Or Else My Lady Keeps the Key

by Kage Baker

  The same sidestep, knock and recitation, and then a new voice responding: “Oh! Why—well—that’s exceedingly decent of Captain Sharp! Yes, indeed. I’ll be there. Yes. Thank him, please.”

  It was a male voice, an educated one. It sounded middle-aged.

  * * *

  They had to put out boats with sweeps to row the Fyrey Pentacost out of the harbor; they were obliged to keep the oars dipping until they were nearly to Port Morant. At last a breeze freshened and the sails flapped, then bellied as they caught the breeze in earnest.

  John was leaning on the rail, feeling pleased that he wasn’t one of the poor devils rowing away in the boats, when Mrs. Waverly came up from below, parasol over her shoulder. She put her hand on his arm.

  “Dear Mr. James, perhaps we might have a word,” she said in a low voice. “I am a little concerned for my good name.”

  “Have some of these bastards been treating you improper?” asked John, and felt his face grow hot. “Hoping you’ll pardon my plain talk.”

  “Oh, no, no indeed. But there have been inquiries made as to our relations, you see.”

  John stared at her a moment, wondering why anyone would be asking after his old mother and ten brothers and sisters in Hackney, before he got the sense of what she’d said. His ego sat up and preened a bit. “Well, it’s nobody’s business—”

  “Exactly, but now and again one does encounter a puritanical sort of ship’s master who assumes the worst about one,” said Mrs. Waverly, coloring a little. “So I have given out that I’m a new-made widow, and you are my late husband’s manservant.”

  John’s ego fell, wounded. “Servant?”

  “Oh, I know it cannot be to your liking, dear Mr. James; but it will help us avoid scandal, and in any case it’s only until we reach Leauchaud,” said Mrs. Waverly. “Tom and I had to devise such shifts many a time, as we traveled. Why, on one occasion I was obliged to disguise myself as a boy!”

  It was a diverting image. John contemplated it a moment before swallowing hard and muttering, “Well, but things stood a certain way between you and Tom Blackstone.”

  “That’s true. Yet I do count you as a friend, Mr. James; and who knows whether we mightn’t become very dear friends indeed?” Mrs. Waverly looked into his eyes. “Please, my dear, go along with the disguise this once, as a favor to me?”

  “Well,” said John. He looked down at her, in her gown of yellow cotton sprigged with forget-me-nots. “Ain’t they going to wonder why you aren’t in black?”

  Her lip trembled. “I hadn’t the money to buy a mourning gown,” she said. So then John felt like a cur dog, and said of course he’d go along with the game.

  * * *

  So John went before Mrs. Waverly to the great cabin that evening, and cleared his throat and announced her, as he supposed a servant ought to do. Four pairs of eyes watched his performance, and hers as she entered. Besides Captain Sharp and the first mate, Mr. Harris, there was the black servant who had conveyed the dinner invitation; also a little mild-looking man of about fifty, wearing thread-loop spectacles, who was introduced as Mr. Tudeley.

  “Mr. Tudeley is on his way to Barbados,” explained Captain Sharp, as he held out his wineglass. The black servant filled it. “A new position, I take it, sir?”

  “I hope so, indeed,” said Mr. Tudeley. “My sister and brother-in-law keep a pie-house there, you see, quite a profitable one. They have intimated they require a clerk, and were so good as to send for me after Squire Darrow’s plantation failed, I being then at loose ends.”

  “Why, sir, I hope a pie-house is steadier work than a plantation!” said Captain Sharp, with a wink at the others.

  “I, too. There wasn’t any fault in my accounts,” said Mr. Tudeley, looking miserable, for he had caught the wink. “No fault of mine at all. But Mr. Cox, that was the manager, Mr. Cox had taken to drink, and neglected the place shamefully. I said so at the time. The indentures were insolent and lazy, too. What could I have done?”

  “I am sure you did your best,” said Captain Sharp. “And may I introduce the Widow Waverly? And Mr. James. Her man.”

  Mr. Harris looked knowing at that, and the black servant stared in a fairly open way. John scowled, but Mrs. Waverly smiled.

  “He was simply devoted to my poor husband, you know, and a better factotum I could not hope for,” she said, with a graceful wave.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said John.

  “And we are taking you out to Leauchaud, as I understand?” said the Captain to Mrs. Waverly.

