Scarface

by Andre Norton

  It began on board one of the sloops which had companied them into the anchorage. There were shouts from her deck and then the crackle of pistol shots. The peddlers’ boats fled as if the plague lay naked there and someone lost his head and lobbed a shot after the tail of the nearest.

  As a result the trumpet call to quarters was blown on the seaworn brig Cheap was watching and her gun ports opened. Her master was either a vastly suspicious or a vastly nervous man, and, in either case, his prompt action was to save him his ship, because Cheap, always reckless when it came to battle, took that as a challenge. Before Buck or Quittance could argue it he had given the nod to Creagh and those wolves who followed him.

  Had Buck been aboard his own ship he might, have tried to run for it, for he was a prudent man and had no liking for such odds as faced them now. But he was on Cheap’s ship and fight he must—which might have been what Cheap intended from the beginning.

  Having given the game away the sloop now proceeded to make bad matters doubly worse by firing with ragged persistence at the shore fortifications—the fact that all the balls fell yards short of their goal apparently making no impression upon the gunner at all. Witnessing this, the farthest bark of their small fleet frankly turned tail and started out to sea, deserting her company. Buck bit his nails as he watched her go—for she was his own ship.

  So did Jonathan Cheap’s fine plan break into so many pieces and no man could save them now. What remained was a sorry business.

  Cheap and Quinby fought, and Lechmere, on whose deck the betrayal had begun, hammered away—mostly at thin air and empty water. There was a wild hour in which twice it seemed as if they might win free after all, but when the sloop of war, the brig and the forts all lapped them in with fire, that hope vanished. And the end was bitter fighting across the decks where the smooth dull red paint could no longer hide the brighter patches of fresh crimson.

  Scarface cut and thrust with a blade he had chanced upon, and by some luck or his own skill was among that handful who won up to the afterdeck and there stood panting back to back, waiting for the last rush of the island men. It was a dirty business and he was almost glad when the end came.

  The commander of the invaders brought up a culverin and trained it upon them, ordering the pirates to throw down their arms or be blasted. Even Cheap could not face that and his sword rang with the others on the planking.

  So did Scarface come into Bridgetown, his arms lashed behind him, thrust up the wharf’s ladders to walk with his fellows down the crooked lanes toward the jail with the soft oaths of Cheap overriding in his ears the shouts and taunts of the crowd which ringed them in.

  He found himself at last in a dark cellar where various stenches warred and the floor was slimy underfoot. And he was not alone, but shared these quarters with what was left of the ship’s crews. So there was little room indeed and if a man found a spot wherein he might squat upon his hunkers he was lucky. In the gloom it was hard to tell one powder-blackened face from another, but he noted that Cheap and the other officers were not with them. Here was only the common sort and most of them had already abandoned hope since Sir Robert’s temper toward pirates was well known throughout the Main. Only some who were pressed men or unknown spoke among themselves of pardons.

  Scarface cut and thrust with a blade he had chanced upon.

  How long they were imprisoned there he had no way of telling and in the after days he believed that his fever must have come upon him again for he could remember so little of that time, save that once he ate hungrily of coarse mealie dumplings, such fare as slaves fed upon. And when at last the crew were brought forth, the open light of day hurt his eyes, so that he would have shielded them—had his hands not been seized and bound behind him again.

  The prisoners were led into court in companies of ten and when he stood with some others from his cell he found that Cheap and Buck were also to be of their number. The New Englander stood with bitten lip and eyes which roved the room as if he needs must free himself or perish—as was indeed true—save that there was little hope of freedom.

  But Cheap, in spite of the heavy irons at his wrists and the slave bar at his ankles which held him to a short shuffle instead of his usual free stride, held his head high and stared back at the islanders assembled there as if he were as great a man as he who sat in the governor’s high seat. Indeed there was the same sort of air about them both, as if they had long walked in companies where other men did their bidding without question. And now their eyes held long together and it seemed that this was not a trial but a silent duel between the two of them.

