Kidd pulled on his leather gloves and tipped Flint’s hat low over his face. Side by side, they departed for the docks, making use of every shadow. On several occasions, they were forced to backtrack to avoid the Warriors of God. By the time Kidd’s boots hit the wharf, he fully understood the importance the Warriors of God had placed on his capture. A dozen grey-robed men scoured the docks, speaking to every sailor they could find.
Flint ducked behind a stack of fish crates. “There are too many to fight.”
Kidd nodded. “We can’t hide here for long either.”
Flint dropped his pack and plucked his hat from Kidd’s head. “I have an idea. Wait here.” He tucked his pistol into the back of his breeches and strolled onto the pier whistling tunelessly.
A sentry broke away from the group and descended on Flint. “Halt! Access is prohibited.”
“Why?” Flint asked with a child’s innocence.
The sentry blocked Flint with a shove. “There is a dangerous criminal at large. Until he’s captured, the docks are closed.”
Flint cocked an eyebrow. “Really? Well, I think you’re looking in the wrong part of town.”
The veiled sentry scowled and loosened his scimitar. “What do you mean?”
Flint shied away from the blade as if he’d never seen naked steel in his life. “N-nothing, your honour. I’ve just seen a commotion at the markets, a strange man wearing gauntlets fighting men dressed similarly to you. I thought it was a pageant at the time.”
The sentry thrust his sword back into its scabbard. “Go home and lock your door. The streets won’t be safe for a while.”
“Most grateful, your honour,” said Flint with a small tip of his hat.
The sentry summoned his companions and they departed for the market at a light sprint. Kidd waited until they had left his sight before leaving cover. “You’re as silver-tongued as ever.”
Flint looked insulted. “I haven’t even hit my stride yet. We’ve still got to find a ship. Stand back and let the master instruct you in the arts of deception and seduction.”
“I’m in your hands,” said Kidd with a shrug.
“Hah!” Flint laughed. “You are indeed!”
Kidd followed Flint down the gangway.
“Be cautious,” whispered Flint. “This port is frequented by Barbary Pirates and it would be unwise to book passage on one of their ships.”
“It sounds better than remaining here.”
Flint raised an eyebrow. “Indeed, as long as you don’t mind working the oars as a slave. They’ll take more than the coins in your purse given the opportunity. They’ll sell you, body and soul.”
They paused near a small galley with twenty-four oars. The crew had taken great care to emblazon her name on the side of the hull with fresh paint: Masala. Kidd admired the ship. An old, well-kept galley was a rare sight. However, it wouldn’t stand a chance of outrunning or outgunning a modern sailing ship.
“This’ll do nicely,” muttered Flint. “Wait here and keep your gob shut.” He straightened his coat and strutted towards a sailor working on the pier. “Oi! I’ve seen this old tub before. You’re from the Barbary States, aren’t you?”
“I dunno what you’re talking about.” The sailor was indifferent and busied himself with the anchor lines.
Flint winked and extended his hand. “Are you so blind you don’t recognise a fellow-trader?” They shook hands in a peculiar way. It seemed to do the trick and the sailor relaxed. “Have you seen those grey-cloaks snooping about?”
“Aye.”
“This fugitive nonsense is a ploy. They’re really investigating ships trading in Christian slaves. They’ve already seized one ship and thrown the crew in irons. Go get your captain. This old crate of yours needs to weigh anchor and set sail as fast as she’ll go.”
The sailor nodded and scuttled up the boarding plank. The captain appeared soon after. He was a small man, but walked with a bustling stride. He wore a long black velvet coat and a bright green scarf wrapped over his face. Long toffee-brown hair woven into tight plaits spilled down his back. Each braid was adorned with colourful ribbons and the sort of ornaments that might be found on a charm bracelet. Kidd had seen this mystical, yet lavish mode of dress worn by the masters of privateer and pirate vessels alike.
“What the blazes is going on?” the captain demanded with a light, but gruff voice.
Flint sold him the same story with even more sincerity than in the first telling, and with a few other embellishments that made the captain’s eyes water.
“This port has been under scrutiny for some time,” the captain said. “I’m grateful to you for the tip.”
