CHAPTER THREE

A Pirate’s Penalty

THE days went swiftly for Tom Bristol. To a man who had spent his life in the rigorous merchant marine and had had a taste of the navy, buccaneering was the sailor’s dream of Valhalla. Thanks to a steady influx of willing recruits, the pirates were overmanned, so far as handling the ship was concerned.

The decks were scrubbed whiter and cleaner than they had ever been in the service of the King. The sails were repaired and the gear was replaced from ample stores.

Tom Bristol had heard a great deal about buccaneers in his youthful life, but all of it had been bad, and most of it untrue. He saw nothing of cruel orgies. Instead, in spite of the absence of that cat-o’-nine which the navies considered so necessary a part of discipline, he found a peaceful crew, anxious to get along with one another and with their officers.

These men were not the scum of the ports or the sweepings of the sea. They were average seamen who had tired of the filth and abuse suffered in the merchant fleets and the navies. They wanted nothing more than a comfortable life, money to spend, brandy to drink, and a prospect of sometime being able to become planters or merchantmen in their own right.

They owed their fearsome reputation, for the most part, to cowardly captains who had defended their own valor by besmirching the behavior of the buccaneer, giving that as a reason for struck colors.

Of course they were loud when drunk, but then, what sailor is not? And of course they had quarrels, but these were settled ashore by properly regulated duels.

Justice was administered by a quartermaster who was backed by an impartial jury of the men’s own choosing. And if a man were found guilty of theft, cowardice in battle, or perhaps (on rare occasions) murder, he was sentenced to be marooned and was then left on some deserted island with a gun, powder, shot and a bottle of water, to shift for himself thereafter.

In case of the loss of a limb in service, or some other injury, a compensation was forthcoming from the company fund—a provision the navies had not even thought about.

The buccaneers, knowing they could expect nothing less than hanging if caught, went into battle with a determination which could not be matched by men who cared not a whit for their masters.

Bristol, a gentleman once again, was quartered in the Lord High Governor’s own cabin. The lockers of the officers had disclosed an abundance of clothes purchased and plundered. And as every buccaneer is allowed a shift of clothing from each prize, Bristol soon turned himself out in a white silk shirt, a red sash and a wide-brimmed hat which had probably been worn by some great don in the past. He found sea boots which fitted him and a pair of silver-mounted pistols which were marvels of accuracy, and then began to consider himself a man once more.

Although he was far from being in command, Bristol was an important personage, in that he could do what no other could. He was one of those rarities—a navigator who understood the sun and sextants and stars and charts.

Seated upon the charting table in the great cabin, looking through the large stern ports at the Terror’s wake, Bristol listened to the murmur of water along the keel.

Across from him, curled up in a high-backed chair, sat the midshipman known as Jim. Just why a pirate should possess a midshipman was a little puzzling to Bristol, but he asked no questions. The lad was handsome enough, had a low, pleasant voice, and was certainly well educated.

But midshipmen—until a short time before called King’s Letter Boys—belonged in the British Navy. They were supposed to be officers in the making, gentlemen born, and the authority they possessed in the King’s Navy was something to marvel at. Midshipmen did not have a very wholesome reputation.

But evidently Bryce had thought the idea a good one, and perhaps it was. Though heaven knew, a lad of fifteen didn’t belong aboard the Terror, or aboard any ship of the day for that matter.

“When do we pick up Bryce?” said Jim.

“Tomorrow afternoon sometime. We’ll meet him off Martinico.” Bristol smiled. The familiarity with which Jim treated the buccaneer captain was easy and natural. In fact, everything about the lad was that way. The big blue eyes were frank and steady, and the yellow hair, caught up in back, made the eyes seem all the bluer.

“Hope nothing happens to him,” said Jim. “He’s the only one who keeps Ricardo in leash.”

“You don’t like Ricardo, do you?”

“No . . . and you don’t either. He’s captain here because he’s pistol-proof, and he gets no end of pleasure out of harrying you, Bristol.”

“I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t noticed that part of it.”

“No? Well, he’s been telling the men that you are a dainty little thing, and they should be careful of you. They laughed at him, because no matter what you are, you’re far from dainty.”

“Compliment, Jim?”

“Oh, sure. I mean the adjective is absurd. You’re going to have trouble with Ricardo, Bristol. He resents the fact that you wash your ears.”

