CHAPTER TWO

Scarlet Rapier and Plumed Hat

THE time-honored cry of the sea floated down to them from the foretop. “Sail ho!” All eyes went aloft. The lash was momentarily forgotten. The sail must be very close, otherwise it would not have been announced.

“Where away?” shouted Mannville.

“Off the starboard, coming across our bows!”

Men leaped to the rail. The haze of light cast up by the sun on water momentarily blinded them. And then they saw the ship. It was sailing against the morning sun, full-rigged, tall-masted, gilded sterncastle sparkling. It was a bark of about sixty guns. Against the light, its sails looked black.

Even as they stared at it, a roll of bunting went up the truck and burst. Its identity was unmistakable. A grinning skull against an ebon field.

“A pirate!” cried Lieutenant Ewell.

“The nerve of him!” said Mannville. “Showing his colors to a British man-o’-war! Trumpeter! Sound quarters! We attack immediately!”

Bristol, by turning his head away from the mast, saw the scurrying men about him. He looked down at the cat-o’-nine. It lay curled like a den of snakes beside his feet. He kicked it away from him.

Men swarmed into the shrouds. The crack of unfurled canvas sounded like far-off cannon fire. The man-o’-war shuddered under the impact of wind. One rail swooped down and stayed there. The waves began to whip past as the bows pointed out the new course. Spray leaped, glistening like pearls, over the forecastle head.

The Lord High Governor, insignificant in all this sudden bustle about the black guns, slid aft along the rail, heading for the protection of the after cabins. Bristol watched him with a thin smile.

Powder monkeys scampered out of the hold with their leather powder buckets. Men sweated as they carried extra shot to the racks. Gun captains blew feverishly upon sputtering matches, and tuned an ear for the command to fire.

The pirate bark, only half its canvas set, held its own. It was less than a cable’s length away. The foamy wake spread out behind it across the restless waves. It was taking full advantage of the smart breeze.

Bristol, forgotten in the turmoil, watched the pirate. Only ten years before, the British ship would have dipped its own colors and continued smoothly upon its way. But now the cry was “Down with buccaneers!”

Driven out of Port Royal by a suddenly righteous government, the buccaneer had been forced to turn pirate. Before that, he was the only united power against Spain—and he had made the dons scurry before him, leaving the English many spoils.

But England and France and Denmark and Holland had forgotten that the buccaneer had ever been of use. They were united against him, even though they themselves were fighting a guerrilla warfare against one another.

Bristol watched the bark. It made little difference to him what happened to the pirate. This was merely a respite. If a shot didn’t cut him down, and if the cannon on either side of him didn’t break loose or explode and thereby kill him, the quartermaster would return to the flogging.

The bark seemed nearer. It was certainly taking its time about getting away from them. Perhaps—and you never could tell about pirates—perhaps this vessel was laying some kind of trap. But there was never any loot aboard a man-o’-war. What did the pirate want?

Abruptly the bark luffed, spilling the wind from its flapping canvas. It slowed down. The man-o’-war, still under full sail, lunged ahead. Too late Captain Mannville saw that he had been guilty of a tactical error. Before the man-o’-war could be turned aside, it presented an oblique to the pirate broadside.

Twenty cannon spat flame and iron, and the pirate heeled under the recoil of its own guns. Clouds of powder smoke mushroomed up through the spilling sails.

The man-o’-war shuddered. The grape and canister had whipped through the rigging, leaving the sails in tatters. The mainmast began to tremble. Canvas came down in a snowy shroud. Lines and gear slithered to the cluttered decks.

The gun captains touched their matches. The sullen hiss of burning fuses was loud. But the delay between ignition and firing was fatal. Responding to the late order, the man-o’-war slipped sideways to the bark. Her cannon hammered out at an empty ocean.

Blackened by smoke and stunned slightly by a r’yal spar, Bristol saw the gunners slaving to reload. It required half an hour for that tedious operation.

Mannville was striving to jibe around and loose his larboard broadside. The pirate darted in. Mountains of whipping sails loomed through the acrid fog. Bristol saw a bowsprit lunge across the rail. He could see scarlet bandannas and the white lightning of ready cutlasses.

The battle cry of the pirates drowned all else. They sprang down, an avalanche of furious color, to the decks of the man-o’-war. The British snatched up pikes and swords and belaying pins. Faces pale with fear, they strove to stem the flow of fearless men.

The battle cry of the pirates drowned all else. They sprang down, an avalanche of furious color, to the decks of the man-o’-war.

A wail went up from the sterncastle. The sound spread, grew in volume. Captain Mannville’s raging bellow hacked through the tumult.

“Who struck those colors?”