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “You’ll be taking the waters for your health, I dare say?”

  “No; I have certain matters to resolve, concerning my husband’s inheritance,” said Mrs. Waverly.

  “Oh, well! You ought to try the waters, while you’re there,” said Captain Sharp. “I’ve been, and it did me a world of good. You would think you were in Bath! Mr. Shillitoe’s had handsome pools built for invalids, and a pump room beside.”

  “How charming!’ said Mrs. Waverly. “Perhaps I shall call on Mr. Shillitoe.”

  “Now, is it Mr. Shillitoe runs the place, or Mr. Leauchaud?” inquired Mr. Tudeley, leaning aside as the black servant ladled turtle soup into his plate. Everyone turned to stare at Mr. Tudeley, and he blushed furiously.

  “Chah! The name comes from L’eau chaud, hot water,” explained the black servant, with a snort of amusement. Now it was Captain Sharp who turned crimson.

  “How dare you address my guests! Hold your tongue, damn you!”

  There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, in which the servant met Captain Sharp’s glare with a smoldering look of his own.

  “So it is French, then!” said Mrs. Waverly, with a bright little laugh. “Of course. No doubt some Frenchman or other discovered it. Well, well. What a pleasant thought.”

  “And I’ll have none of your insolent looks,” Captain Sharp continued to the servant, “or you’ll earn yourself a flogging. Now, fetch out the sherry.” The servant hooded his eyes and bowed stiffly. He withdrew from the cabin.

  “I declare I took no offense, sir,” protested Mr. Tudeley. “I wouldn’t have the poor slave beaten on my account.”

  “He isn’t a slave,” said Mr. Harris. “He’s a damned freedman who gives himself airs.”

  “Freedman or no, he’ll find himself cutting cane in the sun one of these days,” said Captain Sharp, with an unpleasant smile. “Fetch a good price too, I don’t doubt. Well! Let it alone. May I offer you a slice of the smoked pork, ma’am?”

  The conversation touched on the price of sugar next, followed by the weather and local gossip. John was largely excluded from the conversation. At first he was relieved, not having much of a knack for genteel chitchat, until it occurred to him that he was being spoken around because he had been introduced as a mere servant. Then he felt a bit resentful.

  He was spooning up the last of his soup when he heard a liquid sound on the other side of the bulkhead. The sound suggested certain distinct images; he felt an answering twinge in his bladder. A moment later the servant returned with a decanter of amber liquid, and set it at Captain Sharp’s elbow, with a narrow-eyed smile.

  “Your sherry, sir,” he said.

  “Ah. A glass with you, gentlemen?” said Captain Sharp.

  “I thank you, no,” said Mr. Tudeley. “Not after the claret. I have a poor head for strong drink.”

  Captain Sharp regarded him in amused contempt. “As you like,” he said. “You, my man?” he inquired of John.

  John peered at the servant, wary. The servant raised his eyebrows. He gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

  “Er,” said John. “Thank you. No.”

  “You, Harris?”

  “Please,” said Harris, with his mouth full.

  “Sherry for Mr. Harris and myself, Sejanus,” said Captain Sharp.

  “Certainly, sir,” said the servant smoothly, and filled their glasses. “Shall I clear away the soup tureen, sir?”


  THREE:

  Old Friends

  THEY MADE LITTLE HEADWAY next day, for the wind swung around and the Fyrey Pentacost labored in the swell with a seesawing motion that sent Mr. Tudeley below, green as turtle soup. His groans drove Mrs. Waverly from her cabin, in turn, and she went above-decks for a stroll. Strolling proved impossible, though a sort or lurching progress from handhold to handhold could be managed. Several helpful crewmen put themselves in her way to catch her lest she fall against them, which she did. After the second time her hat was blown into the rigging, though, she made her way across the rocking deck to John’s side, where he stood at the rail. She clasped his arm to steady herself.

  “Shall we get there soon, do you think?”

  “Two or three days, I reckon,” said John. “At this rate.”

  “Dear God,” said Mrs. Waverly. John looked at her sidelong.

  “I been thinking about that money, ma’am.”

  “I, too, I assure you.”