  Scarface shook his head at these crackbrained fancies. But this room, the fellow pressed against him, Cheap and the other man who must be Sir Robert trying to outstare each other—these all were unreal, as if he were in the midst of one of those muddled dreams which torment the uneasy sleeper. He pulled himself together and resolved to plead not guilty and hope because of his youth to be given a chance at pardon.

  Only the heat and crowding of the room made his head ache most vilely and sometimes when those about him spoke he could not hear what they said but only saw their lips move in their faces. Now some official of the court was reading out their names.

  “Jonathan Cheap, Captain, Nathaniel Buck, Captain, Nathaniel Creagh, Boatswain, John Dipper, Eleazer Camberwell, Rance Spranger, Phineas Burch, Richard Stodgill, Dennis Broome, Justin Blade—”

  Ten names, and ten men stood in the dock. But they had not read his name. What did that mean? There had been no “Scarface” on that list.

  “Broome and Stodgill do plead that they are forced men,” went on the clerk, “and do throw themselves upon the court’s mercy. Justin Blade has taken the Queen’s Pardon and then returned again to his evil ways—”

  Scarface wondered which of their number was that unlucky wretch who would now have no chance at all. Three of the men standing with him were strangers from one of the other ships; it might be any one of them. Only why hadn’t they called his name?

  It was a lengthy business, this trying of pirates, for each man must have his chance and there were many witnesses to be called. They tried the common men first, leaving the officers until the end. Dipper and Camberwell made only a poor showing and when they would speak in their own defense they but yammered for mercy. Stodgill was able to prove that he had been indeed a forced man, kept from a captured ship because he was a skilled carpenter. But why had they not yet spoken of Scarface?

  At last only he, Creagh and the two captains were left. And then the Queen’s Counsel addressed the Judge with such words as left the boy staring down at him in horrified amazement.

  “M’lord, we come now to one of the greatest villains this island has ever seen. This youth, in spite of his few years, has accomplished such evil as few twice his age do. He did take the Queen’s Pardon, and nourished by those he was able to hide his foul heart from, he did live here among us—whilst all the time he was acting as a spy for this Jonathan Cheap. And all this can we prove. M’lord, I do now call Major Humphrey Cocklyn!”

  A tall man in the red coat of an officer came forward to swear the oath while Scarface watched him unbelievingly. This couldn’t be true—he wasn’t Justin Blade—he had never been in Bridgetown before—or had he? What was the past Peter’s concoction had driven from him?

  And, as the man testifying against him spoke, the boy leaned forward listening eagerly to every word. It was a most fantastic tale. That he had been brought ashore from the Naughty Lass, that he had lived for weeks under Cocklyn’s roof, that he had then been taken to the palace to supply the governor with information concerning Tortuga—

  “And this Justin Blade while under your roof did accept the Queen’s Pardon?” prompted the prosecutor.

  For the first time Cocklyn glanced up at the boy. In his brown face his eyes were hard, his mouth a thin line of distaste.

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And you did thereafter care for and maintain him almost as a son within yo
ur household?”

  Cocklyn bowed his head in assent. The Queen’s Counsel, smiled cheerfully.

  “And how did he afterwards requite you for this hospitality?”

  “He was to act in some measure as a companion to my young nephew, Sir Francis Hynde. And he did betray this trust when he returned to his friends, taking Francis with him so that the lad might be held for ransom.”

  “So. A vile fellow indeed, Major Cocklyn. M’lord, if it be your pleasure, we will now call upon Sir Francis to tell the court how this pirate used him.”

  Cocklyn stepped down and another took his place. Scarface frowned. That bewigged and satin-coated little fop—Surely he had never seen him before!

  “Sir Francis,” said the counsel, “be good enough to raise your eyes to the dock and tell the court if you have ever seen before any of the men now standing therein.”

  Eagerly the boy scanned the row of prisoners.

  “Oh, aye,” he cried. “There is Captain Cheap, and Nat Creagh and Scarface—”

  “And who is Scarface?”

