‘You’re right, Major,’ said Rackham. ‘A woman it is. And much as I thank you, I’ll want to see more of my wife than I would if I was at sea.’
‘A wife, d’ye say?’ Penner raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, what’s a wife? I’ve one myself – here, in Providence – and to be sure there’s another in Galway, but does that stand between me and my livelihood? If it’s marriage you’re contemplating, amn’t I showing you the very way to make the money for it?’
Rackham shook his head. ‘I’ve been away too long. I’d have been with her now, likely, but for you, trying to make my peace again. No offence,’ he added. ‘But the sea’s not for me.’
Penner bit his thumb. ‘Well, well, I’ll not deny I’m sorry. You’d have been a godsend to me, Johnny lad. But there, I wish ye success with your lady. And if she should refuse you, be sure I won’t.’ He stood up. ‘And now, let’s be joining the ladies and gentlemen and wetting our tongues. You’ll have a glass to toast you home?’
Rackham glanced uncertainly upwards towards the parapet, and Penner read his thoughts and laughed.
‘You’re afraid ye’re not yet sufficiently pardoned to go abroad among the ladies and gentlemen of Providence society? Man, this pardon isn’t a gradual thing, like taking physic or getting drunk. You’re a free citizen now. Besides, you’re in my company, which is a passport into any society in the Caribbean. Give us your arm.’
‘But my clothes—’
‘Will be as meat and drink to the old women and their daughters,’ retorted Penner. ‘They’ll be agog at the wicked Captain Rackham.’ And he led his still unwilling companion up the stairway.
As they mounted the last step Rackham had the presence of mind to pull off his headscarf and so go a little way towards rendering his appearance less piratical. Then Penner was leading him towards the groups about the low tables shaded by gargantuan umbrellas in the hands of slave chil-dren. It was hardly a scene of elegance, such as Charles Town might have provided, but it could discomfit Rackham, in spite of his friend’s assurances. He saw surprised faces turned towards him, heard the murmur of conversation die away, and wanted to turn and run. But Penner’s hand was clasping his arm as in a vice, and then he saw something which stopped him dead, in spite of the Major’s efforts. Ten yards away, standing beside a table, in conversation with someone whose back was to him, was Jonah Sampson. And seated on the other side of the table, her face white as she looked at him, was Kate.
For a moment he stood stock-still, powerless to move or heed the Major’s tugging at his sleeve, and then Penner found himself brushed aside as Rackham swept impetuously past him and grasped the hands of Mistress Sampson, who had half-risen at his approach.
She cast one anguished look at her father, but it was lost on Rackham. He stood holding her wrists, oblivious of all around him. The scandalised gasp from the company never sounded for him; if he had heard it he would not have heeded. He was momentarily lost in a world which contained only Kate Sampson and himself.
It was the little merchant who broke in upon his idyll.
‘Good God! You, sir! Have you lost your senses? D’you know what you do?’ Outraged, he thrust himself between them.
Confronted with that empurpling indignation, Rackham was made aware of the scene he had created. He strove to make amends for what he conceived to be a minor breach of good manners.
‘Master Sampson, your pardon. I had not thought to see you, or your daughter. I was moved, sir, I –.’ He broke off, catching sight of Kate’s face. The contempt and mortification he saw there startled him. That he had made a fool of himself was becoming increasingly plain, but that was not an unforgivable sin, so far as he was aware. The events which had followed their last meeting – his apparent flight with Vane, his seeming renunciation of the promises he had made to her – could hardly dispose the Sampsons to welcome his return, but there must be something more than that to account for the white cold fury in Kate’s look and the apoplectic surgings of her father.
Bewildered, he looked from one to the other, then at the faces of the other guests. Not one but was regarding him with disgust and indignation. And then a hand descended on his arm and a voice, cold and hard as a sword blade, spoke in his ear.
‘You make very free with my betrothed,’ it said, and turning he looked into the grim eyes of Woodes Rogers.
A blow in the face would have surprised him less. His bewilderment sought confirmation, and the Governor supplied it.
‘My future wife, you dog,’ he said, and for once losing control, he struck Rackham across the mouth.
