Scarface

Andre Norton

For Grace Allen Hogarth

because only her encouragement

brought Scarface sailing out of

Tortuga

CONTENTS

Chapter

I

SCARFACE OF TORTUGA

II

“I SAY—BARBADOS”

III

ILL WIND FOR A SOLDIER

IV

A KNIFE IN THE NIGHT

V

“COUNT ME HIS RIBS”

VI

JUSTIN BLADE TAKES THE QUEEN'S PARDON

VII

SIR ROBERT'S IN THE BAY

VIII

HIS EXCELLENCY OF BARBADOS

IX

“AN THAR WOS FLOWERS—”

X

SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT

FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

FRONTISPIECE

THE BOY CLOSED HIS EYES AGAINST THAT RING OF FACES. . .

. . . UNDER EXAMINATION BY A PAIR OF UNCOMMON EYES . . .

“UP WI YE, YE RUMBOTTLE!”

THEY WERE ROWED OUT TO THE SHIP . . .

SCARFACE CUT AND THRUST WITH A BLADE HE HAD CHANCED UPON. . . .

AT A PACE WHICH A MORE PRUDENT RIDER WOULD HAVE CURBED.

Chapter One

SCARFACE OF TORTUGA

“NO, LAD, you've not the way of it. This royal Dane, I grant you, was a glum fellow—but not as doleful as your limping verse does make him. Deal as justly with the Bard as you do with your steel and he will repay you well. Many's the day—” The tall man lying at ease in the grass flung his arms over his head in a luxurious stretch. Sun flashed on the metal hook which served him as a right hand. “Many's the day, mark you, that that same book was meat and drink, good friend and good living to me!”

He plucked a long spear of grass and with it tapped the worn volume his pupil held.

“A man is but a man after all. Little separates him from his brother beasts save the power to reason and to enforce his will, to make some beauty with his hands, or stamp straggling rhymes on good paper. What is in your head is more yours than the coat on your back. I mind me that when I lay in His Majesty’s fine prison—”

“Why were you ’prisoned, Pym?” his companion demanded, secretly grateful at this break in a stolen lesson hour.

“Faith, I chose the wrong side. ’Tis an easily recognized crime nowadays. From Cromwell on, our lords have sprinkled the colonies and trimmed Tower Hill with those who have dared to argufy against them. Look at good Lord Jefferys—may the Devil find him rich picking!— who ruined the west countries and shipped a roundly sum of rebel-convicts to our present abode. And Dutch William did as well. I was a man of the Duke of Berwick, look you, own kinsman of Sir John Fenwick. Well, Sir John, he died of his treason. And I was shipped overseas for mine. I had been a Major of Horse under John Churchill, him that they name Marlborough now. Mighty great has Johnny Churchill become since his lady has the ear of the Queen.”

Pym Snelgrave, once an officer of the King, and now fencing master to such of the bullies of Tortuga as cared to gain polish in the art of throat-slitting, reached for his tobacco pouch. The sea wind was cooling up here on the headlands. It was good to get away from the heat and stench of the town. Faith, the West Indies were fair enough —save where man himself had fouled them. Man—ex-Major Snelgrave smiled wryly—man was not a good creature even at his poor best. There were few enough you could safely tie to— At that thought he glanced at his companion.

The boy leaned at ease against the sturdy bole of a mahogany tree. His thin cotton shirt was open for coolness to the broad sash about his middle. Wide canvas breeches and ancient sea boots completed his scanty clothing. But from a sword belt at his waist hung good steel. A pity that he should be so marred—from this side he was a comely lad. Like as not he had good blood in him. No trash out of the stews ever had that cock of chin or the goodly habit of looking straight into a man's eyes while speaking.

As Snelgrave so studied him the boy closed his book and laid it down. “This Hamlet,” he observed judiciously, “was a wishy-washy fellow. Could he never know his own mind and act on it?” He grinned cheerfully at Pym. Across his left cheek the broad white scar the other had secretly deplored slashed down to his jaw, distorting his face. “Now your Dr. Faustus is more to the taste of a man of war. Though even he spends a deal of time just talking—”

“This is not”—Pym's raised eyebrows betrayed amusement—"an attempt to change the gloomy Dane for Kit Marlowe's more engaging rogue? No, Hamlet I have said and Hamlet shall it be. Begad, a library of three volumes is a mighty one in this fair town. You should be glad that I do not have a Horace. Since you murder the Queen's good English as it is, what would you do to fair Latin? Go to, you're a rogue, though you're an honest one, lad.”

The other laughed. But there was no amusement in that laughter, only hurt and bitterness and mockery. “An honest ‘Brother of the Coast'? You're growing soft of brain, Pym. Maybe once we had some claim to fair living—when we hunted only the Dons—but now— Faith, am I not cabin boy of the Naughty Lass, out of Tortuga, Captain Jonathan Cheap master? A likelier brig never sailed, nor a dirtier master!” Thin brown fingers curled around sword hilt. “I am well used to him now and I’ve learned to be on guard. There are whole days when I can strip and show no bruises. As for the rope’s end—Lord, I’ve not felt its kiss these two weeks! ’Tis a short life we lead and a merry one—if we have luck!”

Pym knocked the ashes out of his long-stemmed Dutch pipe. “If I could, lad—”

With a sharply dissenting gesture the boy interrupted him. “I’m not whining, Pym. Was I not sailing when I was but a child? I was bred to Buccaneer’s Covenant from my cradle.”

“And what are you now but a child?” Pym glanced at the gaunt spareness of that young body. Each rib was lined beneath the sunbrowned flesh, and the lank youthfulness of limb and smooth skin of cheek and jaw betrayed lack of years.

“I’m enough of a man to have Cheap find me of use,” returned the boy bitterly. “I shall never be free of him— since we only harbor at Tortuga and Master de Saint-Hilarie, our worshipful governor, has already refused my plea for freedom. Discover me now grateful for small favors, Pym. What I have of peace and comfort and this”— he flung out his hands in a quick nervous movment which included the narrow clearing where they lounged, the shading trees, and the fair arc of blue above them—“has come through your doing. Behold one ever in your debt.” Again that scar-broken, half grin twisted his lips.

“But today,” he continued, “you have given me something to think on. This Danish Hamlet did a mort of talking but, accomplished little. He cried out against his fate but did naught to change it. I think that I have been tramping his road in that. So this I now swear, Pym, should I ever have the chance to win free of Cheap and all his dirty ways, I shall take it! And,” he stared up at the gulls crying above the tree-hidden cliffs, “may that time come soon!”

“How came you with Cheap in the beginning?”

“I have always been with him. He used to take me sailing when I was too small to see above the bulwarks. I think that I must have had some favor with him then, for I can remember being had into the great cabin where he gave me sweetmeats and such. But that was before—” He touched the scar lightly with a long forefinger. “ ’Course he slit the gullet of Lip Handley for marking me so—may-hap I am in his debt for that. But the slice lost me his good will. So now I am just ‘Scarface’ and that is all the name I shall have— ’Less I can carve me a better one with this piece of loot out of Spain.”

He drew his sword and began to play with it skillfully, thrusting it out into the patches of sunlight so that the blade burned fire as he cut and parried. It was a duel with shadows, and he handled the fine weapon with all the ease of one who has used it well for years.

Then it flew up into the air and came down to find resting place in left instead of right hand. Again he thrust, lightly, surely, nor were his strokes one whit less sure and accurate than they had been before. He turned at last, breathing but a little more rapidly, to salute Pym.

“And that, too, Master, do I owe you. No other man on the Main can use either hand.”

“It was a lesson I had to learn.” Pym waved his metal claw. “But an excellent thing for a fighting man ‘to know. You can lay one hand as an offering on the altar of Mars and still contrive to serve him in the field. But you are more handy at the sword than your books.”

“Seeing that steel means my life—and my bread—I must be.” The boy sheathed the blade again in its scuffed leather scabbard and slung the baldric across his shoulder. Pym pulled himself up and they moved slowly out of the clearing, the older man dragging on a coat of badly worn white linen as they went.

The faint path they followed brought them down into a cuplike hollow where a spring bubbled and a rill of water trickled seawards from a dark pool. Scarface threw himself down and dipped his hands into the cool water, drinking deeply. Then he allowed the ripples to quiet and studied his wavering reflection in the unsteady mirror.

“A sad dog wearing a hackled face,” he commented. “But at least”—he swept back locks of his red-bronze hair—“I still have both my ears on my head, which is more than Ghost Peter or Nat can boast. And I do not show the mark of the branding iron. So may a man be thankful for small blessings. And now, friend Pym, look you upon real treasure!”

He pulled from within his shirt a packet wrapped in a scrap of patterned cotton stuff. “Loot from a fine Spanish ship we took by the inner side of Honduras Bay. Well do the Dons know how to live—and—” he hesitated—"how to die.” More soberly he pulled away the wrapping to bare a small wooden box. Within lay a razor of good blue steel, a cake of scented soap, and a small box of sweet-smelling pomade.

“Faith, the boy's a coxcomb! And a razor. . . . You've not a hair to that stubborn chin of yours!”

Scarface grinned. “You're not as observing as you once were, Pym. I've had steel to my chin since last we met—and the need for it too. But now I'll make free with the rest.”

He kicked off his boots and shed shirt and breeches to wade out into the pool. It was too shallow for swimming, but good for bathing as he had long ago discovered. With childish satisfaction he used the. soap freely, luxuriating in its scent and the fine lather it made.

Snelgrave lounged near by, twirling his pipe stem between tobacco-stained fingers. “You put me in mind of a court gallant,” he observed. “Save that they are none too clean of person. Are you about to call on the Governor's lady, mayhap?”

Scarface shook his head. “No, but I find it is good to be clean and water is free to all—even if one must sail under the Black Flag to have such soap.” He rubbed himself dry on his shirt and then pulled it on. The cotton would dry quickly enough in the sun.

“You lie here at Tortuga long?”

“Long enough for the shipboard rats to drink up their shares. Cheap likes him a soft life between cruises. Tomorrow or mayhap the next day we'll be off again. He has some maggot in his head concerning a descent ’pon Barbados.”

“Barbados!” Pym's lips puckered in a soundless whistle. “That will be plucking a prickly thistle with the bare hand. His Excellency, Sir Robert Scarlett, is no lamb for the shearing. He was of the same ilk as you ere he became the Queen's man and a terror to his former mates along the Main. You have heard of Henry Morgan? Now there was a man! Stole the Dons blue before he settled down to enjoy the King's favoring smiles in his deputy-governorship of Jamaica. Scarlett has a like history. He was sold o'er seas as a rebel-convict—him a gentleman born. But he had the luck to get away to the fold of the ‘Brethren.’ This very harbor has sheltered his Revenge more than once. But he was shrewd enough to see that it was time to cut his losses when James Stuart fled to France and Dutch William came to the throne. So now he bides snug, Sir Robert Scarlett, baronet and governor of Her Majesty's Colony of Barbados. And Sir Robert hunts the Brethren with zeal and they hate him mightily for it. A shrewd object lesson, lad. Set aside piracy if you will, but become not the Queen's man in the doing of it!”

“Small chance will I get to do either,” Scarface returned dryly. “But I like your Sir Robert, he sounds the proper man—”

“One who has hanged some five and twenty pirates within the past twelve months! I'd advise you not to pay your respects in person lest you discover a rope ‘bout your throat. Barbados is not healthy for one of your calling.”

“I wonder. Do I scent a challenge in that, Pym?”

The ex-soldier shook his head hurriedly. “Powers above forbid! I'm merely pointing out the crass stupidity of Captain Cheap.”

“Of which I already know much. Well, I'm for the town before sundown. Are you with me, Pym?”

They trudged off together through the underbrush. The hottest hours of the day were behind them and there were signs of activity along the dirt track which led into town. For Tortuga was the town. An open port for the buccaneers and the Brethren of the Coast, who were ever free spenders, wealth flowed through that dirty village. Above, surrounded by the gardens which made a small separate world, was the pleasant villa of the Vicomte de Saint-Hilarie, who was the law on this wild island. And Saint-Hilarie, acting as governor for the West India Company, lined his pockets—as well as those of his directors—with gold and other fine things, never enquiring too closely as to whence came these cargoes of spice, silk, and precious metal which were auctioned at his wharves. A blind man cannot testify as to what he “saw.”

“A pleasant prospect, lad.” Pym waved his hand toward the straggling rows of buildings. “This is—for all purposes of commerce—the capital of the Caribbean, this kennel of boozing kens and dishonest merchants. Faith, the clean land should spew us all out into the sea.”

He tugged straight his broad-brimmed straw hat and started a tiny runnel of sweat coursing down his forehead.

“Mayhap the land will in time,” suggested Scarface somberly. “How do you fare nowadays, Pym?”

Snelgrave shrugged. “Well enough. That foppish captain of the Governor's Guard comes twice a week for lessons—though his fingers will ever be thumbs—and there are others. Enough to keep me in tobacco and rum money. Which is all an old soldier can ask. You’ve grown no richer?”

“How can I? Cheap is kind enough to collect my share of plunder for me—and that is the last I ever see of it.”

“One might think that he could name you son,” hazarded Pym.

To his surprise the other turned on him to show green eyes wrathfully ablaze in his marred face. “Not even you, Pym, can name me so! Rather would I fall into the hands of those red devils of coast Indians and be plucked apart yet living as was L’Olonnis. I am no son to Cheap! That I will swear to right heartily—even if I never know my sire.”

“Your humble pardon,” Pym’s return was quick and without mockery. “But it is strange that he should so interest himself in your affairs, keeping you ever at his side. ’Tis not for love of you—”

“Hardly!”

“Then it must be from hate. For only love or hate can so govern a man. It is as if he has some plan—”

“Plan?” Scarface was all alert attention. “I wonder—? I can remember naught save Cheap and the ship and that drab Liza who keeps his house here in Tortuga.”

“Did you ever question her? Mayhap she could spin you a tale worth the hearing.”

“She does naught but snap at me nowadays. But I’ll try—I’ll try this very night!” Hooking his fingers into his sash he set off at a brisker pace. Pym panted.

“Must you run the legs off me, lad? I’m getting to be of those safe middle years when a man's more fond of the pipe and the bowl than of using his legs.”

“And yet you contrive to teach the sword,” laughed the boy.

“That is a matter of business,” observed Pym. “And Liza now will not take wings and fly, even if you do not seek her ’til sundown. Come sup with me.”

“Not tonight.”

They came into the main street of the dingy town where it was necessary to dispute the right of way with foraging hog and mangy dog as well as staggering drunkard. By a wine shop they parted, Pym to seek refreshment within and Scarface to hunt out his master—and his master's cook.

“Tomorrow, lad,” Snelgrave reminded the boy. Scarface nodded.

But it was to be a full two years before Pym Snelgrave laid eyes upon Scarface of Tortuga again.

The boy went on down the dirty lane. Once away from the row of water-front grog shops and merchants’ warehouses there were divers small white coral block houses, each within a scrap of yard. In one of these Captain Cheap was pleased to establish himself when his Naughty Lass was in port. For Cheap considered himself a man of birth and fashion and protested that the noisome odors of ship and harbor were not to his liking. Not that the perfume of the town was any more fragrant, thought Scarface, as he pushed past a slave woman, a haunch of still dripping meat balanced on the wooden tray on her head.

He had not eaten since midmorning, but he lost all hunger as he watched the cloud of green flies following the cook along the narrow alley. Then she turned in through a gate and was gone and Scarface padded on alone.

Scarlet poinsettias were bloody hands spiked in the hedge of gray branches which guarded Captain Cheap's retreat.There were two stunted and crooked orange trees in the front yard, one of which bore green and sourish fruit. The other was dead.

Scarface went on around the house to the gate which opened into the patio. Liza should be there hunched over her sooty pots. And there she was, right enough, her draggled shawl over her head and the fleck of red which betokened ill temper in her eyes.

As to who Liza was or from whence she had come Cheap mayhap had a clue. But to the rest of Tortuga she was but an ill-tempered virago with no pretense to looks and no interest beyond her pans and the rum bottle. Her tangle of unwashed hair still showed yellow in the sun, and when she aroused to answer at all it was with the tongue of a Thames-side fishwife. Whatever Liza might have been in her youth, she had not been born under the Southern Cross.

At the sight of Scarface she glowered sullenly.

“Th’ marster ’as bin a-arskin’ fur ye,” she grunted.

“Well, here I am.”

“’E'll tan yer ‘ide fur ye!”

“Mayhap. Let me carry that.” He took from her the heavy pail she was lifting.

“Purty gen'lem'n, ain't ye?” she jeered as he set down his burden within the kitchen. “Foine manners, jest loike that liddy wot wos yer mither!”

“What?” Scarface demanded. “What did you say?”

“Nobut!” she countered. “Git out o’ my sight, ye long-legged loon!” With a scream of rage she reached for a greasy platter on the table.

With the ease of long practice Scarface dodged and the plate shattered to fragments against the wall. Liza's screams grew wilder as he backed hurriedly out of the door. There was no use in trying to bring her to reasonable speech now. But it was plain that Pym had been right—she did know something of the past.

Treasuring that thought, the boy turned to the front of the house where Cheap awaited him.

Chapter Two

“I SAY—BARBADOS!”

JONATHAN CHEAP lounged in his great chair, his well-booted feet cocked up on a bench before him. Nature had been kind to Captain Cheap. She had bestowed upon him a strong and goodly body and a pallidly handsome face. Also of wit he had a rich store and possessed a steady deadly courage. But there her benefactions had ended, for he had no heart, and charity he considered a weakness of the basest sort. And yet more than half of Tortuga hailed Jonathan Cheap as a proper sort of gentleman and he never lacked for a crew.

As Scarface came in the worthy Captain was smoothing his new flowered waistcoat and considering critically the polish on his boots. For coolness he had put off his heavy black periwig, displaying in this, the privacy of his home, his closely cropped, graying hair. He was a vain man but not a foolish one. What he had of the world's comforts he had taken at sword point. If his hands were not clean of blood—well, they were still shapely and well cared for. And now he was approaching the summit of all his years-old ambitions, so satisfaction was imprinted in his slightly pouting lips, his half-closed eyes.

“You were asking for me, sir?” Scarface measured with his eyes the level of rum in the decanter on the table. For by that barometer might the Captain's mood be foretold.

“Aye, you hang-dog rogue. Where have you been?” Cheap's features did not lose their pleasant openness, but the boy knew the threat which lay just beneath the surface of the Captain's good humor.

“Out in the hills. When a man's ashore—”

“A man? You spindle-shanked brat—dare you call yourself a man? Do you hold yourself above correction? I would have you know that I am still master in my own house! Do you dare to trifle with me—?”

Cheap was deliberately working himself into one of those rages with which Scarface was painfully familiar. It was almost as if Cheap were sometimes two different men—one raging and the other cool and unruffled standing aside to watch with curious interest the excesses of his baser self. The only answer was to stand unreplying and let the Captain's anger wash where it willed until the two men were one again. But today Cheap put rein to his rage himself.

“Go to,” he reached for his half-filled glass. “You're gallows’ meat and will come to that end. Like father, like son.” He laughed, a low, evil and yet curiously sweet laugh which was his alone, the tinkling of which would ring in Scarface's ears for all his life. “Since you have at last remembered your duties, you'd best be about them. Get my sea chest down to the ship—we sail with the tide. Do not show me a long face now, ’tis time for us to be asea. The land air grows thick in my throat.” He sniffed delicately at the scent on his fine handkerchief.

Without answer Scarface tramped back through the house to the Captain's bedchamber, summoning the black slave to shoulder the chest. Errand boy he might be, but he was a freeman and as such he did not appear in the lanes carrying his master's boxes.

Back again through the patio they went. Liza had returned there and was squatting in her favorite seat by the ever dry fountain, mumbling to herself, her eyes fast upon the forepart of the house where the Captain took his wine-bought ease. She was slitting red peppers into long tongue-shaped strips with a knife, but she little resembled a cook at honest employment. At the boy's passing she looked up at him with a grunted farewell of her own fashioning.

“Off be ye, eh? An’ a rope at th’ end, loike enough.”

“Like as not,” he replied as carelessly. “ ’Tis the usual end of those of our trade. Like man, like master though, Liza. If you foresee that end for me, you'd better hunt you another sty for I sail with Cheap and captains hang as easily and as high as their men.”

For a moment her knife was still as she peered at him intently through the filthy ropes of her hair. Then with a boom of laughter she reached for another pepper. “ ’Twill take a man t’ ’ang th’ Cap'n!”

“One like Sir Robert Scarlett?” asked Scarface idly.

To his surprise the pepper fell from her fingers and blood welled from a cut on her thumb where the knife had slipped. But to this or to the pepper in the dust she paid no heed. Her attention was all for the boy standing over her and for once in her life she found no words.

“Wot d'ye know o’ Scarlett?” she croaked at last.

“That he was once a pirate and then contrived to win himself a better place in the world. And that in consequence he is hated by the scum here.”

Liza's claw-hand closed about the boy's wrist, leaving a drabble of blood on his arm. “Wot else? I ’ave always bin friend t’ ye, ain't I now?” she whined, drawing herself up by her hold on him. Her breath, sour with gin fumes, was hot on his cheek. “Iffen I ‘ave cuffed ye now an’ again, ‘twas fer yer own good. Look ye, Justin—”

“Justin!” He shook off her grip and caught her by the shoulders. “Tell me, Liza, what mean you by naming me so?”

At his demand the veil of cunning dropped back across her pig eyes. She twisted free of him with a roll of her heavy shoulders.

“Wot would I mean, ye gutter-whelp? Git ye out ‘fore I call th’ Cap'n.” She ended with a scream of rage and cuffed him across the face, a blow whose sting brought tears to his eyes.

His chance of learning anything was gone now and he knew it. So, with a shrug of resignation, he left her there and followed the slave out of the patio.

Liza had called him “Justin” as if that were his name! What did the old drudge know? For a moment his own helplessness choked him. No one could make Liza speak if she chose not to, not even Cheap. And clearly she did not choose in this instance. Unless he could trap her into some admission next time they put in to Tortuga—

The swift dusk of the tropics was on the town. From the open doors of the grogshops came the raucous shouts and spurts of song where the Brethren were spending their spoils. Once or twice a shadowy figure slipped down the road, body pressed against the wall, untrusting eyes upon all comers. Tortuga after nightfall was only for him who could defend himself and any property of value which he might be carrying.

Down at the waterside Scarface hailed a halfbreed who had a dugout for hire and bargained to be set aboard the Naughty Lass. The ship seemed deserted as the clumsy craft nuzzled her side. She was still foul of bottom from voyaging in warm waters where bred weed and ship worms, but Cheap had given no orders to have her careened and refitted. Even the expedient of “boot-hosing” to remove the damaging stuff to the water edge had been neglected. Did Cheap think he was so good a seaman that he could go a-hunting in a ship as foul as the usual man-o’-war?

The boy clambered up by the dangling ladder and then tossed down a rope for the chest. Slave and box came up together and departed cabinwards while Scarface made his way to the quarter-deck. Despite the litter on her deck and the present uncleanliness of her keel, the ship had sweet, true lines. Under another master, the boy believed, she might show her teeth to half the Main without fear.

Not that Cheap was a poor leader. When the rum was not afire in his brain he was as cool and keen as a king's admiral should be but seldom was. But the Captain was prone to fancy himself the better man in every engagement—sailing carelessly into a fight without first carefully reckoning one chance against another. ’Twas all right to be a raging fury in battle. But battle fury was not always enough. Straight and cool thinking was what salvaged a forlorn hope. Now take the time that they had attacked that Dutch brig off Curacao—that had been a bad guess on Cheap's part. The Naughty Lass had barely limped free and the Dutchman had bounced on as pert as you please. Not all merchantmen to be met in these waters were fowls for the pot—some were foxes with sharp teeth!

“Wot's t’ do?” a vast bulk of man heaved out of the shadows.

“Captain's chest come aboard,” returned Scarface shortly.

“Eh? Who's—oh, ’tis Cap'n Scarface,” the thick voice became derisive. “We be oncommon ’onored, Cap'n—”

“You're drunk, Nat.” Scarface tried to edge away but a huge paw caught him fast.

“Drunk say ye? Wal, mayhap I be. Though drinkin’ these plaguey French wines's loike drinkin’ water.” Nat Creagh, sometime poacher and all the time thief, spat noisily into the sea and relaxed his grip so that the boy was able to wriggle free. “So Cap'n Cheap ’as ’ad ’is fill o’ soft livin’,” he continued, rubbing his hairy hand across the red brush on his jutting chin. A great body of a man, he had the ways and mind of a child, but like an evil child he could be cruelly malicious and maliciously cruel—especially when he suffered from the torture of his loose and decaying fangs of teeth.

“We sail tonight,” Scarface told him now.

“Then ’e'd best be a-gittin’ th’ men ‘ere. Nigh all o’ ’em are ashore. Where be we a-goin’ this time, Scarface?”

“How should I know? Cheap does not confide in me—he'll choose his own road.”

“We should try fer Panama, that's whar Harry Morgan took ’is great ’aul. Git us a Don's treasure ship an’ live fat fer th’ rest o’ our days!”

“Or swing on the gallows—which is more like.”

Nat turned fiercely on the boy. “Don't ye be a-talkin’ o’ th’ gallows! ’Tis unchancy, ’tis. Would ye spoil our luck?”

“Faith, Nat,” the boy forced a laugh, “why would I do that? Seein’ as how my neck would be stretched along with yours. No, here's to Lady Luck herself and may she ever perch on our bowsprit. We'll doubtless need her favors,” he added to himself, remembering Cheap's proposed descent upon Barbados. “You've sailed with Cheap, these many years, have you not, Nat?” he asked.

“Aye, we've bin messmates, ’im an’ me, a long time,” returned the big man proudly. “Seems loike it war only yester morn since ’e clum o'er th’ rail an’ asked fer th’ Cap'n—pert as ye please—an’ ’im without a stitch to cover ’im! But that wos a long time since.”

“Where did he climb from?” Scarface had never heard this story before.

“Out o’ th’ sea. Aye, ’e came out o’ th’ sea an’ into it ’e’ll go. That's wot that nigger wench tole ’im once. Out o’ th’ sea—into th’ sea.” Nat sighed, the wine within his great paunch making him wax sentimental.

“But how did he get into the sea?” protested Scarface.

“ ’E said ’e wos wrecked loike,” Nat laughed. “But thar ’ad bin no storm, mind ye, only calm an’ fair winds. An’ wot ship flounders in a smooth sea? But we wos a mile off Barbados an’ they ’ave white slaves thar—call ’em ‘Red Legs’ ’cause their skin be so burnt loike. Iffen a man, look ye, ’as th’ courage t’ beat out t’ sea in a stolen canoe, I'd not be one t’ send ’im back t’ th’ ’ell o’ th’ cane fields. An’ th’ Cap'n wos o’ a loike mind—’e'd bin a slave ’isself. That wos Cap'n Trebor, ’im wot commanded th’ ship Valor. Good t’ Cheap loike a brother ’e wos, ’ad ‘im into th’ great cabin an’ at table with th’ rest o’ ’is officers. Trebor wos a ‘ard man, but thar wos rich pickin’ fer ‘em as sailed under ‘im. That wos nigh twenty years ago. Cheap warn't much more o’ a man than ye be now. When Trebor went Cheap took command an’ I've served ‘im ever since. Ain't a better boatswain on th’ coast then I be—even iffen I did leave me ears in England!” Nat chuckled and thumped the boy on the back.

“Ye war right,” he added a moment later. “Cheap means to sail. ‘Ere comes th’ boys.”

Boats had put out from shore, heading toward the Naughty Lass and, by the light of a lantern in the nearest, Scarface made out the dapper person of Captain Jonathan Cheap.

When her master came aboard the ship awoke to furious activity. Cheap did not waste words—or men. The Naughty Lass raised anchor and stood out for the open sea, her sails bent to catch the last cupful of wind. Down to the curling water curtseyed the smirking figurehead which named her, curtseyed and arose again with the heave of the swell.

Scarface watched the lights of Tortuga dim. He wondered if Pym was eating his solitary supper in his fusty lodgings or in the wine shop. Now they were swinging past the headlands where he had been that afternoon.

The sea was laced with foam and flashes of blue-green phosphorescence tipped the waves. Through the cordage sang the brisk song of the trade winds. A smooth sea beneath and a fine wind behind them. And before—all the Spanish Main for their plucking.

“Scarface, ye devil's meat!” roared a voice from below. “Whar be ye?”

With a sigh the youngster swung down to the waist and faced the shouter. “Here, Nat.”

“Git t’ yer work below, ye lubber!”

Dodging the blow aimed at his head, the boy darted into the narrow galley and reached for the silver tankard which was Cheap's prized property. With this in his fist and a squat bottle under his arm Scarface went into the great cabin where the Captain sprawled at ease, his officers facing him, seated like a row of sullen school boys on the stern locker.

As the cabin boy entered the mate ventured a protest. “ ‘Tis rank folly, I say—”

“And who,” Cheap puffed at his pipe, blowing the blue-gray smoke at the speaker, “are you to advise upon this matter?”

But John Quittance, the mate, refused to be so cried down. That line of nervous worry between his scanty brows was not the badge of a coward. “One who has sailed these waters before, Captain Cheap. When there are such rich pickings in the Spanish waters, why do you take us to the Leewards? We'll get more blows than gold out of such business. They say that Sir Robert himself be cruising off St. Kitts—”

“They say—they say,” mocked Cheap. “Lord, you are like a parrot from the mainland, ever croaking the same refrain. Rumor seldom speaks true, she is a crooked-tongued jade.”

“Better listen to a crooked tongue than hang with a crooked neck,” returned Quittance hardily. “Five and twenty good men have cooled their heels in the air at Bridgetown gallows this year. And I for one have no taste for tempting Sir Robert into making that a round fifty. Best ‘bout ship and stand for the inner gulf.”

The Captain smiled and studied the nails on the hand which held his pipe. “So you've no liking for the venture?”

“None. I ain't a learned man, Captain Cheap, but I can read signs. The southern waters are not for us—now.”

“Now?” Cheap turned the statement into a question. “Then you counsel waiting?”

“Aye. There is war and they in the Leewards will be looking for the French to come down upon them. Sir Robert himself will be walking sentry, belike—as you should know. Let us wait until he is safely elsewhere—”

“Sir Robert! Sir Robert!” The Captain brought his hand down on the table with force enough to snap off the stem of his pipe. “Always Sir Robert! Even at his name you tremble, you scum! At the very mention of his name you are all clean driven out of your wits! Sir Robert is but a man, and being but a man is mortal to steel or bullet.”

Ty Roder, the chief gunner, a Dutch half-breed, shook his round head slowly, its uncombed thatch falling about his small eyes in a coarse fringe. “Dey say dat he did buy him a charm—”

Cheap laughed with genuine amusement. “A charm? Faith, a man can buy a dozen such charms, fashioned of hair and dust and a pinch of forest leaves. But none of ‘em will keep a bullet out of his hide when his hour is come. I am minded to sail east, d'you hear that, you craven dogs! East, I sail. I say—Barbados! Now out with you, and mend your sullen looks before you come aft again.”

In silence they got to their feet and shuffled out. None disputed him for even Quittance knew when it was hopeless to change the Captain's mind. No, no man dared dispute him—not now. But once—Cheap's eyes narrowed at that unsought memory, his jaw pushed forward until his face seemed that of a bird of prey as he recalled that hour when one man with blistering tongue had stripped him bare of honor, hope, pride and self-esteem. His long fingers curved talon-wise on the table and he thrust the broken pipe from him.

“Light up!” he flung the order over his shoulder to Scarf ace. “Light up, I am not minded to sit in shadows!”

His eyes followed the slim figure as the boy moved about the cabin lighting the other two lanterns. When the task was done and the yellow radiance streamed out into the night to color the waves in the wake, the Captain spoke again.

“Come you here,” he ordered. “Stand there.” He pointed to the strip of turkey carpet before the table. Scarface obeyed.

From beneath half-lowered lids Cheap studied him. “Pot boy,” he said softly. “Pot boy and drudge to pirates. Faith, who could guess the humor in that now. Scarface,” he laughed, “you can't guess what I have saved you from. ‘Tis a famous jest and some day shall I share it with you. But it grows better with each year; aye, it grows richer and sweeter.” He rolled the words over his tongue as if he savored to the full some hidden delight.

“Some men kill their enemies quickly. Their revenge is over when the blood drips from their steel, and then their lives are barren. But he who waits and plans, and is content to wait and plan, why he, Scarface, he knows the true joy of vengeance and his is the full reward. When we stand in Bridgetown, boy, then shall my reward come at last—and a long harsh score shall I put an end to.” Again he laughed. “So shall I keep you by me, Scarface, to remind me of past pains and a contract unfulfilled.” Then Cheap fell silent, seeming to look beyond the boy at some pleasing scene. And ever and anon he smiled.

Scarface moved at last and roused the Captain from his dream.

“Ha, boy, get to your pots! I would dine.”

Thankfully Scarface made his way back to the galley where the giant Negro cook, Ghost Peter, stirred his kettles.

“The Captain would eat,” Scarface announced shortly. He hated and distrusted Peter. And in that he was not alone for it was very well known that Peter talked with ghosts and had strange powers when he wished to use them.

“Dar,” the Negro jerked a flat thumb at a laden tray covered by a fine white napkin. Cheap demanded such niceties even aboard ship. “Dey sez,” Ghost Peter addressed his pan rather than the boy but Scarface knew an answer would be required of him, “dat we is gwine t’ Barbados.”

“That is the way of it.”

“Pow’ful ill luck dat a-way.” Peter spat into the clay-lined firebox. “Why we do?”

“Cheap’s orders.”

Peter stook his head, but made no further comment. And the boy went off about his duties. But later that night when he was free, he sought the upper deck and stood there a long time. Why was Cheap so determined to raid Barbados when all sense should urge him away? What vengeance pulled the Captain there?

Barbados, the word had a good, mouth-filling sound. Like as not the island was rich. And Cheap had a nose for loot. Look at what they had taken out of San Rafael last year. Barbados. He wondered when they would sight the island.