  “I been reckoning it up. Four thousand pounds in gold in sealed bags—that’d be a great heavy sum to be carrying wouldn’t it? In sovereigns, anyhow. Tom couldn’t have lifted four thousand sovereigns by himself, let alone carried it off on his own to hide it. I reckon the only way he could have done it was if it was in five-guinea pieces. That’d amount to eight hundred of ’em.”

  “I suppose it would, yes.” Mrs. Waverly gave him a slightly hostile glance. “You’re rather good at sums, I must say.”

  “It’s only like reckoning up how many bricks go in a course, ma’am,” said John. “So. Allowing it was in five-guinea pieces, allowing it was eight hundred, and reckoning the weight at five stone and some—that’s still a powerful lot for one man to carry about. And I was just wondering, ma’am, how Tom lugged it off to Leauchaud without anyone noticing and robbing him. You’re sure he had it, are you?”

  “Of course I am,” said Mrs. Waverly. “Don’t be silly. I must have searched the room a dozen times while he was gone. And it was in five-guinea pieces, thank you, in sealed bags in an ironbound chest, quite a small one, considering. I saw it. And in any case, I have his letter! He tells me plain where it’s hid.”

  “Is there a map in the letter? Might I have a look at it?”

  “Oh, Mr. James!” Mrs. Waverly put her hand on her heart. “How can you ask such a thing? Tom’s letter contains remarks of a most private and passionate nature, and I am sure he never meant any eyes but mine own to read it. Spare a lady’s blushes, do!”

  “All right. Meant no offense, ma’am.” John hung his head and glared down at the white water hissing past the ship’s hull. Mrs. Waverly considered him a moment. When she spoke it was in a sweeter voice.

  “I would that Tom had trusted me, as he seems to have trusted you,” she said, and sighed, and leaned against John. “I loved him to distraction, and yet he held a part of himself aloof from me, always. But you are not like that, are you? I sense you have a kind and honest heart. If he had told you anything that might give a poor woman advantage now, you would surely tell her.”

  “Be sure I would, ma’am,” said John, powerfully conscious of the warmth of her against his side. “But he never told me anything about the money. Only that it was hid safe.”

  The ship dropped into the trough of a wave, smacking them with salt spray, and its lurch sent Mrs. Waverly tottering backward. John put out his hand and grabbed her lest she fall. He pulled her close, wrapping an arm around her. She looked up into his eyes. Her lips parted, and she sort of melted against him, “Oh, thank you,” she said.

  John inhaled her breath, which was sweet with caraway because she’d been chewing comfits against seasickness. He wondered if they might get down into the cable tiers, where there was a chance to do it in a certain amount of privacy; he wondered if she was the sort of woman to be put off by the sight of a few rats running about. All this in the hushed moment in which she half-lay on his arm, gazing up wide-eyed. Then there was a voice close by his ear.

  “Excuse me, lady.” Sejanus stepped around them and leaned over to empty the captain’s chamber pot to leeward.

  “Do you mind?” snapped Mrs. Waverly. She gripped the rail and stood straight.

  “I was just keeping her from falling,” said John. “On account of the rough sea.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Sejanus, in a neutral voice. “Very rough today, indeed.” He lowered a bucket on a rope to pull up some rinsing-water. As he straightened up he looked aft at the horizon, and frowned. “We’re being followed,” he said.

  John turned to look. There was a ship coming along, well over the horizon, keeping in the Fyrey Pentacost’s wake to starboard. She was a low thing, no bigger than a schooner, and the fact that her fore-and-aft sails were all patched and stained with many colors had made her harder to see. But John saw well enough the men crowded on her deck, and the glint of their weapons. As he watched, the craft sped nearer.

  “Bugger,” he said. He knew well enough what they were, having cruised in just such a vessel himself. “Pirates astern!” he bawled.

  “Oh God!” murmured Mrs. Waverly, and ran below. As John’s cry was echoed by the tardy lookout and men ran to the rail to see, Sejanus placidly rinsed out the captain’s chamber pot.

  All was confusion for a few minutes, with Mr. Harris shouting orders until the captain ran up on deck. The helmsman swung the tiller, and the Fyrey Pentacost’s square sails luffed as she changed course and turned to run before the wind, like an agitated hen. The pirates merely cut straight across her wake and made for her port side, close enough now for John to make out their grinning faces.

