Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom

by A. C. Crispin

  “Against three boys bigger than yourself, laddie?” MacFarlin was plainly incredulous.

  Cutler gazed at him, then nodded. There was nothing more to say.

  After a moment, MacFarlin nodded. “I see. Verra well.”

  The schoolmaster stood in thought for a long moment, then paced back and forth, clearly troubled. Finally, he shook his head, then went over to a shelf. Taking a book down, he stood there a moment, turning it over in his hands. Cutler saw that it looked new. “I have something here for you, lad. I was going to give it to you on your birthday, but I think you should have it now. I know you’ll enjoy it. You have a good imagination, and this is a book that tells of great adventures. It also has a lot of legends in it, legends about treasure.”

  Cutler found himself reaching for it eagerly, his aches and pains forgotten. “Treasure?”

  “Aye. Treasure.”

  He placed the book in Cutler’s hands, and the boy read the title. My Lyfe Amonge the Pyrates. He looked up. “Who is Captain J. Ward?”

  “Nobody knows, lad. Someone didn’t want to be recognized as the author, so he used what is called a pen name. I read it myself, and there’s no doubt that this J. Ward knows what he writes of, though. Pirates…bloodthirsty buccaneers and brigands, the lot of ’em. But they make for fascinating reading.”

  Cutler’s fingers traced the leather cover, with its inlay of gold. “Thank you, sir.”

  Schoolmaster MacFarlin held out his hand, his voice becoming more formal, losing the Scottish burr. “Now come along, lad. I’ll walk you back to Springhaven, and we’ll find your governess…”

  Cutler Beckett blinked, as the sudden tide of memory receded. It had been years since he’d thought of Master MacFarlin and the little schoolhouse. His schooling had been so much better after that day. He’d enjoyed his private lessons, and sometimes his sister Jane had come along with her needlework to keep him company and listen to his recitations. They’d practiced their French together, because Master MacFarlin frankly admitted that, although he could read French nearly as well as he could read English, his Scottish accent made his spoken French nothing any student should emulate. Jane had always laughed whenever MacFarlin used a French phrase. Her French had been flawless…

  Beckett’s mouth tightened. The day he’d landed in Calabar and walked up from the harbor to the EITC office, he’d found a stack of mail waiting for him. Most of it was business mail, of course, but half a dozen letters were personal. Against their father’s orders, Jane had written to him secretly for years. After the death of their mother, Cutler had promised her that she could join him at his next posting. He knew she hated their father almost as much as he did.

  There had been indeed been several letters from Jane, which he’d read eagerly, but as he’d worked his way through the stack, there was also one with a telltale black border, bearing unfamiliar handwriting. Beckett had opened it to find that it had been penned by his cousin, Susan. Sometime during the time he’d been en route from his previous EITC posting in Nippon, the port of Edo, Jane had died from a fever. His last link with his family back in England…gone.

  Cutler Beckett cleared his throat, then shook his head, chiding himself for woolgathering when there was so much work to be done. After dusting the book, he placed it on the shelf—

  —then, frowning, pulled it back. Wait a minute. Wasn’t there a legend about western Africa? Walking over to his desk, he sat down and opened the book, turning the pages carefully until he reached the proper place. Ah, yes. I remember. Kerma, the fabled lost island where the children of Kush went, when they departed from their city of Old Kerma near the third cataract of the Nile…

  Quickly he reread the legend, and studied the hand-tinted illustrations “Captain Ward” had drawn depicting some pieces of Zerzuran jewelry Ward claimed to have seen. At first glance, they resembled some of the Egyptian pieces Beckett currently had in his collection of ancient jewelry and weapons, but there were some important stylistic differences. There was an enameled pectoral depicting the stylized face of a lion, the Kushites’ heathen god, Apedemak. It was copper, lavishly inlaid with gold and silver. There was also a dagger with an iron blade, most unusual for the period, when most blades had been forged from bronze. The hilt was plated with precious metals, copper and gold, and the end of the hilt bore a reddish cabochon gem. A ruby, or a garnet, perhaps…Lastly, there was a golden armlet, clearly designed for royalty, decorated with gems and enamelwork in the distinctive style of Kush.