  “Justin—Justin Blade, but the pirates do call him ‘Scarface.’ Captain Cheap said that he served them well as eyes within Bridgetown.”

  There was a stir in the room and even the Judge frowned. For a moment Sir Robert even lost interest in Cheap and transferred his attention to Scarface.

  “M’lord, with the permission of the court Sir Francis will tell his story in its entirety.”

  So did they all hear of a day’s fishing and what it led to. Scarface swallowed with a dry throat. This web they were spinning about him had no escape hole. Surely they couldn’t all be mistaken—he must have done these things—been here before—known these people—Only he could not remember!

  “Wait!” That word of interruption had come from the Governor himself and now he spoke to the Judge. “M’lord, if it please the court, may I ask the witness a question?”

  If the Judge was annoyed he masked that emotion and agreed quickly enough to His Excellency’s request.

  “So when you were aboard this ship Blade did suggest to you that you might escape when you sailed again to Bridgetown?”

  “Aye, Your Excellency. But he also said that he would help me. And then he lied, for when I came and asked it of him he did not move or answer me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I know not, Your Excellency, save that Captain Cheap did say that he had the coast fever and then he and the great black man—him whom they call Ghost Peter—took Scarface away and I did not see him again. They said that I must not trouble him for he was ill—”

  “Very interesting,” commented Sir Robert. “May we ask”—he spoke now to the counsel—"to hear evidence concerning the demeanor of the prisoner during the fighting?”

  The counsel had plenty of such testimony to offer. Scarface—the bloodthirsty Blade—had fought well and had only been taken by that last threat of the culverin.

  “Then at no time did the prisoner offer to join those attacking the pirates?” persisted Sir Robert.

  Again a murmur swept the court. But the lieutenant who had come to the stand was quick to reply.

  “At no time, Your Excellency. He fought most savagely and seemed to be in high favor with his fellows.”

  “I see.” Sir Robert settled back in his chair as if he had lost all interest in the proceedings and the counsel seemed more sprightly—as if a threatened danger had been safely by-passed. But he began almost at once to sum up his case against Justin Blade, laying great stress upon the fact that having once taken the Queen’s Pardon the villain had returned to his old ways, that he was reported by Cheap himself to have been his spy within the town and that Sir Francis had seen him accept payment for that latter service.

  And to this Scarface could make no reply save that he intended to tell the truth if they would ever let him speak for himself. Only Sir Robert spoke once more, saying:

  “Ask of Cheap whether this boy was truly his spy—”

  And Cheap took the oath with spirit to reply:

  “The lad is like a son to me. Oh, aye, I did have him flogged. I am a man of hasty temper and he did cross me badly. But when he served me well I did accept him into favor again. He is my man.”

  And so did Captain Cheap make very sure that his cabin boy would hang on the Bridgetown gallows.

  The trial plodded on, only now Scarface had little attention for the evidence or the plight of the others. Within himself he knew a great and ever growing cold. But yet none of this day seemed real—as real as the pain in his head. Twice he looked up wearily to see that Sir Robert was watching him closely, a frown written between his brows, as if in Scarface he saw a puzzle he could not solve.

  And in the end when all the testimony had been heard, Buck and Cheap were painted as black as the men who had gone before them. Then the Judge gave all of them one last chance to speak in their own behalf. Scarface moved stiff jaws and dry lips when they asked of him what he had to say, and he spoke at last more to Sir Robert than to those others who, as he knew well, had already condemned him in their minds.

  “Of what has been told here against me—I can say naught for it may be the truth. When I fell ill of the coast fever Captain Cheap did force upon me the devil’s brew which Ghost Peter has the secret of. It takes the fever from a man’s bones right enough, but it also takes from him his memories. I cannot remember the past at all—”

  But he stopped then and set his teeth for they were laughing openly and even the Judge smiled. And he saw that they believed his tale a tissue of poor weak lies. Only Sir Robert’s frown grew and he was plaiting a paper into a fan, his fingers biting out sharp creases. So did Scarface’s speech in his own behalf lose him any sympathy which might have remained to him.