“If I may ask a favour in return,” said Flint, “my companion and I need to secure passage off these shores.” Gold flashed in his hand.
“Welcome aboard.” The captain cupped his hands to his mouth. “Clear all moorings! We’re leaving early!”
With a level of maritime precision that was mastered only by regularly fleeing port authorities, the Masala cast off, and set course for the open sea. Once the light galley had made clear water, the captain summoned Kidd and Flint to the aft tower. They crossed the deck and climbed the staircase under the watchful eye of the crew. Each man looked well-fed, but hardened by many years at sea. Most sported impressive battle scars across their face and arms, and each carried a pistol and cutlass in his belt.
The captain’s green eyes were as bright as the scarf wrapped across his nose. “Now, tell me who you are.”
Flint spoke once more in a honeyed tone. “You may have heard of me. I’m Tom Flint, and this is my bodyguard.”
Kidd bowed his head in respect to the master of the ship.
“I’ve heard of you indeed, Tom Flint,” said the captain. “Some of my crew have been unlucky enough to challenge you to dice at the tavern, and they say you spin a fine yarn. I’m Captain Harissa and this is my crew. You have no need to fear us. We aren’t slavers, just honest hard-working traders.”
Flint cocked an eyebrow. “If you’re not dealing slaves, why did you flee Bastia at the drop of a hat?”
Captain Harissa looked to port as only a sailor does when he is wary of pursuit. There were no sails on the horizon, just the fast-disappearing Corsican coastline. “We’ve had some troubles with the authorities over port taxes.”
“What troubles?”
“We don’t pay them,” he replied with a breathy chuckle. “Lord knows how a sailor is supposed to make a living given all the taxes they bombard us with. They’re the bloody criminals, I tell you. And the last thing we need right now is a bunch of bureaucrats nosing through our cargo hold!”
Flint reached for his purse. “We can make it worth your while to give us passage to Tunis.”
Harissa squinted at him. Kidd was certain he heard the sound of knives being loosened in their sheaths.
“However, I’m short of funds at present.” Flint turned his purse upside-down and two coins fell out, not nearly enough to seal the bargain. “I have associates in Tunis who owe me a sizeable amount of gold. I’d be happy to pay you handsomely for transportation, providing we arrive in one piece.”
Harissa adjusted his hat as if he were about to give the order to have Flint and Kidd walk the plank. “Your gold will be most welcome. Make yourself at home.” He ordered a course change, which was repeated across the deck until it reached the helmsman. The oars were raised while the galley turned south. The deck crew sprang into life, trimming sails to take advantage of the breeze. Below deck, the drum began to beat a new rhythm as the oars chopped the waves.
Flint slapped Kidd on the shoulder and led him away. They went below and found the ship’s stores, a quiet sanctuary from the roar of the wind and the waves.
Kidd sat on a barrel and flexed his aching hands. “You’ve improved with age.”
Flint poked through the crates until he found an apple and began to polish it on his coat. “It was nothing. There isn’t a sailor on the ocean without something to hide.
You just have to gauge the price of their services accordingly. You might notice I never said how much I’d pay. Ha! They should know better than to judge a man by his name and reputation, or the promise of gold.” A big bite from the apple sent juice running down his chin.
“Do you intend to pay them?”
Flint screwed up his face. “What do you think?” He tossed the apple aside. “The William Kidd I knew wouldn’t ask such a daft question. I hope you’re not getting soft in your old age.”
“I’ve made too many new enemies. I don’t need Harissa and his crew added to the list. We’ll do what’s right and give them some gold when we reach Tunis. By all accounts, you’ve got plenty to throw around.”
Flint’s face twitched. “I don’t know where you heard that. My life has been nothing but a misery since that bastard Rush clocked me on the head. I lost much more than my citizenship, Will. I lost everything I owned—and worse—I lost the woman I love.” Flint turned his back and buried his face in his hands. “No amount of gold can make a man rich after something like that happens.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that,” said Kidd.
“Well, perhaps you should have before you stuck your nose in,” growled Flint.
“I’m sorry, Tom.”