Chapter Three

ILL WIND FOR A SOLDIER

IT WAS a half hour after dawn when they sighted a little island sloop beating up against the wind on their own course. And the sight of her was like showing a blob of meat to a starving dog, because for the past week they had raised nothing save a frigate, slow-sailing, but well-fanged enough to keep them at their distance. And now this plum could be snapped at ease.

Cheap had sailed the Naughty Lass to his own liking so that Quittance turned a hang-dog scowl to the world and the muttering of the crew had become open mutinous talk. The Gulf of Honduras and the hope of a Don was much more to their taste than this cruising into British-patrolled waters. But Cheap struck through the channel and down toward the Windwards and in that was a measure of the man. For when a captain is elected by the common vote of his crew he can be as easily set aside, and yet none aboard the Naughty Lass had suggested that Cheap be removed.

The sloop tried to run and, by accident or cruel design, she did win to the very edge of freedom before they sailed her down and with one raking shot lifted the mast out of her. The rest was butchery in which Cheap did not deign to take part. But when the long boat of the boarders pulled back to the Naughty Lass, leaving a gutted wreck half-awash behind them, there was the flash of a scarlet coat among them and Creagh called for a line to be dropped to haul up a prisoner.

With as little ceremony as if he were a bale of goods or a net of supplies, the securely trussed body of a Queen’s officer was slung up and over the rail and landed with a thud on the deck. But there was fight yet in the fellow. His shoulders writhed as he tried to roll over and Scarface, without knowing just why, reached down to catch hold of a torn epaulet and pull the officer to his knees. So aided he won to his feet.

He stood there, feet braced wide apart, swaying a little, a runnel of dark blood across his chin, his shaven head wigless to the sun. But there was nothing shrinking about that square chin or those level greenish eyes. He spat a clot of blood, showing for an instant a torn lip and broken teeth, and then he glanced from face to face of those hedging him in.

“What is this, Creagh?” Cheap called from the after-deck.

As he spoke the officer turned to face him. Creagh grinned.

“A gift wot'll pleasure ye well, Cap'n. This foine soljer be one o’ ‘em as lives ‘igh at Barbados. Seein’ as ‘ow ye be thinkin’ o’ thar—”

Cheap laughed. “So there be a wit or two in that thick skull of yours after all, Nat. Aye, this gift pleasures me. Speak up, fellow, who are you?”

The officer cleared his throat and spat red for the second time before he answered steadily enough:

“I am Major Humphrey Cocklyn of Her Majesty's service in the West Indies. Since your men did not slit my throat as they did the throats of those other poor devils I take it that you want ransom—”

“Not so fast, my fine Major,” interrupted Cheap. “The questions are mine to ask. What were you doing at sea? Or has Her Majesty lately enrolled foot soldiers to serve her on the waves?”

Cocklyn contrived to shrug, even with his arms bound torturously behind him.

“I was on my way to Barbados with dispatches—”

“Ahhh—” That was a sound of pure delight. Cheap's lips were parted, his long-fingered hands in spite of their weight of jeweled rings played a triumphant little tattoo on the rail. “Creagh, my bully, you have done better than I first thought. And where are these so important dispatches, Major?”

Cocklyn's ill-used mouth stretched in a crooked smile. “Where you needs must now dive to read them. One of your men emptied the case overboard when he found no gold in it.”

Cheap's hands were still. Then he nodded once as if in answer to a thought. But when he spoke his voice was silky and Scarface felt a familiar and dreaded chill between his shoulder blades.

“But you, Major Cocklyn, doubtless know how went the messages?” he suggested.

“Do I?” returned the Major, his voice still even and unhurried.

Cheap laughed again. “If your memory betrays you we shall refresh it—speedily! I have good reason to wish to know all matters concerning Barbados. And I have the means of satisfying my curiosity. Several of my men are well schooled in the business of loosening too tight tongues—”

Cocklyn coolly looked again at the ring of faces about him. “That I don't doubt. But when I say that I do not know what those papers contained, I may be speaking the truth.”

“There is that, of course,” Cheap nodded amiably, “and then it will be doubly unfortunate for you. Come, come, Major. All the Main knows that you who are sent to officer the levies here are men without any hope of advancement or profit at home. Why cling to that coat which has brought you nothing in the past? For a man with his wits about him there is a fortune to be gathered on the Main—and you seem no cabbage head!”

“For that compliment, thank you. But though my coat is old and, as you have remarked, somewhat threadbare, it has served me well and I have no wish to lay it aside—”

“Your wishes have but small weight here, Major!”

Cheap motioned and Cocklyn went down, one blow from Creagh's fist sending him sprawling.

“Peg him out on the hatch,” the Captain ordered. “I'll warrant he'll find his tongue quick enough when the sun gets to him. And have that coat off him!”

Once spread-eagled on the hatch grating, a bucket of salt water brought the Major to groaning consciousness and Cheap's smile must have been the first thing he saw clearly.

“You have mayhap been long enough in our pleasant climate, Major, to know the strength of the sunlight, especially in the full heat of the day. But if you have not, you will learn it now. If you have any wish for water, my boy here will be most willing to ease your thirst. But, since our supply is limited, you needs must—being in the manner of speaking a stowaway—be satisfied with that from the sea. And should you at any time wish to continue our conversation concerning your mission—on a plane more satisfying to both of us—you need not hesitate to disturb me—I shall be entirely at your service.”

“That”—the Major drew deep breaths between his words—"is most obliging of you. But I do not think that you need worry about being disturbed—”

“Mayhap not this hour, or in the next, but the day is a long one, my friend. And I have all the time in the world.”

“That I would not be too sure of,” returned Cocklyn and closed his eyes with the air of one who wished to conclude an annoying interview.

“You know your orders.” Cheap turned to Scarface. “Sit you here and stir not until this scum of a redcoat finds his tongue or is broiled past the using of it.”

Scarface wet dry lips. Never before had Cheap set him such a task—such nastiness had been left to Creagh who delighted in it and the boy had kept as far as possible from the scene of the sport. Why had Cheap not left this captive to the tender mercies of the boatswain? Unless, knowing Creagh well and wishing to preserve some life and reason within Cocklyn's body, he had deliberately chosen as guard the one member of the crew he knew had no taste for beastliness.”

What was Cheap's game? For the Captain did nothing without good cause. Why—?

His head snapped back and he staggered, caught his balance and still stood, but with a brain which whirled within his skull for one sick instant. Then he blinked the dizziness from his eyes and felt across his chin and cheek the burn of the blow Cheap had given him almost carelessly.

“Dream not on this guard, wry-face, or I'll have the skin off the bones in that stiff back of yours.”

“Best leave th’ redcoat t’ me, Cap'n. I'll ‘ave ‘im a-talkin'!” Creagh stood there, a sort of red eagerness in his small eyes, his furry paws flexing.

Cheap shook his head. “Not this time, Creagh. Let this brat earn his keep, he has grown squeamish of late. Not that you may not keep an eye to the both of them now and then, mind you—”

“Aye, aye, Cap'n!”

So Scarface squatted down by the edge of the hatch, knowing that Creagh's pig-eyes, wherever his body might be on deck, would be upon them. As for Cheap, he went unhurriedly below to sample a bottle from the few the sloop had yielded.

The sun climbed and Scarface, feeling its bite on his own shoulders, could guess what it meant to that half-naked body pinioned under its full glare. And yet not a murmur came from those bloodstained lips. Whatever else this Major might be, he was also a man of iron endurance.

Scarface watched Creagh. Nat might be hot about any business when it was new come to his mind, but he was not a stayer and if the sloop had given wine for Cheap's table, it must also have supplied the boatswain with at least one private bottle. Creagh was never one to neglect his own comfort. And Nat had a thirst which would grow with the hours. It was only a matter of waiting—but could the Major outlast Creagh's sense of duty?

The boy began to move his fingers, casting grotesque shadows on the deck planking. Once he touched the bruise on his jaw where Cheap had struck; it was aching bravely. Cold water on it now—

Water—!

His tongue was suddenly thick in his mouth at the thought of it. But he could get up, could cross the deck, could drink from that hollow gourd by the barrel—and no man would stop him. While the Major—

Creagh was coming toward them. He leaned over the captive and with sudden viciousness pinched the sunblistered flesh. But the soldier made no sound and Scarface wondered if he had fainted.

“This be no way t’ serve a tongue-tied man,” he commented. “I'll below t’ th’ Cap'n an’ ‘ave ‘is word fer another way.”

And go below he did. But, Scarface noted, he did not turn towards the great cabin. It was plain that the boatswain was bound for his own cubby and the bottle he had taken pains to secrete there.

Scarface got to his feet and went to the water barrel. The stuff was none too fragrant, it had been more than a week since those barrels had been filled. But it was water and not salt. He dipped the gourd and brought it out three-fourths full.

“Vot do you, boy?”

Water splashed out of the gourd. It was Roder who stood there behind him, a puzzled look on his half-moon face.

“I try a plan of my own to make a talker of this Englishman,” returned Scarface. “This will I drink before his eyes, mayhap pouring some out beyond his reach. That will give him much to think on.”

Roder considered the idea and then nodded heavily. “A goodt head have you, Scarface. Vhen a man must drink yet und sees de wasser—yah, dat is goodt—goodt. Do you so.”

So he crossed to the hatch with Roder watching, the gourd in his two hands. And then he stooped closer to the Major's head.

“Water, soldier,” he said, loudly enough to satisfy the gunner. “Water to drink.” He put the gourd to his mouth and sucked noisily.

Those green eyes were open, fixed on him in a sort of horror. The battered lips drew back in an animal's snarl. But only a thin whisper of sound came through.

“Devil—devil—”

It was the ship herself who helped him play the trick he had planned for. Under them the deck gave a sudden lurch and the canvas cracked under a thrust of wind. Seawise Roder's eyes snapped aloft.

But the water in the gourd splashed down, down into that gaping mouth, across that bloodstained face. Some of it must have meant easement. For the horror in those eyes gave way to something else. A strange questioning look which Scarface answered only with a curse at the ship and his own clumsiness. Only, when he went to return the gourd to the barrel, that shorn head against the grating turned painfully too and the eyes followed him still questioning.

But such a trick could not be played twice nor could he see anything else which he could do for the other now. And dark was hours away—!

Communion with the captured wine in the quiet of his own cabin had done something to Cheap. He came up while the sun was still over the mainmast, walking with his panther tread straight to the hatch where lay his victim.

“So he is still of a stubborn mind, eh?” he asked of Scarface. “Well, mayhap I can find another use for him. Some deaths are too easy and I have no liking for wanton waste. Roder!”

The gunner came across the deck to answer that hail.

“Get this carrion below and lay it snug until I have use for it. When we raise Bridgetown I think Major Cocklyn will serve us very well.”

They dragged the limp body below to the small chain locker and, having made fast arms and legs, thrust the Major in. It was then that Scarface dared to protest to Cheap.

“Without water he will not last out the night. Remember that black Creagh treated so, and he was well used to the sun.”

Cheap was pleased to be generous. “True enough. That soft streak in you may have saved us much this time. Get below, you lily-livered whelp, and bring him around. Mind you, I want him alive and useful when I need him.”

For the second time Scarface filled the gourd and took it to the small locker where the fetid air was smothering. He dropped down and pulled the heavy body of the man to him, drabbling water through the parted lips.

“What's to do—?”

The rasping whisper was that of a man who still had all his wits.

“Cheap will not have you cooked this day. He has another plan.”

“So— Do you have more of that blessed water, boy?”

But when Scarface put the gourd to his mouth he did not gulp at its contents heedlessly, only sipped.

“Many thanks, Ganymede.” The hoarse whisper had lost some of its huskiness. “And can I believe that your services above deck were calculated too?”

“Believe what you wish. I've orders to keep you alive.”

“I wonder”—the man allowed his head to drop back against the thin shoulder of his nurse—"whether I should bless or curse you for that. I'm afraid that if Cheap has his way I'm like to be a long time dying—”

He gave a little sigh and his eyes closed. Then to Scarface's amazement his heavy even breathing became that of a man asleep. Leaving him so, the boy fastened the locker behind him and went on deck.

But Captain Cheap was not done with his cabin boy. He had left orders that Scarface was to join him in the great cabin and Scarface went, to discover Roder and Quittance there before him. Cheap was sprawled across the table, poking at points on a well-worn chart to clarify his plans. As the boy came in upon them he looked up almost pleasantly.

“And here, mark you,” he said to his officers, “comes the key to our lock. A key I have the turning of. You shall continue to cosset this soldier,” Cheap spoke now to Scarface. “Do aught you can to comfort him in his distress.” The Captain's sweetly evil laugh broke through his orders. “Play his friend, offer to free him, if you will. That would be an easy promise to make with the Naughty Lass well away from any shore he might win to. But in turn strive to learn why he was sent on that sloop to Barbados. And above all, question him as to where Scarlett now lies. It may be that the worthy governor has gone out to aid in the drive against the French—even as that turtle fisherman told us. But learn the truth. You have a simple, honest face—if one ugly enough to fright babes in their cradles—and he may come to believe in you.

“But—play me false with this Englishman.” Cheap continued to smile, his handsome face lighted and happy. “Play me false, and you will be caught between the pot and the fire. For this Cocklyn has no use for you except as a tool—and should you and he win, by some miracle, to Bridgetown, it will be to attend your own hanging. There is no quarter to be found there for any who have sailed under the Black Flag. And should he escape and you remain—well, Creagh shall then have the schooling of you —that do I swear by the sea itself!”

“Vhy ve do zis?” asked Roder. “Tie de fellow up und flog it out o’ him!”

“With the baser sort that would be the solution, aye.” Cheap nodded. “But this is a fish of a different school. He would die before he would give us any satisfaction, being of the type who will let themselves be battered into pulp before they will open their cursed mouths. But sometimes they can be won by more subtle means. He already has hopes of gaining your sympathy, brat, since your play-acting with the water by the hatch—Aye, you may squirm at my knowing that. Roder told me. But as it works well with my present desires we shall say no more about it. Only try not to outwit me again, you meal-worm! Go now about your good Samaritan tricks and report to me directly when you learn aught of value.”

So dismissed Scarface went to the galley where he dug out of a pannikin a fistful of grease. And he also snatched, while Peter's wide back was turned, a leathern jack which still held a half-gill or so of rum. To the world he might be the obedient cabin boy, but within him was a tiny flame of steady rebellion. He could see no hope of winning in this game he had been set to play and revolt made him cold against the role of spy.

Cheap had all through these years kept him to hand only because he was an object of some mysterious value. But now, in his dreams of taking Barbados, the Captain seemed ready to use him too. Cheap was always the gambler who risked all for the last-come prize.

And if he, Scarface, were to lose that shadowy protection which he had long sensed the Captain extended to him, well, then he might lose everything—including his life. The best he could hope for was to die cleanly by steel. The other ways of departing this life that he had seen something of—they did not bear thinking on.

He kicked open the locker and got to work on his patient, rubbing the grease with steady sweeping fingers into the cracked and burned skin. It was the only remedy he knew and it would have to serve.

The Major roused under this Spartan treatment and Scarface held the jack to his lips. The fiery stuff set him to coughing. And then he was quiet, venturing only a single protest.

“Not so stern over the ribs, good abigail. I am strangely tender thereabouts.”

There was an odd catch in his voice as he made this remonstrance and Scarface, with sudden wonder, realized his charge was laughing!

Chapter Four

A KNIFE IN THE NIGHT

“SO THIS captain of yours has a use for me?” Cocklyn's voice was muffled by the biscuit which he worked about in his mouth to spare his broken teeth. “Now I wonder what that may be.”

“Who knows—save Cheap?” Scarface returned sullenly.

“He gives no man his counsel until he pleases. But he is no lack-wit.”

“So I have long since heard,” agreed the Major. “That is why I must now puzzle at this game he plays. He wants you to be my friend, Scarface—in return for what, boy?”

That shrewd guess, the sharp question came like the crack of a whip. The boy jerked under it as if it had been a rope's end laid about his ribs. It was plain that the Major was no lack-wit either.

“What mean you—” he fenced but the other was brusque.

“Come, let us have plain speaking. You were sent to do me well for a reason. Does your captain think I shall babble what he wants to hear into your ears because you tend me? I had not believed him that simple.”

Scarface's mouth pulled tight. “A plague on the both of you! I'll be no counter in a double game!”

Cocklyn was really looking at him now, favoring him with a long measuring stare which swept him from tangled hair to sea boots. And through it the boy faced him defiantly.

“Hah—” The Major grinned. “There is something in you after all. Were you pressed aboard this ship?”

“Pressed? Mayhap—I was, after a fashion. But I was bred up in this trade. Not that I deem it any cleaner because of long familiarity with it.”

“You're no dunghill cock, in any reckoning. Why do you serve this Cheap?”

“Why?” Scarface lost all patience. “Because I was politely asked! Now look to yourself, Major, I've other duties.” He got out of the locker and tramped off to set table in the great cabin where Cheap dined in lonely state.

Even as he hated Cheap with a dull smoldering hatred, he was coming to hate also this Cocklyn with his prying questions. The soldier had that in him which might put down even Creagh should they meet on equal terms. And the Major's understanding was easily a match for Cheap's keen wit. If the Captain were wise he would knock Cocklyn on the head and dump him overboard. And if Scarface spoke a word or two—that is just what would happen.

If he spoke.

He stood still, a silver platter in his two hands. In its mirror-surface he saw his own face and there was a new look to it. Because he suddenly realized that in his own hand lay some of the cards of this game after all. He was not altogether the dupe for their using. To each man he could report such tales as would save the skin of one Scarface—or at least he could try. Hadn't he promised Pym that when his chance came he would use it? And this might be the long-awaited chance.

“Well”—that was Cheap coming into the cabin with his silent cat walk—"are you minded to make off with that bit from the Don's storehouse? How does your patient?”

“He will serve.” Scarface put down the plate. “But he is no dunderhead. Already he asks why I tend him so.”

“Then use your wits and make a proper story for him. Tell him that you are heartily sick of us and would win ashore. And, since that is no lie, the telling of it should be easy. You have three days to be convincing in. Now—put away those charts and bring me food.”

The rolls of charts went into the wooden case on the stern locker. Cheap knew something of the art of navigation and did not altogether depend upon Quittance's reckoning. All charts were jealously kept under the Captain's own eye. For the first time Scarface wanted to know where they cruised. Later might come his chance to look at the top map he had just laid inside the case. That was the one over which Cheap had been instructing his officers.

The Captain himself was clearly in a fine humor. So had he been on that day when they had won into Cumana, home port for the Don's pearl fishermen. And true enough that had been a rare exploit, one which had established Cheap among the fabulous “lords” of Tortuga, those great captains who were never without the best of ships or the pick of crews to follow them. Now he was being gracious, having Quittance and Gaspard Pye, the quartermaster, in to dine with him, and play the audience for the plans he no longer wanted to conceal.

“When the lions fight, then do the wolves dine well,” he began, turning his prized tankard around and around as if to admire the way the lantern light was reflected from its burnished surface. “France and Spain are bedfellows because of this new devilment among the kings of Europe. Against them stand the Dutch and the English. So now we have war here in the gulf seas, raiding of colonies, taking of merchant ships, outfitting of privateers. All very well—let them fight. But neither side can spread so thin their men and ships that they can protect each islet or town which looks to them for help. The fleets will be at each other's throats, especially when the yearly plate ships gather, Don sailing home with a French escort. That fleet will be the prize to draw the English, dripping with envy at every jaw.

“And when they cruise after the plate fleet, then comes our time. Barbados is sugar rich and she is open to the sea. How many fighting men not eaten with rot or fever do you think she can put into the field? We can strike and be away before their heavy-bottomed navy will even hear of our attack. I tell you—Morgan made his fortune at Panama and he took divers hard knocks in the doing of it, but we shall take a hundred such fortunes from the whole Main and it shall not cost us a gill of blood to match those rivers shed by Henry Morgan. He ended a king's knight and a governor—as did this rogue Scarlett! A man with gold enough in his fist can buy any pardon at home. And we shall end snug lives in our own goose-down beds when this voyage be done. I have private intelligence that Scarlett is cruising north towards Jamaica and the rest of the fleet is well away. This is our chance.

“We shall sail into Bridgetown harbor openly—a privateer about our lawful business, bearing a messenger for the governor—”

“A messenger?” Quittance interrupted.

“Aye, a certain Major Cocklyn, doubtless known to those ashore.”

“But will this fellow play his part at your bidding?”

Pye's thin black brows arose almost to the line of his well-kept hair. “He is, by all accounts, stubborn—”

Cheap filled his tankard and, as an afterthought, the jacks of his officers. “Here will the air of these pestilent islands serve us. Forget you the fever?”

“The fever?” Pye sipped his rum delicately and then touched his pointed beard with a handkerchief pulled from his sleeve.

“Aye. The Major will be suffering from the fever. Too ill to be set ashore. But he will have private news for the commander of whatever miserable fortifications they have managed to throw up against the arrival of the French. So shall we get that officer aboard and nip the head of any organization which might work against us. The planters are a timorous lot and easily cowed. Before we reach Bridgetown we shall touch— Ho, Scarface, bring hither that chart!”

Cheap put his elbows on its surface to keep it unrolled and stabbed into its parchment surface with his knife to emphasize his points.

“By our last reckoning we be here, through the Windwards and coming in from the north. We are sailing openly showing lights, an honest privateer. Well off this cape we pull to until Creagh and a boatload of his choosing bids us good-bye. They will land above Bridgetown with a guide who knows that place well— seeing as how he worked in the fields thereabouts and has a scarred back and a nice hatred for a planter to prove it.

“The Naughty Lass will keep on into port, our signals saying that we wish water and supplies. Also we are to deliver the Major's message. That I think will be your mission, Quittance. You have an open honest look about you and will not smell too high of Tortuga. Also you have a meaching sort of speaking which should sound well in merchant ears.

“So do we entice aboard the commander of the forts and, if fortune favors us, mayhap other worthies of the town. You might mention the fact, Quittance, that we have fared well with the prizes we have lately taken and have a cargo of choice rarities. Aye, that is a good thought! Pye, draw me up a list of such treasure as will make any island merchant's eyes fair pop from his skull. Then you take this list, Quittance, to deliver to the proper authorities ashore. Such bait should draw out to us the biggest of the town rats.

“Then with these aboard we wait until Creagh comes in upon the town from the landward side. He knows well what he is about and he shall seem to be leading a full invasion in force. We, brave and true men that we be shall then land to repel the French and the town is ours—at very little cost.”

“There are many tricks which fate may deal such a plan,” commented Quittance. But his eyes shone and he gulped at his rum.

“There are tricks fate can deal any plan. But no one wins who is not willing to wager. I say—boldly does it! Drink up, men, to the Naughty Lass and the goodly fortunes she will bring us!”

And they drank willingly enough. Scarface stared at the chart. The exploit was truly of Cheap's planning. It had the dash, the dependance upon audacity, which marked the Captain's way. But, as Quittance had pointed out, it left much to chance. Suppose that Creagh would land to find an aroused countryside waiting for him. Suppose that fort commander, those merchants, were not to be enticed aboard the Naughty Lass. Once warned it would be easy for them to catch the ship and her crew in a trap.

But if—if a man were to get ashore with a warning—would they believe him—those islanders? They might hang him out of hand. Unless he was known to some among those he came to warn. Unless he was known—

Scarface shifted from foot to foot. Cheap dared much but his cabin boy might dare more. He would have to use a man he still did not trust and Creagh was already suspicious. Twice the boatswain had stood just outside the locker while the boy had taken in Cocklyn's food, listening to every word, watching every move. If Nat did that from now on they had no chance at all.

Then he, Scarface, might be able to free the Major from his bonds, but he could not get them any sort of craft and could they swim to shore? Cocklyn had not been free since his capture and would not be fresh for the venture.

Then—to Cocklyn he was one of this crew. Would the Major believe his tale? Or would he see in it only bait to fresh betrayal?

“Scarface!” That was Cheap, still riding high on his wave of good humor. “Call Creagh and then take yourself away. Nurse the brave Major if you will, he has a role to play soon.”

Creagh came eagerly to the summons. But when the boatswain had stamped below Scarface stood looking to sea.

A speck of yellow light showed in the dark to starboard. Could they have won as close to the island as that? If so, this was the hour, the minute for him to move. But still he stood, the night wind in his hair, the salt of it against his lips. He was thinking of that sun-drenched clearing where he had read aloud the trials of another man who could not make a firm decision and hold to it. What had he said then?

“This Hamlet is a wishy-washy fellow.” Well, this Scarface seemed to be one likewise. Here was his first chance to free himself from all he loathed and yet he hesitated like a witless fool!

The fact was he was no true gambler. He could see too many black shadows in the future, too many slips through which fate might strike. As he chose now, he must choose for all time.

He turned and went across the deck, his tread as soft as Cheap's, his mind upon the man in the chain locker.

There was no lantern in his hand but the Major, needed no light.

“Ha, my nurse-boy again. And what do you have with you this time to tempt me—breast of pheasant or a bottle of Rhenish wine?”

“Your freedom.”

There was no answer, only a long slow breath through the dark where they crouched together, almost breast to breast.

“What cheat now has your captain thought of?” The voice was light and mocking.

“This thought is mine alone. But if you do not trust me—” He was sullen, aware that his foolish hopes were indeed foolish—this man would not have confidence in him.

“I long since learned that trust is a richness the world has little use for. You say this plan is yours alone—well, what is your price?”

“My price?” At this new idea the boy hesitated. Here was a way to make the other believe him. He brought his knife out of his sash. If Cocklyn was willing to bargain then he must put some credence in his companion after all. “My price,” he repeated. “I don't want to hang betwixt wind and wave and feed the gulls. And your Governor Scarlett is a hanging man.”

“True enough. This plan of yours is—?”

“We lie off Barbados. I saw a shore light with my own eyes. Cheap plans to land a force above the town and then sail in himself—using you for bait—”

Quickly he outlined Cheap's plot as he had heard it in the great cabin.

“Clever, clever devil,” Cocklyn observed half in admiration. “It is just reckless enough to win. I am beginning to see some greatness in this captain of yours—it is almost worth the pain of our meeting.”

“Can you swim?” demanded Scarface impatiently.

“Swim? Aye, a little. But I'm no fish for the water. Also at present I fear—”

“If you leave this ship tonight, you swim. I can cut you free and get you across the deck—but from there to land you will have to manage for yourself. There is no boat we can take.”

“We? Do I take it that you propose to accompany me on this mad venture?”

“Aye. Cheap has said that I must answer for you. If I have no wish to be left to Creagh's schooling I go with you.” In the dark the boy felt for the ropes which held the other and began to cut them through.

“They would do that to you?” Some of the sharp mockery was gone in that question.

“So Cheap promised, and he is a man of his word—in such matters. Lie still now so that I can have these off—”

He pulled the cut strands loose and fell to rubbing clumsily the arms and legs of the soldier, guessing how the torture of returning circulation must be cramping the muscles beneath the ridged flesh.

“Have done,” whispered Cocklyn at last. “I can manage now.”

“Creagh is with Cheap in the cabin and so does not watch. And the crew lies forward. We have a strip of deck to cross and then it is over—”

“What are you doing?”

“Swords and boots are not for the careful swimmer.” Scarface pulled impatiently at a stiff buckle. “I am shedding mine now.”

But the escape which had seemed so easy in words was not so in fact. They won to the deck without mishap right enough. But never had the moonlight seemed so revealing, the width of planking so great. Scarface hesitated until Cocklyn gave him a push which almost tumbled him out of the shadows where they crouched.

“Well now, my fine young ruffler. Have you put off your courage with your steel and boots?”

“The Indian Patawamie helps keep the upper deck,” Scarface defended himself. “He can count the feathers on a gull in this light. Let me see to where he and his fellow stand before we try—”

But Cocklyn thrust by him and Scarface, after a hurried glance at the afterdeck, followed.

“Swim under water if you can!” he panted a last order at the soldier.

Their goal, the rail, was easy enough to sight and Cocklyn had hand already on it when Scarface turned his head—to look full into the flat face of the Indian. Hands closed about his throat, but not soon enough to choke back his screech of warning. Cocklyn looked back and then fairly flung himself astraddle the rail. But not before there was the snap of a pistol shot.

The Major's hands flew up to his shaven head in an uncertain gesture and then he tumbled out and down. But the pain in Scarface's throat rushed up into his eyes and head and all his world became a red and roaring nightmare.

“You shot him?” a voice demanded—out of another place and time.

“Aye, Cap'n,” came the whine of the fellow who had shared the deck watch with Patawamie, “straight through th’ ’ead. ’E wos dead right enough when ’e fell—”

“Fool! Witless dog! Why did you not aim at his arm or leg? Pistol him, did you? Well, taste of your own medicine!”

There was the crack of another shot in the night.

Then Scarface knew pain again, sharp and spear-like. But this time it seemed to clear instead of muddle his wits. He found himself on deck looking up into a face which was a mask of twisted, naked emotion such as made him cold with a fear he had never known before.

“I am a man of promises and I keep them all,” Cheap was saying softly as if there were only the two of them alone there. “By you have the Brethren suffered this night and they shall have a word concerning how we deal with a traitor. Far, far better for you had you followed your red-coated friend into the sea. I'll leave you to taste of his bed until morning. On the hatch with him!” He shouted the last order over his shoulder to the growling pack at his back.

They did the business as roughly as they might without actually pounding the breath out of his thin body. And it was long before he saw the whip of canvas overhead free of a watery mist. His head seemed too small, his skull pressed in upon a brain filled with fire. And all he could recall clearly was that glimpse of Cocklyn falling forward limply into the sea, dead before he had crossed the rail.

The boy wondered dully if the Major in that last frantic moment had thought himself betrayed. Mayhap sometime soon they could discuss the matter—unless all such puzzles had been made instantly clear by that slug which had torn life from the soldier. Cocklyn had hoped once for a speedy death—well, he had had one.

But what could Scarface hope for?

Chapter Five

“COUNT ME HIS RIBS”

THE CREW of the Naughty Lass held court in the morning, pressing in about the hatch where Scarface lay. As yet none of them put finger on him or made threats as to the future, for this was one of Cheap's solemn plays which even the most stupid of his followers had a liking for. So they were as formal as they might be, having out the rolls, that the law of the Brethren touching such an offense might be read aloud, Cheap standing as accuser. Only the prisoner was allowed no voice in the matter.

“Brethren”—that was Cheap—in good voice and enjoying himself mightily—"we be gathered here in council to consider the crime of treason which is a black one—”

“ ’Ang ’im, Cap’n!”

“Cat ’im!”

“Give ’im th’ slow match!”

Cheap laughed indulgently at such enthusiasm. “All in good time, all in good time. But we must try this case according to the law. Read you that law, Quittance. I think it be number five upon the roll.”

The man cleared his throat and began:

“The Brethren in council assembled shall judge any of their number who stands accused of betraying their cause and, his guilt proven, they shall vote to him any punishment which they deem in accord with his foul crime.”

“Just so. That is most clear and neatly put. Now this young whelp did free a prisoner of ours and thought to reach our. enemies ashore with news which would spoil as fine a plan as ever Henry Morgan devised. By the keen eyes of Patawamie he was undone. Therefore do I say that he was caught in open treason. How say you?”

“Aye!” The voices were as one.

“Give ’im t’ me, Cap’n.” Creagh elbowed his way to the fore. “Let me ’ave th’ lessonin’ o’ ’im!”

“Right willingly would we agree to that, Creagh. Save that you have another duty to fill within the hour, and this matter of Scarface should not be dealt with hastily—that I believe we agree upon?”

An undefined but assenting growl was his answer.

“So now I shall make a suggestion for your approval. It is our present desire to pose as a lawful privateer cruising these waters against the French. And on some privateers navy rule is kept. Therefore let us act as the Queen's men would and stage a fine rare show for our friends from shore when they come out to greet us. It will be a lesson in proper discipline—and also a warning to beholders against the folly of crossing our will—”

Enough of the crew of the Naughty Lass had escaped from Queen's ships to guess at what Cheap might mean and their nods and grins gave him assent and applause.

“Pye, you sailed with the royal navy in the old days. How did they treat you?”

The small quartermaster moved uneasily. His wrinkled, brown-spotted hands were trembling, there was an odd withdrawn look in his sunken eyes. To remind Gaspard Pye of his martyrdom aboard King James’ ships was a risky thing to do. Sometimes he went a little mad when he remembered too much.

“Come, Pye, show us how they deal out justice in the navy!”

Those brown hands plucked at the fastening of his shirt. Then with one rip he tore away the calico and turned his back upon them all. From under the untrimmed locks of hair at his neck down to the band of his breeches, his flesh was ridged and hollowed with great scars. A man might bury his little finger in the deepest of them. Scarface had always wondered at how Pye had been able to survive such a beating.

“That be the sign-mark of navy justice right enough. Some others of you have felt its like,” Cheap observed. “Such punishment might well be considered a brave show for visitors. What think you?”

“Aye.”

One man or twenty, that answer was a united one. Not that it would make any difference if it had not been, Scarface knew. Cheap had set his mind upon this and Cheap's way was the crew's way. Doubtless the picture the Captain had put into their minds made them well content to agree.

The boy closed his eyes against that ring of faces which held no pity. Not that he had dared to hope any would. There was no help for him anywhere on the Naughty Lass —which meant in the world.

Some time later he was aware of Creagh and his men going over the side, embarking on their expedition against the island. They were in holiday spirits and well pleased with the task Cheap had set them.

But the Naughty Lass beat on towards Bridgetown. Cheap had had the red jack raised and was sailing in with the boldness of an honest privateer about his business. Any eyes ashore which had marked their coming were doubtless pleased with such a brave sight and there would be a goodly company waiting to bid them welcome.

“Still dreaming?” Cheap stood above his prisoner, smiling as ever. The Captain was freshly dressed, well-shaven, his periwig curled, his uniform coat, long since looted from its rightful master, brushed and smooth across his shoulders. He looked more the proper officer than many of those who held the Queen's commission. When Scarface did not reply he stooped and slapped the boy with the gloves he carried.