  The jury did not go from the room but rendered a verdict yet sitting. To suffer the extreme penalty of the Queen’s law they condemned all save Stodgill and for him there was freedom since he had been a pressed man.

  From the desk before him the Judge picked up the black silk cap and placed it on his wig. There was no laughter in him now, only the most awesome dignity as he gave their sentences.

  “—shall be taken hence”—his words were heavy on the stagnant air of the room—"to the place of execution and there, within the flood marks, to be hanged by the neck until you are dead, dead, dead— And thereafter shall your bodies remain upon the gibbet as a warning to all ill-doers and masterless rogues!”

  “Dead—dead—dead—” Scarface stared down at the floor. There were great wide cracks between the old boards and a black insect scuttled from one crevice to another. Dead—dead—dead— Those were words, just words.

  Someone seized him by his elbow and brought him about so that he could follow his fellows out of the courtroom. And as they went their feet drummed out on those boards —dead—dead—dead—

  Chapter Seventeen

  * * *

  DRINK DEEP AND BE SORRY

  * * *

  THEREAFTER they were not left alone to spend their last hours in decent peace, but rather did the town flock in to view them as if they were caged and dangerous beasts. Until they were led out to the gallows they would not be free of pointing fingers and staring eyes.

  Some huddled down near the wall and sat looking before them into the blackness of tomorrow, and others put a bold face on the matter and talked loud and long to any who would listen. But Scarface found a far corner of the courtyard wherein they were now penned like senseless cattle and dropped down full length, trying to be as unminding as the animal they deemed him.

  For some moments he did not realize why he could not lie in comfort. But when he felt in the sash about his middle he discovered a hard knot in its folds which bit into him when he tried to rest. He dug it out and found he was holding a chain of soft, dull gold.

  There was something about that piece of chain—something important to him. Back and forth, back and forth, his gaze followed its swing. He had handled it before— someone had given it t
o him. A dagger—a dagger in the right hand—who had said— Cheap had!

  And this was Cheap’s gift! Because—because—he had been given it because he told stories of Bridgetown—stories of BRIDGETOWN! Scarface cupped the chain tight in his palm and forced his twisting thought straight.

  He could remember now—remember almost all! It was true—he was Justin Blade and he had walked these cobbled streets before. But the rest was not true—he was no pirate!

  That brought him to his feet and sent him pushing among his fellows towards the great iron grille which was the gate. They couldn’t keep him here—he must get out—it was wrong, his being here, all wrong and even Sir Robert would say so.

  A hand caught him and the full strength behind it brought him up short. He was looking into Creagh’s heavy face.

  “Whar ’way, mate?” the boatswain asked cheerfully. “Thar be no leavin’ fer us ’til we go out t’ tread th’ air tomorrow. Best save yer legs fer that!”

  “But I can remember now! I can remember all of it! I’m no pirate!”

  Creagh spluttered laughter. “Ain’t ye now? Well, who’d ’ave thought it? Th’ Judge an’ th’ rest don’t allow that ye be right in that. They said yer a pirate right enough. Ain’t no man in Bridgetown t’ say ’em no tonight.”

  With a playful shove he sent Scarface spinning, to collide with another man who cursingly fended him to stumble over the outstretched feet of a third and bring him forcibly up against the very gate he had been pushing towards. Only now he had no wish to stand there.

  What Creagh said was true. No man in Bridgetown would believe his fantastic story tonight. And tomorrow—tomorrow— He closed his eyes. But still printed before them was a scene he had been trying desperately not to think of. Dead—dead—dead—

  “Pirate! Yah—murderin’ scum! Pirate, dirty pirate!”

  Without the gate a small boy was snatched back by his taller brother. By the minute the crowd outside the prison yard was growing and nowhere among it did Scarface see any who might be appealed to—none of the better sort of townspeople were in this mob. Or if they were, they kept well to the outskirts.