Involuntarily, as he stumbled back, Rackham’s hand dropped to his belt, and in a second the gentlemen about the Governor had caught him and held his wrists. But these things were purely physical, and he was still mentally reeling under the first blow that Rogers had dealt him.
Hoarsely, he appealed to Kate. ‘Is this true?’ She did not answer. Her cheeks were burning, and her eyes were turned away, ignoring him. Her father spoke for her, his face contorted with anger.
‘D’ye doubt your ears, you scoundrel?’ He was so incensed that it appeared he would follow the Governor’s example and strike Rackham, but Rogers intervened. He had recovered his composure, though his eyes still gleamed dangerously.
‘That is needless.’ It almost suggested that he was ashamed of his own action. ‘Major Penner, I’ll be obliged if you will remove your companion from this gathering. And I shall have a word to say to you later.’
Dazed and sick, Rackham felt the Major’s hand on his arm, and allowed himself to be led away. There was dead silence on the roof, and the Major made haste to get beyond the reach of the company’s scandalised regard. But he was not speedy enough to be out of earshot when they caught the Governor’s voice attempting, apparently, to resume his conversation with Jonah Sampson.
It was the sound of that voice, level and distinct against the silence, that brought Rackham to a halt. For the moment shock and misery had expelled all other thoughts from his mind; only now, as his numbed brain was beginning to work again, did he realise the full meaning of all that had gone before. It came to him with a staggering impact, and brought him wheeling round, rage and blind hatred in his heart.
Rogers had cheated him – cheated him coldly and deliberately and beyond all chance of retribution. He had known, two nights ago, when he and Rackham had spoken in the Governor’s study, that Rackham’s only interest in the pardon sprang from his hopes of marrying Kate Sampson. And Rogers had played on that, using Rackham as a pawn to bring him the Kingston’s silver. He had placed the pardon temptingly within Rackham’s reach on conditions which had not existed, since Rogers himself already possessed the only prize that Rackham hoped to win from the game.
Oh, he had been admirably fooled, made to dance to the puppet-master’s bidding and now, like a puppet indeed, unable to stir a finger to avenge himself. To proclaim Rogers a cheat and a liar would have been to assure his own destruction: the whole tale would be round New Providence in an hour and those men whom Rackham had betrayed would ensure that he never saw another sun rise. No, the Governor was safe and snug, his pretty plot concluded to his complete satisfaction, and Rackham was left to swallow the bitter draught of frustrated defeat.
As he swung round now, his face livid, Major Penner thrust out a hand to stop him. ‘Why, John, are ye mad? Come away, man—’ But Rackham was half-way back from the head of the steps already. The Major saw him stride forward, suddenly stop, hesitate, and then stand, legs apart and arms akimbo, facing the company, who stared at him in disbelief.
‘Woodes Rogers.’ He had mastered the rage inside him sufficiently to guard his tongue against any slip which might betray the secret which lay between him and the Governor, but there was enough venom in his voice to freeze the company where it sat.
‘You played the cheat on me,’ he said slowly. ‘And I do not forget. We understand each other as pirates, you and I.’
And with that he was gone, leaving them thunde
rstruck. Only Woodes Rogers retained complete composure. While those around him expressed themselves in exclamations and oaths, the Governor shrugged his shoulders.
‘A fantastic fellow,’ he remarked. He was hiding his feelings well. ‘But we trouble ourselves about very little. It is no matter.’ And by exercising the great powers of persuasion and charm at his command, he steered the conversation into less perturbing channels.
5. SWORDS BEHIND THE TAVERN
Major Penner, having witnessed the strange scene played on the Fort roof, was quick to appreciate that the reasons which had prevented Rackham from accepting an offer to turn privateer did not now exist, for since the lady whom he had hoped to marry was the Governor’s property, there could no longer be any ties to hold him ashore. It remained, therefore, for Major Penner to bide patiently until his companion’s emotions were less disturbed, and then to repeat his proposal, with every confidence that it would be accepted.
He followed Rackham from the Fort, waiting until his fury should have spent itself somewhat, and then, taking him by the arm, guided him to the nearest tavern, the Cinque Ports.