“I warned you of the folly of daring to match wits with me,” he continued, “but youthful blood is hot and youthful spirits arrogant. Have you any last messages? I promise to deliver them most faithfully.”

Scarface set his teeth against the only speech in his throat,

The boy closed his eyes against that ring of faces . . .

a last desperate appeal to this man. But that was what Cheap wanted of him, to see him break and watch him crawl and beg. And while he had any manhood left he would not. Though what he might say or do before they were finished with him he dared not think.

“Almost could I thank you, Scarface, since you have played my game so well. No better end could I have devised had I set my mind to it for years. I thank you, Scarface.”

“For what?” croaked his victim.

“For putting a very pretty end to an old quarrel, an end which will be remembered long after all of us are otherwise forgotten, an end which shall live in history wherever men have tongues to repeat the story. Now make your peace with this world, boy. For soon you will be well out of it.”

He walked away, as if he were extremely well pleased with himself and his morning's work. Scarface went back to staring at the yards overhead, trying not to think at all.

Bridgetown had a wide harbor and the Naughty Lass found good lodging within it. She was handled smartly for, whatever her crew might otherwise be, they were first sailors, more seawise than the pressed crews of the Queen's ships.

And Barbados was curious concerning this visitor. From where he lay Scarface could hear the calls of the shoreside peddlers as they came out in their dugouts to cluster around the sides of the vessel and shout their wares. Then Pye went ashore in some state, doubtless taking with him that list of mythical prizes, the best of whose cargoes was supposed to lie under the decking of the Naughty Lass.

The small quartermaster was back sooner than Scarface had expected. His list might not have worked as bait, for no fort officer or merchant came with him, and he scurried into Cheap's cabin. For a time thereafter the boy actually felt a glimmer of hope. If matters were going ill with Cheap's great plan he might overlook his victim.

But he might have guessed that the Captain was no man to forget anything of the sort. Pye shot out of the cabin again as if the Black Man himself trod on his narrow heels and after him came Cheap. He crooked his finger to the nearest of the crew and gave an order.

They did not even wait to untie the ropes which held Scarface but slashed them through and jerked the boy to his feet, forcing him forward to the base of the foremast. There his wrists were made fast above his head and his shirt went flapping in pieces from his guards’ hands.

It was the waiting which was the hardest—or so he now thought. He must strain to touch his feet to the planking and a cool breeze offshore wrapped around his naked flesh. He heard a hail from the water line. Then, behind his back, they ushered aboard those for whom they had been waiting —the officers and merchants of Barbados—well in time for Cheap's entertainment.

Even then Scarface might have called out a warning. But when he half turned his head to catch sight of the new-comers, he saw Patawamie on guard and in the Indian's hands was a long dirk. It seemed that Cheap had thought of that possibility too.

“Ha, Captain, what have we here, what have we here?” puffed a husky voice.

“A case of discipline, sir. This dog has attempted mutiny and we have good reason to believe that he is a spy sent out by Tortuga.” That was Cheap giving answer—all cool virtue shaming vice.

“A pirate!” The recoil in his questioner's voice was sharp.

“So he may be. But in any case he is a mutineer, daring to raise his hand against my sailing master. We are about to lesson him now in better manners.”

“Struck your master—! Indeed the rogue must be out of his wits. You do well, Captain, to send him back into them thus. Very commendable—it would be well for others to take profit from your example—”

“It would indeed,” Cheap chuckled. “These dogs must learn who is master. You, Peter, get to your work. Count me his ribs now!”

Scarface braced himself, but that stab of fire which curled about him made him hiss. Then another was laid crosswise of the first. His teeth met hard in his soft underlip and he tasted blood. But he would not cry out—he would not! At least as long as he could control his shrinking body.

He lost count at last and no longer stood with toes on the planking, but hung, his weight upon his pinioned wrists. And a red mist of pain shut him away from all else in the world. It must have been a minute or two before he realized that stripes no longer cut him in two. Instead there was a hot argument going on outside his mist wall and Cheap's voice, for once raised above its usual calm pitch, came through to him.

“He is a mutineer and as such is subject to my hand!”

“You have said, Captain”—that voice was equally heated —"that he is also suspected of trafficking with pirates. If that be true he must be questioned so that what he knows can be used against those of his kind. In the Queen's Name I demand that he be given to us to be held for Sir Robert's pleasure.”

“It is only rumored that he is a pirate—he has not said so. But he is a proven mutineer. And besides you would learn nothing from him; he has a stubborn tongue.”

“So have had other men until their meeting with Sir Robert. His Excellency has a swift and gainful way with such gentry. But a dead man cannot talk and if this goes on, he will be dead. You hold a commission as a privateer from the Queen's officers—and under that commission are you subject to regulations. You should know that all information concerning the enemy and his dealings must be shared. Therefore, deliver this prisoner to us for questioning.”

Scarface drew his first full lungfuls since he had been trussed up. For once had Cheap been too clever? Had the Captain claimed to be dealing with mutiny only, none would have questioned the flogging. But instead he had spoken of piracy and that hint had reached the ears of some officer who was only too zealous in Sir Robert's service. If he could only add to that officer's suspicions by some outbreak of his own! But Patawamie was there, knife in hand, and a slit throat or slashed tongue would not help him.

The deadlock between the Queen's Officer and Captain Cheap was interrupted most forcefully by a deep-throated roar from across the water. Then came the crackle of musket fire and distant shouting. Evidently Creagh was moving in upon Bridgetown as his master had ordered.

There was a babble of shouts and questions from the deck of the Naughty Lass, including calls from the townsmen who had come visiting for boats to set them ashore.

“It would appear that there is a disturbance in the town.” Cheap had caught his cue thankfully.

“The French!” one of the townsmen decided the matter promptly.

“Odd, they must be sunstruck to fall on the town from the rear,” said the officer who had demanded the pirate spy.

“Mayhap they are in some force and have made several landings along the coast,” cut in Cheap quickly. “Shall I land my men to help defend the town?”

“That is well thought on, Captain,” the merchant cried. “Your brave fellows can push that cowardly scum into the harbor speedily. It is our good fortune that you reached port this day—”

But the officer had added nothing to such protestations and his silence seemed to wear upon Cheap so that he demanded hotly:

“Well, sir, and shall I do so?”

“As you like, Captain. But you would be better employed, I think, in blocking the harbor. If they have landed in force they may have a good score of sail beating in to join them here.”

“We sighted no sails this morning.” Cheap was hanging on to his temper with an effort. He was capable of pistoling the officer if the fellow tried him too far. “I command here—”

“Aye, Lieutenant Griffin, the Captain commands. Would you refuse his help? Ah—someone has fired a warehouse! God send it is not one of mine! Ashore, Captain, ashore and put down these rogues!”

So encouraged, Cheap was only too glad to move. And at his command his crew went overside with lighthearted dash. Only Patawamie stood fast at his post.

Scarface kept his eyes on that small scrap of water front he could see. Black smoke, fed by burning molasses and tar from ships’ stores, curtained part of the scene and the sound of musket fire was heavy. Either Creagh was having more of a fight than they had thought possible, or the men of Bridgetown were better soldiers than rumor allowed.

All at once the scattered shots were drowned in a thick crackle of steady fire and there was the sound of culverins into the bargain. Patawamie started forward, his eyes wide, his mouth a little open in what must have been horrible amazement. Scarface twisted until the pain of his flayed back was red torture but he could not see what was drawing the Indian to the rail.

The shouts and screams sounded closer, almost as if they were rising out of the waters of the bay about the ship. Then there was a hollow bump against the side of the Naughty Lass. And up over her side boiled a rabble of men, their eyes showing white rings of fear, one or two dropping a scarlet trail as they came.

Something had happened to Cheap's fine plan. Bridgetown was not to be overrun by him. Scarface tugged vainly at the ropes which held him. If in this hour he could win free— Even Patawamie was gone, swallowed up in the rush of men across the deck.

Then Cheap came. His head was bare of laced hat and periwig. Naked steel was in his right hand and there was a long slash in his coat at the shoulder. His face was a white, dead mask in which only the nostrils moved with the force of his breath. He swept past Scarface and was gone where the boy could no longer see him. A moment later his voice was raised in shouted orders which were a last vain effort to snatch victory from defeat.

But the crew were a broken rabble which could not be whipped into place. Nor did Quittance or Roder come to their captain's aid.

Instead a second wave of men poured into the Naughty Lass. And many of these wore red coats. They came down the deck, facing up to the fire of those pirates who still had wit enough to load pistol and musket. And when they met the crew it was steel to steel, no quarter given.

It might have been a quarter hour, it might have been a full sixty minutes before it was done. But in the end the men of Bridgetown were master and a good half-dozen captives were being roped together to await transportation ashore and Sir Robert's pleasure thereafter.

“What have we here?” Someone had stumbled upon Scarface.

It was the lieutenant who came to answer. “They would have it that he was a mutineer and pirate—”

“Well, if they said that, doubtless he is an honest man. Cut him down and let us look at him—if they have left any life in the fellow.”

Hands reached above his and knives cut into the ropes. Then his arms fell of their own numb weight and he slumped forward to be caught and lowered to deck.

“Up with his head, Barthelmey, and let us see this desperate mutineer.”

The man who was holding him shifted his grip, turning Scarface to face his new captors.

“Lord—!” There was a breath sharply drawn between teeth. “He's only a boy!”

“So here you are, Griffen. But what is this?”

Scarface's eyes moved dully upward from polished boots to fine breeches, then past scarlet coat to a face he had seen before. Then and then only did he choke upon the sort of cry Cheap had not been able to tear out of him.

“Look to him! The lad's taken bad—”

But Scarface had eyes only for the man now on one knee beside him.

“You're drowned and dead, Major Cocklyn,” he whispered and surrendered weakly to the black wave licking at him.

Chapter Six

JUSTIN BLADE TAKES THE QUEEN'S PARDON

IT WAS cool in the big room where tall shutters were pulled against the sun—cool and clean as Scarface had never dreamed a room might be, just as he now stretched his aching body upon a bed softer than any in his memory. There was even the sharp, sweet scent of herbs to the linen as if the housekeeper here must be a proud woman, well doing in all her ways. Not like Liza of Tortuga.

To think of Liza was to bring all these other questions to mind. What had become of Cheap and the crew of the Naughty Lass? And how did he, Scarface, come to lie on this fine bed, a cooling dressing on his lacerated back, and a small black boy crouched nid-nodding against the wall waiting only to do his bidding.

He'd tried asking questions of this slave, but the child only grinned and nodded and brought him fruit juice to drink or a fan, as if he could understand no other desires. And Scarface had been too much in awe of the harsh-voiced surgeon who visited him each morning to do more than answer the curt inquiries which that gentleman barked at him.

But he gathered that he now lay in the house of some well-to-do planter and certainly he was being tended as if he were a son of that house. Why he was not in jail with the rest of his fellows he could not guess.

At first he had just been content to lie there uncaring, but now as the fever left him and his back mended he grew restless and wanted to be on his feet again, moving out into the world beyond the room with the long shutters.

However, the quiet was to be broken, and that very hour, by the flinging open of his door and the rap of boot heels across the floor. Scarface braced himself up on his elbows and looked over his shoulder to see his visitors—for there were two of them, Major Cocklyn very well set up in a new red coat and a younger, long-faced man all in sober, but well-cut gray.

“How are you, my boy?” The Major snapped his fingers at the small slave who hurriedly dragged two chairs to the bedside.

“Well enough, if it please you, sir,” returned Scarface warily.

“It does, it does. And it will please Firken also, eh, man?” Cocklyn demanded, of his companion, who replied with a pinched, discreet sort of smile and then busied himself with the putting out of paper, ink, and sandbox and three newly sharpened quills on the near-by table.

“Dr. Hardwell would have it that you are now fit for our business and time passes all too swiftly, so we decided to be about it at once.” The Major sat sidewise on his chair, one arm along its back, as if settled for an idle chat.

“Our business?” Scarface sparred uneasily. He mistrusted the extreme friendliness of this advance.

“Aye. Business of Her Majesty. We have in jail some two and twenty rogues fit for hanging—as Sir Robert will speedily do when he returns—but before they are hung they must be tried. Therefore, Mr. Firken, who is His Excellency's secretary, would now have your evidence against these rogues—why, boy, surely you have no reason to shield them after the way you were used?”

The Major was staring somewhat incredulously at the frowning boy on the bed.

“Is your reluctance due to fear of endangering yourself?” Mr. Firken's dry, precise voice cut across the sudden silence. “I have here the Queen's Pardon which is offered to any who acknowledge their error and swear hereafter to live lawfully. Sir Robert himself once took such an oath—”

Scarface shook his head slowly. “I will take your pardon, if that is what you would have of me. But—”

“But—” prompted Cocklyn impatiently. “Do not try to tell me that you turn squeamish now for love of those sharks. If so—why did you save my life?”

The boy dug his fingers into the softness of the pillow between his two fists.

“I have lived with them,” he said in a low voice. “I've eaten with them. Only the dirtiest of swine would spit upon his fellows. If it were a fair fight now—why, I'd be your man willingly enough. But I'll speak no hanging words now to win favor for myself. And if it pleases you to put me with the rest in jail—well, then do so!”

Cocklyn beat a right heavy tattoo on the chair back with his fingers, glancing the while with an odd half-smile at Firken.

“He means that,” the Major said. “This is a marvelously stubborn rogue we have caught us. What is your advice?”

“He had better change his song before Sir Robert comes to hear it. His Excellency is anything but a patient man.”

“You hear that?” Cocklyn grinned at the boy. “And Firken knows of what he speaks, since he has served the governor well these ten years or more. Are you still of the same mind?”

Scarface nodded. “Aye, I'll take your oath. But I'll tell no hanging tales. Why don't you ask your questions of Cheap—he is apt to tell you all fast enough.”

“How we wish that we might!” sighed Cocklyn with some of his old mockery. “But Cheap got clean away, gone from our trap when the jaws clicked shut. And Sir Robert will not like that at all. Why do you show this tenderness toward a man who had you half flayed? Is he kin of yours?”

The boy's head jerked up and he winced involuntarily at the answering thrill of pain across his healing shoulders. There it was—that hateful suggestion which Pym had been the first to make.

“I am no kin to Captain Cheap!” He bit off each word resentfully.

“Then how came you with the Captain? Were you pressed from ship he took?” persisted Firken.

Here it was, the question he dreaded because he honestly knew no answer for it.

“I have always been with Cheap since I can remember, either on his ship or in his house in Tortuga. But how or why I came with him I do not know.”

“Hmmm.” The Major's eyebrows were twisted by a thoughtful frown. “And yet he did not treat you as one whom he had any fondness for—”

“He looked upon me as a weapon in some plan of vengeance he nursed—he told me so at the last.”

“Now that,” commented Cocklyn, “is what I might expect of the so-dear Captain. He had a use for you. But then why would he have thrown you away here in Barbados?”

“He told me that my death would be a fitting end to all he wished to do here—”

“Curious, very curious. A man of secrets, this captain of yours. I wish we might have put hand on him so that we could have conversed together. So you were a weapon of sorts whose purpose was fulfilled upon this visit to our island? There is an interesting mystery there, and mayhap some day we shall learn the truth of it. What name did he give you?”

Scarface felt the red tide of shame rising on throat and jaw. His eyes dropped from Cocklyn's face to the pillow beneath his elbow.

“What name suits a hacked face?” he demanded roughly. “I was Scarface to all the bullies of Tortuga!”

“Well-a-day, such names have—before this—become a goodly threat to the godfathers who granted them first. But had you never another?”

“Liza once called me ‘Justin.’” He told of that last strange interview with Cheap's housekeeper.

“ ‘Your lady mother’ and ‘Justin.’ Aye, she must have known something. And that name is not a common one. How say you, Firken?”

“No common one, no, Major. I have never met a man who bore it.”

“Justin. That is well enough, but we must have two names—we all do, rich fools that we are. What is your choice for a second, Justin?”

Scarface was crumpling the linen between his hands again. Cocklyn still sounded as if he were jesting but he really was not. The Major meant that he, Scarface of Tortuga, was to have a proper name at last.

“I will borrow no man's name,” he made answer slowly, “lest he have reason some day to make complaint against my bearing of it.”

And at that Firken nodded. “Quite proper. So let me suggest this. You have said that this Captain Cheap spoke of you as a weapon he would use in some act of revenge— very well, take you a name which will bear him out.”

“Firken!” Cocklyn was laughing again. “Faith, man, your sins have found you out at last! You are a poet at heart—or else a sorry playwriter.”

Mr. Firken dropped his gaze to the pile of papers before him and there was a pinch of pink in his sallow cheeks, as well as a tight line of annoyance about his prim mouth. Major Cocklyn's chance shot had struck very close to home.

“But idea of a poet or not, it is clever, damned clever, man. Now let us see—'Vengeance,’ ‘Revenge'— Gad, the lad's no ship to carry such a tag about with him, ‘Sword'— Aye, I have it! ‘Blade'—that's the name you want—Justin Blade! It has a good mouth-filling sound to it and not far removed from our Saxon heritage. Justin Blade you are.”

Scarface liked it—"Justin Blade.” As Cocklyn said, it had an honest ring. He grinned happily at his godfathers and the Major was quick to give him an answering smile of triumph.

“Might I suggest”—Mr. Firken had regained his composure and was all business once more—"that we keep this christening a matter secret to ourselves? Master Blade had better forget that he ever bore another name.”

“Right as usual, Firken. I can see clearly why Sir Robert has fared so well at your hands. As far as the world will know you were Justin Blade when you came kicking into this life, lad. To make it all legal Firken will put it down in one of these solemn papers of state. But we have wandered far from the matter which brought us hither. You will not speak against the pirates, Justin?”

“I can't.”

“Very well. Nor could I, in like circumstances.” Cocklyn swung around to the secretary. “Write out the oath, Firken, and administer it to him. If Sir Robert raises any quarrel with that, I'll answer for it.”

“As you wish.” Firken's pen moved across the paper in even lines. And soon after, Justin Blade took the oath to hold the Queen's peace and go no more adventuring in unlawful ways.

Seeing that there was no more to be gained from this stubborn ex-pirate, Firken spoke of the passing of time and that he had duties elsewhere. With a half-bow to the Major and a nod to Justin he marched off, his papers clasped to him.

“Now,” the boy urged when the door had closed firmly behind Master Firken, “tell me how you came to Bridgetown when we all thought you dead and under the sea.”

Cocklyn crossed his legs and settled himself more comfortably. “It was easy enough. The shot from that rogue's pistol would have parted my wig—had I worn the pestilent thing—and the breeze of it, as it were, fanned me into the sea. Then there was naught for a prudent man, like myself, to do but keep swimming. And, by God's own grace, I reached the island. Thereafter it was easy enough to knock up the nearest planter and borrow a horse to ride hither with my news. So did we then contrive an amusing play of our own to keep Cheap happy until he would walk into our trap. Having bottled up Creagh and his rogues inland, we stormed Bridgetown and fired an old warehouse to give color to the scene—so drawing Cheap ashore. Faith, Drury Lane's boards never saw a sprightlier comedy than the one we played that morning. So are we to the gain of one ship and divers foul fellows. And Sir Robert will be pleased at that.

“Nor shall I be backward in the telling of it to His Excellency, for of late our worthy governor has begun to believe that no one else can hunt pirates so well as he. So this success will be for the good of his soul—since he had no part in it. Ah, Kandy—tobacco, you rascal!”

The little slave scurried from the room obediently.

“Now we needs must turn to another problem, the future of one Justin Blade. As you have taken the Queen's pardon your old trade is closed to you.”

“I am no planter,” Justin broke in hurriedly, hoping to stave off such a fate had Cocklyn marked him for it. “I know not weed from cane. A ship's my only trade. Mayhap I can get me a berth with some island trader.”

“Which is no more or less than I have in mind. And I know the very master for you—Sir Robert! He has some five sloops and brigs at sea under his flag and good men who know the islands are fewer than you might think.”

“But with his hate for those from Tortuga—would he welcome me? You have all made so much of his harshness towards the Brethren that even the Queen's Pardon to flap before his eyes would seem small protection—”

“True, he hates all that smacks of the Black Flag right enough. But he has now among his men many of the Brethren, followers of his own in the days when he was ‘from the sea'—as I believe you rogues announce yourselves when you are hailed. So one more will make little difference. Then too you have that about you which will commend you to His Excellency—he has a liking for youngsters in misfortune—seeing as how he was just such a one. No, I think he will strive to find a berth for you. And until that day you shall stay here at your pleasure.”

Cocklyn stayed a while longer talking of Bridgetown and the life-within its white-walled, tiled-roof houses, but he was at last interrupted by the sound of wheels on the cobbles close by. And then a high-pitched voice, whose whine penetrated even the thick walls, brought a frown to the Major's good-humored face. He jumped up from his chair with a hastiness which might have sent it spinning against the bed had he not checked it with his hand in passing, for he was already striding for the door which he slammed with some force behind him. Justin was left to wonder just what sort of a whirlwind had struck the house.

For a whirlwind it was. He caught snatches of sound, the footsteps of people in a hurry, the clatter of horses’ hooves outside his window, the raucous scream of a bird, and once a queer noise which might have been someone laughing or weeping. It could only be, Justin decided, that Sir Robert was at last in port. But somehow this tempest did not fit with the character of that pirate hunter as he had pictured him. Even Kandy had apparently deserted his post and there was nothing to do but wait for the disturbance to disclose its nature itself. Which it did soon enough.

The hall door opened and Justin looked eagerly over his shoulder hoping to see the Major return. But at the apparition now advancing confidently into the room he could only stare in drop-jawed amazement.

At first he thought that it must be a dwarf such as Quittance said was to be seen in the East Indies. And then, for one horrified moment, he even wildly guessed that he was watching an ape dressed up as a man. It wasn't until the thing spoke that he realized it was a child.

“Strike me!” the shrill unbroken voice tittered. “Amos was right—there is a pirate here!”

From the elaborately curled blond wig to the red-heeled, paste-buckled shoes, he was a miniature fop and when he saw Justin's eyes on him he strutted. Why, there was even a black patch by the sullen childish mouth and the small hand flourished a laced handkerchief with an air which Justin suddenly discovered to be vastly irritating.

“A cut-faced cutthroat too. How came you by that scar, rogue?”

“Who are you?” Justin snapped. Surely this—this—this person could not be of Sir Robert's family.

“Sir Francis Hynde, at your service.” And the fop bowed with a sweep of arm and as pretty a leg as the finest gallant in Birdcage Walk might show. “Who are you, pirate?” The fine-gentleman shell cracked to allow natural, small-boy curiosity through.

“I am Justin Blade and no pirate.” But he was as goggled-eyed as any cay fish and his visitor seemed to find in that the admiration he wanted. He swaggered a little as he came closer to the bed.

“Amos said that you were a pirate whom it pleased my uncle to have here that he may question you concerning the evil you have done. And my mother asked why you were not put in the slave quarters where you rightfully belong and she wished to know by whose authority you lay in the best chamber. Then came my Uncle Humphrey and took her into the other room and he would not let me enter with them. So I came here to see you—though I have seen many pirates before, mark you, swinging by their necks. Are you not afraid of hanging?”

“It is not pleasant.” Justin's long buried sense of humor began to bubble within him. After all, his first wild guess had not been so far wrong—Sir Francis Hynde was a bit of a monkey. “No, it is not pleasant. But then, I wouldn't rightly know—I've never been hung.”

“But you will be—straightway when Sir Robert arrives. He hangs all pirates,” observed Sir Francis with the round satisfaction of one who sees good entertainment promised for the future.

“Only, I'm no pirate.”

“But you were taken in the fighting on that ship in harbor. And pirate or no you had better leave that bed before my mother comes to you. No one sleeps there but by her asking.”

“This is your house then?”

“No. Do you think that the Hyndes would live in such a place?” Sir Francis’ voice took on the sing-song rhythm of one repeating something learned by rote. “A Hynde was cupbearer to King Richard the Third and we have always lived in Kings’ houses. No, this is the house of my Uncle Humphrey, but, since his wife be dead, my mother, out of her charity, has come to keep it for him. Though I'd rather we'd not left England. I don't like this place.”

“Why not? Faith, you have the sea to swim and fish in and there must be hunting. And surely on this island there are other boys of your age—”

Sir Francis drew himself up to his full four-feet-three and made answer with the haughtiness of a French duke addressing his tailor.

“I am Sir Francis Hynde. I do not sport with colonials. They are not gentlemanly in their ways nor do they comport themselves as become men of birth.”

Justin bit his lips to control his grin—it might goad Sir Francis into a hot-tempered outburst. But at the same time he puzzled as to how this prodigy had ever come to live under the forthright Major's roof without being reduced to proper stature.

“Francis! Francis!” The call was thin, querulous. And it sounded from close outside the half-open door.

Sir Francis Hynde was smug. “That is my mother,” he said and remained calmly where he was, with a sort of anticipation about him which Justin found disturbing.

Chapter Seven

SIR ROBERTS IN THE BAY!

THERE WAS nothing formidable about the undersized lady who swished her wide skirts through the open door —at first sight, although the tall frontage of starched lace perched on her rolls of sausage curls did give a certain dignity to her peevish face. She had the air of one badly treated by fate—Lady Hynde was a martyr and that role suited her very well indeed.

Now she bore down on her son with firm purpose. “Francis, get you to your room as you are bid—instantly!”

Sir Francis wilted. He was speedily deflated from a London beau to a tiresome small boy and without a word started mournfully for the doorway, although there he lingered for one last glimpse of Justin.

“I am waiting, Francis,” his mother repeated. And so encouraged, Francis went.

Justin, since he could not join Sir Francis in his prudent withdrawal—though to do so he would certainly have been tempted had he not been bed-fast—was left to face the storm. For a long moment the lady was content merely to examine this intruder in the best room—though her attitude might have led one to believe that she was inspecting with well-bred horror a loathsome insect instead of a young man who, before her arrival, had begun to think that his fortunes were on the rise.

“My brother, Major Cocklyn,” she fired her opening gun, “informs me that you have been sorely injured. And he has also stated that he owes you his life. Naturally he is a man of honor and must repay his debts. But that does not make you free of his house nor of the company of gentlemen—”

“Such as your son?” In spite of all his good intentions he could not forego that thrust.

The result was that she looked at him as if she really saw him for the first time. And by her expression he and all the world might guess that what she saw she liked even less than she had thought she would.

“You will not have the chance of companying with Sir Francis. I fear that my brother has made a sad mistake, his softness of heart ofttimes betrays him in this fashion.”

“Betrays me in what fashion, Lettice?” Cocklyn came up behind her, but she was in no wit disconcerted at his sudden appearance. And by that Justin judged her—she was no coward.

“Betrays you into trusting those not worth your trust, Humphrey. You do not know the world—”

“So. But, Lettice, I have some knowledge of men.” And those words held some strong meaning for her.

No expression crossed her full powder-masked face or moved the petulant twist of her lips, but in the folds of her full skirt her fat hands clutched and tore. Cocklyn's shot had struck close.

“I hope that your knowledge be as deep as you believe it,” she returned stolidly. “You will excuse me now, Humphrey, I find there is much to set aright in the house. When the eye is not on them these servants are rascals.”

“Just so, my dear. I have always much to thank you for in your endeavors on my behalf.” Cocklyn stood aside and let her pass him. She did not close the door behind her but the Major did before he crossed to stand beside Justin, the frown line between his brows darker and heavier than the boy had ever seen it before.

Justin fidgeted, wondering if he should make any comment upon what his unwilling hostess had said, when the Major spoke—more abruptly than usual.

“Lady Hynde has had many grievous disappointments in her life and knowing her constant unhappiness we do not hold against her any thoughtless words she may say in a moment of irritation.” Cocklyn was stiff, formal, and his half-apology was being forced from him against his will. “It was my belief when I had you brought hither that she would spend some weeks with friends—”

“I think, sir,” Justin cut in quickly, “that Lady Hynde was displeased to discover Sir Francis with me. It is only sensible to wish to keep your son from companying with pirates—”

At that Cocklyn unbent enough to show a faint shadow of his usual good humor. “Francis would be the better for a voyage under the Black Flag, could we but find one of the Lords of Tortuga who would allow him between decks. He is fast becoming a mirror to reflect all the more unpleasant vices of my late unlamented brother-in-law. If he plagues you again—”

“He didn't plague me. He was only interested in my ruffianish past—he's a strange boy.”

“There you understate.” Cocklyn was wholly himself again. “He is a precocious imp who would be the better for the taste of a whip—no”—he had been quick to note Justin's involuntary start—"I did not mean to bring that to your mind. But the brat is truly a source of misgiving to me. He is all but impossible to live with now—what sort of monster will he be in five years’ time? And yet there must be some good in him—my sister was once a loving little girl.” He sighed before he continued more briskly:

“Now for you, Master Blade. I have had speech with Dr. Hardwell and he says that if you rest and abide by his instructions it is well within the realm of Providence that you may sit up tomorrow and be on your feet once more within the week. Is that good hearing?”

With that he left Justin to drowse through the long afternoon hours. But Master Blade dreamed crazily of Lady Hynde and Jonathan Cheap. And when he was awakened by Kandy bringing his supper he was amused by such a thought. In Lady Hynde even Cheap would find an equal match. Which musing led him most naturally to thinking of the Captain's fate. Cheap had a queer dislike for deep waters and hated to swim, though very few knew that, Justin being one of the few. And since he had not been taken with the rest on the Naughty Lass, where had he disappeared to? Unless he had chosen to drown rather than be held for Scarlett's pleasure—which was well within his character. Not that it greatly mattered to one Justin Blade, who hoped, with all the strength in his mending body, that he had seen the last of Jonathan Cheap in this world and the next one too.

It all went as Dr. Hardwell had foretold. Within the week Justin could move without assistance onto the wide veranda above the garden and there tease the macaw into frenzied speech or watch the labors of the white redemptioner who grew my lady's flowers—but never to her liking. To the mistress of the household and Sir Francis, however, it was as if their unwilling guest did not exist. Not that he minded his isolation greatly.

Cocklyn taught him to play piquet and, finding that he knew his letters, made him free of the small library where Justin chanced upon his old friend Dr. Faustus and re-read him with a relish, to recall with almost every line those cliffs above the sea where Pym had labored to drum some manner of learning into his protégé's head.

Thinking of Pym led him to another exercise when he was sure that Cocklyn was away and that he would not be overlooked. The Major had brought him sword and belt which had been among the plunder taken from the Naughty Lass—having recognized it for that discarded by the boy on the night of their attempted escape. And now Justin, cautiously and with more than a little physical discomfort, began to go through the drill Snelgrave had taught him so long ago. Parry and thrust, parry and thrust, his stocking-covered feet made no more than a whisper of sound on the floor. After some days of patient endeavor he gloried in the slow return of skill and speed as he matched right hand with left.

“You use either hand!”

Sir Francis had crept up through the garden without his noticing and now stood agape just below.

“Even my uncle cannot do that—and he is an officer,” the boy continued. “Show me how.”

And Justin, because his morning's work had surprised even himself, obeyed, attacking fiercely with one hand, and then tossed the blade into the air to catch and use it as well with the other in a second series of vicious thrusts. Sir Francis was truly entranced. Behind him Collins, the redemptioner, squatted open-mouthed beside a half-weeded flower border until Justin dropped down in a chair panting heavily.

“Again!” demanded the Baronet eagerly but the older boy shook his head.

“I am fair winded. That is enough for now.”

“How did you learn that—to fight with either hand?” Young Hynde came up to seat himself on a neighboring chair.

“I had for teacher one of the best swordsmen in the West Indies.”

“Could I learn to do it too?”

Justin considered the small butterfly-coated figure. “It means hard work—such as you have never known. I do not think—”

The soft lips pouted. “Always am I thought a make-weight. My uncle deems me of no account, but were he to see me fence like that he might have another word for me. I am no beginner with the sword—I had lessoning in London before we came here. Wait—”

With that, Sir Francis, showing more energy than Justin had ever yet seen him betray, was gone. He reappeared a very short time later, somewhat red in the face from haste, his elaborate wig askew, a small sword in his hands. Wig and coat were thrown at the nearest chair and he came to the motions of the formal salute a little woodenly.

It was true he had been well grounded even if he was slow in his recoveries and stiff rather than graceful in style. From lazy good nature Justin aroused to interest. Then he got to his feet again and his blade met the shorter one, sweeping it easily out of the intended line of attack.

“See? That is not the proper thrust. With this counter your man would have your sword out of your hand. An inch lower now and come up with the point—soooo!” Blade illustrated and Sir Francis watched with eager eyes. Then he attempted the same moves.

“Aye, that is better. But speed is as important as ease in that one. Practice until you have the knowledge of it here.” He tapped the small wrist with his sword point. “Then speed will come too.”

“But the left hand,” persisted Sir Francis. “Can you teach me to use both hands? No other boy on the island can do that!”

“It will be harder than aught you have tried,” Justin warned him. “And Lady Hynde may have a word about the matter—”

“Not if I really wish it—if I cry and say that my head will hurt and that I feel the fever,” began the Baronet with a certain unholy relish.

“No swordsman I teach does that,” returned Justin coldly and fell to polishing with a bit of silk the fine Toledo blade he held. “Such tricks are those of a baby and I do not put good steel into the hands of a child.”

For a long minute it appeared as if Sir Francis was about to indulge in a bout of temper. But he looked at his sword and from that to the one Justin handled so deftly and thought better of it.

“I will have my uncle order you to lesson me.”

“That we shall discuss when Major Cocklyn decides. But I am not one to be forced to any business, Sir Francis. Ask your mother and your uncle and we shall see what then comes of it.”

Sir Francis paused in the dragging on of his modish coat. “Nothing will come of it if you ask my mother, she was loath to have me go to Master D'Arcot at home lest I get some scratch—and she will not leave me be lessoned by a pirate. If I do get my uncle to favor it—will you do so?”

“We shall see when that time comes,” countered Justin, suddenly tired of Sir Francis and his concerns. His back was aching again and he wished for nothing more than to have young Hynde disappear in a clap of thunder or some such disturbance and leave him to drowse at will in the long cane chair he had made his own. But the Baronet showed no sign of leaving. In fact, having re-donned wig and coat, he gave every appearance of one settling down for an interesting chat.