  Now that I’m here in Western Africa, I can add to my collection of ancient artifacts, Beckett realized. For years he’d collected weapons, amulets, and jewelry. He even had a few pieces purportedly taken from an Egyptian royal tomb.

  Of course, Cutler Beckett didn’t go out and search for such treasures himself. He was far too busy, and dealing in antiquities meant dealing with tomb robbers and thieves. Not the class of people a gentleman would wish to encounter. I need to look for a new operative, Beckett thought. The chance that I could find artifacts from Kush—or even Zerzura!—makes finding someone a priority.

  Cutler Beckett actually had many operatives in his pay, men in important foreign ports who kept an eye on developments and reported to him. He had a web of informants funneling him information at all times. Information was his lifeline.

  And for local “business,” especially any problems that might arrive, Cutler Beckett always had someone in his employ to be his eyes and ears in the seamier sections of town. He’d had such men before, men who acted as both spy and enforcer. But his most recent operative, a former spy for the Crown named Gates, had never returned from the last “errand” Beckett had dispatched him to do, in Nippon. Beckett had reluctantly concluded that the man had been killed—which wasn’t too surprising, since more than a few of his assignments had involved violence, either covert or overt. Within days of Gates’s disappearance, the news of Cutler Beckett’s promotion and transfer to Africa had arrived, and Beckett hadn’t had time to engage anyone else before leaving. Then it had taken more than six months at sea for his vessel to reach Calabar.

  Beckett resolved to begin his search for his new operative the next day. Men like that were not easy to find. They had to be intelligent, informed, dedicated, trustworthy, and utterly ruthless. Even before he could find and hire his local operative, he’d make sure the word got out about his interest in the acquisition of information about treasure legends, and, hopefully, antique artifacts, from Africa. The entire continent was riddled with such legends, he recalled. But it was the legend of Zerzura that had interested him the most as a lad.

  Once Cutler Beckett set his mind to do something, he proceeded with dispatch and efficiency—focused, cold-blooded efficiency. It didn’t take him long to adjust to the demands of his new job, and to ensconce himself in the European community that was growing in Calabar. Most of the Europeans were, of course, men, on assignment there for their jobs. Given how unhealthy the climate of Africa, even here on the coast, often proved to whites, few of the wealthy and powerful gentlemen chose to endanger their families by bringing them to the port.

  That meant there was a market for “companions” for many of them. Cutler Beckett found himself doing a brisk side business in light-skinned female concubines. He was discreet and prompt and his prices, though steep, were reasonable, given the quality of the product he was selling. Not all of the women were African, though, of course, many were. Slavery as an institution had been around as long as any form of human civilization, Beckett suspected, and African slaves were just the newest, largest supply of them to be had.

  He also did “favors” for powerful men, asking for no payment. He assured them that he was happy to be of service—and he was. Having wealthy, powerful men that owed you, that required your discretion and continuing silence, often paid off in many ways.

  The highlight of Beckett’s first three months in his new job was a visit from his immediate supervisor, the EITC’s Director of African Affairs, Viscount, Lord Regin
ald Marmaduke Bracegirdle-Penwallow. Lord Pen-wallow had his own EITC ship, the schooner Albatross, and spent most of his time traveling from one African EITC port to another. Since Calabar was rapidly becoming the African trade’s busiest, most lucrative port, Beckett had known that he could expect to see him frequently.

  Even though they’d never met before, Beckett knew quite a bit about Penwallow. He’d made a study of the man, and his achievements within the EITC, because Penwallow had once rescued him from a very sticky situation. On the day that the Albatross first docked in the harbor of Calabar, a gasping runner sent up from the docks informed him of its arrival within minutes. Quickly, Beckett changed his everyday coat and waistcoat to his best ones, and then changed his everyday wig to his most elaborately curled and powdered one.

  On his way downstairs, he sought out Mistress Goodwright, to inform her of his honored guest’s arrival, instructing her to have an excellent dinner prepared, and the best wines brought up from the cellar. Then, clapping his best black tricorne on his head, Cutler Beckett walked out his front door, and climbed into his calash. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, so the coachman had folded the top back, leaving the vehicle open to the air. The open carriage was drawn by Beckett’s best team, the well-matched grays.