Flint sat silently for many moments before speaking. “It’s too damned late for apologies now.”
~ Chapter 16 ~
BLOOD IN THE RIGGING
Flint’s mood was erratic for the three days that followed. He kept his own company for the most part, giving the weight of his attention to the scrolls, gleaning every shred of meaning he could from the ancient writings, in between visits to the cargo hold for wine.
Kidd tired of pacing the deck and offered his services at the oars. Despite the aching protest of his muscles on subsequent mornings, he enjoyed the labour and the opportunity to strengthen his arms.
It was a diverse group of men who propelled the Masala through the ocean, and he came to enjoy their company. There was constant boisterous conversation, bawdy jokes, and hours of song. It was a far cry from the monotonous thud of a drum and the howls of slaves under the lash of a whip. The men even revelled in the fact that Kidd left greasy metallic marks on the handle of his oar, and laughed that he would never know the true pleasure of rowing without the chance to ‘earn his calluses’. He laughed along, but every night, while he cleaned his hands to prevent the abundance of salt from damaging his armour, he struggled to remember the sensation of something as simple as a callus. At night, as he pulled his sheet up about his neck, he felt the bitter touch of cold metal against his skin.
The next morning, Kidd watched dawn break across a blood-red sky. He strode onto the foredeck and locked both hands to the gunwale. With troubled thoughts, sleep was near impossible, not to mention the chorus of drunken snores from the other bunks.
Time was slipping away. His list of enemies had grown long. Unknown dangers lay ahead. According to the oarsmen, the Barbary States were no place for the timid, and Tunis itself was the rotten heart. They told him stories of men being murdered for no more than an old shirt when they strayed down the wrong alleyway. It was a shrewd place for Lawrence to consider hiding The Tears. He cursed aloud at the thought.
Flint emerged from below decks yawning. “What’s got into your breeches this morning?”
“Nothing. I’ve just spent too much time at sea, that’s all.”
Flint cackled. “Is a little salt air and the slop of the waves too much for you?”
Kidd presented his gauntlets. “No, it’s the prospect of rust and—I don’t know—losing more than just my hands. I’d like to set foot on dry land and rest for a week without someone trying to kill me.”
Flint’s body went rigid. “You might have to wait for that awhile.” He grabbed a deck hand by the arm and spun him about. “Wake the captain!” He bared his teeth and stabbed a greasy finger at the horizon.
Kidd shielded his eyes against the sun. There was a black speck on the sea, barely visible, but doubtless another ship.
The boatswain blew his whistle and hollered an alarm. The sleepy crew roused into action, scampering to their posts. The beat of the drum sounded below deck, but there was no joyful song to accompany it. The oarsmen answered its call, their long wooden poles crashing against hull and waves.
“Quick! Quick!” yelled the First Mate. He was a short powerfully-muscled man named Kemal, who had olive skin and a fearsome mane of thick black hair that suggested a mixed bloodline.
Amid the scramble of sailors, Captain Harissa emerged from the forecastle. Kidd was stunned at the sight. In an instant he understood why Harissa was slightly built, soft-voiced, and masked with a scarf. The Masala’s captain certainly wasn’t a pirate. Nor was she a man. Her hair fell about her shoulders like ribbons of molasses. She was fair-skinned and Kidd guessed the purpose of the emerald scarf was to protect her face from the sun, sea, and wind as much as was to disguise her gender. The crew seemed entirely at ease, regardless of the sailor’s superstition that a woman on board a ship was bad luck.
Harissa took the spyglass from Kemal and raised it in the direction of the speck. “She’s flying the Cross of Burgundy. It’s a Spanish man-of-war and I don’t think they’re just being sociable. She’s already got her cannon bays open. All spare hands to the oars! We’ve no choice but to try and outrun her.” The fear in her voice was noticeable and a murmur of concern rippled through those within earshot. She stood proud and tied her emerald scarf over her face, becoming a noble sea captain once more.
Unfamiliar feelings stirred in Kidd as he looked at Harissa standing on the deck, the salt-spray making her shirt cling to her body. He felt the desire to reach out and touch her skin to see if it was as soft as it looked. The moment passed quickly and he cursed himself for indulging such a romantic notion. Everything about his character had been turned upside down. His hands were hard, and his heart had grown soft.