“What is it like to be a pirate?” was his opening shot.

“Deuced uncomfortable,” yawned Justin. “You eat poor, sleep worse, and have naught save hard knocks to show for your pains. Have no mind that piracy is amusing, Sir Francis.”

“But you take ships and find gold on them!”

“We take ships but precious little gold do we find. Look you, I had never slept upon a bed until your uncle brought me hither, nor eaten so well in my life. And remember, if the ships take us—we hang.”

“Aye. But mayhap that was because you were a common pirate—that was why your life was so hard. If one could be a captain—”

“Captains are but greater and blacker rogues. And some are devils out of hell. Have you not heard of L'Olonnis? And Henry Morgan was no better—'spite his King's Pardon and his deputy-governorship.”

“Sir Robert Scarlett was a pirate captain and now he is a governor and a great gentleman. Even my mother says that.”

“I have not had the pleasure of Sir Robert's acquaintance—but he was a rebel-convict and took the King's Pardon when he could. Some men can win free from their misfortunes—and they are stronger than the rest.”

“Were you a rebel-convict?”

Justin closed his eyes. “No. Do I look to be Sir Robert's age?”

“Then how came you to be a pirate? My uncle has said that you are gentle born. Were you pressed from some ship?”

“Do you ever do aught but talk?” countered his victim. “Have you no lessons to con?”

“Master Lewis has dismissed me for this day, he has a headache.”

“It is plain to see where he gained it. If you will be still now I'll tell you a story about an island.”

Stories were events of importance in Sir Francis’ life it seemed, for he sat as silent as an ocean oyster, to hear a very strange version of Master Shakespeare's Hamlet, edited and clipped for the young. Some of the characters assumed the skins of Tortugans with ease and the scene was a southern island rather than a coast castle of Denmark. When Justin had at last exhausted both his memory and his power of invention the Baronet sighed.

“I like that a sight better than Master Lewis’ tales— there is never any fighting in them. But this Hamlet— could he use both hands when he fought duels?”

“That I never asked him.”

“Now tell me about the pirates. I have been down to the jail to see them. There is one little man who just sits upon a stool in the corner and wags his head back and forth thus. And he will answer no questions. Tim Davis, the jailer, says that he must be French for he speaks French words sometimes.”

“That must be Gaspard Pye,” said Justin slowly. “But how did you get to see him? Surely Lady Hynde did not suffer you to—”

“Amos took me there when mother was busied in the still room with the new maid. Tell me about this Gaspard Pye—is he a pirate captain?”

“He was quartermaster of the Naughty Lass and the quartermaster ranks nigh to the Captain. But he is an unhappy man. He comes from Jersey, one of the Channel Isles and he was wrongfully pressed aboard a king's ship in James’ day.”

Sir Francis nodded wisely. “Before the Glorious Revolution, I know—”

“Aye. There he was treated so ill that his wits were ever after disordered and he hates all navy men very bitterly. Yet once he was an honest man and one of birth and standing. In his own way he is clever and he is held in high regard by his companions. So they took Pye—eh? Tell me, Sir Francis, did you see among these prisoners one Nat Creagh, a big hulking fellow lacking ears but with a bull's roaring voice and the will to use it often?”

Young Hynde shook his head. “He was not in the room with those Tim Davis showed me. Is he a leader too?”

“He is a man not good to cross, Sir Francis, and an enemy to me. But mayhap he was killed in the fighting.”

“Some of the pirates got away. Amos said that my uncle and Lieutenant Griffen were angered at that. It was the bungling of the militia which allowed them to escape.”

“How many won free?”

“My uncle doesn't know. But he was not able to find the captain or his mate afterwards and there may have been others.”

Cheap and Quittance then were not waiting in the jail for justice. And Creagh—what about Creagh? Justin stirred uneasily. He would give much to know the present abiding place of Nat Creagh.

“That's cannon—the harbor cannon! Listen!” Sir Francis was running toward the steps at the far end of the long veranda. A second dull boom brought Justin to his feet. Was Bridgetown being attacked for the second time?

“D'you think it's the French come?” screamed the younger boy. “Should we take our swords?”

But he still ran on towards the gate which gave on the lane. Through its iron work they could catch part sight of a ship dropping anchor below. It bore aloft the red ensign— very plain to see.

“That's the Royal Standard!” chattered Sir Francis. “That's the governor's own brig! He's come back to hang the pirates!”

There was a flurry in the town. A carriage drove past them down towards the wharves. And now a horseman spurred up the hill straight for the gate where the boys stood.

“Hi, Francis!” he called from the saddle and Justin recognized him as Lieutenant Griffen. “Is Major Cocklyn at home? Sir Robert's in the bay!”

Chapter Eight

HIS EXCELLENCY OF BARBADOS

IT WASN'T until Sir Robert had been two days ashore that Justin was summoned to meet His Excellency. But those two days had been ones of such activity on the island that the boy now looked forward to this ordeal with some apprehension. Lady Hynde might be the whirlwind in Cocklyn's house, but Scarlett was a hurricane in Bridgetown.

When the summons came he dressed himself carefully in the decent brown suit Cocklyn had found for him and tried with unaccustomed fingers to loop his borrowed steenkirk in the same devil-may-care loose folds which the Major's boasted. But in spite of all his best efforts his hair could be reduced only to partial order, looking as unkempt as a straw rick beside the smooth rolled curls of the periwigs he saw about him. He was glad that, having no claim to being a gentleman of the first fashion, he was not condemned to the heat and mustiness of one of those.

As he joined Cocklyn the soldier eyed him in some surprise. “Very good,” he observed after close inspection. “Even your Captain Cheap might be hard put to give name to you now. Speak up when Sir Robert addresses you, but be not forward. He is sometimes in a hasty temper and he is certainly not in a good humor now over this business of the Naughty Lass—deeming it sadly bungled—which it was —thanks to those dunderheads of militiamen! But don't be afraid—”

“I'm not.”

Cocklyn laughed at that vehement denial. “Strap me, but I believe you speak the truth! Well, you have yet to meet Sir Robert. And he is not a gentleman with whom one trifles. Come along now, it is close on the hour he appointed.”

They walked up the curve of the hill toward the government house. Sentries saluted Cocklyn at the gates and they were passed speedily through to follow a dazzling path of crushed white coral to the broad veranda of the long, low house.

Coming into the rooms darkened against the sun Justin blinked blindly for a moment, but when the gloom seemed less dense he stared about him eagerly. He had some dim imaginative picture of thrones and courts, of gold and scarlet, so that the elegant simplicity of these long rooms appeared very bare. This might be any planter's house save that sentries guarded the doors.

Major Cocklyn paused before one portal part way down the hall and motioned Justin impatiently to hurry, almost pushing his charge before him into a book-lined study where Master Firken sat at a desk high piled with papers, plying his pen in a sort of desperate haste.

“Oh—'tis you then, Major,” was the greeting he had for them. “Go in—go in. Mayhap you can have a brightening influence upon him—you or Master Blade here—if the boy is prepared to find his tongue!”

“It's bad then, Firken?”

The prim secretary cast his eyes to heaven, or at least to the ceiling of the room. “One of his worst moods. He had her picture uncovered this morning.”

Cocklyn lost some of his jaunty bearing. “Like that is it? Mayhap we'd better wait for a more propitious time—”

“No, he would be even worse if he found you had come and gone again. He is quiet—and deadly.”

Cocklyn squared his shoulders with the air of one about to face artillery and rapped at the closed door behind Firken's chair. There was a murmur from within which the Major seemed to interpret as a command to enter and, waving Justin to follow, he opened the door and walked through.

. . . under examination by a pair of uncommon eyes . . .

The room was dark, for the shutters were closed against the sunlight. In consequence, the air seemed lifeless and odorous of old books, candle grease and oiled leather. On a small table at the far end burned two tall candles, their light falling full upon the head and shoulders of the man seated there.

Justin gaped as widely as any village oaf at the fearsome Sir Robert. This quiet gentleman with the long, narrow head, the unsmiling mouth and half-closed eyes was no roarer, no lusty bully such as he had been expecting—no Creagh in a gentry’s fine skin. Rather he was another, if more worldly edition, of that meek Firken, a man more at ease with a book under his hand than with naked steel in his fist.

“You keep your time well, Cocklyn.”

The voice was crisp with a snap to it. It might not be a barrack’s yard bellow but it would have brought any lounger to full attention. Even the Major’s shoulders twitched as if he were prepared to stand to arms on that instant.

“I strove to do so,” Cocklyn returned. “This is the boy, Your Excellency.” He motioned Blade forward and Justin obeyed the summons a little unwillingly.

He found himself under examination by a pair of uncommon eyes, deep-set and dark, with no readable expression in their depths. In return he stared as intently back, seeing opposite him the long oval of a narrow face where strong bones lay close beneath an ivory skin drawn tight. Although the beard had been freshly shaven from cheek and chin it was still a dark shadow sharply defined. Sir Robert’s jaw was cleanly cut and square enough to spoil the regularity of his features, and his lips were very thin and firmly set together. In all it was a face from which all emotion had long since been exiled and Justin had the unpleasant feeling that he was being studied from behind a mask by someone quite different—by someone he didn’t think he would like should their acquaintance ripen.

“We shall each know the other again, I think,” commented the Governor. “So you are of that scum from Tortuga—”

Justin’s chin went up, finding in that tone a goad he did not choose to stand silent under. “I was of the crew of the Naughty Lass.”

“Jonathan Cheap was your master?”

“He was.”

“Hmm. Cocklyn tells me that you have sailed with him for some years—”

“At least fifteen, Your Excellency.”

“Fifteen! Faith now, would you have me believe that you were one of the Brethren from your cradle—?”

“My first memories were of Cheap’s ship, sir.”

“And you say that Cheap prated of your being some sort of a weapon in his hand?”

“So he told me, Your Excellency, upon several occasions.”

“Blade, Justin Blade,” Sir Robert repeated reflectively. “No—the name means naught—”

So Cocklyn had not seen fit to inform the Governor of his christening.

“How many men were aboard when Cheap sailed for Bridgetown?”

Justin shrugged. “I was but the cabin boy, sir. I have no idea.”

“Cabin boy, eh?” Those black eyes were fast upon the sword Justin wore with the ease of old custom. “Yet I am informed that you have sword tricks not seen hereabouts before. A fighting cabin boy. I’ll warrant you swung a boarding hanger with the rest of that filthy rabble when there was need!”

“Your Excellency!” Cocklyn cut across the other’s scornful comment. And at that the Governor showed white and even teeth in a smile which had no humor in it, being more like the snarl of a mastiff.

“No, Humphrey, I am not accusing your lamb of wolfishness—though doubtless his hands are as red as his fellows’. Mayhap even you do not know all about him. However, so high a value do I set upon him now that I think I shall keep him by me for the while. Since the rogue is out of employment I will seek to find some work for him. The Devil, as I was oft reminded in my youth, finds much for idlers to do.”

“I am a seaman—” began Justin eagerly.

“If you are not, you’re a fool!” snapped Sir Robert. “But do not think to find me minded to offer you command of a ship—if that is what lies in your head. There is a fine mess ashore here to be cleaned away before any of us put to sea again. And as a member of the crew of the Naughty Lass you can aid in that. Tell me—who were your officers? Speak up now!”

“Ask them their names,” flared Justin, ready tinder to the other’s spark. His dislike for the quiet gentleman was growing with every moment that they fronted each other. “I may have taken the Queen’s Pardon, but that does not make me a bearer of tales.” He was discovering, to his secret pride, that he had no fear of Scarlett. Because, though the Governor might be the tyrant Bridgetown named him, he lacked that strange blackness of spirit which was so much a part of Cheap in his evil moods. When it served his purpose, His Excellency might be hard on a man right enough, but he would not punish for the pleasure he took in breaking a victim.

And he was now in no wise aroused to anger by Justin’s hot reply. Rather did his dog smile lift his lip again. “This is a saucy rogue, Cocklyn, a cock who needs his spurs clipped for him. Who told you, sirrah, that I can be answered so?”

“No one. But neither did any man say that you show fondness for a sniveling swivel-tongue. Why should you hold me ready to swear my fellows into a rope collar at your wish? Some of them are forced men with no more liking for the trade than I have had.”

“So—you had no liking for the trade, my fine buck! That is interesting. Humphrey, I am beginning to think that you were right after all—there is something about this cub— But if you will not speak of the ship, you gallows’ meat, mayhap you will answer of Tortuga. Or do these fine scruples of yours extend to include that sink also?”

“Of the island,” Justin refused to be eyed down, “ask me what you will.”

“Then name me the Lords who sit there in council now.”

“There be Marteens, the Dutchman, and Lechmere, Buck of the Swift Arrow, Camperdown, and Quinby, and Cheap—”

“Cheap? Among the Lords? Strike me, Tortuga has fallen on evil days! To put that ruffler among their Lords argues woolly wits among the Brethren. In the old days he would not have dared to rise above the lower table in any tavern. Cheap among the Lords!

“Now Marteens is a sober fellow and looses his great hate only against the Dons, whom he has good cause to belabor. And Lechmere is a drunken swine who will end well pickled by the rum he pours down his camel’s throat. Buck— Buck—he is new to the Main, since I have not heard of him. What manner of man is Buck?”

“He sails from the northern colonies, sir. Some say that he was a pressed man who took to the trade and throve. He keeps much to himself when ashore and there is little known of him.”

“Camperdown, now,” continued Sir Robert musingly. “Aye, he was mate to Eli White and has wits of a sort. And Black Quinby—but he was always speaking of trying the Red Sea Trade. I marvel that he still haunts Tortuga.”

“Captain Quinby has had ill luck for two seasons now. And he finds it hard nowadays to get him a crew. They have begun to whisper that he is cursed.”

“If that is being said of him it would be well for Quinby to quit the sea before it swallows him. So those are the mighty ‘Lords,’ the great Captains of the Brethren this year. And a sorry lot they are. Now in the old days—Lud, then we had men for ‘Lords’ and the whole Main was open for our plucking!”

Justin remembered suddenly that this same governor had once been one of the Lords who ruled the motley gathering in the buccaneer colony.

“When you sailed how many of these captains lay in port?”

“Lechmere and Quinby only. Buck was careening in the cays—of the others there was no report.”

Scarlett nodded. “Good enough. Marteens, I am sure, will be beating up the inner gulf. In his stubborn hunting down of the Spanish he serves our purpose too and we shall not trouble him as long as we fight a common foe. Camper-down and Cheap—those two—”

“Cheap may be dead,” Justin ventured. “He could not swim.”

“Jonathan Cheap could not swim? Lord, boy, that man was a shark in the water. I have seen him win five pieces of eight at a time with his underseas tricks!”

Justin stared and Sir Robert was quick to catch his amazement.

“What’s this mystery? Why are you so sure Cheap could not swim? I, myself, have seen him diving in the cays.”

“Ever since I have known him, sir, he has feared the sea. There is a tale among the men that he was cursed, that a witch-woman once told him that he came out of the sea and into it he would go when his death came. And I think that he believes that.”

“Hmm. Odd, Cheap never paid heed to curses in the old days. Well, he came out of the sea right enough—and mayhap he has gone into it for good and all. But that I doubt very much. When Jonathan Cheap departs this life he will do it in such a wise as men shall long remember him. No, Captain Cheap is not dead. And I for one am glad—glad—glad of that!” He pulled to pieces with sudden vicious tweaks the quill he had taken up.

“Tell me,” Justin dared to ask his own question, “was one Nat Creagh taken in the attack on Bridgetown?”

“Creagh—Creagh?” Scarlett repeated the name vaguely, as if his mind was well occupied by a more pressing problem.

“Creagh! Aye, that was the brute Cheap turned his victims over to for questioning,” Cocklyn identified the name. “No, he is not among those in jail. But many were killed and buried the same day—he may lie with them.”

“Listen, boy,” Sir Robert came out of his private maze and leaned forward in his chair, his attention all for Justin. “When you were in Tortuga did you ever hear aught of a ship named the Maid of Cathay?”

“Brig, sloop, privateer—?”

“Sloop—but a large one.” Sir Robert was eager behind his calm mask, even Justin could see that. “She had a carven Chinese princess for a figurehead, a fanciful thing painted brightly—”

The boy shook his head. “I never heard of such—”

“No man ever spoke of her?”

“None that I heard.”

Sir Robert was back behind his inner gates again, closed off from the room and their world. “It is my will that you remain here, Master Blade, under my own eye. You may now be excused. Report to Master Firken and he will show you your quarters.”

Smarting at such highhanded disposal of his person Justin was forced to leave the room. Little as he knew the governor he could see it would avail him nothing to set his will against Scarlett’s. And he could also understand that a recently pardoned pirate could complain of little should he wish to remain out of jail.

So he obediently reported to Firken and was shown a small room at the far end of the right wing. It was not bare enough for a servant’s quarters, but neither was it one which might be offered to an important guest. After the secretary left he stood by the window and wondered just what he was going to do with his time since he had not even Sir Francis to plague him.

But Sir Francis Hynde was not done with him, as he speedily discovered. For, seeing no reason why he should sit within doors and stare at the wall, Justin stepped out into the garden of the government house and was pounced upon from behind a bush by the ubiquitous Baronet. Sir Francis was smiling broadly with the air of one who has accomlished some fine and worthy act.

“How do you like Sir Robert?” he demanded. “Is he not a fine gentleman? Even my mother says that he is like one of the Queen’s lords. How do you like living here at the palace? Was it not kind of me to bring you into such favor with Sir Robert?”

Out of that flood of questions Justin seized upon the last and upon Sir Francis’ shoulder at the same time.

“See here”—he held young Hynde with a firm hand— “what do you mean—you brought me to favor with His Excellency?”

“I am friends with Sir Robert,” returned the younger boy proudly. “He speaks to me as if I were a man and not a troublesome child—such as my uncle declares me to be. So do I come here to see him. And I showed him all you did teach me of the sword and answered all his questions about you because he was greatly surprised that my uncle did harbor a pirate off the Naughty Lass. Though I told him, truly I did, at once, that you were no longer a pirate but had taken the Queen’s Pardon. And he said that you must be a young man of parts to have won such champions to your cause and that he must have you up that he could look upon the eighth wonder of the world—Sir Robert often speaks in that way. But he is much interested in you. And he is very kind—”

“Kind?” Justin grinned. He would not have applied that adjective to the waspish gentleman he had left a bare quarter hour before.

“Aye. And he tells good stories—about the spouting whales and queer fish that live in the sea and the little forgotten islands where no men, but only monkeys and birds, live. He knows many stories. Now will you not agree that it was vastly kind in me to introduce you to Sir Robert?”

“It was. Vastly kind. Only have you not done yourself a disservice? We shall no longer have the fencing lessons—”

“Oh, but we shall! He promised me that you would lesson me. And he will speak to my mother so that I can come here with Amos. If my mother is asked by the Governor she will agree. And Sir Robert himself wishes to see you use the sword with either hand—he told me so!”

Justin sighed. Sir Francis was like quicksilver—there seemed to be no way of controlling his bubbling. He could foresee painful hours ahead.

“Master Lewis is ill of the fever and I have no tutor, so my mother will wish me occupied. Luck is with us—you’ll see.”

“I see that luck is with you, Sir Francis.”

“Come on.” The boy tugged at his coat sleeve. “Let me show you the garden. It has many marvels. Let us visit the birds.”

Hastened along by the impetuous Baronet, Justin came at last to a place where strongly woven netting enclosed trees and bushes for a large space. Francis dragged his passive captive over to a flap in the net and, wriggling through, urged Justin to follow him. Inside were birds—birds which were living jewels of color. Some Justin recognized as from the islands and the Spanish-held mainland, others he had never seen before.

“See,” Francis cried happily, “they know me! Sir Robert allows me to feed them. There—there goes General Churchill—that great red one!”

“Does Sir Robert care so much for birds?” Justin ducked to avoid the swoop of the General coming to investigate the younger boy’s outheld hands.

“His lady did. He had this made for her and then she never saw it. But he keeps it because she would have liked it.”

“Why did she never see it?”

“She died. It was a long time ago, just after Sir Robert became governor. See that strange white one? The slaves say that it is her ghost.”

Justin watched the white bird out of sight while Sir Francis produced a packet of seed and fed the Governor’s exotic poultry.

Chapter Nine

“AN’ THAR WOS FLOWERS—”

IF JUSTIN had thought that he was to be under the eye of His Excellency he had flattered himself, for during the rest of the week he saw no one save Master Firken and Francis, both of whom worked him hard enough. Young Hynde appeared each morning for a fencing lesson, always accompanied by a stout, middle-aged man-servant who watched the lessons with wary disapproval plainly written on his face—as if he expected to see his charge murdered before his gooseberry eyes. In fact Justin suspected that Amos carried concealed about his portly person a pistol with which to finish off the instructor should the pupil be harmed.

But in teaching Francis, Blade was winning back his own supple ease and in addition he came to take pride in his work. For there was no denying that his pupil was determined to excel at this new art. Red-faced and puffing, the younger boy practiced eagerly and would have spent the whole morning at hard labor had his instructor not begged off after a reasonable lesson hour.

“Enough is enough.” Justin leaned upon a table to catch his breath. “It is not wise to wear oneself out in this heat— we who are born to the islands know that. Wipe your face, Francis. No, don’t drink all of that—curb your thirst while you are so heated—”

Amos took the glass of lime juice and water out of his small master’s hand.

“Ye’re a knowable one, master,” he observed to Justin. “No, ’e ’as th’ right o’ it, Sir Francis. No more o’ th’ juice while ye be so ’eated-loike. Mind ye be careful now or ye don’t go wi’ Amos this afternoon—”

Sir Francis stopped whining in mid-breath. “But you promised, Amos, you truly promised I could go—”

“Go where?” asked Justin idly.

“To see Danby Johns sit in the stocks. He needs must sit there for four hours each market day and the town boys pelt him with dead fish and such. It is a great sight— ”

“No doubt,” commented Justin dryly as he sheathed his sword. “And for what great sin must this Johns so suffer?”

Sir Francis snickered. “He is cracked and a lack-wit. He came to Master Shrimpton with a story of buried treasure and he was so good at telling it that Master Shrimpton did fit out a sloop and go a-voyaging after it. But there was no treasure and now Master Shrimpton has had Danby jailed because he cannot give back the money lent him before they sailed. Danby Johns spoke out ill in court so now each market day he sits in the stocks to be a warning against such trifling with the law.”

Justin tied his neckcloth and reached for his coat. “I think I am minded to visit this Danby Johns with you. I take it that Lady Hynde knows nothing of this interesting pursuit?” Across Sir Francis’ be-wigged head Blade looked to Amos questioningly.

The man shrugged and turned away indifferently, as if what Justin might think of his master’s activities was of little importance. Plainly keeping Sir Francis out of mischief was so formidable a task that Amos long ago had worked out his own methods of handling the boy. Seemingly seeing rogues receiving lawful punishment was considered a respectable sort of entertainment.

“Mother knows that I am safe with Amos; she never asks where we go. Will you truly come with us, Justin? And may we walk by Captain Jephson’s house?”

“Why?”

Sir Francis was making a mighty business of pulling on his coat. It was Amos who answered for him.

“That be th’ shorter way, Master Blade. Sir Francis, ye ’ave not fed th’ birds today an’ ’is Excellency depends upon ye t’ do that. Off now while Master Blade makes ready t’ go—”

When the boy was out of sight Amos spoke to Justin. “Ye’re right kind t’ th’ younglin’, master,” he said hesitatingly. “Ye ’ave more patience wi’ ’im than some others I can put name t’. ’Course, I know ’e’s no proper boy like the’ Major would ’ave about ’im—’e’s too pert wi’ ’is tongue an’ too missish in ’is ways. But, look ye, Master Blade, ’e’s been always wi’ ’is elders an’ ’e ’ad no father who was a proper father t’ ’im. Cared only for my lady’s money, Sir Frederik did, and when that was gone—run through his fingers over th’ gamin’ table—’e blew ’is brains out. Then my lady took Sir Francis an’ sort o’ shut ’im off as it were—said ’e must learn to be a great gentleman —told ’im that ’is father was one before ’im. She tried to forget all th’ bad that way, ye see. Things was ’ard so she tried to make them better in ’er mind loike—then she sort o’ got t’ believein’ that it was really true.

“But when th’ Major ’ad ’er an’ Sir Francis out from England ’e was mightily disappointed in th’ lad. ’E took th’ boy shootin’ once an’ came ’ome mad as Satan because o’ ’ow unhandy Sir Francis was. Though th’ Major’s a mild man most times ’e ’as a temper right enough. Then Sir Francis would speak up t’ ’im in such a way as no man like th’ Major will stand an’ my lady did not correct ’im for it—because she sees nothin’ wrong in aught ’e does.

“Now ye, master, well, ye’re like Sir Robert . . . Sir Francis has taken an interest in ye as it were. An’ now ’e’s been braggin’ t’ some o’ th’ town boys as ’ow ye are a pirate an’ ’e knows ye. Captain Jephson’s son—’e’s called names after Sir Francis an’ laughed at ’im. But if ye were to walk wi’ Sir Francis by th’ Captain’s ’ouse—well, maybe tomorrow then young Master Ralph won’t be so free wi’ ’is tongue—”

“So I’m a great man of sorts?” Justin laughed. “All right, Amos, we shall most assuredly walk by Captain Jephson’s house. But do not think that I shall continue to dry nurse Sir Francis. He needs a firm hand; that you know as well as I.”

The serving man nodded. “Aye, master. But there be too much good in ’im not t’ wish there was more. ’Ere, master, let me ’old that for ye.”

Almost eagerly he picked up Justin’s coat and helped slip it over the boy’s still tender shoulders.

After Tortuga the streets of Bridgetown seemed marvels of cleanliness and order, although the closer one came to the sea the more varied and pungent were the odors to be fought. Justin also found himself the focus of no little attention and he was glad that his coat was whole and that he was otherwise clad as became one of modest standing in the community. A man with a decent suit to his back could meet stares coolly and pretend that he did not hear comments. But the ordeal set him to wondering if he would ever be at home in Bridgetown.

They heard the sounds of the raree show by the market place long before they turned into the open square. Catcalls and the thin screeching of small boys made a din to drown out anything the wizened little man in the tight clamp of the stocks might be trying to say in his own defense.

The filthy refuse of the whole market was plastered across the stock boards, the man’s narrow shoulders, and his bruised face, as he sat with hanging head, his bearded lips mumbling words only he could hear.

As soon as they were within range Sir Francis snatched a decayed orange from a fruit stall, but as he drew back his arm to hurl it, Justin’s fingers clamped about his wrist and forced him to drop his smelly ammunition. The younger boy struggled furiously to pull free.

“Let me go—let me go, you—you pirate rogue!” his voice was a bat squeak of rage.

“When you act as becomes a gentleman.”

“Let me go!” Sir Francis’ lips drew back and for one disgusted moment Justin thought that his captive was going to use his teeth to gain his freedom. He administered a shake which brought young Hynde’s wig down over his eyes.

“Would you behave as the scum of the town? What if you sat there so—would you relish rotten fruit in your face?”

Francis’ eyes went large with honest surprise. “But I would not be put in the stocks,” he countered. “I am a gentleman—and that is for common rogues.”

“And commoner ones do the pelting. If you are a gentleman—act as one. Do you ever see your uncle or Sir Robert about such business? When you are with me I am answerable for your conduct—and you will not be a street brat! Understand?”

For the first time since he had known Sir Francis the boy was subdued. He straightened his wig, put on the broad-brimmed hat which had fallen off and stayed close to the side of his companion.

“Flowers fer Danby—gi’ ’im flowers.” Someone close to the stocks shouted and a mass of wet vegetation was flung into Johns’ face, the act being greeted by a joyous roar from the crowd.

“Thar be yer flowers, Danby. See ye th’ gold yet?”

Justin, mystified, turned to Amos for enlightenment “What is this about flowers?”

“It be this way, Master Blade. This Johns did tell Shrimpton that th’ buried gold ’ad been well marked for those who came after. But when they reached th’ cay ’e was confused like. It seems they ’ad planted flowers t’ mark th’ spot an’ those ’ad thrived an’ spread until no man could tell where they was first planted. So, though ’e an’ Shrimpton stayed some weeks an’ dug in likely spots they never found no treasure. An’ it turned John’s wits so now all ’e talks o’ is th’ flowers.”

“Poor devil. How much does he owe this Shrimpton?”

“A matter o’ five shillin’ or so. But ’e ’asn’t a copper t’ ’is name an’ who will put up for ’im—cracked ’ead an’ lack-wit that ’e is? ’E’ll rot in jail less th’ sun lays ’im low some market day.”

“This Shrimpton must be a hard man.”

“Well, ’e be not one t’ be known for an open purse. ’E is from th’ northern colonies, a trader. An’ ’e was made th’ butt o’ much laughter among th’ gentlemen—so does ’e now ’ave a ’ot feelin’ over th’ matter.”

“Five shillings.” But Justin did not put hand to pocket as he would have liked to do. He had never owned a purse in his life, nor did he have any more now than Danby Johns—except his freedom. Sir Francis tugged at him.

“They come to take Johns back to jail again. Prithee, let us go behind them and look upon the pirates once more.”

But to see his fellows from the Naughty Lass was the last thing Justin wished. And he was firm in turning back up the hill, the reluctant Sir Francis still with him. But when the Baronet discovered that a show of black sullens made no impression on the older boy, he set about finding some more subtle kind of devilment.

“Will you be there to testify at the pirates’ trial?” he asked innocently. “I heard Uncle Humphrey say that you would—”

However, Justin refused to rise to the bait. “We shall see when the time comes.”

“I would like to testify in court,” continued the irrepressible Francis. “To have everyone listen to me while I told of the many wicked sins of pirates—that would be fine—”

“Aye. But I hardly think you will ever be called upon to do so.”

Sir Francis gave a little skip. “Some day I shall—you will see. I shall stand in court and testify and then shall my uncle be greatly surprised and all these stupid islanders shall say that I am of some account after all. You shall see, you and Amos, when you stand and listen to me!”

“Mayhap,” returned Justin absently. “Stranger things than that have happened in this world. Look you now, Francis— surely it is time for you to be returning home. Lady Hynde will be thinking you lost.”

“She will believe me at the palace and she likes to have me go there. Other town boys are not invited. But Sir Robert knows that a Hynde is not like these colonials—”

“Now you are being tiresome again.” Justin was fast reaching the end of all patience. “Run along with you. Amos, see that he goes straight home.”

Justin thought that he would have to face some teasing and whining which was the usual result of dismissing his charge, but Francis went off with Amos without further complaint and Blade walked more briskly on alone. Perversely, now that Hynde was gone, he missed his chatter and the garden of the palace, when he gained it, seemed rather empty. He dawdled on his way to the house, having little desire for the rest of the day’s program—a cheerless afternoon to be spent squirming under the probing of Master Firken who had been instructed by the Governor to discover the full extent of Justin’s lack of education. This project delighted the secretary who entered into it with a good will which Justin found smacked of the zeal of the Inquisition and which he at no time enjoyed.

But Master Blade was not to spend the afternoon so tamely. Instead, just within the door, he was pounced upon by a worried Firken and hurried to Sir Robert’s own study. He gathered from the secretary’s reproaches that he had been guilty of the awful sin of keeping His Excellency waiting.

“So here you are at last,” was his greeting. “And a long time about it you were. May I inquire as to where you managed to conceal yourself so well that half my staff could not find you until now?”

“I was in the town with Sir Francis, Your Excellency.”

“And what took you there?”

“Sir Francis wished to see a certain Johns in the stocks.”

Sir Robert nodded. “I might have guessed. That young rogue has a taste for such amusements. He was here for his lesson this morning?”

“Aye, sir.”

“How does he shape?”

“He has been carefully taught—but he wishes to learn more than the beginner has knowledge of.”

Justin was treated to a flash of Sir Robert’s wolf grin. “It is always good for any man to increase his store of knowledge. Which leads me to this most complete report from Master Firken concerning your own attainments.” He picked up a sheet of paper to consult from time to time. “It appears that you can read your mother tongue with some facility, that you are able to write—and not too crudely. But for the rest—you are vastly ignorant of all the most common style of living—”

Justin’s lips pressed tight at the flick of contempt in the Governor’s emotionless appraisal of his education.

“On the other side of the ledger—for your age and reach, you are one of the finest swordsmen I have ever seen.”

At Justin’s startled face Sir Robert laughed.

“Oh, aye, did you think that I would allow you to lesson Francis without judging you? Who was your master?”

“Pym Snelgrave. He was a major of horse under Churchill until he joined Sir John Fenwick in Berwick’s revolt. Now he teaches the sword to those who wish to learn—in Tortuga. It was he who taught me books also.”

“Snelgrave,” repeated Sir Robert as if to fix the name in his memory. “He seems a man of many accomplishments. Did he teach you that matter of using either hand also?”

“Aye. He lost his right hand in the wars, and fences with his left. So it is his argument that all men should learn to do likewise lest they have his misfortune and find themselves helpless.”

“Something of a philosopher, this Snelgrave. Does he make a living teaching his tricks to the bully boys of Tortuga? Such niceties would be lost on heads as thick as most of theirs.”

“He manages to scrape along after a fashion. Some of the captains come to him for instruction—”

“But he has not joined any crew?”

“No. He swears that he hates the sea, Your Excellency. The truth is that on the water his stomach rebels.”

“There I can feel with him—seeing that in storms I am apt to share the same discomfort. So much for Snelgrave —since it is your affairs with which I must now be troubled—”

Justin did not venture to reply to that in spite of Sir Robert’s short pause.

“Were you some years older, you could set up as a fencing master and so make your way in the world. But few of our planters would go to a boy for their sword schooling. And you are no plantation hand—I am certain of that. So what are we to do with you, Master Blade?”

“I am a seaman, Your Excellency. And many ships putting into port here lack a man for their crews. I can find a berth aboard such a one easily enough.”