Plainly Rackham was in no mood for talk. He sat with Penner in a corner of the tap-room, his face set in ugly lines, drinking what was set before him, and staring down at the table in silence. He was not thinking of Kate, as the Major supposed, but of Rogers. He had been hoodwinked, cheated, and there was no hope of redress. Yet the Governor would be made to pay; by God, he would pay.
Half an hour’s steady drinking brought him to that stage where his first fury had subsided. He was still silent, but his eyes were bright, and he had begun to whistle a little through his teeth. This disconcerted the Major, who preferred his drunkards to look less lively, and he decided to broach the subject uppermost in his mind.
‘Ye’ll have wondered, perhaps, why I brought ye here,’ he began. Rackham stopped whistling.
‘I don’t wonder at all. Ye want to remind me that there’s a place for me as quartermaster aboard your sloop. I’ll take it, never fear. So hold your tongue and let me be.’
So much he had decided. Kate was lost to him, and vengeance on Rogers would have to wait. In the meantime he would be best at sea, away from the temptation of putting a knife in the Governor’s stomach some dark night, and away also perhaps from that ill-luck which Providence seemed to hold for him.
But that ill-luck was pursuing him even now, and it came in the shape of a tall, rakish Frenchman named La Bouche who, finding the noon heat oppressive, had turned from the street in search of refreshment.
Apart from the negro waiters and a few idlers Rackham and Penner had the long common-room of the Cinque Ports to themselves until Captain La Bouche and his friends announced their arrival with much boisterous laughter. This La Bouche was one of those adventurers who, two years before, had sailed out of New Providence in defiance of Rogers and the royal proclamation. He had continued searoving for a short season but poor fortune had finally driven him to accept the amnesty. Since then, like Penner, he had turned privateer under Government protection, with moderate success.
He hailed Penner effusively and it was evident that he was already a trifle drunk. The Major responded with a curt nod; he had little regard for Captain La Bouche, whom he considered a French fribble. Rackham, looking round and seeing the Frenchman bearing down on them, made no effort to conceal his annoyance; he, too, had no liking for La Bouche, and he was still in the dangerous temper which requires solitude.
La Bouche let out a crow of laughter as he recognised the former pirate.
‘Tonerre Dieu!’ he exclaimed. ‘What have we here? M’sieur le Capitan Rackham! O ho!’ He turned to his companions, confiding in a whisper which was plainly audible: ‘Once it was the Quartermaster Rackham, then the Capitan, and now it is – eh, what is it? – oui, it is the ci-devant Captain.’ Laughing again, he came to stand over the table. ‘Oh, my big Jean. An’ you have come the way of the rest of us, hein? Well, well. You are wise, Jean. An’ I bid you welcome – me, La Bouche.’ And in token of that welcome he held out a hand.
Rackham considered it, and the soiled lace at its wrist. La Bouche was as raffish as always, gaudily attired in a taffeta suit which set off his spare figure admirably, and with a plumed hat upon his head. But he was not an attractive picture, with his vulpine features flushed with wine, and his closely set eyes twinkling unpleasantly. Ignoring the hand, Rackham turned back to the table.
‘I’m your debtor for that welcome,’ he said briefly, but La Bouche was not abashed. Winking broadly at Penner, who was regarding him with distaste, the Frenchman drew up a chair and sat down.
‘It is un’erstan’able your frien’ has forgot his manners,’ he remarked easily to Penner. ‘So long at sea, chasing nothing, you know – it makes a man sour. But a big drink, a pretty girl’ – he leered salaciously – ‘all these things make a man content, like me.’ He tapped Rackham on the arm. ‘What you say, mon gars – you have a big drink now, with La Bouche, hey? Later we see about the pretty girl.’ He slapped his thigh and shouted with laughter, in which his followers, standing about the table, joined.
Rackham looked at him in contempt. ‘When I drink, I drink in company of my choosing,’ he said. ‘You’re not of my choosing. Do I make myself plain?’
La Bouche’s eyes opened in a stare. ‘Hey, what’s this? What way is this to speak to me?’ He turned to Major Penner. ‘Is the big Jean gone more sour than I thought?’
Major Penner, scenting here the beginnings of trouble, made haste to intervene. This La Bouche was something of a bully-duellist, and the last man with whom the Major wanted to see Rackham embroiled. He shook his head in deprecation.
