Pieces of Eight Read online

  “Are you the leader of these men?”

  “What difference does it make?” Miller asked before Noel could answer. “Hang them from the yardarm and be done with it.”

  The lieutenant’s thin nostrils flared in distaste. “You may be content to sail along with carrion swinging from your rigging, but I am not. These men will be hanged in Port Royal, with proper sentencing and documentation of their names.”

  Miller’s face turned as crimson as his coat. “I’ll not be a party to this unwarranted leniency! In this damned calm we’re days yet from Port Royal. What’s to be done with these knaves in the meantime? I ask you, sir, do you expect—”

  “They will be kept here aboard your ship,” said Thurston curtly, “except for three.”

  “Hah!” snorted the captain. “You’ll regret adding any of these filthy dogs to your crew, shorthanded or no.”

  “You might consider using some of them yourself,” Thurston told him. “You’re sadly undermanned for a ship of this size, and you’ve lost a third of your own men.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “You’ll keep the prisoners here!” Thurston raised his voice for the first time. “Try to remember that if it hadn’t been for our intervention last night your neck would now be in a pirate’s noose and your crew in shackles. Profit is all you can think about, sir, aye, your damned profit. You sail through the most treacherous, pirate-infested waters in this corner of the world without bothering with the expense of a full crew complement or even a ship to guard you. What the devil do you expect but to be set upon?”

  Miller spluttered. “I’m grateful of course, but an extra dozen mouths to feed. Consider it! Our supplies are low already.”

  “We shall send over barrels of water and provisions.”

  “It’s a stupid waste. Feeding men condemned to die.”

  The lieutenant’s icy expression did not change. “They’ll hang in Port Royal according to due process. We are Englishmen, and we uphold the king’s law. The French and Spaniards do as they please, but we—”

  “And who is to guard these cutthroats? Kindly remember the delicacy of my cargo.”

  “I have not forgotten,” Thurston said. “Put them below where they can do no harm.”

  Noel glanced at the grating set into the deck a short distance away. He could smell the stink of bilge and filth wafting up from the bowels of the ship. The last thing he wanted was to be chained down there in the darkness.

  “There is no room,” Miller said. “The hold is full. More than full.”

  “Then leave them chained here on deck. As long as they are in irons, they need no guard.”

  “Lieutenant—”

  “That is all,” snapped the officer. “I have no time to delay while Lonigan is prowling these waters. Seaman, fall out three men.”

  The seaman passed down the line, peering into the hostile or pleading faces in turn. He paused in front of Noel.

  “You look sturdy enough. How skilled with sails are you?”

  Beside him the one-eyed pirate was holding his breath, standing so tensed Noel could feel it. Noel looked at the seaman. “I don’t know anything about sailing,” he lied. As a boy, he’d crewed for his uncle on the choppy waters of Lake Michigan.

  “Go on!” said the seaman in disbelief. “Lazy, that’s what you are. Pirates don’t keep them as can’t handle a ship.”

  “I told you I’m not a pirate,” Noel said. He held back all emotion from his voice and met the man’s astonished gaze. He was aware that the lieutenant was frowning at him, but Noel didn’t glance Thurston’s way. He’d already made an appeal in that direction without luck. “I don’t know one end of a sail from another.”

  “Well, then, are you the cook?”

  “No.”

  The one-eyed pirate hissed with annoyance. “Are ye daft?” he muttered. ‘This be yer chance, ye booby!”

  Noel turned on him. “How long have I been on your ship?”

  The pirate blinked. His gaze shifted to the seaman, then back to Noel.

  “Well?” demanded Noel. “How long? What’s my job?”

  “Uh…”

  “He doesn’t know,” Noel told the seaman. “That’s because I’m not a member of the crew.”

  “Yer callin’ Natty Gumbel a liar!” yelled the one-eyed pirate. He sprang at Noel, getting his hands on Noel’s throat before he was dragged off. “I’ll get ye for that. God’s my witness, I will!”

  The seaman glanced at the lieutenant. “Sir?”

  “This is ridiculous,” snapped Captain Miller. “The man is lying in an effort to save himself. Surely that’s obvious.”

  “He’s the surgeon!” Natty Gumbel said, glaring at Noel. “That’s him. The surgeon.”

  From down the line came a fresh commotion and a brawny man with a full black beard roared, “Hell open its mouth and swallow ye, Natty Gumbel. I be the surgeon! I be!”

  “You seem to be a mystery, Kedran,” the lieutenant said. “What are you if not a pirate?”

  “I’m a historian,” Noel answered. “My presence among these men is a mistake.”

  “Aye, but you’re with them!” interjected Miller furiously. “That makes you guilty by association.”

  “Nonsense!” Noel said. “Why don’t you calm down and try to think rationally for a change?”

  The seaman punched his fist into Noel’s stomach, doubling him over. “Watch your tongue, laddie.”

  “He’s with us!” screamed Natty Gumbel. “If we hang, he hangs.”

  “That man goes over the side if he opens his mouth once more,” Thurston said.