  As he settled himself on the well-padded forward facing seat, Beckett gave his slave driver, known as Benjamin, a sharp glance, to make sure the man was well turned out in his finest livery, then also checked out the footman, a youth they called Cyrus, as he closed the calash’s door. Both passed muster; Beckett gave the signal to drive on. Cyrus swung himself up behind the carriage as it rolled forward. They barreled down the hill toward the docks, the grays stepping along smartly.

  It was usually Cutler Beckett’s custom to walk to the docks for exercise, or to ride one of his horses if he had an errand outside of the main part of town. Just as he was abstemious about food and drink, he believed in the virtues of a healthy constitutional each day. But under the circumstances, appearances must be preserved.

  When Beckett reached the Albatross, he was in time to welcome Pen-wallow as the official debarked from his vessel and stepped cautiously down the gangplank, steadying himself with a gold-topped walking stick. He was flanked on each side, though not touched, by stalwart seaman, ready to catch him, should he stumble.

  Beckett regarded him covertly, not wanting to stare. Lord Penwallow was a portly man who was dressed in the height of fashion, even in Africa’s heat. His coat was of turquoise silk, so bright it nearly glittered in the morning sun. His matching turquoise hat was bedecked with white plumes. Penwallow’s complexion was florid beneath his elaborate white wig, and his face shone greasily with sweat. White powder sprinkled the shoulders of the turquoise coat. He was tall and rotund, but a trifle bowlegged in his white britches, as though he’d spent much time riding to hounds in his youth.

  When his supervisor reached the relative stability of the dock, Beckett stepped forward, bowing courteously. “Lord Penwallow, welcome to Calabar. Cutler Beckett, at your service, sir.”

  Penwallow lifted a pince-nez and regarded his subordinate curiously. His eyes, in his florid countenance, seemed small within the folds of flesh, but they were sharp and a very bright blue. “Mr. Beckett,” he replied, nodding congenially. “Thank you for your gracious welcome. It is good to be back on land, here in Calabar.” His voice was oddly high-pitched for such a large man. As he took a step forward, Penwallow staggered. Only the quickness of one of the seaman, who steadied him, then quickly stepped back, kept him from falling. Penwallow chortled at his own gaucherie.

  “God’s nightgown, this always happens! Two months at sea, and I lose my land legs.”

  Beckett bowed again. “Completely understandable, Lord Penwallow, happens to me, too.”

  Within minutes, Penwallow was ensconced on the comfortable seat of the calash, and they headed back up to the house.

  Following an excellent dinner, and several glasses of wine, the gentlemen retired to the library to sip their port. Penwallow lit up a clay pipe, and puffed away, closing his eyes with contentment. “Ahh…good. I never smoke while aboard, would set a terrible example for my staff. ’Tis good to be back on solid ground, if only for the pleasures of fresh food, good port, and good tobacco.”

  Beckett, who did not smoke, regarding it as nasty vice, smiled graciously and nodded. “Indeed, Lord Penwallow. And may I hope that you will see fit to grace us here in my humble home? I’ve had the best suite prepared.”

  “Thank you, thank you, I shall,” Penwallow said. “You have done very well, Beckett, very well indeed, at outfitting your home. You have some lovely things.”

  “I try to keep my living arrangements…civilized…my lord, no matter where the EITC sends me. Since I plan a lifetime of service, it is well to have the ability to make a home anywhere.”

  “Excellent, excellent, Beckett! It is good to hear that you plan to stay with us. Your work has been exemplary to date.”

  “My lord,” Beckett hesitated for effect, and then cast his eyes down, humbly. “I assure you it’s the least I may do to repay the generosity you showed me all those years ago.”

  “Tut, tut, my boy…” Penwallow waved his hand dismissively. It was the one holding the pipe, and smoke made a trail through the air. I’ll have to make sure to have the whole library aired and cleaned, Beckett thought, making a mental note to speak to the housekeeper when Penwallow decamped.

