“Another damned feint,” he said. “Let’s go see if we can find some wine.”
You may have heard tales of all the merry times to be had when a city is sacked on the Spanish Main: all the drinking, and looting, and whoring, and happy freebooters lying unconscious in piles of plunder. There was none of that at Chagres Castle, at all.
Captain Bradley lay sweating in a fever, but his shattered leg was cold. If a man were at all inclined to be fanciful, he might almost see the black-robed figure with the scythe waiting patiently in a corner, just passing the time in a game of primero with War and Pestilence. Captain Norman stalked about hollow-eyed and sleepless, seeing to the repair of the defenses; for John hadn’t been the only one to notice the canoes escaping up the Chagres, and everyone reckoned it was a race to see who arrived first, Morgan with the rest of the fleet (please God) or Spanish troops come to the relief of their comrades.
The first night’s watch fell to John and his messmates, by the open palisade. They’d only a low basket of coals to warm themselves, as a cheery fire would have blazed out through the fallen wall good as an invitation for any snipers who cared to pick them off.
John sat with his head in his hands, feeling low. His skull ached and his wounds stung, but all he cared for was that the girl hadn’t come back, and nobody seemed to have seen her.
“It’s on your own conscience,” said Dick Pettibone, shrill as a fishwife. “You ought to have known better than to have brought that poor child. She was half mad, after what she’d suffered. Then, to think of her being pawed by a great brute like you! And now, I don’t doubt she’s run mad in the forest, and will perish miserably.”
“Run mad maybe, but I doubt very much she’ll perish,” said Blackstone. “You didn’t see her fighting! A more bloodthirsting harpy I never saw.” He looked sidelong at John. “She’s left you, you great lout, and you ought to be grateful. Can’t you see that she kept with you only to serve her purposes? You got her where she wished to go, and then it was hail and farewell. If I were you I’d be grateful I still had my prick.”
“So you should,” agreed Jago, where he lay with his head in Jacques’ lap. “She fight like a devil, but they are heartless, heartless.”
“So you say,” said John.
“Men are more heartless than women,” said Bob Plum. “Do they think twice about deserting their faithful wives? Do they care for the helpless infants left to starve? Oh no, they go swaggering off to the arms of other women—or to ale houses—or the wars—perfidious, treacherous beasts!”
The others turned their heads to stare at him. Reverend Hackbrace, so bound up from a score of wounds he looked like a great long roll of bandage, shifted uncomfortably where he sat.
“Now, then, Bob, let us keep our tempers,” he said. “Scripture tells us—
“Oui, Scripture! What about the sin of Eve, eh?” said Jago. “Slut mother sleep with the Serpent and eat of the fruit, get us all thrown out of Paradise. And Jezebel. And Salome.”
“Delilah,” said Jacques.
“And Delilah!”
“That’s true,” said Bob, looking down at his feet. “I must bear in mind the counsels of Saint Paul. Women are of a more natural disposition to sin, alas. After all, there are no male whores.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Blackstone. “You have never been at Court, or you’d never say such a thing.”
“Ain’t you never heard of the Grand Turk?” John lifted his head. “ ’Course there’s boy whores.”
“There are?” Bob’s eyes were wide. The Reverend cleared his throat.
“The sins of the people of the plain, Bob,” he said. “The crime of Sodom.”
“Buggery,” said Blackstone. Bob’s eyes got wider.
“You mean people are still doing that?” he said. Jago began to snicker.
“Don’t be an imbecile, Bob,” said Pettibone waspishly.
“But—but why hath not the Lord rained down fire and brimstone upon them?” cried Bob.
“I often ask myself that question, in the still watches of the night,” said Blackstone.
“No doubt the Almighty is waiting His vengeance for the Last Trumpet,” said the Reverend.
“Yes, that must be the case,” Bob agreed. “How dreadful!”
“Perhaps a more edifying topic of conversation might be begun,” said the Reverend. John listened in wonder; it was the first time he had ever heard the Reverend say so much at one go, in his ruined-sounding voice. “For example, it might be pleasant to contemplate what we shall do with the riches awaiting us at Panama.”
“So it might,” said Blackstone. “For my part, I’ll set up as a planter. Build myself a grand house, live in style; perhaps in Virginia or Carolina. The weather is more temperate there, so I hear.”
“I thought of doing that,” said John. “Or setting up in a shop, you know. I was going to settle down with—” He choked back what he had been about to say, and hated himself for the hot tears that welled in his eyes.
“No, you wouldn’t have done,” said Blackstone, not unkindly. “You’ll spend it all on a spree, my friend, and go to sea again.”
“I ain’t like those poor, stupid bastards you see in the gutter,” John protested. “I could have been a bricklayer, you know.”
“Well, well perhaps you may yet. What about you gentlemen?” Blackstone looked at the Reverend and his mates. “But why do I even ask? Surely you’ll establish a mission for the conversion of the benighted Indian.”
“No, sir, we will not,” said Dick Pettibone. “The Reverend has humbly acknowledged that he lacks the patience for missionary work.”
“I am too great a sinner,” said the Reverend mournfully.
“Being as he is no gentle persuader, he is nevertheless a brilliant man of God,” said Pettibone. “We have resolved to buy a quiet country retreat where he will complete his great scholarly work, so unfortunately interrupted when we were obliged to fly from Yorkshire.”
“It is called One Thousand Canonical Instances Wherein the Claim to Authority of the Bishop of Rome Is Refuted,” said Bob proudly. “With appendices.”
“Really,” said Blackstone. “And what will the two of you do?”
“Why, keep house for him,” said Bob. “A-and perhaps engage in small farming.”
“I see,” said Blackstone. Jago coughed in a pointed sort of way.
“And take ourselves virtuous wives,” said Dick Pettibone. “Of course.”
“Now, what in hell do you need a wife for?” John asked.
“There is more to a marriage than swiving,” said Pettibone, with great dignity.
“Than what?” said Bob.
“Swiving,” said John, and called it by another name. Bob reddened and fell silent.
“What about the two of you?” Blackstone inquired of the boucaniers.
“We need nothing,” said Jago proudly. “Buy ourselves the tabac, buy the powder and shot. New muskets, belike, eh, mon plus cher? Go back to Tortuga, we got Paradise already.”
“Adam avant I’erreur,” said Jacques, nodding.
“If you’ve such a damned Paradise, what are you out of it for?” said John crossly.
“The revenge,” said Jago, with a red light in his eyes. Jacques sighed and shook his head.
“On whom, exactly?” inquired Blackstone.
“All of them,” said Jago. “Spain specially. When I was little boy in Marseilles, my monsieur, he keep me in the golden cage. I wear the ribbon, like the kitten, eh? He feed me the candies, sweet rice, sweet wines. I sleep on his sheets, wear the perfume. Then he gamble away everything and English lord win me, give me to his lady to wear the turban. She make me stand in the livery by her door. But Sir Robert gamble too, and then Don Pedro win me. I am nothing, me, but the object.”
“C’était il y a un longtemps, mon cher,” murmured Jacques.
“Don Pedro ship me off to Hispaniola. Poor little me, never before worked in the fields! I am beat half to death. When I get big, I kill him and run away. Steal the boat, go adrift, almost die of the thirst. Wash up on the little island. There was Jacques.