At the premises of Matthew and Wayman, her father’s agents, she was received with all the deference due to the daughter of so important a client. Here she drew on her father’s account, as she had his permission to do, but to a much greater extent than he would have readily approved. In fact the size of her withdrawal made even Mr Wayman, who waited on her personally, catch his breath, but if he had doubts he kept them to himself. He guessed that it would be impolitic to question the action of this self-assured young woman who was, after all, heiress to an immense fortune and therefore not to be crossed lightly.
Having been bowed out and handed to her coach she hesitated for a second before giving instructions to her driver. There was still time to draw back from what she knew was a wildly dangerous business, but she had her father’s gift for calculating chances and it appeared to her that she ran an even risk. With courage in the balance she could succeed, and she had never known reason to doubt her courage.
She leaned back in her carriage, bestowed a gracious smile on Mr Wayman, and addressed the driver.
‘Back to Fort Charles.’
20. THE PASSAGE
Rackham sat listening, straining his ears against the silence that mantled the fort, but beyond the heavy cell door all was as quiet as the grave.
This was the last day. In a few minutes he would hear feet along the passage, and the rasping of the bolt, and his door would be flung back, and he would look up and see the red coats of his escort in the passage and the armourer with his bilboes and handcuffs. They would chain him and drag him out into the sunlight, and then the hangman would choke him almost – but not quite – unconscious and they would rip him open from crutch to chest and drag out his entrails and burn them in front of him. With any luck he would be dead before they had finished.
Oddly enough, it seemed less frightening now than it had done a few days ago. It would be a few seconds of sickening, frightful agony, but then it would be suddenly dark and the pain at an end.
He was glad he had seen Kate: that at least was something worth remembering. He had had bad luck there, but then he had never been particularly lucky in anything. At least it was something to have known her, a time of peace and sunshine in a short, turbulent life that had known little of either.
It was still as silent as ever. He wondered why they did not come for him. At least ten minutes must have passed since he had heard the sound of his companions being led out of their cell along the passage. He had listened to the irregular clank of the armourer’s hammer as he fettered them, and had stood waiting with a cold sweat on his face, expecting them to come for him as well. But they had not come. Perhaps they were saving him for the benefit of the spectators who would be assembling at Gallows Point. The final act of the play. The great tragedy of Captain Calico Jack Rackham.
Hearing the others go had been horrible. He had not slept, and through the hours he had listened to the hellish din they had made in their last desperate carouse. There had been no women, of course – men were liable to lose their reason on the last night before execution; there were those who would kill a woman out of sheer blood-lust and cruelty, knowing that they were to die anyway and that nothing more could be done to punish them than the hangman would do in the morning. But even without the trollops they had been howling drunk, roaring their choruses and yelling abuse, fighting with each other and smashing bottles, and hammering at their cell door until it seemed they must be in the last stages of exhaustion.
Some time shortly before dawn Rackham had fallen asleep, and had been summoned back to consciousness by the ring of the armourer’s hammer. Then Bull’s voice had broken out in a bellow of song – evidently he was still drunk – and added to that there had been a high quavery voice – Malloy, singing a psalm. They had sung together, the animal bellowing of a filthy ballad mingling with the flat cracked notes of the sacred song.
Then the boy Dobbins had begun to cry, begging the jailers to leave him behind, and suddenly breaking out into hysterical shrieks. Rackham had heard Earl’s voice, swearing, and Bull bellowing louder than ever, and then there had been the sound of a body falling and the screaming was replaced by a soft whimpering while the hammer clanked on relentlessly. Bull had still been ranting when he left the cell, his huge voice drowning even the shouted orders of the sergeant of the guard.
‘List an’ I’ll sing thee of Howell Davis
Hob-a-derry-dando!
Caught a shark i’ the Bay of Nevis
Hob-a-derry-dando!’
And then suddenly: ‘Where’s Calico? Where’s that long white bastard, hey? I want to see his guts come out. Where the hell are ye, Rackham? I want to see thee swing, tha Bristol pimp!’
And then Malloy’s voice had piped up again.
