Kage Baker - Dark Mondays

“Was that what you were doing?” John lowered the pistol. “There ain’t no princes here, that’s certain.”

“But there were, apparently,” said Blackstone. Against the dying night, his profile looked sharp and grim. “I am informed there was an English prisoner of high rank but lately here, held in great secrecy; a year since he was removed, to Chagres as they believe, but do not know.”

“By hell, that’s bad luck,” said John. “And here’s me crossing your hawse time and again. What’ll you do now?”

“Proceed to Chagres, what d’you think?” said Blackstone.

Had John been an older and wiser man, he’d never have believed such a tale, or trusted a man like Blackstone; so it was just as well all this happened when he was young. He scrambled to his feet, and helped Blackstone up with a hearty apology, and went off to build up a fire and see what might be had for breakfast.

Morgan kept his men busy, now, as he sat in council with the captains. There were the island’s stores to be raided, and the fortifications to be pulled down, the big guns spiked and thrown into the sea. Most of this was done by the prisoners, working under armed guard, but they didn’t seem to mind it much. Most of them were overjoyed at the thought of getting off Old Providence and back to the mainland, and a few even went over to Morgan’s side and joined as fighters. Morgan left standing only the fort, which he garrisoned, and the church; hedging his bets, maybe.

The decision was to go for Chagres next; small wonder too. Given the choice between hacking their way overland across mountains to Panama, or going by boat on the river Chagres, all parties present agreed that the river route was the thing. There was only the matter of a bloody big castle guarding the river’s mouth on the Caribbean side, that would have to be got past before the Brethren could proceed any further. And there was no sneaking past this one under cover of night; it would have to be taken, or Morgan would have the enemy at his back all the way up the river, and a gauntlet to run again on his return.

So John and his messmates got ready.

After a few days Pettibone returned from the Satisfaction , with the news that the girl seemed to be mute, but that the old lady had recovered her wits enough to make a passable serving-woman. John longed to row out and see her, but Pettibone told him the Admiral kept her under lock and key.

“And no wonder, in a fleet of brigands and cutthroats,” he said.

“Of which you’re one, ain’t you?” said John.

Pettibone looked indignant. “Only in the service of his king,” said Bob Plum.

“She’s an admiral’s plaything, you great oaf,” said Blackstone to John, as he set an edge on his cutlass, running the stone carefully along the blade. “How should the likes of you compass such a dainty?”

“And you’re mistaken too,” said Pettibone. “I’ll have you know our Admiral has treated her as any true gentleman would treat a lady in distress!”

“Praise God,” said the Reverend.

“Bollocks,” said Tom Blackstone. The Reverend drew on him and he blocked, whereat both Bob Plum and Pettibone screamed, and it took three choruses of “The Little White Lamb” to get the Reverend to calm down, and both Jago and Jacques to get his blade out of his hand.

“I merely meant,” said Blackstone, when things were calmer, “that our Admiral locks up the rum, and being a wise man, locks up the women too.”

“And he no fool,” said Jago. “There is no camaraderie with the ladies present. Scheming like Eve, like Delilah, leading the boys to cut each other throats.”

“Be that as it may,” said Pettibone, “he is sending her back to Jamaica, dispatching a cutter and a trustworthy crew. She is to be put into the care of his own dear wife; so a fig for your lewd thoughts.”

“That is a patient wife!” said Blackstone.

John thought his messmates all a sour and unromantic lot, and he didn’t much like the way Blackstone could read what he was thinking in his face. He resolved to keep his own counsel on the girl henceforth.

Morgan sent three ships to go clear the way at Chagres. There were some quiet groans when it was announced that Bradley would command. There was no arguing, though; away they went, and Bradley’s luck was with them almost from the first, as they ran into southeasterly gales. For a week the Mayflower and her consorts fought their way toward the Main. Her timbers worked so in the crossing seas that she leaked no end, and the pumps were manned watch and watch.

So one evening Captain Bradley sent John down to the powder magazine, to feel if all was dry there. Feel , because he couldn’t see; Morgan had given strictest orders (as you might imagine) about what would happen to any fool caught groping around near powderkegs with a light.

It was all John could do to find the lock, clinging to the cage-door in the dark. He got it open at last and stepped through, groping forward. There—waist height, there were stacked kegs. He turned his head in the darkness. He could smell rats, and bilge, and mold, and all manner of filth; he could hear the groaning of the ship’s timbers, and the muffled shrieking and knocking that was rats fighting somewhere. But did he hear water trickling? He couldn’t tell.

He crouched down and felt around his feet. It seemed dry enough. He stood, and reached out until he encountered something: more stacked kegs. How far back? Three rows? Four? What about the bulkhead beyond them, was that dry?

That was when John put his hand down on another hand. He sucked in breath for a great yell; with the breath came a scent he knew. The hand twisted and took hold of his own, and it was a little hand, and soft. John steadied himself. A voice spoke out of the darkness.

“John,” it said. He hadn’t heard but one other word spoken in that voice, yet John recognized it. It was his girl from the beach.

“Lass!” he cried. “What—”

She sidled close to him, squeezing his hand tight. “Please,” she said, “you must help me.”

John’s heart was jumping like a big, happy dog, yet his head kept some rule. “I’d walk over coals for you, dearie,” he said. “Only, you didn’t ought to be here! This ain’t no place for a little maid. Wasn’t our Admiral himself sending you safe back home? How’d you—”

“I plied the old woman with rum,” said the voice in the darkness, sounding just a little sullen. “When she slept, and it was dark, I went over the side and swam to this ship. The watch were drunk too; they never noticed me come up the cable, or slip down here. I won’t go back to Jamaica. Not until I’ve had my revenge.”

“What revenge would that be?” asked John, fancying he could almost make out her white flesh glimmering like the Pleiades.

“On Spain,” she said. “You’re bound for Panama; I know your Admiral’s intent, I listened to his councils. I’ll go too, and cut Spanish throats if I can…”

“Ain’t you the brave girl!” said John. “But it’s no work for a lady, sweeting. It’ll be hard marching, and worse fighting, cruel bad.”

“You don’t know what’s cruel,” said the girl. “I know; I saw what happened when we were betrayed. I escaped. I lived, stealing to feed myself, creeping out by night. The Spanish came to be afraid of me. Do you think I can’t kill? Do you think I haven’t dreamed of killing, every night these five years?”

“Whyn’t you talk before? I thought you was a mute.”

“Trust comes hard,” said the girl, “but I’ll trust you .”

She pressed closer still to John, and lunging up quick she kissed him full on the mouth. Her cold, slender arms slid inside his shirt. What happened then, why, you may guess at, and it may not surprise you; but it surprised John, though he’d been imagining it for some days. They loved, awkward, and constrained crouching there in the pitch dark, and half-painful but white hot all the same.