  Gumbel fell silent at once, but he went on glaring murderously at Noel, mouthing curses and shaking his fist.

  “Your guilt or innocence will be decided by Governor Mountleigh at Port Royal,” Thurston said. “Seaman, fall out three men. I have not all day to spend on this matter.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The bearded surgeon and two other husky types were unshackled and allowed into the dinghy that pulled away toward the Navy sloop. The lieutenant paced slowly back and forth on deck, waiting until provisions had been brought back for the prisoners. Then he bade a curt farewell to the captain and departed for his own ship.

  “Ye fool,” Natty Gumbel muttered contemptuously to Noel. “The lieutenant had his eye on ye. Thought ye were well set up. Ye’d have had a chance on his ship, aye, and me with ye. But now we’ll be lucky to ever see freedom again.”

  Noel just looked at him. Gumbel was a weasel, and he had lied to keep Noel condemned with the rest of them. Right now, Noel’s exasperation was so great it was all he could do not to throttle the man.

  Captain Miller approached them. His fleshy face was set with grim purpose. A rugged individual bare to the waist followed him, carrying a multi-strand whip called—if Noel’s memory served him—a cat-o’-nine-tails.

  “There will be no trouble from any of you,” Miller said to the prisoners. “The first man to cause a disturbance will be thrown overboard without compunction. Just because you are prisoners does not mean you won’t earn your keep. The deck is filthy from blood and gunpowder. It needs swabbing down. Mind you do a proper job of it, or there’ll be no evening ration of supper for you. Bosun! Take charge of these men.”

  Bald and sporting an earring, the bosun glared down the row of prisoners, then pointed at Noel. “Step forward.”

  Looking at the man with the whip, Noel obeyed.

  The bosun unchained him except for the shackles on his ankles. “Got a special job for you,” he said with a sly grin. “Them’s as has big mouths is them that gets big jobs.”

  Still grinning, he led Noel over to the side and tied a hemp rope around his middle. The other end was passed through a wooden block and tackle. Noel was handed a pole with a cloth bundled over one end, then two sailors pulled off his boots and threw him overboard.

  He hit the water before he hit the end of the rope. The sting of impact nearly stunned the breath from him. He went under,
only to bob back up, choking. Before he could orient himself, the rope jerked him up, causing him to slam against the barnacle-encrusted hull.

  “Swab the gun ports!” yelled the bosun, leaning over the rail above him. “Mind you work lively or we’ll keel-haul you for good measure.”

  Noel dangled, spinning gently around and around in midair. Every inch of him was streaming water. He still held the pole they’d given him and he stared at it doubtfully. They had to be kidding.

  But it seemed they weren’t. A port popped open, nearly whacking him in the process, and a wizened face black with gunpowder peered out at him from the darkness within the ship.

  “Howdy!”

  The rope tightened around him. Noel could feel it catching him too hard under his rib cage. “Hello,” he managed to gasp back.

  “Swab lively now,” the gunner said. “They’ll dunk ye in between ports to wet your rag so hold yer breath when ye’ve the chance.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Noel said sarcastically. “Couldn’t I just dip the end in?”

  The gunner cackled. “Ho, that’s a good ’un. Where’s the fun, then, eh? Oh, and if ye see sharks, yell out.”

  “Sharks!” Noel said in alarm. “But—”

  “Hop to it! We ain’t got all day!”

  “Lazy, is he?” called the bosun from topside. “Give him a dunk, Mort!”

  “No!” Noel said. “Wait—”

  He crashed into the water and plunged under, getting knocked and scraped against razor-sharp barnacles as he was dragged out. They hauled him up even with the gun ports, and he clung to the hull to stop himself from spinning. The rope was cutting him in half and he felt as though he’d swallowed half of the Caribbean.

  “Get to work,” the gunner said.

  Noel did.

  Chapter Two

  That night, a bruised, weary Noel lay on the hard deck, listening to his companions snore beneath a glittering array of constellations in the black sky. The ship dipped and surged steadily, the warm evening breeze filling her canvas. She creaked and groaned and gurgled in a rhythm of rope and timber. The waves chuckled quietly beneath her bows. From down in the hold came the ghostly refrains of an eerie tribal chant. The helmsman stood at the ship’s wheel, his shadowy silhouette spinning the chest-high circle of wood with easy competence. He kept his head tilted back to watch the stars by which he set his course. The night watchman paced quietly by and spoke a moment to the guards standing over the prisoners, then walked on.

  Curled up with his shoulder wedged against a barrel of coiled rope, Noel fretted with the need to consult his LOC. There hadn’t been a chance all day, and he was worried by the amount of salt water the computer had been subjected to. Granted, it was sealed to protect it from the elements, but he wasn’t sure it had been designed to withstand frequent and prolonged immersion in the ocean. As for his own status, his throat and nostrils still burned from the quantity of salt water he’d inhaled or swallowed. His clothes were shredded tatters. His hands ached from cuts and splinters.