“No doubt, no doubt.” Sir Robert had fallen to pleating the edge of the paper upon which Firken had listed the boy’s schooling. “But there is no need for hurry. Major Cocklyn has made a suggestion which seems good. Master Lewis who has been tutor and companion to Sir Francis since before the Hyndes left England finds that this climate is breaking his health. He wishes to return home and that speedily. In the meantime young Hynde will be left to Amos and Cocklyn thinks that, while he is careful enough of the boy, he panders too much to his taste for just such sights as you attended today. So his uncle wants healthy sports brought to his attention—”

“And Lady Hynde wishes?” Justin was afraid of where this might be leading.

“Lady Hynde, too, is finding the climate trying to her health and nerves. She has agreed to give over management of her son to Cocklyn. And since the boy shows an unusual liking for you his uncle would like you to play the friend and companion to him. You could establish an influence which might bring him out of his more trying ways. Cocklyn would be more grateful than you can guess and you will be paid what Master Lewis has received.”

“And if I do not choose to play dry nurse to Sir Francis?”

“Then you shall find it difficult to secure a berth aboard any ship in this harbor. Reformed pirates are held suspect by honest captains.”

“You leave me no choice—” flared Justin.

“Do you think I intended to?” returned the Governor crisply. From the drawer of the table he took a netted purse and tossed it toward Blade.

“Your first quarter’s wages. Spend them wisely.”

Silver gleamed up from the bag. Justin counted out some coins and put them down before Sir Robert.

“And these?” Scarlett stirred the pieces with a long forefinger.

“You’ve a man in jail I have a fancy to have out— Danby Johns.”

“Why this solicitude for that crack-crown?”

Justin shrugged. “I don’t know. Say because I am squeamish and don’t care for your market place shows. Put any name to it you wish.”

“D’you know”—Sir Robert made of the shilling pieces an even pile—“I believe, Blade, you are going to leave your mark on Bridgetown.”

Chapter Ten

SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT

GOODE SIR:

If it please yr. Excellency I doe—”

But there the quill paused because the writer knew that what he wished to say was not going to please “yr. Excellency” at all. Justin pushed back his heavy hair with an impatient hand, balled the paper into an untidy bit which was dropped to join others on the floor, and sat staring into the candle flame until all he could see was a red and yellow curtain. All his evening’s excercise in composition was of no value at all.

For some reason, known only to himself as yet, Sir Robert Scarlett wished to keep him, Justin Blade, close under his eye so he had planned this farce of watching over Francis Hynde. For a farce it was, since Amos hardly allowed the younger boy to be alone with his supposed instructor these past two days. On the other hand the Queen’s Pardon would avail an ex-pirate nothing should the Governor change his mind. If his captive rebelled, it might be to end as a prisoner with Pye and the others, with naught to look forward to but a hempen neckcloth.

Justin rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and got up to go to the window where there might even be a breeze this stifling night. Now that his back was whole again he had no reason to lie so close. Let him out and be about his own concerns—which were none of Sir Robert’s. He had no need to be sheltered as if he were the Hynde heir.

Trees and bushes hid the wall which cut the palace grounds away from the town, but there was a night wind rising at last. And with the puffs of it in his heated face he knew that he must get out of this room where the walls pressed in upon him. He fancied that he smelled the salt of the sea and the stale wharf scent of the lower town. That decided him. It was easy to pull off the white shirt which could be sighted in the dark and drag his dark coat back over his bare shoulders. Regretfully he left his sword; climbing walls with several feet of steel at one’s belt was not brisk work for night time. Instead he borrowed that poniard which Master Ferkin kept to pry up letter seals. It was none too choice a weapon but it would serve.

Shoes and stockings followed his shirt into discard and the figure which finally dropped over the window sill and crept down the governor’s garden was no better clad than the bumboat half-breeds who lounged around the harbor.

To get over the wall was something of a scramble but he made it without arousing the guard and dropped into a dirty lane, feeling free for the first time since he had left the cliffs of Tortuga. He walked boldly down the hill then, bound for the water front which savored of the only life he had ever known.

Bridgetown seemed a sober, law-abiding place. There were few men abroad in her short streets and lanes, and those few paid him no heed. He cut carefully around the jail, having no wish to be sighted lurking near there. Then he found what he had been searching for—the harbor road.

It was like any harbor and wharfland in the Indies, the smells powerful. But to him the stench of dead fish and raw sugar, tar and filthy water was good enough. He actually stood for a long moment and sniffed it in, thinking that life in the governor’s fine house was only a dream—this was reality. To have a swinging deck under his feet once more and stars to steer by above the main—that was what he wanted most.

“Git out wi’ ye—ye’ drunken worm!”

A square of yellow light made a gaping mouth in a black hulk of building and through the light was ejected a stumbling figure to sprawl forward on the cobbles and lie there, sobbing quietly. The mouth slammed shut and only the sobbing guided Justin.

“It wos true—I tell ye, maties,” the man mumbled. “Thar wos flowers mind ye, red an’ white flowers an’ they wos a-growin’ all over. It wos true!” His voice was weakly stubborn in its monotonous repetition.

Justin dropped down on an upended barrel near by.

“Right you are, mate. There were flowers—”

The voice stopped as if a hand had been clapped across the fellow’s lips. There was a full moment of silence as a shadowy outline pulled itself up to stand unsteadily in the middle of the thoroughfare.

“Who be ye? Who, I say! Come out be ye ’onest man!”

“Oh, I’m honest right enough. I have Her Majesty’s own word to prove it.” Justin found himself enjoying this encounter. “My name is Blade.”

The wavering figure faced him squarely, shoulders hunched a little as if that would help him to see more fully through the gloom.

“Blade? I know no Blade—”

“But I know you, Danby Johns. So you are free from jail?”

“Aye.” There was a sort of pitiful pride in the answer. “Th’ Governor, ’e ’ad me out. ’E knew I wos ’onest, ’e did! An’ ’e’ll not be th’ loser fer it. I knows o’ treasure, mark ye, mate. I knows whar be treasure—”

“I’m not Master Shrimpton, Johns, to be cozened with your tales. Look ye for a simple wit if you would tell that story.”

“Shrimpton!” Johns spat audibly. “ ’E be a ’ard man, be Marster Shrimpton. Thar be those who’ll deal wi’ ’im right enough—those from th’ sea—”

Justin froze. That expression “from the sea” was the catch word of the Brethren when hailed by any ship marked down by them for prey.

“Who in Bridgetown is ‘from the sea,’ Danby Johns?” he asked as casually as he could. But the fellow turned shy at such questioning.

“Danby Johns be no crack-crown,” he twittered. “ ’E knows more’n men think, Danby Johns does. ’E listens, mark ye, when others talk an’ ’e can tell tales iffen ’e would —’e can!”

Justin slid off the barrel. “I’m sure you can, Johns. What say you now to a noggin of the right stuff—a noggin all for your own?”

“Prime, matey, jus’ prime! But I ain’t got nary a penny t’ pay—”

“Oh, but I have, Johns. Let’s make us a good night of it.”

“Not thar—” Even in the dark it was easy to see the sharp gesture Johns made toward the door he had just been booted through. “At th’ ’Arp an’ Bottle belike.” There was a note of cunning in his voice as if he were trying to tempt this man who said he had money to spend to a better tavern than Johns could hope to enter alone.

“The Harp and Bottle it is. Which way, mate?”

“Don’t ye know th’ Harp?” Johns demanded suspiciously. “Whar be ye from that ye don’t know th’ Harp?”

“I’m new to this island, mate. You needs must show me the Harp.”

“Be ye one o’ them?” Johns pulled back from Justin’s hand as if it were a branding iron.

“ ‘One of them’? What mean you, mate? I’m off a Dutch brig. Will you have a noggin with me or no?” Justin pretended heat. Now more than ever he was determined to have out of Johns the root of this mystery—even if it was only a crazy dream of the old man’s rum-preserved mind.

“No offense, no offense, matey,” Johns sputtered hastily. “Turn ye’ere and th’ Harp be just under that lantern thar—”

The Harp and Bottle was just what Justin had expected it would be—a waterside boozing den, with a sickening stench about it to catch at a man’s throat and pull at his stomach when he shouldered his way in, and bad rum to offer for the highest price the slattern who ran the place dared to ask. She opened her mouth wide to screech at Johns when her pig-eyes caught sight of him, but she also closed it again with a snap when she saw the glint of the silver piece between Justin’s fingers.

Blade steered his companion across the room to two stools by a stained table deep scarred by knives and thick with grease. A dirty-faced half-breed with a rag of towel tied about his naked middle to proclaim his office slapped down two leathern jacks before them with force enough to send even the scant measure of rum served slopping over their rims. Johns seized his at once and all but his watery blue eyes was hid behind it. Justin only tasted the mixture to find it just as vile as he thought it would be. He held and turned the jack in his hand but he did not drink again.

“How was that, mate?”

Johns set down the empty jack with a sigh. “Prime, jus’ prime. I ain’t tasted that since afore I sailed wi’ Marster Shrimpton. Ye be interested in treasure, marster?”

Justin grinned. “Who isn’t, Johns? But they say that your treasure is lost and will never be found.”

“Lies! Liars, all o’ ’em! I could ’ave found it right enough ’ad ’e given me the’ time. But ’e wos an impatient man— Marster Shrimpton wos.” Johns sat gazing wistfully into the depths of the empty jack until Justin took the hint and clicked his fingers at the half-breed who came quickly enough when he saw the ready coin.

“Danby Johns”—Justin waited until the old man set down his rum, only half consumed this time—“you’re a knowledgeable man, Danby Johns.”

The faded eyes half closed in sly agreement as Johns nodded.

“Aye. Thar ain’t much about th’ ’arbors as I don’t know—”

“So they say, Johns. Yet Master Shrimpton had you set in prison—”

The long head stopped nodding and there appeared a vindictive wrinkle between the pale eyes.

“Aye. An’ sorry will ’e be fer that! Thar be those wot’ll be watchin’ fer Marster Shrimpton an’ ’is fine brig!”

“Friends of yours belike, Johns?”

Johns seemed to shrivel in his seat and with one gulp sent the rest of the rum down his corded throat.

“No friends t’ me,” he croaked. “They be from th’ sea—” He glanced over his bent shoulder but no one seemed interested in him. “Not all pirates be in jail. I ’ave seed ’em asittin’ right in this very room betimes, adrinkin’ rum jus’ loike ye an’ I be. Mighty free ’anded wi’ the’ shillin’s they be too. Mighty foine gentlemen—”

“How long has it been since you have seen them, Danby?”

“ ’Ow long? Oh, a long, long time, marster.” He kept his eyes on the table top as he answered. “A grand long time it war. Thank ye fer th’ treat, marster. It wos right ’andsome o’ ye—” He got to his feet before Justin could move and made determinedly for the door.

The boy had to linger to pay their score and when he was free to go the lane outside was empty. Danby Johns had vanished into the night itself.

“War ye alookin’ fer somebody, marster?” The half-breed waiter stood just within the door.

“Aye. Johns? He did not wait—”

“Danby Johns? Ye’ll find ’im at that ’ole o’ ’issen—up Petticoat Lane—thataway. ’E’s gone t’ sleep it off. Danby ’as no ’ead fer strong drink, ’e ain’t.”

Petticoat Lane was a narrow, evil-smelling cut between blank walls with puddles of slime slopping its length. Having twice trod in such, to his disgust, Justin leaned against one of the walls and swore softly. If he had the wit of a goony bird, he thought, he would hie himself back to the palace, but some stubborn streak kept him to the business in hand. Danby Johns’ fine gentlemen pirates must be investigated—especially since they were supposed to take their ease in the very back yard—as it were—of the greatest pirate hunter on the Main. Either Danby Johns was lying— which Justin did not believe—or there were queer things lying beneath the sleepy shell of Bridgetown.

So the boy kept on until he came to a blank warehouse wall set clean across his path. He smacked his hand against it. This was the end of Petticoat Lane and yet there had been no openings in the walls, no doorways into which Johns might have gone. Mystified, he turned and so caught sight of the shadow which lay within the embrace of a creeper curtaining the wall on the other side of the alley. It was an archway through which one passed into a covered walk between two buildings. Justin went slowly, one hand sliding along the rough surface of the wall at his left. His right hand rested on the hilt of the knife in his sash. The passage led straight through to another and better traveled street, but before it gave upon that Justin’s hand was on the worn wood of an old door. He felt for the latch cord, but it was gone, pulled inside to guard the inmates against intrusion, and to his push there was the firm resistance of a barred door. If this was Danby Johns’ home he took a timid man’s precautions against night prowlers. There was nothing for Justin to do now but return home.

Back up the hill he trudged, once making a swift detour to avoid the watch which Sir Robert had established for the patrolling of the capital. It was easy enough after that to find the wall where he had come over, but, as he speedily discovered, it was not so easy to go back.

On the garden side he had had some assistance from a tree. On this side not even a bush existed to give him a leg up. He considered the situation, beginning to realize how much of a fool he had been to come out without taking thought of the return journey. His only hope was the sash which belted him.

He made a bundle of his coat and tossed it over the wall where, unless his memory of the place was faulty, he could remember no bush or tree to impede its fall to the turf. Then it was but a moment’s work to loop a running noose in the sash and, weighted with the poniard, throw it at a tree limb overhanging the wall.

With that to steady him he was able to squirm up and over, the trick being easy for one used to wild climbs in unsteady rigging. Sash loosed and in his hand, his coat flung over his shoulders, he started towards the dark bulk of the house. It must be late indeed for even the candles in the governor’s chambers were out and Sir Robert was notoriously a late sitter.

Justin scuttled across the garden, keeping to the shadows and trying to avoid those open glades which held the choicest of the flower beds. He was glad that he was well away from the strange bird cage Francis had shown him. Even as he was congratulating himself on escaping that pitfall a piercing shriek brought him into the center of a lily bed.

And that shriek was only the opening voice in a chorus of cries—it was the birds! Something had disturbed them and it would be only a matter of seconds before the sentries would call out the guard. He must reach the house before then!

A sprint straight across the open of a Dutch bulb bed was the only answer and he made it, expecting with every leap to be challenged or even shot at by some nervous sentry. The birds weren’t quieting any—in fact their noise was growing. Someone had just lit a candle in the second of the windows facing him.

Justin slammed himself across the window sill of his own room with force enough to leave him gasping. But even as he struggled to gain a full breath again, his hands tore at his breeches. An honest man would be aroused by the clamor from his bed and he would not be wearing breeches in bed!

He kicked his clothes under the bed and snatching up the nearest bit of cloth—one of his best neckerchiefs as he discovered later—he wiped the traces of his night’s journeying from his feet. Then he just had time to rumple the bed before he drew on the light banyan hanging over its foot and started for the hall. The birds were still in an insane frenzy and now there was also a certain amount of shouting in the garden.

People filled the hall outside too. Master Ferkin, his shaven skull wrapped in a very dashing red silk handkerchief, marched purposefully ahead of a scantily clad crowd of those white retainers who lived in the back quarters of the palace. Justin joined this group as unobtrusively as possible.

“What’s to do?” he asked his neighbor.

“An intruder in the garden,” Ferkin answered. He might have put off his wig and shed his sober coat in favor of a moderately gaudy banyan, but he had lost none of his competence. “He must have blundered into the aviary and so roused the birds to betray him—”

For the first time, now that his own position was no longer a dangerous one, Justin began to wonder just what had aroused the birds. The closest he had been to the aviary was half the garden away. Maybe a snake had managed to win through the nets—or one of the town cats had come hunting. He suggested as much to Ferkin who agreed reluctantly.

But the secretary brightened again when they came into the main corridor and found the young lieutenant of the guard panting out a strange tale to no other than Sir Robert himself.

“—tapped Wilkins on the head, sir, and laid him under the bushes where he wouldn’t have been found until morning if Sergeant Runewall hadn’t fallen over the lad. We got to the aviary as soon as the alarm had been given but there were no signs—”

“Naturally not! Did you expect him to wait patiently for you to appear and snap him up? Use what little sense the good Lord gave you, man. Whoever roused those birds was off and over the wall before your muttonheads were on their feet. Oh, aye, search the place if you will—but I’ll wager a plate ship’s ransom you’ll find nothing. Can Wilkins tell aught of the man who dropped him?”

“Not yet, sir. He hasn’t come to himself.”

“Well, keep good watch on him till he does and then bring him here to me. I’m not minded to hear his tale after it has passed through the lips of half a dozen of you. All right, all right, get on with this search!”

Thus encouraged the Lieutenant disappeared and Sir Robert took time to fasten his thin silk robe more tightly about his straight body. Having done this to his full satisfaction he rounded upon the aroused household and stared at them disdainfully.

“Ah, so you’re all up and about now that the business is well over. Ferkin, man, put down that pistol— Would you blow my head off my shoulders?”

Ferkin looked down at the oversized weapon he cradled across his arm and colored. Quickly he laid it on the nearest table.

“And you, my young swordsman—out without any steel to hand? Well, what is your opinion of this night’s work?”

Justin saw that Sir Robert was smiling that unpleasant mirthless smile of his. And for one horrible instant he wondered if the Governor knew every detail of the midnight expedition. But Sir Robert couldn’t—that manner of his was only a weapon he used against a man’s own uneasy conscience.

“I have none, Your Excellency,” he replied quietly and as evenly as he could.

Chapter Eleven

STRANGE CATCH FOR A FISHERMAN

“HOLLA, Blade! Come here!”

The command was so peremptory that Justin, although it came from the window of Sir Robert’s own chamber, did not stop to put on coat or neckcloth, but went to answer it still hot from swordplay with Francis, his sleeves rolled to his shoulders and the naked sword in his hand.

“You called, Your Excellency?” He hesitated just inside the door, trying to see through the gloom upon which the Governor seemed to thrive. And he had just noted a second man by the desk when Sir Robert answered.

“I blatted out my lungs at you, aye. Put down that carving knife and come here—Master Shrimpton would speak with you.”

Obediently Justin laid the rapier on a table and crossed to front Scarlett’s companion, the sober cut of whose long dark coat made even Master Ferkin’s dress seem mere frippery. The man wore his own reddish hair cropped close about his ears and his heavy jaw was clean-shaven so that the stern set of his large mouth was plain to see. A bad man to cross, Justin decided.

“You wish to speak with me, Master Shrimpton?”

“Aye.” The merchant made that word as ponderous as a churchman’s curse. “You were lately companied with those runagates now in prison?”

“I was taken on the Naughty Lass true enough.”

“What do you know of this man Cheap?”

“He is numbered among the Lords of Tortuga, those successful captains who bring wealth into the island and do not lack for crews to follow them. He is reckless in battle but is an indifferent navigator and sailor.” Justin stopped short. How had he come to tell all this so easily to this wooden-faced fellow? There must be something compelling about those brown-yellow eyes which bored into him so unwinkingly.

“Has he any other hidey hole except Tortuga?”

Justin shrugged. “Half the cays are hidey holes for those ‘from the sea.’ They know these waters better than any map maker working for the Queen.”

“But this Cheap, he has a special—a favorite cay to which he goes?”

Justin turned to Sir Robert. “You, Your Excellency, remember what I have said. I have taken the Queen’s Pardon, but I do not hunt down my one-time companions. Though this I can say truthfully—I know of no special cay which Cheap may favor—”

“And I think that this whelp lies, Sir Robert!”

Justin went dumb and white. Shrimpton had not changed his position, he had not even raised his voice—he was like that stone idol with the pitiless face which Ghost Peter had brought out of the mainland jungles and fed with fresh cocks’ heads.

“Let me have this cub, Your Excellency, and I’ll nose out Cheap soon enough.”

Sir Robert arose from his armchair with the air of one saying farewell to a troublesome guest. “That is out of the question, Master Shrimpton. I have my own plans for Blade—”

“You are sheltering a pirate, Your Excellency. Already men of standing have begun to ask why you are so tender of this rogue—”

The Governor’s face was all well-bred surprise. “Do they now, Shrimpton? Faith, I had not thought that my actions went so carefully marked in Barbados. But you forget that Blade has taken the Pardon; he is no longer to be termed ‘pirate.’ ”

“Are you so sure of that, Your Excellency? Many men before this have given lip service to serve their own ends. Cheap would relish a spy in Bridgetown.”

“Would he now—?” asked the Governor softly. Two strides brought him to Justin. With surprising strength he swung the boy around and stripped down his shirt so that the merchant might see the deep-scarred flesh of his back.

“Cheap did that. Do you think one of his willing servants would bear such a sign?”

“So—the whelp was flogged. Well, men have been flogged before at sea and served better for such correction.”

Justin pulled the calico back over his shoulders and fastened his shirt, stepping out of Sir Robert’s grip which had loosened. He was steady now—just as he always was when he knew that a fight had begun, so that he was able to face Shrimpton calmly.

“True enough, Master Shrimpton.” He was glad that his voice was so clear. “Since it is plain that I am not to be trusted, may I now leave you to your business. I, too, have my bread to earn—with this!”

He had reached behind him and closed his fist on the hilt of the rapier which he now brought around with a flourish that pointed steel very close to Shrimpton’s thick body. But the merchant gave not even a flicker of an eyelid in return. Justin might have been a small boy indulging in a tantrum of temper—and so he felt under Shrimpton’s unmoving regard.

“Aye. We must not keep you from your duties,” Sir Robert’s cool voice cut the silence. “You may go, Blade.”

And Justin went, feeling very much as must a disobedient hound that is exiled to the kennels. But he also found within him a great and growing dislike for Master Elisha Shrimpton, a dislike almost as great as his wonder as to how Danby Johns had ever prevailed upon such a man to believe his tale of buried treasure. Master Shrimpton seemed more likely to label all such stories moonshine. And the boy began to have a kind of admiration for Johns coupled with the wish to know him better. A man who could make an island joke of Shrimpton was certainly no lack-wit—no matter who named him so.

It was pleasant to get back to the garden and find Francis digging between two stones of the walk with the point of his weapon—a bit of mischief for which he could be most honestly reproved. And nothing is a greater relief from the feeling that one has made a fool of oneself than to be able to righteously scold another—as Justin discovered. By the time he had given tongue to all the Baronet’s shortcomings he was quite in humor again. Not that Sir Francis seemed greatly cast down. Instead he was waiting impatiently to get in a word of his own.

“What did that red shark want with you?” he demanded.

“Red shark?”

“That is what the townsfolk call Master Shrimpton. He is a shark and he has red hair. But what did he want with you, Justin? To ask about pirates?”

“Something of the sort. And why is Master Shrimpton interested in pirates?”

“Because within the month he has lost two sloops to them. And now his brig lies in the harbor and he is afraid to let her sail lest they get her also.”

“How can he be sure that his ships were not taken by the French—?”

“The pirates sent him an impudent message—he found it on a table in his own house—thanking him for his kind indulgence in sending them good cargoes and complimenting him on the quality of the rum one of the sloops carried. So now people laugh behind his back and he wants a pirate to hang. Does he want you, Justin?”

Blade laughed. “Mayhap he does. But Sir Robert does not appear ready to surrender me to him.”

Sir Francis nodded. “Aye. His Excellency has a liking for you. Though he told Uncle Humphrey that you are a most stubborn rogue.”

“I must thank His Excellency for the compliment,” said Justin dryly. “But now we’ll to work, if you please, Francis, and more limber with that wrist, mind you.”

However, his pupil’s mind was no longer on the lesson and he went at the motions so lackadaisically that Justin lost patience—of which he never had too great a store at his best.

“Have done. When you are minded to attend we shall go on with this lesson,” he snapped. Privately he decided that since the novelty had worn away from their employment, and Francis was discovering that he must really work hard, young Hynde was losing his taste for instruction. He had thought from the first that the Baronet would not be diligent at anything requiring labor. Though Justin would also be the first to admit that he was no proper tutor either.

But, although Francis had been released from instruction, he was not pleased to take himself off. Instead he resumed his questioning.

“Are you afeared of Master Shrimpton?”

“Since I have an easy conscience there is naught for me to fear.” Justin was looking about for Amos who, for once, was failing him.

“But are you?” persisted Sir Francis. “Nigh half the town is.”

“Why?”

“Well, he is mighty rich and he knows great folk back home.” (Home to Sir Francis was, of course, England.)

“Many men are rich and have friends in power and yet they aren’t feared.”

“They do say in the town that he knows the Black Arts. Twice his ships have come through storms in which others floundered.”

“He has skillful or lucky captains to thank for that. ’Tis skill and luck both which make a great captain.”

“Is Cheap a great captain?”

“He has been a lucky one. As to skill, Dirk Marteens is far his master. I have seen Marteens claw off a reef with the sea at its worst. Now he’s a captain worth the naming—”

“Is he a pirate?”

“No, rather buccaneer after the lod style, going out only against the Dons and not raising the Black Flag against all nations as the rest do. He has a mighty hate for the Dons because of some old hurt.”

Sir Francis nodded solemnly. “Just as Sir Robert has a mighty hate against all pirates because he has an old hurt too—”

Justin stopped in the tying of his neckcloth. “An old hurt—what?”

“I heard my Uncle Humphrey speak of it to my mother. The pirates took a ship on which one dear to Sir Robert was traveling and nothing was ever heard of the ship or her passengers again. Since then the Governor has vowed death to all pirates. D’you know, I think that it has something to do with the lady in the green dress—”

“The lady in the green dress? But who is she? There is no woman at the palace.”

“She is in the picture, silly—the big one in Sir Robert’s bedchamber. Most always it is covered with a scarf, but once I saw it plain. She isn’t a very pretty lady, not like my mother, but her eyes follow you around the room. Jason says she has witch eyes and he won’t go in where she can see him; he won’t go in there at all when the scarf is off.”

“And you don’t know who she was?”

“Nobody knows—save my uncle—he is the closest friend Sir Robert has. Do you suppose that Master Shrimpton will also have a great hate for pirates now?”

“If he is as you say, a pinch in his money bags will doubtless serve as good a hurt as any. Where is Amos?”

“He is gone on an errand for my uncle. I am to bide with you today.”

Justin sighed. “Very well then. But we shall spend it as I decide. Have you no plainer coat?” He eyed the finely-laced wine satin with marked disapproval.

“No. But I’d as leave take this one off. It’s hot,” answered the Baronet cheerfully. “What are we going to do, Justin?”

“We are going fishing. Aye, leave your coat here, and your wig too. Knot this kerchief around your head to keep the sun off.”

The small cove where they settled themselves some time later was cut off from the inland by two steep cliffs down one of which zigzagged a goat path. But here, as Justin had some days before discovered, one could perch on the sea-wet rocks and throw out a line without attracting a circle of interested spectators. And in the tide pools were all sorts of queer small creatures most exciting to watch— as Francis speedily discovered.

“No,” the older boy replied wearily for something like the fifth time, “I do not know what that fish is called or how it lives. If you want such answers you needs must ask some scholar. Come away from that pool now—are you wishful to find yourself over your head in water?”

The Baronet squatted down in the warm sand and grinned up at his victim. “I like you, even if you be a cutthroat pirate. And I’m right glad Master Lewis had to go home. This Caraway—he won’t find the watching of me easy—”

“And who is Caraway?”

“Some short-haired ranting fellow out of the northern colonies. He is kin to Master Shrimpton and is warranted learned. My mother has spoken of having him to tutor me, only she is not sure whether he be a gentleman—”

Juston laughed. “So you have either a pirate or a codfish to watch over you. Faith, that’s a hard life, Francis. I wonder that you can bear up under it.”

But the boy made him no answer. Instead he was staring down at something in his hand.

“Look what I found! It was here in the sand! A knife! Now mother cannot say me nay, this I found myself!” He was rubbing it clean across his fine breeches when Justin caught it out of his hand.

“Learn how to handle such tools properly before you brandish them about. Look, already you have slit the cloth of your breeches. This is a dangerous toy—”.

But it was not at the long, evilly sharp blade of the dagger that he was looking. That ivory hilt carved into the likeness of a rearing stallion—he had seen it before. The tiny green gem eyes winked in the sun just as they had done in sunlight and lantern light many times in his memory. How had Cheap’s cherished sash knife come here in the sand?”

“Give it me!” Sir Francis pulled at his arm. “It is mine, I tell you! I found it right here in the sand!”

“First we must show it to your uncle or Sir Robert.”

“You mean it is treasure trove? That it must be shown to the Queen’s men?”

“Aye. It is treasure trove of a sort. Wrap it up in that napkin they put about our bread and cheese. That will keep it safe.”

While Sir Francis was obeying that order Justin wandered around the cove. As far as he could see none but the tide and the birds had ever been there before them. Even the goat path showed no evidence of any feet save their own. And yet there was the knife and it had been recently lost. There was no dimming of the steel by time or weather.

“Justin, here comes a boat! We’ll have company at our fishing.”

With his hand on the knife in his belt Justin turned. Young Hynde was right, a small dugout was heading into the cove, its single passenger dipping his paddle with the ease of one knowing full well where he was bound.

“Why, ’tis only Danby Johns,” Sir Francis said disappointedly. “Send him away, Justin, else he’ll make our ears ring with his old talk of flowers. The lack-wit!”

Johns had sighted the two on shore. His bristled jaw dropped and he was the picture of dull astonishment. But he pushed on until he was able to splash through the surf and draw up the dugout above water level.

“Whar be th’ other?” he asked.

“What other?” Justin countered. With a quick hand he shut off the stream of questions about to burst from Sir Francis.

“ ’Im wot wos ’ere afore.” Danby screwed up his face in a visible mental activity. “Ain’t I seed ye afore, marster? In th’ night time loike?”

Had Justin been alone he would have claimed drinking acquaintance with the fellow, but because Sir Francis stood there—all ears—he hesitated too long.

“Aye, now I ’members. Ye would ’ave me speak o’ them wot comes at night! Got any rum, marster? I’ll be yer man right willin’ fer that.”

“There’s no rum here,” Justin said brusquely. Sir Francis was looking at him oddly, drawing a little apart so that he could watch both Danby and Justin. “Who is the man you came to meet?”

“Why ’im wot ye wanted to ’ave word wi’ afore, marster. Th’ Cap’n who’ll settle Marster Shrimpton—may th’ Lord rot th’ flesh from ’is stinkin’ bones! Leavin’ a pore owld sailor man wot always did right t’ lie in jail fer want o’ a ’andful o’ shillin’s. Black-’earted ’e is, that’s wot— plain black-’earted!” Danby was now so deep in his own woes that Justin had to shake him to gain attention.

“But this captain is to meet you here?’

“Aye. Wot ’ave ye done wi’ ’im, marster?” Danby stared about him as if expecting to see someone rise out of the sand.

“There’s no one here now—”

“Then I’ll wait. Mayhap ’e’s fergot th’ hour loike.” Danby dropped down into the sand, taking no further interest in the other two. Justin waved Francis back against the rock wall of the cove where he joined him.

“Listen to me now, Francis,” he half whispered. “This may be of grave importance. Sir Robert does not lie at home tonight so we cannot reach him. But do you go to your uncle as speedily as you can and show him that knife you found. Tell him what Johns has said of meeting someone here and that I will stay hid above that I may spy upon this meeting—”

Francis twisted out of his grip with some of his old petulance.

“Why must I go? I want to see too—”

Justin took firm hold of the remaining rags of his patience. “Because that message must surely reach your uncle and there is no one else to go. I am depending upon you for this, Francis. Now we shall leave here together, but when we are above and out of sight, you will go on alone. Come.”

They did just as Justin had planned and Johns watched them scramble out of sight with little interest. Luckily their second contest of wills occurred well beyond the rim of the cliffs. There Sir Francis flatly refused to do as he was bid and Justin used his final weapon—the threat that their fencing lessons were ended for all times.

“Sir Robert will make you teach me!”

“Francis, you are acting like an unbreeched babe!” snapped Justin. “Would you let these pirates escape?”

“Pirates! How know you that it is a pirate Danby has come to meet?”

“I don’t. I only suspect that that is the case. Now get to the Major and he will be heartily proud of you for this —your helping to catch pirates. Mayhap you will even be brought into court to tell your story.”

That last argument told. For Francis set off and left the older boy to find what he hoped would be suitable cover from which he could watch the cove and those in it.

Chapter Twelve

OLD FRIENDS’ MEETING

GOOD HIDING places which overlooked the cove were hard to find and the one Justin at length selected was none too comfortable. In fact he thought that he was like to be grilled by the sun unless Johns’ friend came quickly. But as yet the old man did nothing but snore in a patch of shade which Justin envied him fiercely.

Lulled by the heat and silence Justin himself must have dozed because when the man they both awaited came, it was without his seeing. He roused just in time to see a half-naked half-breed fetch Johns a savage kick.

“Up wi’ ye, ye rum bottle!”

Danby grunted and then, opening his eyes, scrambled up in a great hurry.

“Aye, Cap’n. ‘Ere I be—”

“ ‘Ere ye be a-snorin’ so half th’ island could come humpin’ up without yer seein’! Addle-pate!”

The red-brown hand of the breed slapped full across Johns’ face with force enough to send him sprawling back across the rock beneath the shadow of which he had been sleeping.

“No one be’ere,” he jabbered hastily. “They wos gone ‘ours ago—”

“They? An’ who wos they?” The breed came closer to Johns, his hand at his sash. But Johns had noted that gesture and now he fairly babbled.

“Boys—they wos fishin’ loike. But they was gone—’ours ago.”

“Boys!” The breed turned away from Danby and began a search of the cove, examining the sand and the edge of the cliff track with care. Something he found at the latter place froze him for a long moment and then, as a cat might leap, he was back to catch Johns’ bent shoulders in a racking grip which brought a thin whimper from the old man.

“What manner o’ boys, ye lack-wit? There be th’ mark o’ ‘eeled shoes on that path!”

“They wos quality right enough. One o’ ‘em wos that brat as lives wi’ Major Cocklyn. An’ th’ other—loikely ‘e’s gentry too—”

“Ye bottle-befogged numskull! Ye fish-brained dog! ‘Ere ye ‘ad th’ whole answer t’ our riddle in yer ’ands—an’ let ’em go! What wouldn’t we give t’ get Cocklyn’s brat! I ’ave a fair mind t’ see th’ color o’ yer liver—”

By some feat of strength, which Justin would not have believed the frail old man still had in him, Danby broke out of the other’s grip and ran towards his dugout, striving to thrust it into the sea. But the breed did not follow him—except with a contemptuous burst of laughter. And when Johns discovered that no pursuer was breathing down his neck, he turned and faced inland again.

