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 af
ter 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 i
f 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.