Davenport Steward
BLACK SPICE
To
Jack and Rose
Steward, Davenport, 1913-
Producer's Note
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P.S.: Вычитано поелику возможно (ancient-skipper).
1
LIKE a gaunt wolf on the prowl, the American privateer Jasper, a weathered brig of eight guns, lazed along under shortened sail. In the cool predawn blackness, as the tropical stars began winking out one by one, she was hushed except for the protesting creak of tackle and the sibilant whispering of phosphorescent water at her prow. On her larboard bow, night-veiled and hidden over the horizon, lay lush, mountainous Jamaica, the principal British bastion in the Caribbean. In Kingston harbor lay merchantmen, the sheep the commerce raider sought, and there, too, were the sharp-toothed watchdogs, warships of the West India Squadron.
On this calm morning of January 20, 1815, Scott Rogers, mate of the privateer, mounted to the poop and turned his gaze northward, unconsciously trying to convey his thoughts to Charleston. He was a lean, muscular man, blond and sunburned to a mahogany shade, with high cheekbones and serious, farseeing gray eyes; and in him was the same pent-up restiveness that characterized the low-hulled brig. His eyes softened and some of the hunter's hawk-look went out of his face as he reached inside his loose shirt, touching with long fingers the golden locket containing the exquisite ivory miniature of his girl-wife Rowena. And out of his longing for her was born the wish for decisive action or an end to days and nights spent in ceaseless combing of the intensely blue sea.
"Mr. Rogers," the helmsman said after awhile, his voice hesitant, his eyes on the compass.
Scott turned his head. "Aye?"
"Me an' my mates ain't complainin', sir, but some of us do think this is a bad-luck cruise. In ten months, sir, an' you know it yourself, nothin' good's happened to us. We ain't taken a prize . . . ain't even seen a vessel that wasn't a warship or in convoy. We've lost two hands overside in a storm an' one to sickness. An' now th' rum's exhausted, th' little water we've got is stinkin', th' ship's bread is crawlin' with bugs, an' th' salt horse has got more maggots in it than a week-old corpse."
"Our luck'll change," the mate answered with optimism he really didn't feel.
A barefoot seaman, moving as silently as a ghost, materialized on the poop. "Mr. Rogers."
"What is it, Wilson?"
"Cap'n Rousseau wants to see you, sir. In his cabin, he is."
"Very good, Wilson. . . . Steady as she goes, helmsman."
"Steady as she goes, sir."
Hastening to the cabin, Scott reflected on how much he owed David Rousseau. He'd left an orphanage to ship before the mast in a vessel commanded by the man, and in the ten years that had elapsed since he was thirteen he had risen to be an officer. He rarely thought of his debt to Rousseau, but he knew there wasn't much he wouldn't try to do for him.
Rousseau, a weather-beaten, leather-tough little man with a wizened, rather monkeylike face under thin white hair, was drinking tea when Scott reported. There were two other mugs on the table and he signed Scott to take one. "Mr. Peary's on his way, Scott. We'll talk after he gets here."
Scott sipped the steaming beverage, noticing that it had been sweetened slightly with molasses. A minute after he sat down Clay Peary, the second officer and his brother-in-law, knocked, then entered. He was about Scott's build, but naturally dark-complexioned and a trifle thicker through the middle. His eyes were cold, shrewd and light blue.
" 'Morning, sir," he said, picking up the third mug. " 'Morning, Scott."
" 'Morning," Scott responded mechanically, thinking as he occasionally did that without this man life in the Jasper would be more pleasant. He and Peary tolerated each other, and that was about all. As for Rowena, Scott knew that she despised her brother, although he didn't know why.
"Well," Captain Rousseau said after a few moments of silence, "do you lads think we should keep on with this cruise or make sail for home?"
Peary spoke up quickly. "I think we're wasting our time in these waters, sir. And the crew's turning sullen."
Rousseau turned to Scott. "What do you think?"
"I'd like to stick it out awhile longer. I need a share of prize money."
The captain smiled wryly. "So do I. I've got almost everything I own tied up in this venture."
"We're going to have trouble with the men if things go on the way they are now," Peary said bluntly. "They want to go home."
Scott thought longingly of his wife. Gently born, used to luxury, she had eloped with him after a whirlwind courtship. Now she lived again with her parents, which wasn't to her liking or his. She deserved a home of her own, and with prize money he could give her one. With enough of it they could buy some South Carolina acreage . . . begin building the plantation estate they both wanted. He looked at Peary, the rich man's son, and thought he glimpsed malice in his eyes.
"I'm sure my sister would be glad to see you, rich or poor, after so many months, Scott," his brother-in-law said silkily. "After all, you'd been married only three weeks when last we sailed."
Yes, Scott thought bitterly, and neither her parents nor you had forgiven her then. I doubt that any of you has yet. Damn you, you resent me because I wasn't born a Charleston aristocrat. . . because I fell in love above myself . . . because I made Rowena happy. None of you disliked me before I met and married her. He looked coldly at Peary. "I've said my piece."
"Come, gentlemen!" Rousseau said, his voice slightly edged. "Mr. Peary, your father has a substantial stake in this cruise. He'd appreciate a profit on his venture."
"One loss won't hurt him," Peary said carelessly. "We did all right for him last time."
The captain spoke half to himself. He was an old man, and his years showed in his indecisiveness. "To return now would cripple me financially. I've got all I made on the last cruise and then some in this venture. As for Scott, it would mean that his time away from his wife has been wasted. For the crew, no prey, no pay, as the old buccaneers used to say. Speaking for myself, I vote to hunt awhile longer, but I won't insist on it."
"I vote to remain at sea, sir," Scott said promptly. "Luck can't always run against us."
Peary shrugged his shoulders. "I'm outvoted. But I still think we're wasting our time. Last time we took two rich prizes within six months of leaving Charleston. For all we know, the war's over."
Then they heard the lookout's excited cry.
"A sail! A sail! Sa-ail—ho!"
The exultant shout, followed by the chorusing yells of seamen, lifted die officers to their feet. Together they hurried into the brightening light of new day.
"Where away?" Rousseau rasped, looking up from the waist.
"On th' larb'd bow, sir."
The crew cheered lustily.
"A prize for breakfast!" bawled a sailor.
Rousseau darted back to the cabin for his long glass. The mates leaped into the rigging and climbed agilely.