“Ye never said as ’ow ye wanted ’em,” he whined.

“True enough. An’ who can expect wit from a broken pate? No, I’ll not lay finger on ye now, Johns. Come back, ye ’ave word fer me—”

Warily Johns left the refuge of the dugout, but he kept a boulder well between them as he returned.

“Ye be no mad at Johns—”

“Mad? No, we’re th’ best o’ friends, Danby. Now then, what news do ye carry?”

“Marster Shrimpton, ’e ‘as bin t’ th’ Governor, ’e ’as. But thar ain’t no sloop o’ war t’ spare—that wos wot th’ Governor said t’ ’im. An’ ’is Cap’n—’e say’e ain’t afeared o’ any pirate livin’ an’ that ’e is willin’ t’ sail. Sa Marster Shrimpton—’e be still two ways ’bout it. Only them in town—they says ’is luck is runnin’ out. An’ two men from th’ brig—they cut an’ run larst night. They ’eard some stories—”

The breed chuckled. “Likely they did, likely they did.

“Up wi’ ye, ye rum bottle!”

Well, so Marster Shrimpton is still o’ two minds? We must change that, an’ speedily, so ‘e’ll o’ one—ours! I ’ave a use fer th’ Endeavor an’ th’ time is runnin’ out. ‘Ere.” From his sash he pulled a purse and tossed it to Johns who snatched with eager fingers. “Go drink an’ tell more tales to th’ sailors.”

“Aye. Right ye be! An’ wot ’bout th’ other one—”

“Th’ other one?”

“Aye, th’ lad wot ’as bin arskin’ fer ye—”

The other man was still. Beneath the twisted rag he wore around his head, greasy locks of hair made a ragged fringe to hide his forehead and eyes and a coarse beard masked mouth and chin. But about him there was something oddly familiar, so that Justin longed to see him more clearly.

“Someone ’as bin arskin’ fer me, John’s?”

“Aye. Came down in th’ night an’ give me rum ’e did an’ arsked ’bout those from th’ sea. Thar be ’em in th’ town as says ’e is one o’ ye wot is a-lookin’ out news from the’ Governor fer ye. Marster Shrimpton, ’e does say ’e should be in th’ jail alongside o’ ’em others—”

“So that one ’as bin a-arskin’— Well, wonders thar ’ave bin in th’ past—one can never tell. Should ’e arsk again, Johns—” He hesitated so long that Danby ventured to prompt him.

“Aye;—wot would ye’ave Danby do?”

“Iffen ’e arsks again—send ’im t’ me, Johns. By that way ye know of—”

Danby was eager enough to get away—running his dugout into the waves with the spryness of a younger man. But the breed made no move out of the cove. Instead he crouched in the sand and started dribbling the stuff through his dirty fingers in an ever widening circle. Almost—Justin caught a breath—almost as if he were searching for something lost.

The boy crawled as close as he dared to the lip of the cliff. He was mad to see the man below at closer quarters —but not so mad that he lost all caution.

Unfortunately there was no way down into the cove which did not lie in plain view and long before he could get down he would be sighted by his quarry. If he could have only hidden down there—!

Grunting impatiently the breed got to his feet. Then, before Justin could move to follow, he set off along the shore at a smart pace, scrambling over the rocks at the far end of the cove and splashing through the tide pools. Justin hurried along the top of the cliff, only to be fronted within a few paces by a hedge of thornbush—and, when he had won around that, the shore as far as he could see was bare of all except the birds. The breed was gone.

Tired, hot, and ill-pleased with himself, Justin started back to Bridgetown. And at last he had time to wonder what had happened to Francis. That the younger boy was sulking somewhere and had not delivered the message was evident, and Justin was planning just what he would say to Sir Francis upon the occasion of their next meeting when a familiar figure in an unaccustomed hurry came puffing down the lane toward him.

He had never before seen Amos’ dignity so ruffled, his pace so fast, and when the serving man came up with Justin the haste and heat left him panting so that he could hardly demand in steady speech:

“Where be Sir Francis? Look ye, Lady Hynde would ’ave ‘im—”

“I sent him to Major Cocklyn a good time ago.”

Amos merely goggled without understanding. “’Er Ladyship is in a tantrum. Best get ’im ’ome, Marster Blade.”

“I tell you—he is home! I sent him there with a message to his uncle.”

“Th’ Major ‘as bin a-sittin’ wi’ some gentlemen all th’ afternoon. Sir Francis never came. Marster—iffen somethin’ ’as bin ’appenin’ t’ Sir Francis ’er Ladyship’ll ’ave our ’eads, she will! ’E never came ’ome, ’e didn’t!”

“Mayhap he went to the governor’s palace. We’ll look there.”

Privately Justin thought that Francis Hynde was in hiding somewhere, prepared to pay off his guardians with a great fuss. And when they were deep in the search, being berated for their laxness, he would come forth with some tale to excuse himself. It was just the sort of play which Francis liked best.

“Seen Sir Francis, marster?” replied the sentry at the back lane, the favorite entrance of the Baronet. “Aye, ’e did come up th’ lane ’bout an ’our since. Wanted t’ know iffen ’is Excellency were back yet, ’e did. When Hi said no, ’e were off agin—met someone down by that far ’ouse thar an’ wint off wi’ ’im.”

By the far house! Justin flung a word of thanks to the soldier and hurried down the lane, with Amos at his back. The far house was the corner house where the wider lane met a narrow runnel between dwellings. Blank doors and shuttered windows faced them. There was no one on either street as far as they could see.

“Vas you vishing sometings, my fine sir?”

The voice seemed to lisp out of the air and it was Amos who slapped the shutter open so that the weasel visage behind its crack was clear. Hook nose made a parrot’s beak upon a mottled white face. But there was no fear in those small dark eyes nor in the crooked mouth which smiled gap-toothed at them.

“Vas you vishing sometings?” the woman repeated.

“Aye.” Justin assembled some small show of manners. “We are hunting a small boy, ma’am. He was last seen talking to a man at this corner. Did you chance to sight him?”

“A small boy is it? Zare vas such a von. He did have him a new knife vitch he showed to ze man. And ze man said that if he vould come vit him zare might be yet a sword also—”

“The man! What was he like—this man?”

“Tall he vos—bigger nor you, young sir. And he had no ears on his head. Red vas his hair yet. And he did tell ze young lord zat he vos a sailorman.”

“Which way did they go when they left here?”

“Down zare, young sir. Toward ze harbor yet.”

Amos showed a grave face. “We’d best go t’ th’ Major, Marster Blade. Iffen they ’ave ’im in one o’ those boozin’ dens it’ll take th’ soljers t’ ’ave ’im out agin.”

Justin shook his head. “Soldiers would never get him out. That rats’ nest can hide ‘half a hundred who’ll never be found. No, we needs must chance it alone, Amos. Or better let me go—I have knowledge of such places—”

In his impatience he did not heed that the serving man drew a little away from him, nor did he note the strange new hardness in the man-servant’s tone as he answered:

“Aye, marster, doubtless that be best.”

So they parted, Amos going back toward Cocklyn’s home while Justin took the downward road in great strides, seeking the noisome tangle of the lower town.

It was to the Harp and Bottle that he went first, for Danby’s hints about the place were a clue. And the first man he saw within, once his eyes were accustomed to the murk, was Johns himself with a full tankard before him and a smile of childish pleasure on his bearded lips. Sitting with him were two strange seamen who were deeply interested in what the old man was telling them.

“Be ye alookin’ fer some’un, marster?” The half-breed waiter lounged up to Justin, wiping his hands on his rag apron.

“Aye, a child. He has run away and was seen in these parts. I had some hopes he might be found—”

“ ’Ere?” the waiter shrugged. “Well, there be brats aplenty ’ereabouts, marster. Take yer pick. But none in th’ Harp. This ben’t no place fer ’em. Best ’unt along th’ wharves loike—th’ lads play at fishin’ an’ sich thar.”

But Danby had sighted Justin and now he pushed away from his companions with a sudden indifference which left them puzzled, coming up eagerly to the boy.

“’Ow be ye, marster? Are ye asearchin’ fer ’em wot ye spoke on—?”

“Not now, Danby. I am looking for the boy who was with me in the cove—”

“Then ’ave ye come t’ th’ right place. Th’ Cap’n was awantin’ t’ see ’im loikwise. Come ‘ere. ’Tis best not t’ keep th’ Cap’n awaitin’. ’E be an onpatient man—”

He seized upon Justin and urged the boy toward the back room of the Harp and Bottle, half pushing him through the rough hide door curtain. They were then in an evil-smelling black pocket filled with kegs among which Danby threaded his way with the ease of much practice.

Then the old seaman put his two hands on the wall itself and pushed sharply to the right. A rough panel moved sidewise far enough to leave space for a body to squeeze through. Danby pawed at Justin’s arm pulling him into the room beyond.

“ ’Ere ’e be, Cap’n,” he announced and then, before Justin could interfere, he was back out through the panel and had slapped the sliding door to, leaving Blade captive on the wrong side.

There was light here, but the light of thick yellowish candles, not that of honest day. And the smell of age-old foulness was sour enough to choke a man.

“See! It is true, what I said!” shrilled a voice Justin knew very well.

Hunched on a stool, his elbows resting on a table, his hands supporting his sharp chin, sat Sir Francis Hynde thoroughly at ease and enjoying his company to the full. But his companions— Justin blinked and hoped that he had made no other revealing sign. After all he had never really believed that Nat Creagh, Quittance and Cheap were as dead as the world wished them. This was only his private nightmare dragged out into the light at long last.

“Aye, Sir Francis, you spoke true—” That was Cheap with his devilish purr. Even in this filthy hole he went in a laced shirt and with polished boots on his feet.

Now Quittance, still in his greasy half-breed’s disguise, was more in tune with his surroundings and did not look out of place against the mildewed wall. And Creagh— well, Creagh was his old brutal self.

“Not so pleased to see old friends, are you, Master Scarface? By the cut of that coat you’ve come up in the world since last we met. I hear that you find favor with our dear Sir Robert these days—”

There was only one card left for him to play now—one card which might just bring both Francis and himself out of this danger. If he could trick Cheap—? And if his plan did not work he would be in no worse state than he stood now.

“What makes you so sure that I have a liking for this coat, Captain Cheap?” he asked as calmly as he could.

And with that he had caught Cheap’s interest. “So? And what mean you by that, young cock? Your story had better be a pleasing one—well thought of—or Creagh shall have you—you and your young friend here.”

“When they told me that you were not taken, nor had your body been found, I suspected that somewhere within Bridgetown there were those who knew the true tale. I tried to find such a one—Danby can tell you—”

To his overwhelming relief Quittance nodded at that. “Aye. Johns told me so this very day. Scarface has been asking for ‘men from the sea.’ ”

“Th’ better t’ set we’uns in jail,” croaked Creagh. “Why list t’ ’is lyin’ tongue, Cap’n?’

“Aye—what about that, Scarface? When last we met you were in no mood to welcome us as friends. I wonder that your back is skinned again—that was a well-laid flogging,” mused Cheap.

Justin shrugged. “There are worse things than floggings, Captain Cheap—say a well-stretched neck! Do you think that a man in this town trusts me or that I have aught to look forward to in the end but being sold as a bondsman? Oh, aye, I have Sir Robert’s interest now—but how long will that last? He is like all the gentry—fickle in his favor. And a flogging is better than the slave brand. When a man’s been free, he has no liking for ill looks and upheld noses—”

“Upheld noses?” snorted Creagh. “Well, in th’ ’our, bully boy, ye’ll not ’ave one left t’ cock!”

“Wait!” Cheap’s hand slapped the table top. “I wonder—” He was eyeing Justin as if he had suddenly seen the boy sprout wings—or, as was more likely in their world, horns and a tail. “A man may be wrong—even I may have been wrong! So you have no liking for Sir Robert?”

“No liking and no disliking. He is a great gentleman, I am a reprieved pirate—he does not have dealings with such as me. He has kept me under his hand hoping to have news of you or of Tortuga out of me. But that is all.”

“No liking or no disliking. Well, that be fair enough. So these pious dogs who kennel in Bridgetown look down their noses at a pirate? Well enough. I think, Scarface, that the years behind us have been sadly misspent. We should be friends, you and I, not at swords’ points. It seems that we may have something in common after all. And Sir Francis has already told me that you have been unusually discreet concerning my affairs. I was touched by that, really I was, my boy. But when I have heard the rest of your story mayhap I shall even have occasion to bless the day when I picked you out of the gutter for one of my crew.”

“There’s little more to my tale, Captain. I’ve been at the palace under Sir Robert’s eye most of the time.”

“He has been teaching me the sword,” struck in Sir Francis eagerly. “Do you know, Captain Cheap, he can use the sword with either hand—?”

“So have you said before,” commented the Captain with some impatience. “It appears, Scarface, that there is much about you that I do not know. Have you any other strange accomplishments? What other tricks have you used to dazzle Sir Robert?”

“None. He has little interest in me.”

Cheap laughed. “Strange. Most strange. Quite the cream of the whole jest. Some day I must share it with you, Scarface, and then you will laugh too. Has he never asked you of the past?”

“Of Tortuga, aye. He wanted to know who were the Lords nowadays and once he asked of a ship called the Maid of Cathay.”

“The Maid of Cathay, eh?” Cheap smiled—very happily and very evilly. “Aye, that would interest him. And you answered him then?”

“What could I answer but the truth? I have never heard of her.”

“No, you have not. She was before your time, long before your time. So that memory is still green in Sir Robert’s skull, is it? Faith, Fate begins to show me her full grin at last. This time when we play, all the winning tricks lie in my hand. And there are some very good ones—Master Shrimpton, Sir Francis and you—you, my dear Scarface— you!”

Chapter Thirteen

“DAMME, I’M AN ADMIRAL!”

“WHAT IS your game, Captain?” A month ago he might not have dared such a question. But now, with Francis here and little hope for the escape of either of them, he was emboldened to face up to Cheap.

“A very simple one, Scarface.” Luckily the Captain was not annoyed, indeed he appeared to be pleased by such bold tackling. And as usual he enjoyed an audience to which he might display the wisdom and ability of Jonathan Cheap. “I am meeting Sir Robert Scarlett with full force at long last. And this time the tune is of my choosing. He has one sloop of war in the harbor. And Master Shrimpton has a tall brig of which he is not unduly proud. At sea Sir Robert has a brig, a ketch, and two more sloops—and some faint call upon such of Her Majesty’s navy as is cruising these waters. And I— Damme, I’m an admiral! I have a fleet within call—”

“A fleet!” It was not necessary to pretend to be impressed —he was. And such a feat was not beyond reason. Had Cheap been able to win over even one or two of the other Lords he might well have a fleet at his service.

“Look at the goggle eyes of him!” Cheap bade his companions. “Aye, Scarface, ’tis time Captain Cheap proves his mettle. That brig in the harbor sails tonight—with a new master. You are fronting him now, boy. The old one was a cautious man and Danby Johns’ tall tales have grown with their repeating along the water front. A captain must be paid more than Shrimpton’s before he runs through pirate boarding-fire of his free will. We’ll rendezvous with my fleet and then—”

Creagh smacked fat lips as if over a full measure of ale and Quittance gave a sharp sound, half laugh, half grunt of approval. Whatever Cheap’s plan might be, he had won these two to full agreement with it.

“We did well to wait this last day—it always behooves a man to be prudent in small matters,” observed the Captain. “By waiting I have added two fine recruits to our company—our old friend Scarface and Sir Francis here.”

Justin moved up to the table. “You don’t want the boy,” he said. “He’s a milk and water suckling and will only be an hindrance to you. I’ve had the governing of him this past week and am heartily sick of his tempers.”

At this outburst Sir Francis lost a little of his ready assurance; he stared at Justin as if he were seeing a stranger instead of a familiar companion. But Cheap’s smile widened into a mocking grin.

“Sooo— And yet, since Sir Francis has been kind enough to return a lost trinket of mine, thus laying me under obligation to him, I cannot so cross his wishes. He is all afire to be one of us—or so he has said. And I am not one to bind youth too closely to peaceful ways—green years yearn for adventure and should have what they wish. Then, too, he has some loving kin hereabouts and in time to come—when our plan is finished and we have won—mayhap they will be glad to receive him back, at a fitting price, of course. No, curb your impatience, Scarface. Sir Francis sails with us. And you too. I trust that you now have no reason to remain ashore?”

“I?” Justin was able to force a laugh which sounded halfway natural in his own ears and which none of them seemed to find amiss. “Why should I wish to remain here? Cocklyn would have the head off my shoulders if you left me and took the boy. And here I am neither fish nor fowl. A-sea I may be fish again—”

Cheap nodded. “Aye, that you may. And now, since Major Cocklyn has seen fit to place Sir Francis in your care, who am I to quarrel with his judgment? When first we met I was much impressed with the Major’s wisdom. So the lad will continue with you and you shall be answerable to me for him. Remember, this time no running away. While we are still ashore Creagh shall have an eye to the both of you. And you know Creagh. Now Quittance, ’tis time to be going. Let us see to our night’s work.”

The Captain and his mate left them to the doubtful company of the boatswain who dropped down heavily on the stool Quittance had occupied and fell to peeling his broken nails with his sash knife. For the first time since he had been pushed into this company Justin drew a really full breath. He wanted to talk with Francis but what he wanted to say could not be voiced before Creagh and Nat showed no intention of leaving them. As far as Justin could see they were fairly trapped and there was no escape—unless Amos had roused the Major and they had ordered out the soldiers to beat up the district. Even then there was no certainty of the boys being found in this rats’ hole. If Francis had only done as he had been bid and had carried that message! But if he were going to start listing the “if onlys” he could spend the rest of the day at that profitless employment and receive nothing in return. There must be a way out of this—a way a clever man like Sir Robert could see in a trice. Only he wasn’t that clever—he’d be lucky if he lasted out the night without landing in the sea with a cracked head.

Cheap had been unusually amiable this far. But the Captain’s good nature was prone to storms and then he was apt to lash out upon the nearest target. Cheap, Quittance and Creagh—one like water washing through one’s fingers, never to be caught and held, one indifferent to aught but his own concerns, and the last one not to be trusted any more than one would trust a frenzied dog. They’d never let him go but they mustn’t take the boy. Francis wouldn’t survive a week in that company if he lost Cheap’s protection and that was a chancy thing at the best, as who knew better than Justin Blade.

“Have you killed many men?”

Creagh was not as astonished at that sudden question as was Justin. It seemed to amuse him and he laughed, the stubs of his yellow teeth showing in the candlelight.

“Enough t’ please th’ Devil right well, brat,” he returned.

“With that knife?”

Creagh held up the weapon with which he had been assaulting his finger tips and eyed it judiciously. “Well, some few, aye. This toad-splitter I did get me from an Injun o’ th’ coast. No doubt ’e ’ad it from a Don. Good steel that.” He rang the blade against the table, and then leered horribly at Sir Francis. “Good for throat-cuttin’.”

But Sir Francis refused to frighten. Instead he put on an oddly solemn air, as if considering a problem.

“Sir Robert always says a man needs good tools for his trade. So I expect you need the best knives. But that one isn’t as pretty as the one I found—the one with a horse on it.”

Creagh shifted on his stool as if he were uncomfortable. It was plain that this interview was not proceeding according to his ideas of what was right and proper. To be faced down by a cub who accepted throat-cutting as part of pirate trade and showed no fear of the cutter—well, that was more than the boatswain had expected. Now he was more puzzled than angered, but Justin knew the hot rage which might rise from such baiting.

“Do not plague Master Creagh with childish questions!” he ordered Francis. “Be quiet and reflect upon the folly which has brought you here—”

But such pomposity was only a match to the tinder of Francis Hynde’s temper. He grew quite red in the face and his small hands doubled into fists.

“Do not speak so to me, you—you unhung rogue! I shall ask Captain Cheap to have you flogged again. He is my friend and a real pirate. He wouldn’t take the Queen’s Pardon to save his neck. He—”

“Will take the proper steps to shut that mouth of yours, Francis, if you cannot learn to shut it yourself. Captain Cheap has little liking for talk—” ("Except his own,” Justin added silently.) “And you will also be civil if you wish your own back to remain unscarred. Since you have chosen to be a pirate you needs must obey their laws. Now be quiet before your elders!”

His firmness had its effect. Francis glowered, probably meditating revenge. But Creagh grinned.

“Mighty ‘andy wi’ yer own tongue, bean’t ye, Scarface? Ye’ve learned more from th’ gentry then jes’ ’ow t’ wear a coat. An’ yer dead right ’bout this ’ere brat. Keep ’is mouth shut on ’im, ’e talks too much.

A thump on the sliding door put a period to his speech and he got up to go to the opening crack where he listened to a thin whispering. He growled back an answer before spitting over his shoulder at Justin:

“Th’ Cap’n wants me. Ye stay ’ere an’ try no tricks. Thar’ll be one outside wi’ a knife an’ ’e knows well ’ow t’ use it. Ye bide ‘ere ’til ye’re fetched.”

He pushed through the slit door and promptly closed it behind him, leaving the boys alone for the first time. Justin stood over Francis so that listening ears might not hear all he had to say.

“Did you give my message to Major Cocklyn?”

But Francis’ answer was the one he had already expected. “I’m no slave to run your bidding, Scarface. I went to Sir Robert, but he was not at home—and for that I am now glad. Otherwise I would not have met Captain Cheap! And you should be happy for it too, Scarface, since you say that you have wished to join with the pirates again. My uncle and Sir Robert would be pleased to hear of that, wouldn’t they? Mayhap Master Shrimpton was right—mayhap you are a pirate spy! My uncle should be told of that— always prating of you he is, of how you have the proper mettle in you and are well worth schooling—Oh, I have heard him speak with Sir Robert of it. My uncle thinks well of you—Scarface! But he’ll change his mind when he hears of this. And Captain Cheap thinks well of me—he thinks that I have the proper mettle. Mayhap I’ll be governor some day—pirates have been, you know!”

The festering jealousy boiled out like poison from the twisted lips of the younger boy. Justin drew back the hand he had been about to lay upon Francis’ shoulder as if that unchildish fire had scorched him. How Francis must hate him! And with Hynde in this mood any warning he might speak would fall on willfully deaf ears. The Baronet was as dangerous as a cocked pistol in the hands of a blind fool. Why, the boy would swear to anything, and do it cheerfully, if he thought that it would harm Justin. This was no time to talk to him of escape.

As for himself—he dared not attempt it without Francis. The boy could not survive among Cheap’s wild crew should the Captain withdraw his protection and if he, Scarface, were there to draw attention now and then to the captive’s value, that protection might hold longer than Cheap’s other whims had done in the past. Just now Francis was a toy, but that state of affairs would not last. No, he himself would have to remain to the end. Only if he sailed now with Cheap there would be no coming back—ever. A man did not gain the Queen’s Pardon twice. And one who had broken his word was hung speedily when taken.

Justin sighed. What an end to all his fine plans. Life was as it had always been before. Save that he would have the added burden of watching over Francis.

“Captain Cheap has a small sword to match the knife I found,” the younger boy broke the silence. He was too full of his good fortune to keep mumface with Justin in spite of his jealousy. “He said he will give it to me if I can prove that I can properly use it. Even Sir Robert has not so fine a one!”

Justin made one last attempt. “Listen to me carefully and well, Francis. Captain Cheap, I’ll grant you, can play the great gentleman when he wishes. But he is not always so, and tomorrow he may, like as not, give you a taste of the rope’s end across your hide—should you raise his ill-humor. It is not a gay life aboard his ships—I can swear to that. But if you escaped now and got back to your uncle or Sir Robert with the news of Cheap and his men being here—then you would be thought a brave boy with a cool head on his shoulders. Would that not be fine?”

There was a tight, peevish look on the Baronet’s face as if he were—in a manner of speaking—closed to suggestion. And when he shrilled answer it was the one Justin had feared.

“No. I am going with Captain Cheap as he has promised that I should. And he is not as you say at all—he is a kind gentleman and laughs much!”

It was dusk when they were at last brought out of the Harp and Bottle—the thick dusk of the tropics which is so soon night. And the stars overhead were bright. Justin glanced back once over his shoulder at the dark mass of Bridgetown where winking lights, softer than the stars, had appeared here and there among the houses. By all reckoning this was the last look he would have at the place and it was a hurried one, for he was hustled into a ship’s boat.

They were rowed out to the ship which was a darker blot against the water and clambered aboard by the aid of a rope ladder which must be felt, rather than seen, in the gloom. Once on deck neither Justin nor Francis were given a chance to look around, but were pushed below into the great cabin which, they found in some confusion as if a scuffle had taken place there.

Mechanically Justin righted an emptied goblet which was rolling across the table and picked up from the floor a mass of torn and crumpled papers. Francis had run to the stern lockers and had half hunched his shoulders through one of the narrow windows so that he could look out into the harbor.

“We’re sailing!” he called. “I can see the shore lights moving.”

But Justin, shipwise, had already felt the tremble of the timbers beneath his heels. Aye, they were sailing. Almost

They were rowed out to the ship. . .

heavily he crossed the cabin to stand behind his companion and watch the lights of Bridgetown fade into the sea.

This ship was not so well dressed as had been the Naughty Lass. There was a spare, stripped look about the cabin, as if the master who had quartered here had cared little for luxury. He had no silver plate, no rich hangings, not even a strip of turkey carpet across the boards. It was certainly too bare to be to Cheap’s taste.

On the table was a brace of maps and Justin unrolled one—to find himself looking at the indentations of an unfamiliar coastline. Slowly he spelled out the names lettered there. “Cape Cod—Massachusetts, New York—”

That last name he had heard of before; it stood for the town where the Dutch had lost to the English back in the old King’s day. Was Cheap planning to run north? There had been some talk of late as how some of the northern governors had turned a blind eye on ships in their harbors —providing the cargoes they discharged were rich and the crews spent gold ashore. They were hot against the French, those northerners, since their lands marched with French territory, and mayhap a pirate who claimed to be a privateer could lie soft and safe there.

“What’s that?” Francis had grown tired of his window perch and now came to pluck at the map Justin held, striving to bring it down to his own eye level.

“It is a chart such as sailors use. A sea chart of the northern coastlines.”

“N-e-w—New. Y-o-r-k—York. Where is New York, Justin?”

“Somewhere to the north. It is on the mainland.”

“Are we going there?”

Justin shrugged as he re-rolled the map. “Who knows but Captain Cheap?”

“True enough, Scarface,” Cheap himself answered from the companionway. “So you would like to see New York, Sir Francis?”

“I don’t know. Would it be exciting?”

“As exciting as any foreign port. But it is a greater place than Bridgetown and sports a good fashion. With a fine harbor at her skirts and a big country at her back any city may grow great. But at any rate the merchants of that town stand our friends upon occasion. And more than a few of them have a sticky finger in the Red Sea Trade.”

“What is that?”

“Our trade—when carried on across the world in the Grand Mogul’s waters. And a rich one it is there, by all accounts. If you snap up a pilgrim ship or one of the Mogul’s fleet, you can live soft for the rest of your life. After our business hereabouts is done, we may try it ourselves. Would you like that?”

Sir Francis nodded eagerly but Cheap had done with him for then. The Captain had already turned briskly to Justin with orders.

“For the present I wish to keep you both close to hand. There is a cubby over there which was meant for the captain’s store room. That’ll serve you for a bed place. And get you to it now both of you!”

There was a note in his voice then that even Francis did not question and they both pushed through into a black pocket which smelled strongly of the late Captain’s stores, wine, salt fish, and spoiled biscuit. Inside they tumbled over a tangle of blankets and were left to bed themselves down as best they might. Francis, not even taking off his shoes, crawled into the dirt-stiffened covers and was asleep almost before he was fully at ease but Justin crouched by the crack left in the panel—the crack which brought them air and also gave him a limited view of the outer cabin.

For a long time Cheap sat there alone, studying the charts, making a series of notes on the papers Justin had picked up from the floor. He was well pleased with himself; that was shown in every movement of his head, in the almost soundless whistle he shaped with his lips, in the way he smiled now and again at his own thoughts. Life was a very pleasant thing that night to Captain Jonathan Cheap.

The brig was running sweetly before the wind now. But Justin had no idea as to where they might be bound— north, south, east, or west. His head began to ache dully and he fought off the sleep which pressed down his eyelids. He didn’t dare to move too often and his cramped limbs were numb under him.

It was Quittance who tramped in to arouse both Cheap and Justin.

“We’ve raised th’ Lion. Two lanterns to port, one to starboard!”

“Ha!” breathed Cheap softly. He looked dangerous, like a man who had drawn sword and was advancing to an encounter he had no doubts of winning. “They’re prompt —that’s well. And the others? Have we raised them yet?”

“They’ve not had time to make it, Captain. One’s no swift sailor with that weight of iron on her. But she’ll be with us by sunrise.”

“By sunrise!” Cheap shuffled his papers together in one pile. “D’you know, Quittance, ’tis hard to believe in, even yet, that I’ll have the best of Robert Scarlett—after all these years—”

“Best not speak too much of that, Captain. The Brethren think we’re after the pay ship. They don’t hold with this vengeance talk—”

Cheap stood straight. “They’ll do as I bid, Quittance. I stand Captain here!”

He went out, Quittance following him, and the mate showed a mazed face as if his commander had surprised him again.

Chapter Fourteen

“YOUR WAGES, SCARFACE—”

“I AM HUNGRY and I would go on deck. This is a dark hole, Scarface.” Francis tugged at his companion’s coat. “Let us go out of here—”

“You will discover, and speedily, Francis, that it no longer matters what you want. We are here for Captain Cheap’s pleasure and we do not go hence until he wishes it.” Justin rubbed his aching head. To gaze out the stern windows over the sunlit waters hurt his eyes strangely, yet he wanted to know those other ships which followed in their wake. One he had already identified as that of Buck—newly cleansed of bottom she fairly danced along the course set her. But the sloop which crept a full frigate’s length behind was strange to him.

“But why must we stay here?” persisted Francis. “Surely Captain Cheap would not mind if we went above where the wind is and it is not so hot!” He stood with both hands now on the table, steadying himself against the swing of the ship. Without his wig and his brave coat, stripped to shirt and breeches, he had lost some of his pertness and was only a bewildered small boy.

Justin answered him with the truth. “You must pay heed to me, Francis. Captain Cheap is no friend to either of us. He holds you because he can claim ransom for you in the future. Why he wants me I have no idea, but it is not because he means me well. And on this ship Cheap’s word is law—even as men must obey what Sir Robert says in Barbados. Should Cheap want us killed, he need only say so. Do you understand?”

For what seemed a long time to Justin the younger boy gave him no answer. If his head was not aching so rarely he might have found better, more forceful words of explanation—but he felt now as if he were talking through a sort of fog.

“Are you afraid of Captain Cheap?”

Again Justin told him the truth. “I am afraid of what he can do. For I have seen him in his ill humors. We must not anger him, Francis—we must not!”

Francis had said that it was hot within the cabin. But it was not—it was chillingly cold—so cold that he must pull his coat tighter about him.

“I wish I were home again!” Francis’ full underlip protruded in a pout and there was a suspicious quaver in his voice. “Please, Justin I wish to go home.”

Justin steadied his head with his hands. Never was there a better time to drive a lesson home, but he found that he had no desire to scold. Instead he managed a crooked smile of encouragement.

“Come now, Francis. If you do as I bid, you will have naught to fear. And do not forget that your uncle and Sir Robert will be doing all in their power to get you back again. It would not amaze me greatly to discover that Captain Cheap is walking into a trap, even as he did before. But keep you quiet and out of his path and we shall manage to come out of this—”

“Aye.” Francis’ small face was no longer shadowed. “Sir Robert will find us. And then there will be a great battle, won’t there, Justin?”

“A notable one,” he returned absently. “Look you, they are putting off for us in their ships’ boats. Doubtless Cheap has raised the conference flag. If they come hither we must get back into the cubby and lie still—”

“Why? It is hot in there and it smells. I do not like it.”

Justin shook his head, trying to clear his eyes of the mist which was clouding them. “Do as I bid, Francis. And remember, should they have you forth to question you concerning Bridgetown, be careful what you say. These men are enemies to Sir Robert and would do him ill if they could. They wish to raid Barbados. And if they learn aught from either of us which can aid them in that—then we are traitors. Do you understand, Francis?”

It was so hard to find the proper words and he had no way of judging what impression he was making upon the younger boy. But Francis had been in and out of the governor’s quarters and had probably listened to many conversations not meant for his hearing. He might repeat information which would be priceless to Cheap now.

“But you are a pirate, Scarface. You chose to come with Captain Cheap. And you had taken the Queen’s Pardon too—”

“What I do is not what you should do. If I prove a traitor neither Sir Robert nor your uncle will be surprised, for they know that I have always been a pirate and have only returned to my kind. But you are a gentleman, Francis, and gentlemen do not betray their friends.”

Was he saying this—or were the words only in his fuzzed mind? He could only hope that some of his urgency was getting through to the boy beside him.

“I will remember, truly I shall, Scarface.” A hand no longer white was laid on his knee. “And I can keep a still tongue if I choose. I really can. Let them try to get aught out of me—they’ll see!”

He was interrupted by the loud tramp of sea boots. What Justin had foreseen was coming true. Cheap was bringing his fellow captains down to the cabin for their conference. And the boys had no time to reach the cubby. Cheap came first into the room and caught Francis by the shoulder even as the boy reached the sliding door.

“Ha, Sir Francis. I hear you have an interest in fine cutlery. Well, now is the time for you to see the skill of your shipmates. Take him on deck, Patawamie,” he ordered the Indian standing in the doorway, “and show him your knife tricks. You’ll find it a fine show, I’ll warrant! Get you gone quickly now, we have work to do.”

But when Justin got stiffly to his feet to follow, Cheap laughingly pushed him back into his seat on the stern locker.

“Not so, Scarface. Since Sir Robert has found you fit companion, I can do no less than to admit you to my counsels. And I think that you may have in that ugly head of yours much which may aid us now. Sit you there quietly until I have need of you.”

