The Rescue
CAPTAIN HUNTER AT once set about devising a plan. He said we had to free both Captain Brixton and Lieutenant Fairfax at the same time, and nothing less would do. In a way, it made sense, for once we had made an attempt to bring away one of them, Tortuga would be too hot for us to remain and try for the other.
Still, Uncle Patch had his own ideas on that subject. “You do realize that this is a foolish enterprise, don’t ye, William?”
“Foolish it may be,” said Hunter doggedly, pacing the wharf near the Aurora. The men had almost finished restowing all her cargo, and we had only to fill her casks with water to be ready to sail. That made the necessity for action all the keener, as Hunter saw things. “Still, Doctor, even a fool can hear the call of duty.”
“Well, well,” grumbled my uncle. “I can only ask you not to get us all killed, I suppose. Though Lord knows that’s the last worry a hothead like yourself would have!” Uncle Patch did persuade the captain that charging in with pistols firing and cutlasses flashing was probably not the best way to achieve success.
I stayed quiet and listened to them debate. Finally, the plan they came up with was better thought out but would call for careful timing, courage … “And the luck of the devil himself,” my uncle finished, “for ’tis a certainty that never a saint would concern himself with such a scheme as this.”
And so that Friday, the tenth of February, I found myself seated next to the captain in M. Gille’s fine carriage once again on our way to dine. Hunter was in full pirate dress: his rich emerald green coat with the red piping and frogs; the amazing canary yellow sash; and black boots that shone like mirrors. He had a new wig he had picked up in the marketplace. It was the sort called a court-wig, like the ones the king’s counselors wore: black and curled and falling to his shoulders. As my uncle had remarked, you could buy anything there. Still, I did wonder about the fate of the wig’s former owner—did he still even have a head to call his own? His hat with the ostrich plume the captain held in his lap, for with the wig and the low carriage roof, he couldn’t put it on his head.
“Are you sure this is going to work, sir?” I asked, running my finger inside my tight collar.
“We must trust to fortune, Davy. All we have to do is follow the plan and all will be well. At least that’s what your uncle Patch said.”
Aye, my uncle Patch. Having raged and roared at the idiocy of even attempting what Captain Hunter wanted to do, my dear uncle had thrown himself into logistics and strategies. Even now, no doubt with him grumbling all the way, he and two crewmen fluent in French were headed for the Commodore’s. The sailors bore two jugs of the finest brandy from the Aurora’s stores. Both had been spiked with tincture of opium, a sleeping agent that Uncle Patch swore by. Of course, Uncle Patch swore by and at everything.
My uncle was willing to wager that two cheerful French-speaking sailors, free with their drink, would be able to persuade the guards to take a dram. And that was all that would be needed, for if they worked it right, both guards would be blissfully asleep within minutes. The plan was for the sailors to take their places while Uncle Patch spirited Lieutenant Fairfax and Jessie out of that grim place and made them safe aboard the Aurora.
That would only leave the rescue of Captain Brixton. This would be up to that notorious pirate, Mad William Hunter, and myself. The captain was actually looking forward to it, for there was nothing he enjoyed more than this kind of deceit. Had he not gone to sea, I thought, he would have made a fine play-actor upon the stage. For myself, I thought such acting was close to lying.
And I feared I was getting too good at it.
Night was falling fast when we arrived at the plantation house. The white, square stone building was ablaze with candlelight. “Beeswax candles,” Hunter murmured, pointing out the golden gleam. “None of your cheap tallow dips for our grand Monsieur Gille!” Captain Hunter smiled with satisfaction. I couldn’t help thinking that the windows all looked like hot yellow eyes, silent predators waiting patiently for us to enter their den. But I squared my shoulders and followed him in like a good servant.
If anything, this meal was even more opulent than the last. The table was covered in heavy white silk and laid out with fine patterned china and silver worth a rich Spanish prize. The food was all French: fish and vegetables in colorful, fragrant glazes and sauces. The smell was tantalizing, and my mouth would have watered had it not been so dry with fear of the Frenchmen at the table.
M. Gille sat in his grand chair, dressed in rich purples and blood reds. His round, smooth face glistened in the candlelight, none of which seemed to reach his dark eyes. To his right sat not M. du Pont but Mr. Meade, his English manager. Slim, quiet, and still dressed in his subdued browns, he would have disappeared completely into shadows were it not for his long white wig. It was almost possible to forget he was there, so silent he remained.
Captain Hunter made small talk through the first part of the meal. At the first remove, a servant poured some pale wine for him, filling a fine Venetian crystal goblet. Captain Hunter lifted it and stared at the candlelight through the wine as he swirled the glass. “I have given your kind offer of, ah, partnership, considerable thought, Monsieur Gille, as have my men.”
M. Gille dabbed at his lips with a napkin and gave Hunter a simpering smile. “Indeed, Captain Hunter. And have all of you come to a conclusion?”
Hunter sipped the wine and nodded appreciatively. “Very fine, sir. Come to a conclusion? Indeed, I believe we have, sir.”
