” returned Justin wearily. “But if you wish him to catch me, you had better pay heed to me now. Captain Cheap has an excellent plan which may win him his desire of taking Barbados—unless he can be stopped. And you, Francis, if you wish, can have the stopping of him. Think how well Sir Robert and your uncle would rate you—”

  He had by luck struck upon the right approach; the younger boy was listening.

  “Why do you do this if you are Cheap’s man?”

  “Mayhap because I owe Major Cocklyn a debt, mayhap because I still have some faint hope of so saving my neck —does it greatly matter? Think what you please, but we must plan. When this ship puts in again at Bridgetown the bumboats will be out to greet us—’til they see the yellow plague flag and are warned off. Then you must swing through these stern windows and make for them—You can swim?”

  Francis nodded. “Aye. ’Twas all that I did that my uncle ever spoke fairly of. But do you come with me?”

  Justin shook his head. “No. I would be missed the quicker and if I stay here to say that you sleep in the cubby, then will you have a brighter chance. Get you ashore as soon as you may, Francis, and then to the palace and rouse Sir Robert. If he is warned he may be able to win after all.”

  The long day wore slowly on and, since they were confined to the cabin, there was no chance to discover if they really were bound for Barbados again. Now and then Justin’s head ached maddeningly when the dull pain above his eyes became a pounding hammer of agony which made him forget all else until it eased. He guessed that he had the dreaded coast fever and he could only hope to hold to his wits until he was able to get Francis away.

  Once Patawamie brought them food—an ill-cooked mess which must have been scooped from the crew’s common kettle instead of from the officers’ supplies. This time Francis was hungry enough to choke it down, but not without making hearty complaint all the while.

  There was a good and favoring wind aloft and the brig answered well to its urging, better than did one of her consorts, a sloop which wallowed well in her wake as if suffering from a weed-grown keel. That was Lechmere’s, Justin guessed. Though a master gunner and a man good to have at your back in a fight, he was no proper sailing master and never had been. By bringing him into this scheme Cheap might have dealt himself ill luck, since the drunken Captain was ever unpredictable in or out of his cups. Buck and Quinby, on the other hand, were steady men—good choices for such an affair.

  “A fish! Scarface—see! A fish flying!” Francis had thrust himself half out of the stern window to watch this marvel.

  “Aye. They’re common enough hereabouts. Now mind yourself, this is no spot in which to topple into the sea, and no one aloft will trouble himself to recover you if you do. Sit still and be quiet, Francis, ’twill be time enough to take to the water later.”

  Justin put his head down on his arms with a sigh and it was sprawled thus across the table that Cheap found him a few minutes later. The Captain laced fingers in his hair and pulled him up to catch sight of his flushed face.

  “What’s to do here? Faugh, you never used to be fond of the bottle, brat. Has our worshipful friend Scarlett made you free of that pleasure?”

  Then his contempt faded as he put a questioning hand to Justin’s burning flesh, and, looking into the boy’s half-open but unfocused eyes, he whistled.

  “So that is it, is it? The coast fever. And a pretty time for it to strike you too. But that cannot be helped. Francis, do you speak to Patawamie—he stands without. Tell him to summon Peter.”

  Justin stirred then, trying to twist loose of the Captain. He had no wish to fall into Ghost Peter’s hands, even though the Negro was reputed to be better at doctoring than half the men who walked the hospitals of Europe. But Justin was not consulted and afterwards he had only very foggy memories of how the tall Negro and Captain Cheap served him. Several nauseating brews were poured by force down his throat and he was otherwise handled and mishandled past all resistance.

  It was dark night and there was something buzzing, buzzing close beside his ear. Now and then he even thought he could make out words:

  “Please—they take me away lest I have the fever too. Please—I can’t go through the window— Please—wake up, Scar
face! Wake—!”

  But he could not answer and after a while there were sharper voices a long way off and the buzzing ceased so that he slept in peace again, to awaken feeling oddly clean and free. He lay on a sort of pallet on the floor of the cabin which he could not remember ever having seen before. This was certainly not the Naughty Lass—and yet just last evening he had sailed on her out of Tortuga. Or had he? He had a faint memory of something else—some strange happenings which were now tattered edgings of dreams. At any rate he had better be out and about before Cheap came after him.