“Pipe down, sailor, he’s in the next cabin. He’ll hear you.”

“Let him listen away,” replied Jim, blithely. “I don’t believe he’d be so pistol-proof if you took a notion to—”

The cabin door was flung open. Ricardo stooped and entered. Standing erect again, he fixed a colorless eye upon Jim. “Shove off, little one, I want to talk to Bristol.”

“I’m sitting right here,” said Jim easily.

“The lad’s all right,” said Bristol.

“He’ll be carrying tales to Bryce, if you don’t watch yourself, Mister Bristol.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.” Bristol swung his legs and continued to look through the stern ports. The buckles on his sea boots flashed as a ray of sunlight struck them. After a moment he turned to Ricardo. “What’s under your hatch?”

Ricardo studied Jim and then shrugged. “Aw, what’s the matter with havin’ him hear it? He won’t ever see Bryce again anyhow.”

Jim’s eyes grew suddenly big. Bristol did not move.

“Meaning what?” said Bristol.

“Meaning plenty. Listen, I’m sick and tired of running Bryce’s errands for him. One o’ these days he’ll cut away from us and take all the loot. And we’ll swing on some Execution Dock in his place.”

“If you’re trying to stir me up,” said Bristol, “spare yourself the effort. I’m most terribly satisfied with my lot.”

“That’s because you don’t know any better, matey. This Bryce hasn’t got the morals of a cockroach.”

“Coming from you, that’s funny,” said Bristol.

“So you don’t think he’d let you hang for him?” Ricardo’s swinging arms steadied, the elbows bent slowly. Ricardo’s thumbs were hooked in his green sash, close to the matchlock dags which were always ready there.

“What’s your game?” said Bristol.

“Look here, me bucko, you’re a navigator. You can take us any place on the seas. We’ve got a man-o’-war with seventy guns, and we can lick anything that floats. We’ve got the goods and florins taken from that last Dutchman. I say let’s get out from under and strike out on our own account. The men will all go with me—I’ve spoken to them about it. They don’t owe nothing to Bryce.”

“Well, I owe something to Bryce. Think that over.”

Jim was sitting up straight, white hands gripping the arms of the chair, eyes on Bristol.

Ricardo growled a word as bitter as acid.

“I’m afraid,” said Bristol, “that I don’t take that from anyone.”

“No? Well, my bucko, you’ll take it from Ricardo, and like it.” A pistol whipped from the green sash.

Before Bristol could gather himself, Jim’s small boot lashed out and cracked against Ricardo’s knuckles. Ricardo bellowed with rage. His open hand swooped down. The palm cracked loudly against Jim’s cheek. Crumpling up, Jim slid into the far corner of the cabin. The jaunty cap fell off and the yellow hair streamed down on either side of the handsome face. The mark of the blow was as red as blood on the white cheek.

Faces were peering in through the door, but Bristol gave them no heed. Both he and Ricardo were staring at Jim. Something about the way the yellow hair fluffed out, something about the way the jacket lay against the throat—

“My God,” cried Bristol, “she’s a girl!”

Ricardo’s other hand was moving. Ricardo’s colorless eyes were upon the spot where the bullet would strike Bristol. Men scattered out of the line of fire.

Bristol came off the table like a tenpin. He struck the floor and rolled over. Ricardo’s face was wreathed in the smoke which eddied up from Bristol’s gun.

Ricardo’s eyes went suddenly wide. Bristol was instantly on his feet. The harsh twang of his rapier leaping from its scabbard came almost as an echo to the shot. He lunged. Ricardo parried the blow with his bare hand, and the blade went red. Ricardo’s cutlass came out and slashed wildly before him.

Bristol did not think of the niceties of swordplay, nor did he try to avoid Ricardo’s rush. His right boot came off the planking, his body swept forward, the boot stamping back. His rapier flickered an instant, and then the flicker died—deep in the chest of Ricardo.

His rapier flickered an instant, and then the flicker died—deep in the chest of Ricardo.

Ricardo’s mouth flecked red with froth. He clawed at the blade. Bristol pulled it out. Folding up a little at a time, Ricardo slumped into a dirty pile on the carpet.

Bristol did not look up when the quartermaster spoke.

“Surrender your weapons,” said the quartermaster. “You are under arrest of the council.”

Bristol tossed pistols and rapier listlessly to the floor. The quartermaster scooped them up and then pointed to the girl. “You’ll have to stand charge for that, too.”