You might have sliced the tension in the air with a carving knife. As I studied M. Gille’s face, I became aware that something had changed since our last meeting. What had the planter discovered about us? What had his spies reported? Sweat was trickling down my back, and I wanted to scratch more than anything.
M. Gille lifted his own wineglass and took a sip in obvious imitation of Captain Hunter. “Ah, yes, most delightful. And may one ask what your conclusion is, then?”
Hunter shrugged. “The only sensible one, as you have so kindly pointed out to me, Monsieur Gille. Shall we sign articles?”
There was a polite cough, and Mr. Meade dabbed his pale lips with his napkin. “Forgive Monsieur Gille if he does not speak personally. I hope your speaking of signing articles is meant metaphorically, sir. A written arrangement is out of the question. Your agreement must necessarily be informal. I am sure you understand.”
With a chuckle, Hunter said, “Then it’s the word of honor of gentlemen of fortune, is it? It will do for me if it will do for you.”
“That is rather the question,” Mr. Meade said delicately, the candlelight catching his eyes for just a second. I wished they hadn’t.
“I do not understand your meaning, sir,” Captain Hunter said, letting a hint of danger slip into his voice. Here we go, I thought, with the heart of me climbing into my throat. Uncle Patch had planned for this moment. I hoped he had planned well.
“The meaning, Captain Hunter,” rumbled M. Gille, “is that I have, how do you say, developed concerns about the wisdom of a joint venture. People in port know little about you or your ship. Oh, we know you have taken prizes, and we have the enthusiastic affidavits of Captain Barrel on your bravery. It is your raisons, your motives, that give me pause.”
Hunter turned his head slowly. “My motives, sir?”
Gille toyed with his goblet. “Your crew has been asking questions in Cayona, sir. Questions of a naval nature.”
Captain Hunter grinned, looking like a blond wolf. A slight frown formed on Gille’s smooth brow. He did not speak, though, and Hunter smoothly began to talk: “So it’s like that, is it? Fine, then, let’s clear the decks! Did you think that I wouldn’t know? Did you really think that Patch wouldn’t tell me?”
Gille glanced at Meade, who said nothing. The Frenchman said, “I do not know what you—”
“Brixton!” Hunter snapped, rising like wrath from his chair. “Your precious English guest is Alexander Brixton, late of His Majesty’s frigate Retribution! I thought when she was blown to perdition, she took that smug pig with her!”
“You know him?” M. Gille asked, sounding more confused than angry.
“Know him! He ruined my career with his brutality and harshness! Branded me mutineer, tried to hang me like a side of beef, tried to blow me and mine out of Port Royal Harbor when we made good our escape!” The captain was breathing hard now, eyes wide and blazing. “So you think I have some connection with the navy still, do you? Right. Then let us put that to rest! Brixton is alive, and the only reason he would be is for ransom.”
“Captain Hunter,” warned Mr. Meade, “you cannot expect my employer to answer that. His position—”
“To blazes with his position!” roared Hunter. “But let me tell you this: The old buzzard has no family and no fortune. You’ll get nothing for him. But by now you should know that. However, you may be willing to sell him.” Hunter yanked a purse loose from his belt and threw it on the table. It landed with a heavy clink, spilling its contents, and the candlelight caught the sunlight gleam of minted gold. I held my breath.
In the sudden silence, I could hear a faint whistle of breath in Gille’s nostrils. He did not even glance at the gold, but kept his gaze fixed on the captain.
Hunter sank easily back into his chair and tossed back half his wine. “There’s my offer. Sell him to me, and I’ll take him off your hands.”
“You wish revengement,” Gille said. “I think I see. But the good Doctor Shea says his patient might not survive, even with his ministrations.”
With as ghastly a leer as I ever hope to see, Hunter leaned forward. “That devil Brixton ruined Dr. Shea along with the rest of us. Patch is an excellent surgeon. He can keep a man alive for days. Even when he doesn’t want to be!” Hunter leaned further into the candlelight. “Is it a bargain?”
M. Gille stared at him coldly. Then his eyes took the slightest twitch to the right, where Mr. Meade sat in his shadows. Did I imagine it or did that white wig nod slightly in return? No matter, M. Gille smiled. “I believe we can do business, Captain Hunter. Would you prefer to discuss terms now?”
“Aye, but first things first. Davy!” Captain Hunter turned to me. The wolfish smile was still on his face, and his eyes were wild. “Run you to the ship and tell Mr. Adams to attend me here. Have him bring some men. Tell him we’ll be taking away some merchandise!”
“Aye, aye, sir!” I squeaked and took to my heels. The house seemed much larger going out than coming in as I pelted for the door. I was through it in a flash and running down the drive and through the gates. It was only when they were safely out of sight behind me that I paused to get my breath. Uncle Patch’s mad plan had actually worked! I could hear his conspiratorial whisper in my mind: “Give ’em a kernel of truth wrapped in a parcel of lies, and buy the old man!”