  Stealing a quick glance at his superior, seeing that he was smiling benevolently, Beckett drew a deep breath, making sure it sounded just a bit ragged. “Sir…I would like to take the liberty of formally thanking you once again, this time in person, for your rescue of me ten years ago. To put it bluntly, you saved my life, when my family refused to come to my rescue, in effect casting me off. If it were not for your order that resulted in my being freed, I shudder to think what would have happened to me. The EITC invested a goodly sum in me, a new and unproven employee, and it happened all by your order. I have always endeavored to make sure the company has been well repaid for its investment, my lord.”

  Penwallow, who had just taken a sip of port, waved a beringed hand at his companion affably. “Pish and tosh, Beckett! You repaid the EITC its actual outlay within a remarkably short period of time, and since then, you have been responsible for numerous profitable ventures, too many to detail. Here’s to you, Beckett,” Lord Penwallow said, raising his port glass again, and saluting his subordinate.

  Cutler Beckett cast his eyes down again, the very picture of a modest young man who was nearly overwhelmed at receiving the praise of a superior. “My lord…may I only continue to prove worthy of such sentiments.”

  The two men talked about business for the rest of their afternoon and evening together. Beckett realized that Penwallow was a shrewd man, capable of adding large columns of figures in his head, and deriving percentages without pen and paper. Unlike many other high-level EITC officials Beckett had met, he seemed honest in his dealings, if not particularly insightful or creative. He was also, judging by the way he went on and on about them, a devoted family man.

  Cutler Beckett had learned long ago that personal information about one’s associates (especially one’s superiors) often proved very useful. So he asked many questions about Penwallow’s family. The older man, pleased at his genuine interest (which he erroneously perceived to be good-humored and harmless) told his subordinate all about his beautiful estate in Surrey, and then the sugar plantation he’d recently purchased on the island of New Avalon, just north of Cuba. He happily produced ivory miniatures of his wife, the Lady Hortense, and his children, Anna and Frederick—plus Anna’s children, Sally, Marvin, and Christopher.

  It was clear that Penwallow’s twenty-three-year-old son, Frederick, was the apple of his eye. The viscount went on and on about Frederick’s good looks and his skill at riding to hounds, and he genially confided to Beckett that his son was considered one of the most eligible bachelors in England.

  By
the time Penwallow finally ran down about his family, and how much he missed his home, Cutler Beckett knew a great deal about him. He knew, for example, that Penwallow was no more than a social drinker. He’d never indulged to the point of embarrassing himself. Nor had he pinched any of the attractive housemaids or leered at any of the young wives he’d been introduced to. So…he wasn’t a drunk, nor a ladies’ man.

  But…it was clear that Penwallow dearly enjoyed the occasional game of chance. Beckett resolved to organize a “gentlemen’s gathering” in honor of His Lordship’s visit, so he’d be able to gauge His Lordship’s skill at cards, dice, and so forth.

  Beckett also realized that Lord Penwallow might well be his ticket to a title. It was clear from everything the man said that he wasn’t just name-dropping when he mentioned people he knew at court. He obviously was held in high regard by the EITC top management, as well as nobles in high places.

  Lord Penwallow enjoyed his visit in Calabar so much that he extended it by more than a week. By the time Cutler Beckett had seen his guest off at the dock, and the sails of the Albatross were filling with wind as it glided out of the harbor, Beckett knew he had made a valuable contact in his quest for elevation in the EITC. And with a high position would come money and power—more power.

  Soon, he told himself, soon I’ll be able to go back to Somersetshire, and drive through the gates of Springhaven. I’ll knock on the door, and when the butler answers it, I’ll instruct him to announce me to Father, Jonathan, and Bartholomew as Sir Cutler Beckett.

  The thought of his father and his brothers’ reaction when their titled relation walked into the room made his mouth curve upward. And after I see the envy in their eyes, and watch them try to figure out how to ingratiate themselves with me, then I’ll have the pleasure of giving them the “cut direct,” the worst insult high society allows. I’ll stare at them as though they’d crawled out of a cesspool, then I’ll turn my back and walk away, climb back into my carriage and drive off. And I’ll never see them again…