‘Good cheer, friends, be of good cheer.’ It was a flat, strange tone that Rackham had never heard him use before, and he realised that Malloy, never very sane, must have gone mad at last. ‘Remember the thief that died with Our Lord and was made whole by the blood of the Lamb. There is no stain so dark but it may be washed out, so ye all repent your sins. It is but a short road now to the Throne of Glory and none shall be turned away that truly repent. Take heart, take heart, and lift up your eyes to see the light of the Lord his Grace that shines through the darkness of death, and by which ye are made whole.’ Then he stopped and after a moment spoke again in his usual voice: ‘Billy! Brother Billy Tyrrell, Mary’s here. Aye, so she is, and young Pen, as ever was. Run and tell them, quick. Run, I say.’ His voice rose suddenly into a blood-chilling screech. ‘Run, damn you, run!’
His shout trailed away into a hysterical laugh, while the boy Dobbins began to weep and curse afresh. Rackham had listened, horrified and yet fascinated, until the crying and the rattle of the guard’s accoutrements died away and there was nothing but silence in the fort.
Now fifteen minutes had gone, and he had had time to think of death and Kate and a thousand other things, and still they did not come. He wondered where Anne Bonney was – a ridiculous, illogical thought. Was she yearning for Kinsman, he wondered? And from that his thoughts flew to Penner, dead and buried in the sand on Mosquito Bank.
At least he had been granted the mercy of a quick thrust and a speedy release. No horror of mutilation under the disembowelling knife for Penner. Yet he must have suffered too, and Rackham remembered the glaring sunlight and the sickly smell of his own blood and the wicked glittering sliver of steel in the hand of La Bouche moving in to kill him. That had been a bad moment; he had felt then as Penner must have felt when Kinsman pinned him. And both times, she had been there, languid and yet eager, smiling, and filled with hot excitement, and even as the image crossed Rackham’s mind he heard the soft slither of a footstep in the passage.
He caught his breath and swung round. Then the bolt snapped back and the door creaked inward on its ponderous hinges.
A man stood on the threshold – a man Rackham had never seen before. He could be certain of that, for the face beneath the brim of the broad black hat was a sight not readily forgotten. It was the kind of face he had seen on corpses, grey and lifeless, with the skin taut over the cheek-bones, its death-like quality belied by the liveliness of its bright sunken eyes.
With a jerk of his head the creature motioned Rackham out of the cell, standing aside to let him pass, and then carefully closing the door and rebolting it. Mystified, Rackham looked about him for other guards, but the passage was empty. There was no one but this weird figure in his rusty black hat and tatty coat, and not a sound to indicate the presence of a living soul.
But if the situation was beyond Rackham’s understanding he could at least see the opportunity it offered. The chance of escape might be infinitesimal but it was better than no chance at all. The thought formed in the second which passed as the thin man shot home the bolt, and as he straightened up Rackham was turning in a movement that would have ended in a plunge at the other’s throat. The thin man saw the sudden turn and made a leisurely movement of his right hand, and Ra
ckham was staring into the cold twin barrels of a heavy pistol. He checked himself abruptly and the thin man’s bloodless lips parted in a grin. With a thrill of horror Rackham saw that he had no tongue.
But tongue or not, there was no doubt of the professional ability behind the pistol. The mute gestured with it, and Rackham obediently moved down the passage, his strange escort stalking a few paces behind. The passage turned sharply and terminated in a winding flight of stone steps, but a grunt from the mute urged him on, and they mounted to a second passage which Rackham judged must run directly above the first. Here, however, there was matting on the flags, and instead of iron wall brackets there were were small brass lamps. There were doors on the left side with little rush mats before them, and an air of warmth and habitation about the place. Curiosity contended with Rackham’s fear as he went on, until opposite the third door another grunt from the mute brought him to a halt. Still there was no sound in the fort and he began to wonder if the place was deserted after all.
The mute rapped on the panels. A voice answered and the mute raised the latch and pushed the door open. Grinning, he jerked his thumb, and as Rackham went past him, put out a hand and patted him on the shoulder. It felt like a handful of dry sticks rattling together.