  He got to his feet and stood looking in startled wonder at the clothing covering him. In place of canvas breeches and torn tow shirt which were his known wardrobe—and the whole of it—he was wearing stained and dirty, yet well-fitting gray breeches of cloth and there were stockings on his legs—thread stockings. Tossed across his pallet was a shirt of finer stuff than any he had ever worn, but since it was left as if it belonged to him he drew it on. Where had all this wealth of clothing come from—what had happened to him?

  With his hand to his head he pushed out of the small cabin and found himself in the quarters of the vessel’s master—but not on the Naughty Lass. He lurched unsteadily over to the stern windows and looked out. There was land! A thin rocky point of it—not Tortuga, of that he was reasonably sure, though he seemed able to account for little in this crazy world. Also within eyesight was a sloop, being handled none too well, but apparently playing follow-the-leader with the ship in which he stood.

  “So you’ve recovered your wits, have you?”

  He looked over his shoulder at a familiar figure. Quittance had come in, to avail himself of a supply of gunpowder he poured from one leather bottle to another. Scarface wet dry lips before he dared to ask the question he must have answer to.

  “What ship is this?” There, he had asked it! Only why was Quittance staring at him as if he had said some monstrous thing? What had happened to him since they had left Tortuga? And the mate wasn’t going to answer him either; instead he was slipping out of the cabin as if he feared to share it with Scarface.

  The boy was still standing there when Cheap and Ghost Peter came in, moving with some haste as if they expected trouble. At the sight of Scarface on his feet the Captain’s heavy eyelids twitched and he glanced at the Negro as if asking his opinion.

  “How do you feel?” he inquired of the boy.

  “Well enough. But—please—what has happened? This is not the Naughty Lass!”

  “The Naugh—!” Cheap stopped in mid-word and turned to Ghost Peter but the Negro was nodding and grinning.

  “Tol’ ye it do queer tings, massa. Dis jungle root be pow’ful juju. Feveah it kill, also time it kill too. He do’an’ ’member nothin’ now; some day he will—jes’ like dis!” He clicked his fingers together sharply.

  “You mean that he doesn’t remember anything?” Cheap demanded incredulously.

  “Somet'ings—but all t’ings no. Ask ’im.”

  “Well, what do you remember, my buck?” Cheap looked to Scarface.

  “We sailed from Tortuga—last night?” Scarface made a question of his answer. He was beginning to piece knowledge together for himself now. Ghost Peter had mentioned the fever and that he had been dosed with one of the Negro’s herb remedies. So part of his memory was gone, was it? But that— that was witchcraft! He shrank from the two of them, a horror of them, of this strange cabin, of himself, beginning to grow within his mind. What had happened in the time he could not remember?

  “Last night—?” Cheap laughed. “By the sword, that is as rich a jest as any man would want to hear. No, brat, ’twas not last night that we sailed from Tortuga, but some weeks since. You have had a bad touch of the fever. Mayhap it is well that Peter played doctor to you, since the days past are better out of your memory. So Scarface sails again with me— Well, I was never the one to spit in Lady Luck’s face. But best get you cutting tools, lad, we’ve hot work before us if anything goes ill.”

  “Where are we?” demanded Scarface desperately as Cheap was about to leave the cabin.

  “In the harbor at Bridgetown, Barbados,” Cheap grinned. “And since you have never seen this spot before, come on deck with you and look your fill.”

  Cheap was mocking him now, he knew that tone of old. And why did the Captain watch him so closely when they reached the deck and he went to stare over the railing at the town across the water? What was there about Bridgetown which he should have known? To look at, it was any Indies’ town—its white-walled, tiled-roof houses like all the others to be seen up and down the Main. He had seen its like many times before and would doubtless see them again. But how had Cheap won into the harbor without a fight? Was this his fine plan for raiding Sir Robert’s own doorstep?

  There were other ships at anchor—a sloop of war and a rather battered-appearing brig which must have fought her way through storm before she had reached her present anchorage. Then there was the brig on which they stood, a strange ship to him, and three other ships which kept close to her as if they shared her purpose. Yet Cheap had sailed alone from Tortuga.