But then I heard something that had been no part of my uncle’s plan: the tramp of many feet coming up the road. I hid myself in the woods just in time to avoid a patrol of sailors coming up from town. They were rough-looking men with drawn cutlasses, marching along behind a bulky bald man whose head seemed to be covered in tattoos. As soon as they were past, I took to the road and raced toward the Commodore’s, where the rescue of Jessie and Lieutenant Fairfax should have been well underway.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I arrived at the Commodore’s and saw that the guards at the gate were two sailors from the Aurora. One of them leveled his musket as I came running up.
“Put that down! ’Tis I, Davy Shea! I’ve got to see my uncle Patch!”
“’Tain’t loaded,” muttered Abel Tate. “The doctor is—”
“Right behind you,” Uncle Patch snarled as he stood framed in the archway. Quickly, I informed him of all that had happened. He didn’t seem pleased. “What’s Hunter playing at? I warned him to string it out, to keep them debating until midnight or later.”
“But we didn’t expect Monsieur Gille to doubt us!” I said, trying to defend the captain.
“And us with such honest faces and all. I’ll see to the men he needs. You go upstairs and see if the lieutenant and his ragged servant are ready. The guards are asleep in the yard, and we caught them as they came on duty, so we’ve nearly four hours to spare.”
The two guards lay just inside the gate, breathing heavily. I rushed past them and up the stair. Lieutenant Fairfax had changed into clothes that Uncle Patch must have brought with him: canvas trousers, linen shirt, a vest, and a scarf tied around his head. The disguise was topped off with a black eye patch that he was shifting from eye to eye as if looking for the best effect. It all made him look very young, like a child playing at dress-up.
I was still staring at him when Jessie Cochran came up and hit me hard on the arm. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Faith, that hurts, Jessie!” I complained, rubbing my arm. “Listen, now. I’ve come fresh from Gille’s plantation, and my uncle says to—”
That was as far as I got before the lieutenant was next to me, demanding to know every detail of what had happened. So I was forced to go through the whole thing, to Jessie’s openmouthed amazement and the lieutenant’s thoughtful nods. Then I mentioned the sailors I had passed, and the man with the tattooed head. Both grew pale at that.
“A stout man with a great barrel chest?” Fairfax asked urgently. “And the tattoos, were they all kinds of blue swirls over the top of his head?”
“I can’t answer to the color, for I only saw by moonlight, but as to the swirls, aye, just as you said.”
“Then we’d best hurry. That man is the captain of the Sultana, the pirate ship that took the Venture and landed Jessie and me in this mess.”
“We don’t know his true name,” Jessie said breathlessly. “His crew just called him Shark. I watched him pick up one of his own wounded men and throw him over the side!”
“Come, there is not a moment to lose,” Fairfax said as he buckled a borrowed sword around his waist. He no longer looked like a young boy. Now he looked like a dangerous one. “We had best make our escape so that this Captain Hunter can make his. Davy, my compliments to your terribly effective uncle Patch, and tell him we shall be right behind you. And tell him what we said about this pirate Shark.”
So down the stairs I pounded, thinking that running was all I was about this day. Uncle Patch was pacing back and forth like an Irish bear, muttering curses under his breath as fast as he could draw it. I gasped out the lieutenant’s compliments and the information that Captain Shark had entered the plan.
“Brimstone and blazes!” he snarled. “Sure, and this gets better by the minute, it does! The plan sprung too soon, and now real pirates meddling into it as well!”
“Is the captain in danger?” I asked.
My uncle flapped his arms. “When have you known him not to be? I’m lumbered with that young popinjay upstairs, and until he’s safely stowed, our hands are tied! I’ve sent Abel Tate back to fetch Mr. Adams and some of the others. Perhaps they can bluff their way in and bear Brixton back. Fly back to Gille’s and let William know what’s afoot. Here, you shall take my horse, the roan tied in front of the tavern yonder.”
We walked to the very end of the next street, and for some minutes I stood wondering whether I dared get in the saddle at all. The beast was a snappish thick-headed brute of a hired horse, but grateful I was not to have to run the five miles back to the Gille plantation. Once I had made the climb, the fool of a horse wanted to dance about the street with me for more minutes, until I began to think it would have been faster to walk.
Finally, though, I persuaded the animal to start forward. It seemed to know the road, for it did not stumble, though several times the devil tried to throw me off. Nothing I could do would persuade it to go faster than an amble, and all in all the horse was only a trouble to me. At last I swung off the creature while still three hundred yards away from Gille’s, for I had not left riding a mount, and thus wanted no questions about how I had come by one.
I meant to tie him to a tree beside the road, only the ill-natured brute yanked the reins from my hands and took off back toward the town. I stared after the beast for a moment, then turned my eyes to the sky. A few stars twinkled there, and the moon, now past full, seemed to be staring down at me. Maybe it was wondering what Davy Shea was doing, tearing about on a night full of doubt and danger such as this.