Rackham went into the room and heard the door close at his back. He knew without looking that the mute was no longer there and that the only other occupant of the room was the man who sat writing at a table before the window. It was a broad, panelled apartment with matting underfoot, a fire spluttering merrily in the grate, and a brass clock ticking on the mantel. The man at the desk looked up.
‘Aye, there ye are,’ said Master Tobias Dickey.
For a moment Rackham did not recognise him. The chubby face and neat wig were familiar, so was the brisk voice; but they seemed to belong to a time far back in memory. Then recollection came, and he realised that it was only weeks, not years, since he had seen this man before.
He stared, wondering what this might mean, while the lawyer regarded him gravely.
‘I’ll break the news as best I may,’ said Master Dickey. He leaned forward in his chair and looked intently at the other’s face. ‘You are not to hang,’ he said carefully. ‘Not to hang. Ye understand?’
If he had expected an immediate display of emotion he was disappointed. Rackham did not react because at first the meaning of what he had heard did not penetrate his understanding – could not because it was so much at variance with sense and logic and what he had been conditioning his mind to for weeks.
The lawyer spoke again. ‘Don’t ye understand? Ye’re not to be executed at all. At least, if ye are, ye’ll be in grand company, wi’ myself alongside you.’
Rackham found his tongue at last. ‘What do you mean?’ His voice was hoarse. ‘How … how … not to … to … die?’
‘Not unless ye’re careless, or aught miscarries.’
Rackham looked round helplessly, bewildered. Master Dickey watched with interest for a moment. ‘There now,’ he said. ‘Come over here, in front of the table, and pay heed to what I say to ye.’
Rackham came forward, hesitantly. He was trembling, but a great excitement was constricting his chest and his breathing.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said, and Dickey caught the mounting edge of panic in his voice.
‘Of course ye don’t. But ye shall in a moment, when ye’re your own man again. In the meantime let me tell ye that you’re not out o’ the wood yet, not by a good step. Ye’ll need all your faculties if ye’re to ‘scape the gallows – and there’s more than your own life in it. There’s mine and another’s – aye, and a third, too, perhaps, and that more precious than the rest o’ us together. So take a grip on yourself, Master Calico, for one blunder and we’re done.’
Rackham nodded and took the chair which Dickey indicated while the lawyer crossed to a sideboard and returned with a glass and decanter.
‘Medicine for a shaking hand,’ observed Dickey. ‘Sup that, but go slowly. And listen.’
Rackham lifted the glass – it was rum – and the burn of the spirit made him realise that he was cold, but he took only a mouthful before setting it down again.
‘First,’ began Dickey, ‘ye’re to escape. Ye’ve been bought off – for a sum which to my mind is a great deal more than ye’re worth, although I don’t expect ye to share my view. Aye, ye can stare, but bought is what ye’ve been.’
‘But …’ Rackham was beginning, but Master Dickey waved him to silence.
‘Aye, how does one buy the life of a condemned felon, ye would ask? I’ll confess it was new to me, but Jamaica’s a grand place to go to school.’ He resumed his seat and clasped his hands in front of him on the table.
‘Ye’re dead. Officially dead. Ye died by hanging, secundem artem, at six of the clock this morning on a spot known as Gallows Key. There ye were buried. Your execution took place before the others because it came to the ears of the authorities – in this case the commandant of this fort, one Colonel Coates – that there was popular sympathy for you on the waterfront. A demonstration was feared.’ Master Dickey smiled wryly. ‘That’s the tale and who’s to doubt it? If any did, I’ll wager a guinea to a groat there’s a body in the sand of Gallows Key this minute. Corpses are not hard to come by, and if there’s lime in the grave no one will ever ken the difference.’
‘But the commandant, this Coates?’ Words burst out of Rackham in a sudden flood. ‘You mean he managed this?’
Master Dickey nodded. ‘That he did. For five thousand pounds. A substantial fee, as I said. And when ye consider, was the risk so great? He issues the dead warrant, the folk grumble that they didn’t see ye turned off, but does anyone suspect for a moment that ye’re not dead at all? The point is that the military have charge of executions, and soldiers not only do what they’re told, they think what they’re told. They’ll ask no questions.’