  “Well, Master Scarface, and how do you like Bridgetown?”

  That was Cheap, still mocking. Scarface answered him as indifferently as he could.

  “It is much like other towns I have seen—”

  “And have fought through? But if all goes well we shall not have to take to the sword here. That is our quarry.” He nodded toward the storm-worn brig. “She has that on board which will well line all our pockets and she’ll come to our call like a lamb to the fold. Then we’ll shear her—all clean.”

  To Scarface’s mind the anchored brig had little about her to make her noteworthy, but if Cheap proclaimed her so it was doubtless true, since the Captain seldom erred in such judgments. But how they were to cut her out of the harbor he did not see. But that was Cheap’s problem also. And now he himself was more concerned with learning why the Captain thought that Bridgetown should be of special interest to him.

  That is, that was his first preoccupation—until he chanced to glance above the deck and saw that the ship upon which he stood was flying boldly the crimson Jack of an honest merchant craft with below it the dreaded yellow square which signified a plague ship! So that was how they had been able to come into the island harborage without raising alarm! But—he flogged his memory—had not some such scheme been tried once before—sometime—somewhere? If he could only remember!

  They had been sighted and now from shore a trim launch was putting out. It bore the Queen’s Jack and could be either a naval or a customs’ craft coming to warn them off the town lest they infect the island.

  As he hung over the rail watching that smaller boat approach Scarface heard a scuffle below. Someone had endeavored to climb through one of the gun ports and had been jerked back out of sight, with only a shrill, cut-off cry to mark the failure of his attempt. So Cheap was holding a prisoner between decks, a prisoner who had tried to gain the attention of those aboard the launch. Well, prisoners had been on Cheap’s ships before—but never for long. All Scarface hoped was that Creagh did not have the governance of this one—whoever the poor devil might be.

  The launch came alongside but at a respectful distance. Scarface started to push forward to see its occupants, only Cheap’s hand closed talon-wise about the boy’s upper arm and he was held where he was. It was not the pirate captain who had gone down to answer the hail of the port authorities. Nathaniel Buck, rigged out in an ill-fitting red coat, stood there.

  Buck! How did he come on this brig? He had not sailed from Tortuga with them—or had he? Since he, Scarface, could no longer trust his memory, how could he be sure of anything which had happened in the past? But why did Buck play the captain while Cheap stood in hiding?

  One man dared to leap the gap between launch and ship and clamber up to them, a doctor’s bag slung around his neck, sent doubtless to verify their leperdom. When Buck greeted him he pressed a folded paper on the New England
er and then stood waiting.

  Buck came aft as two men closed in on the doctor. At their words the small man from shore went rather reluctantly towards the crew’s quarters. Buck flipped the paper to Cheap.

  “Greetings from His Excellency and a warm warning to take ourselves off, I suppose.” The New England captain waited for Cheap to finish reading. “I don’t like this—”

  “Do you ever?” commented Cheap. “Hmm—” He scanned the few lines swiftly. “Ha, so Sir Robert would have us remove ourselves speedily to such a spot as he shall designate. Shall I go ashore to throw myself on his mercy and beg for pity?”

  His brother captain favored him with a glance which implied that he was indeed moon-struck and altogether witless.

  “When he knows your face as well as he knows the back of his hand? This is a crazy plot, Cheap, and I would that I had not lent my ship to it. No good will come of such recklessness—I warn you.”

  Cheap pointed to the other brig. “Look there and think what lies under her deck; that should change your tune quick enough. I’ll contrive an answer to this which will keep Scarlett off—until we are ready. He’ll wake too late and then he’ll discover that too late is never! I’ve had a rod in pickle for Robert Scarlett a good score of years!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  * * *

  “UNTIL YOU ARE DEAD, DEAD, DEAD!”

  * * *

  MAYBE IT was the ill-omened presence of Black Quinby, maybe it was the good luck of Robert Scarlett, but fate, at long last came into striking distance of Jonathan Cheap that day, and the blow she dealt him was no light one. Scarface was never clear afterwards as to what started that debacle.