Buck came in, his lean dark face with its ever-watchful eyes making a hard silhouette against the paneling. He was a small man and young, but there was nothing of the adventurer in his sober bearing, nor anything of the fine gentlemen in his brusque ways.

His companion was that Lechmere whom Sir Robert had foreseen pickled by his own potions. And with them was another, whom Justin had not expected to find in such company, a tall black bush of beard with legs and a barrel body to carry its luxuriance—Black Quinby the unlucky. Cheap had indeed gathered a fleet to back his venture! To get three of the Lords to lend their weight to the affair was a master stroke.

As they seated themselves about the table so did they in part reveal their character. Cheap, of course, took the master’s chair as by right. Buck was all business, clearing away those papers which lay before his place and putting down in careful order some sheets of his own. Lechmere lurched on to the nearest stool and looked about him vaguely as if in search of something which should stand at his right hand but was not to be found in this cabin. And Quinby was a little apart from the others, almost as if they wished to withdraw themselves from some invisible shadow which hung about that unlucky master.

“You’ve made excellent time, gentlemen,” Cheap was pleased to open the meeeting. “Buck, I have to congratulate you upon your ship—she is a sweet sailer.”

“She is adequate,” returned the master. “Newly careened and outfitted. I’ll hold her against any sloop-o’-war in these waters!”

“You may have to,” Quinby growled. “This is a chancy venture.”

“All ventures in our way of business are chancy,” Cheap reminded him good-humoredly, “as you should know by now, Captain. But mayhap your luck will change—” The soft voice became a purr and Justin stirred. But Quinby did not flinch at such baiting. He had known too much of it of late.

Lechmere added his own comment. “This be a thirsty business, Captain. Would ye leave us t’ die o’ dry throats?”

Cheap did not heeed the appeal. “Better to die of dry throats than of fuddled wits, Lechmere. When this is over you shall have the first choice of the governor’s cellar, and I am told he keeps a notable one. But until you stand within its walls you will go a-thirsting and serve better for it.”

And to that highhanded decision Lechmere seemed to show no offense. Rather did he pull his thick body upright and try to take on that alertness which he had lost long since. Whatever hold Cheap had over this company, it was a strong one.

“Let us get to the point, Captain Cheap.” That was Buck, flint meeting tempered steel. “You have summoned us here with a good story of fortunes to come. Now what is this great throw?”

“We have a chance to quench that firebrand Scarlett and make a full purse for each of us into the bargain. It is this way, gentlemen.” Cheap lost his air of languor; he leaned forward, his face alight, his thin hands gesturing as he spoke. “Her Majesty maintains a fleet in these waters and according to custom the men are paid off only when the ships touch home ports. Well enough—but she also has soldiers ashore both here and in the northern colonies and they do not wait for their pay. Now we have it on very good authority that a pay ship is bound this way. She carries not only the West Indies pay chests but also the money for the regiments in the north—in fact she’s as rich as a plate ship—and all good English money too—

“She’ll reprovision and water at Bridgetown before she goes north. And her escort, her escort, mind you, is not to wait for her. Instead that frigate is to sail on to her station with the fleet. Three other ships which have finished their duty with the fleet and are to sail north and then home to England are to make rendezvous with her in Barbados and accompany her from there. Do you begin to see the simple beauty of our plan?”

Justin didn’t think that more than one word in five had wormed into Lechmere’s drink-sodden brain and he was none too sure of Quinby’s attention. But Buck was slowly taking fire. He was also the first to raise a question.

“How came you by this information, Cheap?”

“I have my informants ashore— more than one of them. And I am well served—very well served. So you see, here we have the pay ship waiting in peace for the coming of her new escort. And we, gentlemen, we are to be that escort!”

Buck was thoughtful. “It might work,” he admitted. “But how do we serve Sir Robert ill by this play?”

“We needs must get him aboard,” Cheap continued. “One pretext or another will be easy to find. And then we can hold him hostage for the town, should we find ourselves in difficulties for any reason. And when we sail—he sails with us. I, for one, have a long score to settle with Scarlett.”

“You are sure he is in Barbados now and not a-cruising?”

“Aye. That I can give you proof of. Scarface!” He turned to the boy. “What of Sir Robert, is he now in Barbados?”

“He was two nights ago,” Justin answered dully. This time he could see no flaw in Cheap’s plans—it all fitted, much too well.

“Who is this?” Buck eyed the boy curiously.

“I spoke of my eyes ashore,” laughed Cheap. “Well, here be one pair of them. He was taken on the Naughty Lass and had wit enough to accept the Queen’s Pardon and win Sir Robert’s interest. So for weeks he has been at the governor’s palace itself. Speak up now, you chuckle-headed loon. What guard does our Sir Robert keep about him?”

The question came faintly as if from a far distance, and Justin licked dry lips before he made halting answer.

“He keeps a guard ever about him—even in the hall of his house.” He was lying and doing it clumsily enough but Cheap did not seeem to sense that. Mayhap because that was the state in which the Captain would have lived had he been governor.

“And the town—numbskull—what of the town?”

“There is the watch and when needful the soldiers patrol there also. They watch for an attack from the French.”

“As well they might,” commented Cheap. “These islands would be ripe for the plucking should they try. So Sir Robert is a careful man—well, even careful men meet their match now and again. And I think that this is the time when Scarlett will meet his.”

But Buck showed them all a frowning face. What he had just heard was plainly not to his liking at all. And at the sight of that scowl Justin took heart. If he could only be free of that singing within his muddled head he might be able to speak the words which would add to the New England Captain’s fears. Only, before he could think out even one sentence, Cheap was answering. He too had seen that frown and guessed what lay in the mind behind it.

“These islanders are a rotted lot; the soldiers die like flies of the heat and fever. I’ll warrant you that Scarlett cannot put even a full corporal’s guard into the field upon alarm. And there will be no reason for him to suspicion us.”

“This is Shrimpton’s brig. Will he not rouse the town when he sees her return?” asked Justin hopefully.

Cheap grinned. “Not so. Master Shrimpton lies under the strong impression that his brig is now in the hands of a master mariner who will bring her safely to port past sleeping pirates.”

“Then won’t he give tongue when he sees her coming to port again here?” Buck had been quick to seize upon the flaw in that. He was not easy in his mind over this affair, that was plain for the dullest to see.

“Shrimpton will have no chance to see her. We have those ashore who have already taken care of Master Shrimpton. As for the rest of the townfolk—well, we have ready a fine tale of disaster. One day out and captain and mate were struck low by the fever. Those fish-heads ashore will believe that story more readily than they would believe that we dare what we dare. With the yellow plague flag up none will be too ready to board and ask questions. And no owner, no matter how tightly he pinches his silver, could expect aught from that crew of harbor scourings he has managed to throw aboard her. Good men do not sail when there is talk of pirates outside—unless they are offered more to line the pockets than our dear friend ashore will part with. So these will speedily back when left without direction—if they do not entangle themselves in the gear in the process.

“So you say, Scarface, that Sir Robert fears a French attack?” Cheap returned to his examination.

“He has said so.” Justin answered with the truth for it was no more than all the Main had already guessed.

“Did he also chance to say where his other sloop was cruising or when he expects a visit from the fleet?”

“No. He had no reason to blat out his business before me. All I can tell you is also common knowledge in the town—such as you yourself might have heard!”

“Scarface, you disappoint me. With such a golden opportunity to serve us all, you used it so poorly. Were it not that you have protested so stongly your good will towards us, I might almost believe that you are Scarlett’s man. And that would be unfortunate, very unfortunate for you.”

“You hold hostage for me—” Justin began and then would have liked to bite through his betraying tongue for the mischief it had done him. He did not even need to see that quirk of a smile in Cheap’s eyes to put the seal of certainty upon his foolishness.

“Aye, I was forgetting our hostage. And he may not be as stubborn a rogue either. There is a chance that he has used his eyes and ears to greater advantage than you have done. Shall we have in Sir Francis and put him to question?”

Quinby came out of his private world. “Gabble, gabble,” he spat at Cheap. “There’s a deal of useless talk here. If we’re for Bridgetown, then let us to it! And that speedily! You always were a clacking fellow, Cheap.”

No betraying nerve or muscle moved in Cheap’s face at that plain speaking but Justin knew what spark within the Captain had been brought to life now. Cheap never took any crossing easily.

“You must have patience, Captain. We want certain information which is necessary to our plan. But I believe that Scarface will supply us with it. Otherwise Creagh will amuse Sir Francis Hynde after his own fashion. Do you understand, you maggot?”

Justin looked from that handsome arrogant face down to the hands clenched on his knees. Aye, he understood. And this was just what he had feared from that first moment of their meeting in the Harp and Bottle. Because against this he had no defense, no defense at all. And Cheap knew it.

“What would you have of me?” he asked sullenly.

“Are the harbor forts manned?”

“Aye.”

“With militia or regulars?”

“Both at times. The regulars always.” (That was a desperate lie but he must take the gamble that the gossip of the town which Cheap might have heard had not yet repeated that squabble in the council which was plaguing Sir Robert into supplying an unnecesssary guard to the plantations.)

“How many guards on duty at the palace?”

“Ten. They are doubled at night.” (Lies, lies! But could he keep thinking of them fast enough to snap back such answers without the hesitation which would make Cheap suspicious?)

“And the sloops of war?”

“One is in harbor and the other cruises—where, I don’t know.”

“Hm. Well, now that you have found your tongue, I’ll trouble you to keep it.”

There were other questions, some from Buck and Quinby, and to them all he made the best answers he could. But he was gnawed by the fear that his best was not good enough, that sooner or later he would make some fatal slip and lose the game. Then Cheap would delight in carrying out that very threat which kept him talking.

So it was with a dull surprise rather than a feeling of relief that he saw the Captains’ meeting come to an end at last and watched the three Lords go out of the cabin, leaving him with Cheap.

The latter was in fine humor, humming a song and thumping time to the tune of it with his fingers. So good-humored was he that, when the others were gone, he got to his feet and crossed to the sea chest against the far wall. He rummaged within its tumbled contents and brought out a small ebony box which Justin had seen before. It was a jewel case, taken from a galleon, which had long served the Captain as a strong box for his chief treasures.

“This at least I was able to bring out of the Naughty Lass,” he said. “And glad I am that I did, since the laborer is worthy of his hire and your wages are within, Scarface. ’Tis a pity you will never know the proper market in which to spend them.”

He snapped up the lid of the case and took out a gleaming band which flashed in the air as he tossed it to the boy. Justin put out a hand half-mechanically and caught a length of soft gold braided into a supple chain which ended in a flat medallion bearing a partly erased design.

“Your wages, Scarface. And how generous I’ve been! Some day you will discover how generous. Ha, Sir Francis, and how did you like our sports?”

But the boy standing in the companionway was more interested in what Justin held than in the Captain’s question.

“What is it?” he demanded. “A knife? What wages, Justin? What is the Captain paying you wages for?”

Cheap laughed. “For value received, Scarface having imparted to us many interesting things about Bridgetown. No, it is not a knife—though in the proper hand it would be a dagger!”

Chapter Fifteen

TOO LATE IS NEVER

“WHAT DID you tell them?” Francis demanded. Cheap chuckled. “Enough to make us masters of Bridgetown, my small man. I did better than I thought to when I brought Scarface with me. He has a good eye and has used it knowingly. Now do you two bide here until I have need for you. I have no fancy to see either of you underfoot.”

He equipped himself with a sea-glass from the chest and went out. Justin sat where he had been and so he would have continued to sit—in a half-stupor—if Francis had not run toward him, his small face red, his hands balled into fists.

“You foul traitor!” and to this opening shot he added a string of oaths more apt from the mouth of a waterside brat than from a gentleman of family. “Now will Sir Robert and my uncle—” He choked on his own rage and added at the very top of his shrill voice, “You’ll hang, you dog! You’ll hang! I’ll tell them—tell them that you were Cheap’s spy—as I know now. All the men aboard this ship know that. Spy!” He spat.

And Justin stared down at the drop of moisture on his coat front. He wished that Francis would quiet, would go away and leave him to nurse his aching head.

“I’m thirsty,” he muttered to himself. And his dry mouth roused him to look for water. Only, in that instant he was seeing not the stuffy cabin of the brig but a tree-bordered pool in Tortuga.

Then the pool was gone and with it Francis. He, Justin, was on his wavering feet, his fingers locked on the back of Cheap’s chair to hold him steady. And that act seemed to break through his shell of pain. He had been talking, hadn’t he? For a long, long time. What had he said that was worth payment from Cheap, payment which was now coiled about his wrist. He held up his arm to examine the bangle more closely. It was obviously very old and the design on the drop had some resemblance to a coat-of-arms, but so faint were the lines of the engraving that he could make out nothing save the outline of an animal’s head. Since Cheap had kept it among his treasures it must be of some value and he would hold it safe. With fumbling fingers the boy tucked it into the pocket folds of his belt sash, putting it there so close to his skin that he could feel its length through the silk against his middle.

Then he crossed the cabin, clutching at table and wall, to the half-cupboard where the wine was kept. A half glass of Cheap’s brandy burned across his tongue and down his raw throat—but its fiery passage seemed to clear his head that he might think of the future again. And so he looked about him for his fellow prisoner.

Francis was curled up on the stern locker, staring out over the water, showing no interest in his companion.

“Francis!”

Young Hynde hunched his shoulders stubbornly and made no other answer.

“Francis, listen to me. We must lay our plans—”

The younger boy could hold his pose of indifference no longer. At that appeal he came around right enough to front Justin, but he showed a stormy face.

“I’m not listening to you—you—you dog of a spy!” he shouted. “When Sir Robert gets you again, he’ll show you how he deals with pirates! He’ll crook your neck with the rope fast enough!”

“Doubtless he will,” returned Justin wearily. “But if you wish him to catch me, you had better pay heed to me now. Captain Cheap has an excellent plan which may win him his desire of taking Barbados—unless he can be stopped. And you, Francis, if you wish, can have the stopping of him. Think how well Sir Robert and your uncle would rate you—”

He had by luck struck upon the right approach; the younger boy was listening.

“Why do you do this if you are Cheap’s man?”

“Mayhap because I owe Major Cocklyn a debt, mayhap because I still have some faint hope of so saving my neck —does it greatly matter? Think what you please, but we must plan. When this ship puts in again at Bridgetown the bumboats will be out to greet us—’til they see the yellow plague flag and are warned off. Then you must swing through these stern windows and make for them—You can swim?”

Francis nodded. “Aye. ’Twas all that I did that my uncle ever spoke fairly of. But do you come with me?”

Justin shook his head. “No. I would be missed the quicker and if I stay here to say that you sleep in the cubby, then will you have a brighter chance. Get you ashore as soon as you may, Francis, and then to the palace and rouse Sir Robert. If he is warned he may be able to win after all.”

The long day wore slowly on and, since they were confined to the cabin, there was no chance to discover if they really were bound for Barbados again. Now and then Justin’s head ached maddeningly when the dull pain above his eyes became a pounding hammer of agony which made him forget all else until it eased. He guessed that he had the dreaded coast fever and he could only hope to hold to his wits until he was able to get Francis away.

Once Patawamie brought them food—an ill-cooked mess which must have been scooped from the crew’s common kettle instead of from the officers’ supplies. This time Francis was hungry enough to choke it down, but not without making hearty complaint all the while.

There was a good and favoring wind aloft and the brig answered well to its urging, better than did one of her consorts, a sloop which wallowed well in her wake as if suffering from a weed-grown keel. That was Lechmere’s, Justin guessed. Though a master gunner and a man good to have at your back in a fight, he was no proper sailing master and never had been. By bringing him into this scheme Cheap might have dealt himself ill luck, since the drunken Captain was ever unpredictable in or out of his cups. Buck and Quinby, on the other hand, were steady men—good choices for such an affair.

“A fish! Scarface—see! A fish flying!” Francis had thrust himself half out of the stern window to watch this marvel.

“Aye. They’re common enough hereabouts. Now mind yourself, this is no spot in which to topple into the sea, and no one aloft will trouble himself to recover you if you do. Sit still and be quiet, Francis, ’twill be time enough to take to the water later.”

Justin put his head down on his arms with a sigh and it was sprawled thus across the table that Cheap found him a few minutes later. The Captain laced fingers in his hair and pulled him up to catch sight of his flushed face.

“What’s to do here? Faugh, you never used to be fond of the bottle, brat. Has our worshipful friend Scarlett made you free of that pleasure?”

Then his contempt faded as he put a questioning hand to Justin’s burning flesh, and, looking into the boy’s half-open but unfocused eyes, he whistled.

“So that is it, is it? The coast fever. And a pretty time for it to strike you too. But that cannot be helped. Francis, do you speak to Patawamie—he stands without. Tell him to summon Peter.”

Justin stirred then, trying to twist loose of the Captain. He had no wish to fall into Ghost Peter’s hands, even though the Negro was reputed to be better at doctoring than half the men who walked the hospitals of Europe. But Justin was not consulted and afterwards he had only very foggy memories of how the tall Negro and Captain Cheap served him. Several nauseating brews were poured by force down his throat and he was otherwise handled and mishandled past all resistance.

It was dark night and there was something buzzing, buzzing close beside his ear. Now and then he even thought he could make out words:

“Please—they take me away lest I have the fever too. Please—I can’t go through the window— Please—wake up, Scarface! Wake—!”

But he could not answer and after a while there were sharper voices a long way off and the buzzing ceased so that he slept in peace again, to awaken feeling oddly clean and free. He lay on a sort of pallet on the floor of the cabin which he could not remember ever having seen before. This was certainly not the Naughty Lass—and yet just last evening he had sailed on her out of Tortuga. Or had he? He had a faint memory of something else—some strange happenings which were now tattered edgings of dreams. At any rate he had better be out and about before Cheap came after him.

He got to his feet and stood looking in startled wonder at the clothing covering him. In place of canvas breeches and torn tow shirt which were his known wardrobe—and the whole of it—he was wearing stained and dirty, yet well-fitting gray breeches of cloth and there were stockings on his legs—thread stockings. Tossed across his pallet was a shirt of finer stuff than any he had ever worn, but since it was left as if it belonged to him he drew it on. Where had all this wealth of clothing come from—what had happened to him?

With his hand to his head he pushed out of the small cabin and found himself in the quarters of the vessel’s master—but not on the Naughty Lass. He lurched unsteadily over to the stern windows and looked out. There was land! A thin rocky point of it—not Tortuga, of that he was reasonably sure, though he seemed able to account for little in this crazy world. Also within eyesight was a sloop, being handled none too well, but apparently playing follow-the-leader with the ship in which he stood.

“So you’ve recovered your wits, have you?”

He looked over his shoulder at a familiar figure. Quittance had come in, to avail himself of a supply of gunpowder he poured from one leather bottle to another. Scarface wet dry lips before he dared to ask the question he must have answer to.

“What ship is this?” There, he had asked it! Only why was Quittance staring at him as if he had said some monstrous thing? What had happened to him since they had left Tortuga? And the mate wasn’t going to answer him either; instead he was slipping out of the cabin as if he feared to share it with Scarface.

The boy was still standing there when Cheap and Ghost Peter came in, moving with some haste as if they expected trouble. At the sight of Scarface on his feet the Captain’s heavy eyelids twitched and he glanced at the Negro as if asking his opinion.

“How do you feel?” he inquired of the boy.

“Well enough. But—please—what has happened? This is not the Naughty Lass!”

“The Naugh—!” Cheap stopped in mid-word and turned to Ghost Peter but the Negro was nodding and grinning.

“Tol’ ye it do queer tings, massa. Dis jungle root be pow’ful juju. Feveah it kill, also time it kill too. He do’an’ ’member nothin’ now; some day he will—jes’ like dis!” He clicked his fingers together sharply.

“You mean that he doesn’t remember anything?” Cheap demanded incredulously.

“Somet'ings—but all t’ings no. Ask ’im.”

“Well, what do you remember, my buck?” Cheap looked to Scarface.

“We sailed from Tortuga—last night?” Scarface made a question of his answer. He was beginning to piece knowledge together for himself now. Ghost Peter had mentioned the fever and that he had been dosed with one of the Negro’s herb remedies. So part of his memory was gone, was it? But that— that was witchcraft! He shrank from the two of them, a horror of them, of this strange cabin, of himself, beginning to grow within his mind. What had happened in the time he could not remember?

“Last night—?” Cheap laughed. “By the sword, that is as rich a jest as any man would want to hear. No, brat, ’twas not last night that we sailed from Tortuga, but some weeks since. You have had a bad touch of the fever. Mayhap it is well that Peter played doctor to you, since the days past are better out of your memory. So Scarface sails again with me— Well, I was never the one to spit in Lady Luck’s face. But best get you cutting tools, lad, we’ve hot work before us if anything goes ill.”

“Where are we?” demanded Scarface desperately as Cheap was about to leave the cabin.

“In the harbor at Bridgetown, Barbados,” Cheap grinned. “And since you have never seen this spot before, come on deck with you and look your fill.”

Cheap was mocking him now, he knew that tone of old. And why did the Captain watch him so closely when they reached the deck and he went to stare over the railing at the town across the water? What was there about Bridgetown which he should have known? To look at, it was any Indies’ town—its white-walled, tiled-roof houses like all the others to be seen up and down the Main. He had seen its like many times before and would doubtless see them again. But how had Cheap won into the harbor without a fight? Was this his fine plan for raiding Sir Robert’s own doorstep?

There were other ships at anchor—a sloop of war and a rather battered-appearing brig which must have fought her way through storm before she had reached her present anchorage. Then there was the brig on which they stood, a strange ship to him, and three other ships which kept close to her as if they shared her purpose. Yet Cheap had sailed alone from Tortuga.

“Well, Master Scarface, and how do you like Bridgetown?”

That was Cheap, still mocking. Scarface answered him as indifferently as he could.

“It is much like other towns I have seen—”

“And have fought through? But if all goes well we shall not have to take to the sword here. That is our quarry.” He nodded toward the storm-worn brig. “She has that on board which will well line all our pockets and she’ll come to our call like a lamb to the fold. Then we’ll shear her—all clean.”

To Scarface’s mind the anchored brig had little about her to make her noteworthy, but if Cheap proclaimed her so it was doubtless true, since the Captain seldom erred in such judgments. But how they were to cut her out of the harbor he did not see. But that was Cheap’s problem also. And now he himself was more concerned with learning why the Captain thought that Bridgetown should be of special interest to him.

That is, that was his first preoccupation—until he chanced to glance above the deck and saw that the ship upon which he stood was flying boldly the crimson Jack of an honest merchant craft with below it the dreaded yellow square which signified a plague ship! So that was how they had been able to come into the island harborage without raising alarm! But—he flogged his memory—had not some such scheme been tried once before—sometime—somewhere? If he could only remember!

They had been sighted and now from shore a trim launch was putting out. It bore the Queen’s Jack and could be either a naval or a customs’ craft coming to warn them off the town lest they infect the island.

As he hung over the rail watching that smaller boat approach Scarface heard a scuffle below. Someone had endeavored to climb through one of the gun ports and had been jerked back out of sight, with only a shrill, cut-off cry to mark the failure of his attempt. So Cheap was holding a prisoner between decks, a prisoner who had tried to gain the attention of those aboard the launch. Well, prisoners had been on Cheap’s ships before—but never for long. All Scarface hoped was that Creagh did not have the governance of this one—whoever the poor devil might be.

The launch came alongside but at a respectful distance. Scarface started to push forward to see its occupants, only Cheap’s hand closed talon-wise about the boy’s upper arm and he was held where he was. It was not the pirate captain who had gone down to answer the hail of the port authorities. Nathaniel Buck, rigged out in an ill-fitting red coat, stood there.

Buck! How did he come on this brig? He had not sailed from Tortuga with them—or had he? Since he, Scarface, could no longer trust his memory, how could he be sure of anything which had happened in the past? But why did Buck play the captain while Cheap stood in hiding?

One man dared to leap the gap between launch and ship and clamber up to them, a doctor’s bag slung around his neck, sent doubtless to verify their leperdom. When Buck greeted him he pressed a folded paper on the New Englander and then stood waiting.

Buck came aft as two men closed in on the doctor. At their words the small man from shore went rather reluctantly towards the crew’s quarters. Buck flipped the paper to Cheap.

“Greetings from His Excellency and a warm warning to take ourselves off, I suppose.” The New England captain waited for Cheap to finish reading. “I don’t like this—”

“Do you ever?” commented Cheap. “Hmm—” He scanned the few lines swiftly. “Ha, so Sir Robert would have us remove ourselves speedily to such a spot as he shall designate. Shall I go ashore to throw myself on his mercy and beg for pity?”

His brother captain favored him with a glance which implied that he was indeed moon-struck and altogether witless.

“When he knows your face as well as he knows the back of his hand? This is a crazy plot, Cheap, and I would that I had not lent my ship to it. No good will come of such recklessness—I warn you.”

Cheap pointed to the other brig. “Look there and think what lies under her deck; that should change your tune quick enough. I’ll contrive an answer to this which will keep Scarlett off—until we are ready. He’ll wake too late and then he’ll discover that too late is never! I’ve had a rod in pickle for Robert Scarlett a good score of years!”

Chapter Sixteen

“UNTIL YOU ARE DEAD, DEAD, DEAD!”

MAYBE IT was the ill-omened presence of Black Quinby, maybe it was the good luck of Robert Scarlett, but fate, at long last came into striking distance of Jonathan Cheap that day, and the blow she dealt him was no light one. Scarface was never clear afterwards as to what started that debacle.

It began on board one of the sloops which had companied them into the anchorage. There were shouts from her deck and then the crackle of pistol shots. The peddlers’ boats fled as if the plague lay naked there and someone lost his head and lobbed a shot after the tail of the nearest.

As a result the trumpet call to quarters was blown on the seaworn brig Cheap was watching and her gun ports opened. Her master was either a vastly suspicious or a vastly nervous man, and, in either case, his prompt action was to save him his ship, because Cheap, always reckless when it came to battle, took that as a challenge. Before Buck or Quittance could argue it he had given the nod to Creagh and those wolves who followed him.

Had Buck been aboard his own ship he might, have tried to run for it, for he was a prudent man and had no liking for such odds as faced them now. But he was on Cheap’s ship and fight he must—which might have been what Cheap intended from the beginning.

Having given the game away the sloop now proceeded to make bad matters doubly worse by firing with ragged persistence at the shore fortifications—the fact that all the balls fell yards short of their goal apparently making no impression upon the gunner at all. Witnessing this, the farthest bark of their small fleet frankly turned tail and started out to sea, deserting her company. Buck bit his nails as he watched her go—for she was his own ship.

So did Jonathan Cheap’s fine plan break into so many pieces and no man could save them now. What remained was a sorry business.

Cheap and Quinby fought, and Lechmere, on whose deck the betrayal had begun, hammered away—mostly at thin air and empty water. There was a wild hour in which twice it seemed as if they might win free after all, but when the sloop of war, the brig and the forts all lapped them in with fire, that hope vanished. And the end was bitter fighting across the decks where the smooth dull red paint could no longer hide the brighter patches of fresh crimson.

Scarface cut and thrust with a blade he had chanced upon, and by some luck or his own skill was among that handful who won up to the afterdeck and there stood panting back to back, waiting for the last rush of the island men. It was a dirty business and he was almost glad when the end came.

The commander of the invaders brought up a culverin and trained it upon them, ordering the pirates to throw down their arms or be blasted. Even Cheap could not face that and his sword rang with the others on the planking.

So did Scarface come into Bridgetown, his arms lashed behind him, thrust up the wharf’s ladders to walk with his fellows down the crooked lanes toward the jail with the soft oaths of Cheap overriding in his ears the shouts and taunts of the crowd which ringed them in.

He found himself at last in a dark cellar where various stenches warred and the floor was slimy underfoot. And he was not alone, but shared these quarters with what was left of the ship’s crews. So there was little room indeed and if a man found a spot wherein he might squat upon his hunkers he was lucky. In the gloom it was hard to tell one powder-blackened face from another, but he noted that Cheap and the other officers were not with them. Here was only the common sort and most of them had already abandoned hope since Sir Robert’s temper toward pirates was well known throughout the Main. Only some who were pressed men or unknown spoke among themselves of pardons.

Scarface cut and thrust with a blade he had chanced upon.

How long they were imprisoned there he had no way of telling and in the after days he believed that his fever must have come upon him again for he could remember so little of that time, save that once he ate hungrily of coarse mealie dumplings, such fare as slaves fed upon. And when at last the crew were brought forth, the open light of day hurt his eyes, so that he would have shielded them—had his hands not been seized and bound behind him again.

The prisoners were led into court in companies of ten and when he stood with some others from his cell he found that Cheap and Buck were also to be of their number. The New Englander stood with bitten lip and eyes which roved the room as if he needs must free himself or perish—as was indeed true—save that there was little hope of freedom.

But Cheap, in spite of the heavy irons at his wrists and the slave bar at his ankles which held him to a short shuffle instead of his usual free stride, held his head high and stared back at the islanders assembled there as if he were as great a man as he who sat in the governor’s high seat. Indeed there was the same sort of air about them both, as if they had long walked in companies where other men did their bidding without question. And now their eyes held long together and it seemed that this was not a trial but a silent duel between the two of them.

Scarface shook his head at these crackbrained fancies. But this room, the fellow pressed against him, Cheap and the other man who must be Sir Robert trying to outstare each other—these all were unreal, as if he were in the midst of one of those muddled dreams which torment the uneasy sleeper. He pulled himself together and resolved to plead not guilty and hope because of his youth to be given a chance at pardon.

Only the heat and crowding of the room made his head ache most vilely and sometimes when those about him spoke he could not hear what they said but only saw their lips move in their faces. Now some official of the court was reading out their names.

“Jonathan Cheap, Captain, Nathaniel Buck, Captain, Nathaniel Creagh, Boatswain, John Dipper, Eleazer Camberwell, Rance Spranger, Phineas Burch, Richard Stodgill, Dennis Broome, Justin Blade—”

Ten names, and ten men stood in the dock. But they had not read his name. What did that mean? There had been no “Scarface” on that list.

“Broome and Stodgill do plead that they are forced men,” went on the clerk, “and do throw themselves upon the court’s mercy. Justin Blade has taken the Queen’s Pardon and then returned again to his evil ways—”

Scarface wondered which of their number was that unlucky wretch who would now have no chance at all. Three of the men standing with him were strangers from one of the other ships; it might be any one of them. Only why hadn’t they called his name?

It was a lengthy business, this trying of pirates, for each man must have his chance and there were many witnesses to be called. They tried the common men first, leaving the officers until the end. Dipper and Camberwell made only a poor showing and when they would speak in their own defense they but yammered for mercy. Stodgill was able to prove that he had been indeed a forced man, kept from a captured ship because he was a skilled carpenter. But why had they not yet spoken of Scarface?

At last only he, Creagh and the two captains were left. And then the Queen’s Counsel addressed the Judge with such words as left the boy staring down at him in horrified amazement.

“M’lord, we come now to one of the greatest villains this island has ever seen. This youth, in spite of his few years, has accomplished such evil as few twice his age do. He did take the Queen’s Pardon, and nourished by those he was able to hide his foul heart from, he did live here among us—whilst all the time he was acting as a spy for this Jonathan Cheap. And all this can we prove. M’lord, I do now call Major Humphrey Cocklyn!”

A tall man in the red coat of an officer came forward to swear the oath while Scarface watched him unbelievingly. This couldn’t be true—he wasn’t Justin Blade—he had never been in Bridgetown before—or had he? What was the past Peter’s concoction had driven from him?

And, as the man testifying against him spoke, the boy leaned forward listening eagerly to every word. It was a most fantastic tale. That he had been brought ashore from the Naughty Lass, that he had lived for weeks under Cocklyn’s roof, that he had then been taken to the palace to supply the governor with information concerning Tortuga—

“And this Justin Blade while under your roof did accept the Queen’s Pardon?” prompted the prosecutor.

For the first time Cocklyn glanced up at the boy. In his brown face his eyes were hard, his mouth a thin line of distaste.

“Aye, sir.”

“And you did thereafter care for and maintain him almost as a son within your household?”

Cocklyn bowed his head in assent. The Queen’s Counsel, smiled cheerfully.

“And how did he afterwards requite you for this hospitality?”

“He was to act in some measure as a companion to my young nephew, Sir Francis Hynde. And he did betray this trust when he returned to his friends, taking Francis with him so that the lad might be held for ransom.”

“So. A vile fellow indeed, Major Cocklyn. M’lord, if it be your pleasure, we will now call upon Sir Francis to tell the court how this pirate used him.”

Cocklyn stepped down and another took his place. Scarface frowned. That bewigged and satin-coated little fop—Surely he had never seen him before!

“Sir Francis,” said the counsel, “be good enough to raise your eyes to the dock and tell the court if you have ever seen before any of the men now standing therein.”

Eagerly the boy scanned the row of prisoners.

“Oh, aye,” he cried. “There is Captain Cheap, and Nat Creagh and Scarface—”

“And who is Scarface?”

“Justin—Justin Blade, but the pirates do call him ‘Scarface.’ Captain Cheap said that he served them well as eyes within Bridgetown.”

There was a stir in the room and even the Judge frowned. For a moment Sir Robert even lost interest in Cheap and transferred his attention to Scarface.

“M’lord, with the permission of the court Sir Francis will tell his story in its entirety.”

So did they all hear of a day’s fishing and what it led to. Scarface swallowed with a dry throat. This web they were spinning about him had no escape hole. Surely they couldn’t all be mistaken—he must have done these things—been here before—known these people—Only he could not remember!

“Wait!” That word of interruption had come from the Governor himself and now he spoke to the Judge. “M’lord, if it please the court, may I ask the witness a question?”

If the Judge was annoyed he masked that emotion and agreed quickly enough to His Excellency’s request.

“So when you were aboard this ship Blade did suggest to you that you might escape when you sailed again to Bridgetown?”

“Aye, Your Excellency. But he also said that he would help me. And then he lied, for when I came and asked it of him he did not move or answer me.”

“Why not?”