The man-of-war gained on them with every passing minute. Harissa observed their pursuer though the spyglass, counting under her breath as she did so. Her voice carried clearly through the nautical din. “It’s the Invincible, a common man-of-war, carrying at least sixty guns.”
Kidd rushed to her side with Flint in tow. “How much of a threat do they pose?” Even before his flight from England he hadn’t been a keen sailor, preferring dry land to the endless rocking of the ocean.
“We’re outgunned five to one, and there’s little chance we’ll outrun her unless the devil himself emerges from the waves and breaches her hull.”
Flint cleared his throat. “I hope you’re a strong swimmer, Will.”
Harissa issued a set of orders to Kemal, who repeated them to the second mate, and so forth until every man knew what was expected of him. “Aye, we’re up against it, but we’re not done for. The Masala can outmanoeuvre that oversized gunship. Collapse the sails!” The oars were raised as the Masala turned her bowsprit to the wind. “She can chase us, but while we’re steering windward she’ll have to tack to make headway. Oarsmen! Double speed!”
The tempo of the drum grew faster, echoing in Kidd’s ears like distant cannon fire.
Harissa’s second mate and navigator, a softly spoken man named Ramiro, pointed to white tufts on the ocean ahead, and a bank of dark clouds brewing up some foul weather. He whispered in her ear. Harissa clapped him on the shoulder. “Aye, we’ll last longer in that squall than we will against that Spanish gunship.”
“This is a fine pickle you’ve got me into, Will,” grumbled Flint.
The Masala surged through the water towards the storm. The skies darkened. Burgeoning grey clouds greeted them with a deep rumble, and the air took on the scent of spent gunpowder. Kidd felt the first drops of rain on his face as the ship rocked unsteadily beneath his feet.
Behind, the Invincible’s great white sails blossomed as they altered course to intercept. Even brand new sailing ships were subject to the will of the ocean and no captain in his right mind sai
led into a tempest without good reason. This was no chance meeting. They intended to make a pursuit.
The Masala set a strong pace, but still the Invincible gained. She was a mighty vessel, just one of many in the Holy Roman Emperor’s fleet. She was more than double the size of the Masala. Her rear tower soared at least five decks high, and she sported three masts with wind-swollen sails. More intimidating was the double row of cannons that lined each side of her hull.
Harissa took Ramiro’s arm. “We must lose some weight! Take the deck hands and jettison the cargo. I’d rather be alive and poor, than rich and dead.” Ramiro acted without hesitation. She spoke to Kemal. “We don’t want to be fodder for those fancy new cannons. Keep our stern at their bow and don’t wait for orders. Run out the guns and prepare to return fire at short notice.”
She relieved the helmsman and spun the wheel through her hands. The Masala lurched and Kidd grabbed hold of the gunwale to avoid being cast over the side. The ride would be rough, even for those with good sea legs. The galley steadied and passed into the brunt of the storm, her oars furiously pounding the ocean.
Kidd wiped the salt-spray from his eyes, slicked back his wet hair, and looked for the Invincible. The man-of-war grew ever closer, pressing for every advantage with every favourable wind shift.
Harissa guided them onwards, leaving a trail of barrels and crates bobbing in their wake. Still the man-of-war gained, carving through the ocean unimpeded. The boom of thirty cannons drowned out all sound, and the Invincible was masked in a plume of smoke. The cannonballs fell wide, splashing into the ocean. It wasn’t a warning shot. The enemy gunners were simply finding their mark.
“Tell the gunnery to aim for the rear tower,” shouted Harissa over the wind, “they shouldn’t have too much trouble. It’s a big target.” The spyglass returned to her eye as the Invincible prepared to tack once more. “Stand ready!”
Kidd wove his way across the slippery deck to the starboard gunwale, and shielded his face as a wave crashed against the hull. He blinked the salt-sting from his eyes in time to see the man-of-war complete her tack and present port cannons. She fired immediately, her aim much improved from the previous volley.
Iron William and the Carpenter's Tears Page 10
