James Forrester: The Roots of Betrayal

Hugh Dean turned, aimed, and fired a second pistol into the lock. He kicked the door. It held good. He muttered a curse, but the tall black man who had followed Carew through the hatch launched his whole body at the timber, hitting it with his shoulder. The lock and the door gave way, and he stumbled into the cabin beyond.

Carew nodded. “Thank you, Kahlu.”

He turned to the stunned mariners, bowed to them curtly, then went into the cabin, followed by three other men: John Devenish, a ginger-haired man called William “Skinner” Simpkins, and Luke Treleaven, a black-haired Cornishman of about twenty-five years, with brilliant green eyes. The others-eight of them now-stood ready, guarding the door and the ladder to the hatch. Stars Johnson took Hugh Dean’s first pistol and started to reload it, cleaning the inside of the barrel with a dampener and unfastening his powder flask. Dean took another out of his belt and swung it around, glaring at the crew in the shadows.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he began in a loud voice. “You’re thinking that you outnumber us. Let’s see, forty, forty-five…maybe there’s even more of you. And just a dozen or so of us. Well, that doesn’t include those still on deck.” He paused, looking from face to face. “Besides, if you try anything and force me to shoot you, you’ll miss Captain Carew’s speech. I’m sure you want to know what he is going to say. You do realize who our esteemed captain is? Most of you will be drinking with us before the night is through.”

In the captain’s cabin, Carew looked around, taking in the dimensions, the hiding places. It was about ten feet by twelve, with a small window shuttered against the night. There were three candles: one in a lantern on a hook by the cupboard bed, the other two on candlesticks projecting from the wall. There was a wooden berth on the left-hand side, a table on the right. The ceiling was low, so Kahlu had to cock his head to one side when he stood up straight; he leaned back against the wooden wall and rested his crossed arms on his chest.

Carew fixed his attention on William Gray. The captain was about forty years old with gray in his hair, dressed in loose breeches gathered at the knee and a white shirt covered by a red doublet. There were gold rings on three of his fingers.

Carew took the chair and beckoned to the captain. Gray hesitated but then moved forward. As he did so, there was a movement behind him and Carew saw the girl.

“Who is she?” he demanded.

“My niece,” replied Gray.

The girl’s smock was stained, her hair uncombed. Carew saw the fear in her eyes and her youth. She could not have been much older than twelve. He took a deep breath and gestured for the captain to be seated.

Gray’s eyes flicked to the door. “Sir, I have a commission from-”

“Be seated!”

Gray glanced between the pirates’ faces and sat.

Carew stood behind him, looking down on his head. He noted the gray hairs, the wiry-thin fair ones in the candlelight. It had started to recede. It made Carew despise the man’s possession of the girl even more. “Put your hands on the table. I want to see them. No tricks.”

Gray tentatively placed his fingers on the edge of the table.

“Flat, on the wood.”

Carew gave a signal to John Devenish and Luke Treleaven. They stepped around to Gray’s side of the table. Each took one of his arms. “Let go! Leave me!” shouted Gray. He started to struggle. Kahlu uncrossed his arms. Gray looked up, terrified and angry. “This ship is protected by the laws of England.” He tried to turn to face Carew as the men placed his hands on the table. There was a sudden movement, the thud of a knife entering timber, and Gray let out an agonized scream. Kahlu had brought the dagger down hard and driven it straight through the man’s right hand, pinning it to the wood. Instinctively Gray had tried to pull his bleeding hand away but his movement did nothing but drag the edge of the blade through his flesh. He screamed more, the pitch of his anguish rising with the waves of pain. “Jesus Almighty! Christ curse you and kill you!” Then there came another scream-a high-pitched inarticulate one-from the girl, as she realized what had happened. Immediately she tried to stop herself and her body began shaking, her eyes distraught with the image. Captain Gray was gasping, crying, and swaying. “Damn your bleeding eyes! The devil spit on your godforsaken soul.”

Carew turned around to look at the girl. Her face was dirty, her nails broken. “This man says you are his niece. Are you?”

“N-n-no, sir,” she cried, shivering. The terror showed in her eyes. “No, no! This man…he said he would take me home. My mother took me to the market in Dover and…and I was lost and went to the quayside, and this man…he said…he told me…he said he knows my father.”

Carew walked forward and touched her cheek. He held her face for a moment, looking into her eyes. Then he ran his hand down over her childish breasts, smoothing the cloth over each one with his thumb. “Did he touch you? Did he force himself on you?”

The girl looked at the captain, trying to speak. No words came out. She burst into tears.

Carew turned to the captain, whose cries had given way to grimaces and gasps of pain. He walked up close behind him and crouched down behind his right ear. “If I did not have an important question to ask you, you would be dead already. I would have thrown you overboard-in pieces. I would have had you tied between two planks and sawn up alive, starting with your feet. I have very few principles. In fact, just four. One: men should obey orders. Two: they should be honest. Three: they should throw their religion over the side of the first ship they sail in. And four: they should protect their companions, especially those who are vulnerable, like women and children.” He looked at the man’s neck, which was twitching. “But I did not come here for your moral instruction. You know what I want. The Catholic Treasure.”

Gray shook his head, tears running down his face as he fought the pain in his hand. He said nothing.

“Put his other hand out,” Carew said to Luke.

“No!” gasped Gray. “No.” He saw the faces of the other men and searched them for a sign of compassion. All he saw were curled lips, toothless smiles, and mild amusement. “Please, in God’s name, have mercy! Have a thought for your eternal souls, have pity!”

Skinner Simpkins pushed in front of Luke, grabbed the captain’s fist and held it on the table. Gray fought to keep his fingers tight together but Skinner simply drew his cutlass and smashed the hilt into the captain’s forehead, jolting his head back and causing a gash to open up just above his left eye. Then he brought the metal hilt down hard repeatedly on the captain’s knuckles, causing him to yell out and wrench his right hand against the pinning blade. Having broken two or three of the captain’s fingers, Skinner was able to splay the man’s hand.

“There is no treasure on this boat,” screamed Gray. “None. Look-look anywhere, everywhere! Look for yourselves!”

“Skinner, wait,” said Carew. “No treasure, you say?”

Gray bit his lip, weeping. Skinner waited. He turned the dagger in his hand, ready to pin the flesh to the table.

Carew inspected the wainscoting, the shuttered window. A basket of bread and cold meat stood on a rimmed shelf. There was indeed no sign of wealth in here. Apart from the space under the berth, the only other place where treasure might be kept was the chest. He pointed. “Luke, open it.”

Luke stepped around the table and lifted the lid. He tipped the chest forward: clothes and linen tumbled out, along with a Bible, a rosary, a small box, a cutlass, a pistol, a powder flask, some fine cotton kerchiefs, a comb, a purse, some documents, three pewter plates, two pewter cups, and a flagon. He then opened the small box and let the contents fall on to the floor: two rings, a few gaming pieces, dice, quills, and a small inkpot made of horn. The top came off the inkpot and the ink started to spread across the linen.