“I know not, Your Excellency, save that Captain Cheap did say that he had the coast fever and then he and the great black man—him whom they call Ghost Peter—took Scarface away and I did not see him again. They said that I must not trouble him for he was ill—”

“Very interesting,” commented Sir Robert. “May we ask”—he spoke now to the counsel—"to hear evidence concerning the demeanor of the prisoner during the fighting?”

The counsel had plenty of such testimony to offer. Scarface—the bloodthirsty Blade—had fought well and had only been taken by that last threat of the culverin.

“Then at no time did the prisoner offer to join those attacking the pirates?” persisted Sir Robert.

Again a murmur swept the court. But the lieutenant who had come to the stand was quick to reply.

“At no time, Your Excellency. He fought most savagely and seemed to be in high favor with his fellows.”

“I see.” Sir Robert settled back in his chair as if he had lost all interest in the proceedings and the counsel seemed more sprightly—as if a threatened danger had been safely by-passed. But he began almost at once to sum up his case against Justin Blade, laying great stress upon the fact that having once taken the Queen’s Pardon the villain had returned to his old ways, that he was reported by Cheap himself to have been his spy within the town and that Sir Francis had seen him accept payment for that latter service.

And to this Scarface could make no reply save that he intended to tell the truth if they would ever let him speak for himself. Only Sir Robert spoke once more, saying:

“Ask of Cheap whether this boy was truly his spy—”

And Cheap took the oath with spirit to reply:

“The lad is like a son to me. Oh, aye, I did have him flogged. I am a man of hasty temper and he did cross me badly. But when he served me well I did accept him into favor again. He is my man.”

And so did Captain Cheap make very sure that his cabin boy would hang on the Bridgetown gallows.

The trial plodded on, only now Scarface had little attention for the evidence or the plight of the others. Within himself he knew a great and ever growing cold. But yet none of this day seemed real—as real as the pain in his head. Twice he looked up wearily to see that Sir Robert was watching him closely, a frown written between his brows, as if in Scarface he saw a puzzle he could not solve.

And in the end when all the testimony had been heard, Buck and Cheap were painted as black as the men who had gone before them. Then the Judge gave all of them one last chance to speak in their own behalf. Scarface moved stiff jaws and dry lips when they asked of him what he had to say, and he spoke at last more to Sir Robert than to those others who, as he knew well, had already condemned him in their minds.

“Of what has been told here against me—I can say naught for it may be the truth. When I fell ill of the coast fever Captain Cheap did force upon me the devil’s brew which Ghost Peter has the secret of. It takes the fever from a man’s bones right enough, but it also takes from him his memories. I cannot remember the past at all—”

But he stopped then and set his teeth for they were laughing openly and even the Judge smiled. And he saw that they believed his tale a tissue of poor weak lies. Only Sir Robert’s frown grew and he was plaiting a paper into a fan, his fingers biting out sharp creases. So did Scarface’s speech in his own behalf lose him any sympathy which might have remained to him.

The jury did not go from the room but rendered a verdict yet sitting. To suffer the extreme penalty of the Queen’s law they condemned all save Stodgill and for him there was freedom since he had been a pressed man.

From the desk before him the Judge picked up the black silk cap and placed it on his wig. There was no laughter in him now, only the most awesome dignity as he gave their sentences.

“—shall be taken hence”—his words were heavy on the stagnant air of the room—"to the place of execution and there, within the flood marks, to be hanged by the neck until you are dead, dead, dead— And thereafter shall your bodies remain upon the gibbet as a warning to all ill-doers and masterless rogues!”

“Dead—dead—dead—” Scarface stared down at the floor. There were great wide cracks between the old boards and a black insect scuttled from one crevice to another. Dead—dead—dead— Those were words, just words.

Someone seized him by his elbow and brought him about so that he could follow his fellows out of the courtroom. And as they went their feet drummed out on those boards —dead—dead—dead—

Chapter Seventeen

DRINK DEEP AND BE SORRY

THEREAFTER they were not left alone to spend their last hours in decent peace, but rather did the town flock in to view them as if they were caged and dangerous beasts. Until they were led out to the gallows they would not be free of pointing fingers and staring eyes.

Some huddled down near the wall and sat looking before them into the blackness of tomorrow, and others put a bold face on the matter and talked loud and long to any who would listen. But Scarface found a far corner of the courtyard wherein they were now penned like senseless cattle and dropped down full length, trying to be as unminding as the animal they deemed him.

For some moments he did not realize why he could not lie in comfort. But when he felt in the sash about his middle he discovered a hard knot in its folds which bit into him when he tried to rest. He dug it out and found he was holding a chain of soft, dull gold.

There was something about that piece of chain—something important to him. Back and forth, back and forth, his gaze followed its swing. He had handled it before— someone had given it to him. A dagger—a dagger in the right hand—who had said— Cheap had!

And this was Cheap’s gift! Because—because—he had been given it because he told stories of Bridgetown—stories of BRIDGETOWN! Scarface cupped the chain tight in his palm and forced his twisting thought straight.

He could remember now—remember almost all! It was true—he was Justin Blade and he had walked these cobbled streets before. But the rest was not true—he was no pirate!

That brought him to his feet and sent him pushing among his fellows towards the great iron grille which was the gate. They couldn’t keep him here—he must get out—it was wrong, his being here, all wrong and even Sir Robert would say so.

A hand caught him and the full strength behind it brought him up short. He was looking into Creagh’s heavy face.

“Whar ’way, mate?” the boatswain asked cheerfully. “Thar be no leavin’ fer us ’til we go out t’ tread th’ air tomorrow. Best save yer legs fer that!”

“But I can remember now! I can remember all of it! I’m no pirate!”

Creagh spluttered laughter. “Ain’t ye now? Well, who’d ’ave thought it? Th’ Judge an’ th’ rest don’t allow that ye be right in that. They said yer a pirate right enough. Ain’t no man in Bridgetown t’ say ’em no tonight.”

With a playful shove he sent Scarface spinning, to collide with another man who cursingly fended him to stumble over the outstretched feet of a third and bring him forcibly up against the very gate he had been pushing towards. Only now he had no wish to stand there.

What Creagh said was true. No man in Bridgetown would believe his fantastic story tonight. And tomorrow—tomorrow— He closed his eyes. But still printed before them was a scene he had been trying desperately not to think of. Dead—dead—dead—

“Pirate! Yah—murderin’ scum! Pirate, dirty pirate!”

Without the gate a small boy was snatched back by his taller brother. By the minute the crowd outside the prison yard was growing and nowhere among it did Scarface see any who might be appealed to—none of the better sort of townspeople were in this mob. Or if they were, they kept well to the outskirts.

“Pirate! Pirate!” someone else mouthed the chant before him. Scarface looked into the vacant eyes and slobbering jaws of Danby Johns. He who had once been the butt of this same mob was now a part of it. But as his wandering gaze met Justin’s a strange expression crossed his seamed face, and he extended a trembling hand.

“Good ’een t’ ye, matey,” he whined. “Be ye goin’ t’ buy ol’ Danby rum?”

On bitter impulse Scarface tossed the gold chain through the grill and Johns caught it eagerly. Incredulously he looked from the gold to Scarface until the boy nodded reassuringly.

“Aye, take it, Danby. Drink deep and be sorry. The best rum, mind you!”

Danby nodded solemnly as if taking an oath. “Aye, matey, th’ best rum!”

But he was not to get his rum after all, for the guard at the gate had witnessed the transaction and now he came down upon Johns and wrested the chain out of his grasp. Scarface pulled at the gate bars in fruitless anger.

“Give it to him!” he ordered. “That is mine to give as I please. Give it back to Johns!”

The guard grinned. “Is it now? Well, th’ lieutenant will ’ave a word about that. Come along, you!” He kicked at Johns. “I’m after thinkin’ ’e’ll want a word wi’ you also. Drinkin’ th’ ’ealth o’ pirates, is it?”

With the struggling Johns firmly in hand the guard pushed his way through the mob and Scarface listlessly left the gate for his old corner. All that he ever did turned out ill. Now doubtless he had made trouble for Johns—who might even be sent to join them. Surely his star was a black one and he had been damned by it from the hour of his birth.

He wondered if Snelgrave would ever hear of the brave ending made by his star pupil. Liza would have to find another master also, and whatever secrets she kept locked in her dirty head would never be known to him now. The boy put his head back against the wall, closed his eyes, and was half sunk in a sort of sullen daze when the guards came for him—pushing through the crowd of condemned men to hunt him out.

At first he thought the night was over and they were having him forth to march behind the silver oar down to the water’s edge. But they were taking none of the others and they took him not to the street but into the jailer’s own quarters where three men awaited him.

Candles burned high to show him Sir Robert, Cocklyn and that same puffy-faced judge whose words had sent him to this place. And all three of them were intent upon what Sir Robert held—the chain. At his coming their attention turned to him and Sir Robert asked:

“You gave this to Johns to spend for drink?”

Scarface shrugged. “Why not? After the morning it will serve me not and to be drunk on good rum will give him pleasure. Let him toast me out of this life if he will.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Cheap gave it to me. He told me that it was truly mine and that if I knew how to use it—it might be a dagger. He has a liking for such talk—”

“Cheap!” Sir Robert’s mouth was a thin bluish line. “Ever Cheap!” He turned to the Judge. “Let us have him in—”

“A dagger,” repeated Cocklyn slowly. “Now why did the fellow say that? You are sure that the chain is the one, Robert?” His hand rested lightly on Scarlett’s shoulder.

“Aye. I am sure—sure of everything that marked those months. Do you think I can ever forget while still I breathe! This is the first proof—the first proof I have ever had in all these years. And if Cheap—” His eyes were alive, more alive than his set face, his close-held lips. Around the chain his fingers were curled claw-tight.

But Cocklyn had turned again to the boy. “So Cheap did tell you that this trinket was yours—that you had full right to it?”

“He said that it was my wages and it was a pity that I did not know the proper market in which to spend it; also that he was being generous—how generous I could not guess—” He broke off, uneasy under Cocklyn’s intent gaze.

The major was eyeing him from head to foot, making him feel almost as if he stood stripped and shivering before them all. From that moment he was never free from Cocklyn’s eyes, no matter how he tried to escape into the obscurity beyond the candlelight. Only Sir Robert seemed no longer aware of him nor marked his withdrawal to the other side of the small room. For Scarlett was watching the door with a fierce anticipation.

It was a year’s wait to Scarface, and mayhap half a century to Sir Robert, before they had Cheap in. He stepped just within the door, his chains clanking as he moved, and blinked once or twice at the change from the torchlight to the more concentrated illumination here. Then he coolly examined the company and stood waiting their pleasure. Only he looked more to Sir Robert.

From Scarlett’s fingers swung the chain and to it was drawn Cheap’s attention. His jaw thrust forward and he laughed softly.

“Greetings, brother-in-arms.” His voice held all the old arrogance. “And from whence had you that token?”

“I might ask the same of you, Cheap.” Each word ground from between set teeth.

“And if I were to say that I had it from the same source where you bestowed—”

None of them were prepared for that sudden leap, for the spring which brought the pirate’s throat between Scarlett’s two hands. And those merciless hands tightened in spite of all Cheap’s frenzied writhings. Then Cocklyn was into the struggle, beating and tearing at those iron fingers, bellowing into the Governor’s ear.

“Don’t Robert, don’t kill him! If you do—you’ll never know! Robert! Fiend take you, loose him! Acton, help me—he’s mad!”

The Judge was with him and in the end the sheer weight of their arms broke Scarlett’s murderous grip so that Cheap sank back against the wall, his tearing gasps for life-saving air loud in the room. But Scarlett stood quiet, his hands hanging at his sides, his unmoved face like that of a dead man, even his eyes dull and listless. When Cocklyn urged him he allowed himself to be guided back to his chair, as uncomplaining as if he were a babe or stricken of his wits.

For what seemed a long time to the boy by the wall, there was a deep silence in the room. Cheap recovered enough to drag himself erect, his manacled hands rubbing at his tortured throat. Cocklyn and Acton hovered above the Governor, and the Major’s hands were pressed down upon his friend’s shoulders to hold him in his seat. But Scarlett was able to control his rage now, his eyes were alive again, his tenseness gone. He picked up the chain from the floor where he had dropped it in his frenzied attack upon the pirate captain.

“So all these years,” he began softly, “you knew.”

And with all the malicious humor gone from his face, Cheap nodded heavily, still rubbing at his throat as if he could not answer aloud.

“What happened—what happened to the Maid of Cathay?” Sir Robert asked—as if he were making an inquiry of mere acquaintance, not of a man he had just tried to kill.

“We took her—off Jamaica,” croaked Cheap, making answer as if those eyes, that calm voice, were instruments of torture forcing the words out of him.

Cocklyn’s hands tightened their hold on Scarlett but the Governor made no move to rise. Instead he twisted the chain about his wrist so that it served as a bracelet.

“We—you mean that you took her, Cheap. And then what happened after?”

“She burned.”

“Burned” The word was a blow upon the air of the room. Cocklyn sucked in his breath sharply, but Scarlett betrayed no emotion now.

“And her passengers?” He might have been discussing the sugar crop.

Cheap’s chains clashed. He moved his hands in a sharp gesture and straightened to his full height, towering over all of them. But the man on the rude chair before him was still master of the situation.

“Under the sea—”

Cocklyn moved at that. He put forth his hand, digging fingers tightly into the cloth of Scarface’s coat. Then he pulled the boy back into their tight circle.

“You lie, Cheap. And here stands the proof of that!”

Cheap’s mouth worked as if he would laugh and yet no laughter would come to his bidding. It was Acton who asked the question for him.

“What do you mean, man?”

“Just this, for some purpose of his own Cheap has kept this boy by him, saying now and again that he was a weapon to be used against an ancient enemy. He gave to him that bangle, telling him that it was his by right—by right! Think—think what that could mean!”

“I will not appeal to your mercy”—Sir Robert spoke as if he had not heard Cocklyn’s outburst—"because you do not know the meaning of that word—as you proved years since—”

This time Cheap managed the laugh. “Right enough, Sir Robert, you were ever good at reading a man. No, I finished with mercy, even as I finished with friendship, long ago. And to prove my freedom from mawkishness I’ll tell you all the tale you want out of me—give it to you out of my pleasure in it. Because when I tell it I can see you—look into your face and watch every word burn you. Filth was I! Red-handed murderer, unfit for gentlemen such as yourself to consort with— Aye, I’ve remembered right well all those fine names you flung at me upon the occasion of our last meeting. You paid for every one of them—and now you’ll pay twice over!

“I took the Maid of Cathay— just as you have tried to discover these seventeen years and more, with all your agents combing the islands for news of her. I took the Maid of Cathay and sank her with all on board save one—save one—Robert Scarlett!

“And that one I took into Tortuga with me. Remember Tortuga as it then was—thieves’ den for the whole Main. That’s where I took your lady—she who was too nice, too fine for me to meet on that night we both hold memories of. Aye, she came to Tortuga right enough. Only there I lost a piece of my luck. Because she died, you see, was gone between two days. But she left me a memory token which I have been careful of, precious careful of, since I saw that she had left in my hand a weapon which would break you in the end, bring you to those stiff knees of yours, just as you brought me to mine once on a time. She left me—your son!”

It took a full long minute for them to understand that, for their attention to swing from Cheap to the boy under Cocklyn’s hand—while he looked dumbly not at the others but at Cheap who now stood dominating them all.

“Aye, your son! Look well upon my handiwork, Robert Scarlett! Potboy, scarface, renegade pirate, thief and murderer, condemned to hang with the dawn—there is your only son. And so at long last are we two quits at this world’s gaming table. Because all your days you will have a sweet memory to hold by you—you helped to hang your only son!”

“This is true?” The Governor’s voice was very controlled and yet it cut through the other’s fine ranting like a ship’s prow through the waves.

“True? Aye, have up Creagh or Peter; they’ll answer you straight enough. You know them both of old. But you know that I speak the truth, Robert Scarlett, you know that very well.”

Scarlett bowed his head. “You do—God help me—you do!”

Cheap’s smile was that of a victor. “You will excuse me now,” he said to them all. “I have only a few hours left to me and I am fain to sleep since I would go fresh to my hanging. You give me leave to go?”

“Not yet, Captain Cheap,” Scarlett returned almost briskly. He made a sign and Cocklyn produced from a pocket a package wrapped in a bit of stained cloth. He pulled off the cloth and gave to the Governor a small gourd which still contained a sticky black paste.

“As you perceive by this we have already had speech with Ghost Peter. In fact it was upon that affair that we had come hither. I believe you know of this—a sovereign remedy for the coast fever, is it not?” He paused courteously for the answer which Cheap did not make. The wild elation was gone out of the Captain; he was wary now, on guard against a new danger.

“Only it is a remedy which no sane doctor will use—because it plays strange tricks with men’s minds. However, being no doctor, you were willing to take that risk, weren’t you, Jonathan? Why—? Because you did not want to lose your weapon against me? Was that it, Cheap? And would it have been even more amusing if the drug had worked as it sometimes does and you could have shown me a drooling idiot as my son—would it?”

Cheap’s mouth was a beast’s snarl of rage.

“How you must hate me, Jonathan Cheap. Almost as much as I hate you!”

“Only I’ve won,” spat the Captain. “Your pirate son will swing with me.”

“Will he? You underrate our justice, Cheap. You see, I thought his bearing at the trial was odd and there were points in Francis Hynde’s story which gave me to think so strongly that I came here tonight with witnesses. Peter talked, he had no reason not to, because he looks upon his drug as an honest one and his cure something to boast of. He talked very well, did Peter. And now you yourself have supplied the missing evidence. No, Jonathan Cheap, I do not think that my son will hang tomorrow. But I know that you will!”

“Do not think that you shall keep him from the gallows because he bears your name!” shouted the Captain. “Even a governor cannot do that!”

Justice Acton spoke then. “On fresh evidence the prisoner has been remanded. I assure you it is very legal, Captain Cheap. Even Her Majesty will find no fault with the Courts of Barbados.”

“Keep the whelp then! And I wish you the full joy of him! Since I have had the fashioning of him from his birthing he will bring no pride to you. And the day will come, Robert Scarlett, when you shall wish that you had let well enough alone and left him to dance on air. You see, I know well my Scarface.”

Chapter Eighteen

OUT OF THE SEA, INTO THE SEA

“DO YOU?” mused Sir Robert. “I wonder. I mind me of many times in the past when you were wrong. You have ever been plagued by too great estimate of your own powers.” He yawned. “Now it’s a little late to settle these matters and, since we all have an important engagement on the morrow—” He arose with the air of one speeding parting guests.

“May the Devil blast you—Robert Scarlett,” breathed Cheap and his face was a gargoyle mask of red hate.

Scarlett laughed and that jeering answer seemed to bring Cheap to his senses again, so that he was his own man once more as he made a sketchy bow to the company.

“Laugh while you may, Your Excellency, but he who enjoys the jest most, laughs last. You may find that the dog still has some fangs in his jaws.”

With that he was gone, shouldering aside the guard at the door so that the fellow needs must haste to catch up with his prisoner.

“That is Cheap for you,” observed Sir Robert. “He must ever have the last word or he deems himself robbed by fate.”

“You do not think that there is aught in what he said?” ventured Cocklyn.

“He has said many things here tonight, and most of them surprising. Which statement do you question now, Humphrey? The one that Blade is my son? No, in that Cheap speaks the truth.”

“How do you know?” Scarface got it out at last, that protest against this last trick Cheap had played him.

They all turned to him. Acton was frowning, Cocklyn surprised, but a quirk of a smile lifted Sir Robert’s long upper lip. And of the three, Scarface liked that smile the least.

“Is it so hard a fate to face?” asked the Governor with all his old biting mockery. “Faith, my reputation as a man-hunter must be a grim one. But at the cost of setting all your worst fears alert I must say that, aye, you are my son. I will accept Cheap’s word in this matter because I know the man, and such a trick is well like his contriving. Then too, were it not for that scar, you might be thought twin to Godfrey Chalmers of Jamaica who was my lady’s younger brother. ’Twas that likeness which I noted from my first meeting with you. You are, in spite of all your hopes, Justin Scarlett.”

“Your Excellency,” Acton protested, “the law must have better proof before accepting such a wild tale—the word of a condemned rogue—”

Sir Robert’s eyebrows rose. “Must it? Then we shall contrive to give it some. But let us adjourn this discussion, gentlemen. As I observed before, the hour grows late and I have a fatiguing task awaiting me tomorrow. You will excuse us? Come, Justin—”

Unwilling, but not daring to disobey that order, Scarface followed the Governor out of the room at a pace which he tried to make as slow as possible. But only too soon were they out in the street where a detachment of the guard waited them with the coach and so rode in state back up the hill.

Once inside the palace, Justin would have crept away to what had been his own quarters, but the hoped-for dismissal from Sir Robert’s presence did not come. Instead he was ushered into the Governor’s own chamber where a waiting slave hurriedly set candles ablaze and then was waved out of the room. The boy moved his feet and glanced longingly at the door but Scarlett had no pity on him.

“Here’s a pretty to-do.” Sir Robert threw himself into a wing chair. He might either have been addressing Justin or thinking aloud. “What am I going to do with you now?”

“If it please you, sir,” Justin broke in eagerly, “I’d as leave go—I make no claim on you—truly, Your Excellency—”

“So Cheap hit near the truth after all. D’you hate me as much as all that, lad?”

“Hate you?” Justin was honestly bewildered. “I have no reason to hate you, sir. This night you saved my life—”

“Having first thrust your neck well into the noose. Aye. But then by just naming a man ‘son’ you cannot fully win him. However, we’ve all time before us to know each other better. Faith, by the look of you now, the fever’s still in your bones. Take the far chamber there and get you to bed. On the morrow we’ll have the doctor in to you. But there’ll be no more devil’s potions down your throat—that I promise.”

Justin mumbled his thanks and went into the room Sir Robert had indicated. Pulling off his clothes he crawled between the fine sheets of the curtained bed and was asleep from sheer exhaustion almost before his head was centered on the pillow. Nor were any dreams able to break his rest. But in the other room the dawn light struck full across time-yellowed papers over which His Excellency had been busy the night through.

There was a pattern of sunlight on the wall, dappled by the shadows of leaves. Justin blinked once or twice at it and then sat upright in the wide bed. As if that sudden move had pulled a bell cord a slave arose quickly from the floor and grinned wide-toothed at him, then vanished through the door to reappear at the head of a small procession of his fellows bearing a wooden tub, cans of water, towels and other aids to a gentleman’s toilet.

So did Justin for the first time in his life fall into the hands of a trained body servant and find himself after a somewhat breathless half hour well bathed, shaved and clad, ready to face the most critical society. He ate of the food they brought him, and it was only after they had taken away the empty dishes, that he began to wonder why he had seen or heard nothing of Sir Robert. When he ventured to ask one of the slaves, the fellow only shook his head and said something about “duties.”

“So there you are!” piped a very familiar voice from without the long window. Then, without waiting on an invitation which might not be given at all, Francis Hynde swung a leg over the sill and pulled himself in.

“Didn’t he let you go either?” he demanded, full of some personal slight. “My Uncle Humphrey locked me in—did Sir Robert lock you?”

“Lock me—why?”

“So you wouldn’t go to see the pirates hung? That’s where all the island is now—down watching the hanging. But Uncle Humphrey brought me here and locked me in so I couldn’t go. I climbed out the window but I can’t get over the wall, not unless someone gives me a hand up—” He regarded Justin hopefully. “You could climb it, I think,” he added coaxingly.

Justin shook his head. “No. Haven’t you had enough of running away, Francis? Next time your good luck may not hold.”

“But I’m not running away,” clamored the Baronet. “I but want to see the hanging. Don’t you?”

“There is nothing I would care for less,” returned the older boy truthfully.

“But you aren’t going to be hung, Justin—I heard my uncle say so to my mother this very morning. Why, you’re Sir Robert’s son!” His eyes were wide with wonder at that thought. “I’ll wager that you could tell the sentries at the gate to let us through and they would obey you. Please do so, Justin. This is the finest hanging they have ever had in Bridgetown and we shall miss it all!” Sir Francis looked dangerously near the tear line.

Justin, badgered almost beyond control, flared back. “Stop your whining! I have no wish to go to the hanging, and if your uncle does not want you to go, then you will not either! You’re long out of petticoats, Francis; stop playing the silly child. Cheap was passing kind to you—do you wish to see him choked out of life!”

Francis shrank away from him, his head shaking from side to side. “Please, Justin,” he began almost timidly, “do not be angered with me. But it is so dull here—let us go to feed the birds anyway. Please—?”

Because he had nothing better to do, Justin followed the younger boy out into the garden and watched him take a small bag of grain from the chest in the covered way which led to the stables. But he did not go inside the bird sanctuary with Francis. The talk of hanging made him think of the future—his future—and that was not the most pleasant thing to dwell upon. Nor was the past either! What if Sir Robert had not marked those discrepancies in Francis’ testimony, what if he had not investigated Ghost Peter’s part in the story, then—then at this very hour— He half consciously raised his hands to his throat, touching the fine linen of neckcloth rather than a hempen circlet which might have been there. At this very hour—!

He could stand it no longer. Turning, he ran back into the palace, hunting the way he had heard of but had never ventured to explore, that semi-private stairway which led to the Governor’s own railed walk on the roof, fashioned so that Sir Robert could view his ships.

Up there the sun was hot, beating on his uncovered head and bringing out the perspiration on his coated shoulders. But, even without the aid of the brass-bound glass which lay close to his hand in its box, he could see the sweep of the harbor and the boats clustered there about the point on which stood a raw new gallows where men had labored the night through to build a machine to take their fellows out of the world. By the number of small craft pulled up about the point, half the island must be assembled there, and the other was surely to be numbered in the dark mass along the shore. He was too late to witness the procession of the condemned. They were already at the place of execution. He reached for the glass quickly.

That was Creagh they were turning off now. The hangman was not clumsy, and knew his work well, for that thick neck must have been broken cleanly, to give the boatswain the quick death he had denied others. Strange to see Nat Creagh, who had come to mean to him all the lurking cruelty of the world, go so tamely to his end.

But now— Justin’s fingers tightened about the glass as he watched a slim, erect figure walk beneath the swinging feet of the boatswain. Even with the glass it was too far to see Cheap’s expression, but from his bearing he might still be on his own quarter-deck with a wide-open sea before him. Jonathan Cheap was no broken man. He was addressing the crowd, and Justin did not doubt that he was doing it well. And now the Captain mounted the ladder only—only—something had gone wrong. Cheap turned, his arms free from his sides as if his bonds had fallen away. He gave a great leap out away from the reach of the guards who moved toward him seconds too late. There was a bobbing and milling in the crowd and Justin screwed the eyepiece of the glass half into his skull trying to make out what was happening. Had Cheap won free this time also?

The boy dropped the Governor’s fine glass and pounded down the stairs. Half out the door he bethought himself that a man on foot could not win through that throng below—but a mounted man might have a chance—so he headed for the stables where, as luck would have it, a downcast groom was even then saddling a wire-legged roan.

Almost dancing with impatience Justin let him finish the business and then shoved the servant out of the way to swing rather clumsily up—since of horses he had not the knowledge that he had of ships. Before the surprised groom could raise a shout of protest, Justin had given the roan its head and was down the avenue. A sentry would have barred the gate, only at the last minute the man jumped aside, having no wish to play martyr to this mad rider who was drubbing his mount with spurless heels in order to urge an already wild horse to greater speed.

They took the cobbled street at a pace which a more prudent rider would have curbed, but the horse regained its sense and slowed its gallop as they came into the main town. It mouthed the bit angrily and gave no heed to Justin’s awkward guidance, being a settled animal of comfortable years.

So when they cut into the fringe of the crowd by the

. . . at a pace which a more prudent rider would have curbed.

wharves, those disappointed of better places for the show, it was a walk, a slow enough pace for Justin to catch the first of the rumors.

“ ’Tis th’ truth as I do swear, neighbor,” gabbed a small man in the neat coat of a clerk. “Th’ pirates won free at th’ very gallows’ foot an’ are now come to murder us all. Evil day when this came upon us—”

“You ’ave th’ wrong o’ it!” protested another, held tight in the press some feet beyond him. “Th’ Governor it were, Sir Robert hisself. Th’ chief rogue did pistol ’im— before all th’ town! I did ‘ear that fisher cove say it an’ ’e were within a ’undred yards o’ th’ gallows when it ’appened. With ’is own eyes ’e seed it!”

“Be Sir Robert dead?” shrilled a woman and her cry was taken up by those about her.

Justin pulled viciously at the reins. If he could he would have roweled the stupid beast he bestrode until its flanks were bloody. Little by little he was winning through to the edge of the way which led to the gallows’ point. He paid no heed to the curses and threatenings of those he jostled—for he was right, a rider might win through where a man on foot could not.

Down along the lane he struggled, forcing the roan to the work. He could get a fine view of the gallows and what hung there. And he could also see that the space which had been left for the Judge and the other authorities was empty. Did that mean that for once rumor had spoken true? Had Cheap managed to make good his last threat?

There was a swirl in the crowd and over their heads he could see the red-clad shoulders of soldiers who were pushing back the mob, making a free space. Those about him were forced to give way and fall back but Justin remained where he was, and was speedily rewarded by a glimpse of Cocklyn, sober-faced and glum.

One thing might have made him so— Justin leaned down to catch at the coat of a man brushing past.

“What has—” he began, but the fellow wrenched free as if he were afraid and thrust on. Only someone else mouthed indistinctly, “Th’ Governor—”

The foremost of the soldiers had almost reached him now, a dozen or so were cleaving a path for a small group of men, four of whom were bending under the burden of a blanket in which lay something long and limp. Justin was out of the saddle at that. One of the guardsmen tried to shoulder him aside but he sent the man off balance with a shove and so reached through to the officer who seemed to be in charge of the procession.

“Is it Sir Robert?” His mouth was dry, so dry that he could hardly form the words.

The man shook loose from his grip. “Have you lost your mind? Sir Robert is back yonder!”

One of the soldiers, perhaps the same one he had pushed aside, now thrust him well away and before he could recover lost ground, the whole cortège had been swallowed up by the crowd. The roan had been swept away and he stood there wondering what to do next.

“Lord, it’s Master Scarlett!” Lieutenant Griffen was at his side. The young officer’s wig was aslant and he carried his gallooned hat in his hand for saftey. “Did you ever lay eye on such a muddle?” he demanded, his expression one of disgust. “If it were not that His Excellency and the Major have their wits about them there would be lives lost in this business.”

Fearing lest he be swept away again, Justin dared to link fingers in the Lieutenant’s sash.

“Please,” he begged, “tell me what has chanced. Is Sir Robert hurt?”

“Sir Robert? Bless you, no. He’s down there at the point trying to keep some order. And there’s where I want to be also—if it is possible to get there. Keep your hold, Master Scarlett, if you wish to go with me, and we’ll see if two can push better than one.”

It seemed that two might fight back against the stream where one could be swept helplessly along. Foot by foot, using bent elbow and once or twice their fists, they edged along, until, of a sudden, the crowd thinned and for the first time in some minutes they were able to catch a deep breath again.

“We’ve won through,” commented the Lieutenant with satisfaction. “There is His Excellency now, over there with Major Cocklyn.”

But Justin had been struck with an odd shyness which kept him where he was. Sir Robert seemed right enough, his usual calm self in contrast to the red-faced exasperation of those about him. He was giving orders now and Justin noted that those within sound of his voice were moving smartly to obey them. A moment later he caught sight of his son, but his gaze did not linger. Justin might have been any one of the soldiers and planters gathered there. Only when another red-coated squad had been sent off on some errand Sir Robert moved unhurriedly toward the boy.

“May I ask what brought you hither?” he asked with formal politeness not far removed from sarcasm.

Justin flushed hotly and was then angry because of his confusion. “They said you were hurt,” he muttered.

For a moment there was silence between them, then, “It was enterprising of you to come for the truth,” observed his father. “No, rumor lied, as she usually does. It was Cheap, not I, who caused this great uproar.”

“I was on the ship lookout,” confessed Justin, “and saw him jump free. But what happened after?”

“Cheap’s luck was run out—as he should have known. He tried to dive into the bay and caught his head a knock on the prow of a fishing boat. It snapped his neck as clean as the rope might have done. So he ends with a broken neck after all his contriving—as I warned him these twenty years since.”

So it had been Cheap that the soldiers were bearing away in the blanket. Justin sighed and at the moment felt the touch of Sir Robert’s hand on his shoulder, heard a question rapped out as if he were a guardsman under examination.

“Do you grieve for that man?”

But his bewilderment was plain enough, his astonished face answered for him.

“I beg your pardon for that,” Sir Robert said dryly. “Now get you back to the palace—this sun is not for a fever-ridden man. We shall have time for conversation later.”

Aye, they would have time later. Justin suddenly smiled and, as he had inwardly known he would, his father smiled back.

“Go to, you rogue,” His Excellency added softly. “I’ll have you know that I have an iron hand with pirates.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Justin touched his forehead in a sea-man’s smart salute.

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1948 by Harcourt, Brace and Company, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-4976-5666-6

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Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

Full Page Illustrations

Chapter One: Scarface of Tortuga

Chapter Two: “I Say—Barbados!”

Chapter Three: Ill Wind for a Soldier

Chapter Four: A Knife in the Night

Chapter Five: “Count Me His Ribs”

Chapter Six: Justin Blade Takes the Queen's Pardon

Chapter Seven: Sir Roberts in the Bay!

Chapter Eight: His Excellency of Barbados

Chapter Nine: “An’ Thar Wos Flowers—”

Chapter Ten: Shadows in the Night

Chapter Eleven: Strange Catch for a Fisherman

Chapter Twelve: Old Friends’ Meeting

Chapter Thirteen: “Damme, I’m An Admiral!”

Chapter Fourteen: “Your Wages, Scarface—”

Chapter Fifteen: Too Late Is Never

Chapter Sixteen: “Until You Are Dead, Dead, Dead!”

Chapter Seventeen: Drink Deep and Be Sorry

Chapter Eighteen: Out of the Sea, Into the Sea

Copyright Page