But it was too late. The British ensign was a heap of dirtied bunting on the deck. The sailors threw down their weapons and crowded back against the port rail, screaming for quarter. Mannville dropped his sword and stood back, understanding that it was useless to go on.

Through the wraiths of powder smoke came a gigantic figure, like the devil himself striding through the fumes of brimstone. On his head was a plumed hat and about his shoulders there swirled a red cloak. A naked rapier, dripping scarlet, was held in his bejeweled hand.

The rapier jerked toward the crowd of sailors. “Herd them together. Who’s in command here?”

Mannville stepped forward, head down, eyes on the planks. “I surrender and ask for quarter.”

“Huh. Good! Avast, lads—scurry through the aft cabins and see what’s there. Lively, now!” The buccaneer strode toward the captives, raking them with hard black eyes. “Not a man among the lot of you, is there?”

No one spoke immediately. They swallowed the insult. From the sterncastle came a group of men, glittering cutlasses poking gleefully at the back of the Lord High Governor.

From the sterncastle came a group of men, glittering cutlasses poking gleefully at the back of the Lord High Governor.

“Belay that!” barked the pirate commander.

Sir Charles, seeing the buccaneer, immediately fell quivering like jelly to his knees. “I pray you, give me quarter! Do not kill me!”

“And who the hell might you be?”

“Sir Charles Stukely, Lord High Governor of Nevis. The King will ransom me. Do not put me to death!”

“So you think the King might ransom you, eh? He’d be a fool to pay more than a ha’penny!” No mercy in those chill eyes. Only a twinkle of amusement.

The Lord High Governor’s teeth chattered like a signal ratchet. He lifted his hands beseechingly. The pirate abruptly turned his back.

Bristol, forgetting that he’d have the dubious honor of dying in a few minutes at pirate hands, laughed sharply. For the first time, the buccaneers saw him.

A young midshipman, smooth of face, probably—or so thought Bristol—about fifteen, came close to him. The midshipman’s sword quickly severed the ropes that bound him. Bristol rubbed his arms.

“And what the hell was happening to you?” rapped the buccaneer commander.

In a voice singularly gentle, the midshipman replied, “Where are your eyes, Bryce? The man was being flogged at the time of attack.”

“Flogged, eh?” said Bryce. “Damn my eyes, but I haven’t forgotten a few floggings given me! What’s the cause, lad?”

Bristol jerked a thumb at Sir Charles. “I almost stove in his skull with a marlinespike.”

“What ho!” cried Bryce. “That’s good going, lad! What’s your name?”

“Tom Bristol, late first mate of the bark Randolph, out of Maryland.”

Bryce turned to the midshipman. “And how’s that for luck, Jim, my boy? A sea artist, he is. Look you, Bristol, we’re bad in need of a navigator. Would you consider signing on the account with us?”

Across Bristol’s mind flashed the hardships he had suffered as a British sailor. Scurvy, bad food, gunshot, indifferent medical attention, no shore leave, no pay.

“Sign on?” said Bristol. “Why, of course I’ll sign on!”

The midshipman addressed as Jim smiled at him. “That’s a good lad. Bryce has been stumbling all about the Caribbean for two months.”

“Tell me,” said Bristol. “Why did you attack this vessel? It might have blown you out of the water.”

“Probably would have if the Lord High Governor hadn’t struck his own colors for us.”

Mannville’s eyes were accusing as he stared at Sir Charles.

“But,” continued Bryce, “we needed another vessel besides the one we have. I want to organize a fleet, if I can. This ship looked fine enough and so . . . well, here we are. Avast there, Ricardo, step out here!”

The man so addressed swaggered to the front. His arms hung too far down his sides and, though he was tall, he resembled a barrel in build. His shirt was open at the throat, displaying matted hair. An ugly saber slash divided his face and gave a down cast to one eye.

“Ricardo,” said Bryce, “pick your crew. This man is Tom Bristol, a sea artist. He’ll stay aboard here with you, and you’ll captain this ship.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” replied Ricardo, running his glance down Bristol’s whipcord figure. “Gentleman, eh, Bristol? But that’s no matter. We’ll get along. I’m what they call pistol-proof, in case we don’t.”

Bryce looked at the slender midshipman.

“Look now, Jim. You stay aboard here and be my agent. Look alive, the rest of you. Put this scummy British crew off in their boats.”

“You aren’t going to kill me?” cried Sir Charles.

“I wouldn’t dirty my rapier,” said Bryce.

The buccaneers attended to the lowering of the boats. The British seamen scrambled into them, thankful to be alive. Bristol moved over to the rail and watched the Lord High Governor pull away.

“And you,” cried Sir Charles, catching sight of Bristol, and feeling secure in his boat, “I’ll see that you swing from my Execution Dock the next time we meet!”

“I wish you luck!” cried Bristol.