Rackham tried to digest this, but there were a hundred things he did not understand – principally who should pay five thousand pounds on his behalf.
‘The next step is by far the more dangerous,’ went on Dickey. ‘You’ll be taking it yourself very shortly. Ye see, Coates is bribed wi’ five thousand pounds, for which he hangs you in absentia and none the wiser. But there his part ends. Oh, he was adamant on that. So other agents go to work – myself, for one. With the …’
‘But why? interrupted Rackham. ‘Why you?’
‘Wheesht a minute. As I say, with the result that when the Willem Damman, a Dutch brig, puts out of Port Royal to-day for Dominica, you’ll be aboard her. That,’ added Master Dickey, ‘cost another three hundred. Take another sup o’ the rum, man. Ye look as though ye need it.’
Rackham obeyed and repeated his question. ‘What have you to do with all this?’
‘Ye may well ask. Coates near died o’ fright when he learned I had been let intae the business, but the fool had brought it on himsel’ by refusing to act beyond arranging your execution and having your cell door unlocked. Someone was needed, someone who could be trusted, tae make arrangements for a ship and tae guide you to it.’
‘But you? Rogers’ closest friend – who in God’s name would come to you, and why would you—’ He broke off. ‘Who the devil paid this money for me, and why?’ he demanded.
Master Dickey considered him solemnly. ‘Does that matter, after all?’
Rackham nodded. ‘It matters.’
Dickey picked up a quill, brushed it thoughtfully against his chin, and laid it down again. ‘Mistress Sampson,’ he said.
Rackham stared at him. ‘Kate?’ he said unbelievingly. ‘Kate Sampson? But … oh, you’re mad! Or lying, one or the other.’
‘Name me one other soul in the world that would – or could – give five thousand pounds for your neck,’ said Master Dickey calmly.
There was no answer to that. However fantastic Dickey’s story, it was borne out by present circumstances. He was sitting here, drinking rum while the clock ticked precisely on the mantel over the
crackling fire. And there was a ship waiting to take him away, to Dominica. It was like a dream, but with none of a dream’s vagueness. Here the details were clear. And he had no choice but to accept what Dickey said.
Kate had saved him, then. He could not doubt why she had done it – obviously she loved him, in spite of Rogers and everything else. And for him she had been prepared to risk so much – perhaps her life.
Quietly the lawyer said: ‘Well?’
Rackham met his eyes. ‘I don’t know … what am I to think? It’s … it’s hard to believe. That she should do so much.’
‘She didnae do it for the reasons you’re thinking,’ said Dickey gently. He got up and went to the window, looking out at the rain pattering the sill. ‘Ye’ll be thinking she loves you – a romantic notion, and like most romantic notions, wide of the truth.’ He turned impatiently. But why talk of it? The thing’s done, for which ye may be thankful, why or wherefore is beside the point.’
Rackham got up and went round the table until he stood beside the lawyer. ‘How can you say? What did she tell you?’
Master Dickey smiled a little sadly. ‘I’m an old lawyer, lad. Folk dinnae need to tell me things. Ye’ll ask me why, if she doesnae love you, she risks her very life and gives a pickle money to free you. And my only answer is that there are folk like that – like Mistress Sampson. Good folk and brave. Here there was a wee spark of conscience to prick her on. It was misplaced, but then she’s only a lassie yet. But it wasnae love. A woman who had gone so far as this for you wouldnae jib at going the whole hog if she really cared for you. Aye, she would let money and marriage and all go hang, this one, so she could be where her heart was set.’ He paused deliberately. ‘And she hasnae, ye see.’
It was not in Master Dickey’s nature to be cruel, but he had weighed up his man and he wanted no complications, no foolish notions that might some day bring this fellow back in pursuit of a dream. Kate Sampson must be free of him for ever henceforth; if Rackham conceived that she still loved him there was no telling what tragic foolery he might perpetrate. So Master Dickey drove his point home.