‘The lad’s had a shock, La Bouche, d’ye see? He means no offence, but he’s not entirely himself. It might be best,’ he added meaningly, ‘to leave him alone to me.’
But La Bouche ignored the hint. He assumed an expression of exaggerated commiseration.
‘And is this so? A shock, you say? Poor Jean!’ He winked at the Major. ‘Perhaps – a lady?’ Taking the Major’s silence for an affirmative, La Bouche pushed his query further, making no effort to conceal his mockery. ‘Perhaps – a Governor’s lady?’
Without warning, before the Major could move, Rackham struck the Frenchman across the mouth. Caught off balance, his chair on two legs, La Bouche went pitching over backwards to sprawl on the floor. With a curse, Penner bounded from his seat with a speed surprising in so corpulent a man, and flung his arms round Rackham to prevent him throwing himself at the Frenchman as he lay caught in the ruins of his chair.
‘John, ye blind fool! What have ye done?’ He exerted all his strength to keep the other from breaking from his grasp. ‘Be still man, in God’s name!’
‘What have I done?’ Rackham was glaring over the Major’s shoulder at La Bouche, who was making shift to rise with what dignity he could. ‘What have I done? Nothing to what I’ve yet to do, by God! D’ye think I’ll be rallied by that French scum?’
‘French scum? So?’ La Bouche was on his feet now, a very different man from the easy, jesting scoundrel of a moment ago. His face was pale and his mouth tightly set. His eyes gleamed balefully. ‘I think this is a little too much. But a little. I have been struck and then insult’. I think, now, we settle this matter.’
‘What the hell d’ye mean?’ roared Penner in consternation.
‘What d’ye suppose he means?’ growled Rackham. ‘The pimp wants to fight. Well, I’m ready whenever he is.’
Major Penner thrust himself between them in an attempt to compose matters. ‘Why, this is folly, John! This … this cannot take place. What match are you for this bully-swordsman?’ In sudden rage he swung round on La Bouche. ‘Ye dirty French rogue! If ye’d kept sober enough to be able to hold your dirty tongue in its place this need never have happened. La Bouche by name and La Bouche by nature! Well, if it’s blood ye want ye shall have it – but it’s myself will be acting as chirurgeon.’
La Bouche waved him
aside. ‘No, no, my so gallant Major. My concern is with your friend, not with you. Afterwards, if you will. When I have disposed of this gross piece of English beef. But not yet.’ He addressed himself to Rackham. ‘Where shall I kill you? We can fight here, if you will.’
Rackham shrugged. ‘Wherever ye please.’
La Bouche nodded. He was very much master of himself again. ‘Then there is a convenient place behind the house. If you will follow me.’ With exaggerated courtesy he led the way.
Seeing that further protest must be futile, Penner attended Rackham in gloomy silence to the waste ground behind the Cinque Ports. He could see but one end to this, and that end would find him without a quartermaster. It was futile to curse the chance that had brought this quarrelsome, swaggering Frenchman to the inn at a moment when Rackham’s mood was unusually truculent: the damage was done and Major Penner glumly prepared for the worst.
Rackham, at least, shared none of the soldier’s regrets. Here was an outlet for the smouldering rage which had been growing inside him, and La Bouche was a fit object on which to vent it. Nor did he give a second’s thought to the possible fatal consequences to himself.
Word of what was forward spread quickly, and as the two principals were taking their ground, a small crowd began to gather behind the tavern. Loafers, seamen and passers-by hurried to the scene – none so common in Providence these days – and made room for themselves about the small clearing. Black, white and brown, they chatted cheerfully as though they were at a play. Others watched from the windows of the Cinque Ports, and a few squatted on the gently sloping roof.
The Frenchman, stripped down to his shirt and breeches, and with his long hair clubbed back in a kerchief, was jovial and confident as he stepped forward into the open space of the duelling-ground; he laughed and flung jests to his supporters in the crowd, and swished his rapier to and fro in the air to loosen his muscles, an extravagant display which brought sycophantic murmurs of approval from his adherents. Tall, supple, and active as a cat, La Bouche was confident of the issue.