“For what?” said Bristol, still staring at Ricardo.

“For harboring a woman in disguise aboard this ship. You can bring her, too. We’re putting about, and we’ll have to place her on shore. Women are too dangerous to keep.” The quartermaster withdrew his head and shut the door.

Bristol turned to the girl. Picking her up, he laid her upon the seat beneath the stern ports. Her eyes came open slowly, but it was some seconds before any intelligence came into them.

Then she sat up quickly, only to sink back. She stared at Bristol, who was throwing a sheet over Ricardo. Something seemed to tell her that Bristol knew, for when he came to her side, two big tears welled up in her eyes.

“What . . . what are they going to do with me?”

“Set you ashore.”

“But . . . but Bristol! I have no place to go!”

“It’s out of my hands. They’ll either kill me or maroon me.”

The girl turned over and buried her face in her hands. “After everything that’s happened these last months, they’ll put me ashore!” She was silent for a moment. Then, “And they’ll kill the only man I ever respected.”

“Look here . . . belay that!” pleaded Bristol, not a little confused. “Who are you?”

“I . . . I was Lady Jane Campbell, lady-in-waiting to Catherine of Braganza, Queen of England.”

“Good Lord!” cried Bristol. “You mean . . . Lady Jane Campbell?” He smiled a little and sat down on the table. “The Lord knows women are scarce enough out in this part of the world. Look you, Lady Jane. Do you see that golden goblet over there?”

She nodded, sitting up, wondering what he meant.

“That golden goblet was to be one of your wedding presents. And Sir Charles”—his smile broadened—“and Sir Charles had to leave it behind.”

“I know,” she replied quietly.

“We were rushing the Terror to Nevis to get the Lord High Governor there in time for his wedding—and his bride was aboard the ship which took us.”

“I know.”

“And you didn’t speak up?”

“How could I?” she said quickly.

“How did you get in this mess?”

The tears had stopped. Something like a twinkle came into her blue eyes. “The ship that was bringing me out from England was attacked by Bryce. I had heard so much about pirates that I was afraid I’d come to harm, and when they put off the crew in boats to shift as best they could, I knew my fate at the hands of the crew wouldn’t be so good.

“I therefore had but one person to rely upon—myself. I took the uniform from the locker of a midshipman while the fight was in progress and put it on. I knew that a woman could pass for a boy, if the worst came of it.

“Besides, a midshipman is considered an officer. The buccaneers wanted recruits from the crew, and so I stepped out and no one of the original ship’s company gave me away. I was the only one to desert them. Bryce thought he needed another watch officer, and thought perhaps he could last long enough to train me.

“I was hard put to it to keep from showing him my ignorance, but he never asked any questions. He told me more than once that I was better off under the Black Ensign than aboard a man-o’-war.

“And then there was something else. I had known Sir Charles Stukely in London, and because I was young and, he thought, timid, he tried to impress me with his manly conduct.

“When he was first ordered out here, he wrote back to Charles II and requested that I be sent to Nevis as his bride. I had to obey my king, but I certainly did not want to arrive in Nevis. And . . . well, here I am.”

“They’re going to put you ashore,” said Bristol. “They’ll give you money.”

The quartermaster opened the door and entered. A thick-set, red-faced fellow, he had no grace about him. “We’re standing off Nevis, Jim. We’ve stepped a sail in the jolly boat and put some gold in there. You’re leaving us.”

“But I—”

“You’re going ashore,” said Bristol. “Look you, quartermaster, what have the council found in my case?”

“You’re guilty of fighting aboard and harboring a woman. The penalty is marooning. We’re putting you ashore on some island on the Anegada Passage. It’s bad to be without an artist, but we’ll manage to catch up with Bryce all right. The jolly boat is ready, Jim.”

The girl stood up, picked her cap from the floor, and went out to the deck. She was once more a midshipman in appearance. None of the men bore her any ill will. They nodded as she passed through them to the Jacob’s ladder.

The jolly boat bobbed in the shelter of the lee. She went down into it and cast off the painter. The craft was whipped astern.

As it passed under the castle ports below the taffrail, she saw that Bristol was standing there, watching her.

“Goodbye, Bristol.”

He raised his hand in salute.

She turned quickly and hoisted the single sail. The jolly boat scudded up against the wind toward Nevis.