  “Blow them to Hell!” screamed Captain Sharp. “Mr. Partridge, serve out the muskets! Load the gun!”

  Two of the crew got busy with the ship’s little rail-mounted one-pounder, and soon got off a shot that fell short of the mark; the pirates hooted and came on, their craft skimming over the water fast and light. By the time the gun was reloaded and aimed again, the pirates were close enough to nail the gunner with a musket ball between his eyes. He fell with the slow match in his hand.

  John, seeing the firefight commence in earnest, ducked down and went below. He wasn’t a coward, but he had a good head for odds and nothing much worth stealing, and he didn’t feel like dying that day. He made his way to his cabin in the dark, and there loaded the pistol he’d brought with him, largely by touch.

  “Mr. James?” Mrs. Waverly’s voice came from the other side of the bulkhead. She sounded tense, but not as though she was crying. “What ought we to do, Mr. James?”

  “Stay out of the way,” said John.

  “Are we in danger, Mr. James?”

  “Might be,” said John. “Depends on how angry the captain makes ’em. I’ve got a pistol, and I won’t let ’em hurt you.”

  Mrs. Waverly said nothing for a moment, in which time they heard the musket fire die down and the sounds of scuffling overhead, followed by the ringing of blades. “You are very good, sir,” said Mrs. Waverly at last.

  “What was that?” Mr. Tudeley’s weak voice floated from his cabin. “What’s toward? Is that fighting? Good God!”

  “Pirates,” said John, stepping out of his cabin. He leaned against Mrs. Waverly’s door, watching the dark passageway steadily.

  “Oh Jesus Christ!” groaned Mr. Tudeley, and there was a crash suggesting he had fallen to his knees. “Oh, dear Lord deliver us! Lord, Lord, what have I ever done to deserve Thy wrath?”

  “Take heart,” said John. “The captain might beat ’em away.”

  It didn’t sound as though that was much of a possibility now, however. John heard a lot more thumping overhead, and Captain Sharp yelling furiously. “Cowards! You damned cowards! Shoot him! Sejanus! My pistols—”

  Then there was a terrific crash and a last thump. The noise of the swords stopped. John heard Mr. Tudeley weeping, and men muttering, and quick footsteps to and fro overheard. He heard someone coming down the companionway. At the far end of the passage, shadows blocked th
e light as men milled around, poking into the bales and boxes there.

  John took a deep breath, and a firm grip on his pistol. He had no idea what he’d do with his one shot. He wondered whether Mrs. Waverly was the sort of woman who’d rather die than be raped. If she turned out to prefer death, he could blow her brains out, he supposed; otherwise the pistol would be pretty useless.

  Footsteps were coming along the passage. Someone was carrying a lamp. John watched the yellow flare approaching, and saw gradually the glint of light on peering eyes and teeth. A dirty bearded face. A man wearing only rawhide breeches, holding a cutlass low and his lamp high.

  John let his breath out.

  “Sam Anslow, ain’t it?”

  “Who’s that?” The man halted, lifted his lamp higher.

  “It’s me, shipmate!” John put all the cordiality he could muster into his voice, and stepped forward. “John James. I was at Panama with you. Sailed under Bradley.”

  “God damn,” said Anslow, and grinned. “I remember you! You was on burial detail at Chagres Castle.”

  John felt drunk with relief. “So I was. Just lately come home with the Admiral. You weren’t in the fleet?”

  “Not I,” said Anslow. “I reckoned I’d take my chances in Tortuga. A man has to earn his bread.”

  “That’s true,” said John.

  “How much did you make out of it?”

  “Fifty pounds.”

  “That was my share, too. Lousy business, weren’t it?”

  “Fortunes of war, and all.”

  “So,” said Anslow. There was an awkward pause. “Here you are.”

  “Aye,” said John. He had what seemed a brilliant flash of inspiration. “I went home and straightaway married. The wife and I was on our honeymoon.”

  “Oh! Congratulations,” said Anslow, hanging the lamp on a nail and offering his bloody hand to shake John’s. “So you weren’t working this cruise?”

  “For a lubber like Captain Sharp? Not likely!” John chuckled, as convincingly as he could. “Now, I hope there ain’t going to be unpleasantness between us and your lads, shipmate, eh? What with me being a new bridegroom and all. I got my bride’s feelings to think of.”