  He was too tired to sleep. So far he hadn’t fallen prey to seasickness, but the dip and rise, dip and rise of the ship worried him just the same.

  The funeral service for the dead members of the crew had been conducted at midday, giving Noel a much-needed respite from his work. Six bodies sewn into shrouds made from sails, with a cannonball tucked inside at their feet, had been dropped into the water while a drum rolled mournfully and Captain Miller conducted the prayers.

  His formal speech had given Noel the date, June 14, 1697. But so far Noel hadn’t been able to access his LOC to find out more. He wore a broad leather band stitched together around his left wrist. In his previous travel to the New Mexico of 1887, his LOC had disguised itself as a band of Indian silver and turquoise. In the travel before that to fourteenth-century Greece, the LOC had appeared as a plain copper bracelet. Possessing the capability of molecular shift, it was programmed to alter its appearance to fit the local costumes. And although its circuits—damaged by the traitor who’d infiltrated the Time Institute—kept him from being able to travel back to his own time of the twenty-sixth century, it was still something he could talk to, a piece of home.

  It could tell him where to find Leon, now sailing to God knew where on that pirate vessel. Noel was certain Leon was being treated like one of the gang. If there was a band of cutthroats in the vicinity, Leon was always certain to be among their number. Noel hoped that he was finally free of his troublesome duplicate. Maybe Leon’s path would never cross his again.

  But Noel could not believe that. Ever since he became trapped in the past and Leon had been duplicated by an error in the time stream, he and Leon had been in constant conflict. Leon sought to alter events whenever he could. He wanted to change history and destroy the future that Noel called home. Noel was certain Leon would return to cause more trouble.

  The sound of voices roused Noel from his thoughts. He propped himself up on one elbow and saw a woman in a cloak talking to the night watchman.

  “Please,” Noel heard her say. “I must have some fresh air. I promise I shall cause no trouble.”

  “Very well, ma’am. But mind ye stay far away from them scurvy prisoners.”

  She bowed her head, and he let her walk on. Noel watched her stroll the length of the ship on the opposite side. The wind swept her cloak out behind her and now and then a beam of moonlight shimmered on the fine satin of her long gown.

  The steadiness of her walk spoke of long days at sea. The tilt of her chin told of courage and determination. He wished he could see her face clearly, but she was only a shadow in the darkness, too far away even for him to smell her perfume.

  He had discovered during the course of the day that the Plentitude carried a cargo of slaves, silk and other woven cloth, nails, and French brandy in addition to the furniture ordered by the wife of Jamaica’s new governor and twenty­-two barrels packed with straw to hold her sets of china. The lady herself was aboard, traveling with her cousin, child, and personal servants. Noel wondered now if this was the governor’s wife or her cousin.

  She paused and turned to face his direction as though she sensed his thoughts included her. For a long while she stood motionless, her back to the sea, then she came toward him.

  Surprised, Noel got to his feet. She stopped well beyond his reach. The moonlight played a variety of shadows across her face. He could tell now that she was young and beautiful. She wore her hair pinned up in clusters of long ringlets. Her gown was cut low and square across the bosom, fitted at the waist, and puffed out in full skirts that went down to the deck. Diamonds glittered in her ears. She smelled of ambergris—a sweet, earthy scent that Noel recognized. The ancient Egyptians had burned it as incense. In this era, it remained a costly perfume, primarily gleaned from the sperm whale.

  “Are you the man who was found near Lord Davenport?”

  The woman’s voice was a warm, melodious contralto. She spoke softly, and when the watchman approached her she lifted her hand imperiously to hold him at bay.

  Noel watched her warily. “I don’t know.”

  She pointed to the part of the ship where Noel had hidden last night during the battle. He remembered the gentleman in lace fighting for his life. That man might have been alive now if he hadn’t tripped over Noel’s foot. Noel swallowed. He had no intention of telling this woman about that.

  “You were captured near his body. I think you killed him.”

  Noel frowned. Captain Miller was still panting for an excuse to hang someone. If this lady started making accusations, Noel’s neck would be stretched faster than he could jump overboard.

  “Now look,” he started, but the watchman stepped forward.

  “Mind yer tongue! Show some respect to Lady Pamela.”

  Noel struggled a moment and managed to control his temper. “I didn’t kill anyone last night. It was someone else.”

  The watchman snorted. “Easy to say.”

  “Please,” Lady Pamela said impatien
tly. “Let me question him.”

  “It was someone else,” Noel insisted.

  “You saw it happen?” she asked and only the extreme quietness of her tone gave her emotions away.

  “He was fighting well, then he tripped. He fell next to me, and before he could recover, the pirate—er—finished him.”

  Noel frowned, thinking of how close that sword thrust had come to impaling his body beneath Davenport’s. He felt again the hot splash of blood, inhaled again its sickening smell.

  She said, “Will you tell me the killer’s name?”

  “I would if I knew it,” Noel replied.

  She drew in her breath audibly, angered.

  “I honestly don’t know,” he said, wishing she would believe him.

  Shaking her head, she turned away. He realized that she might help free him if he could be useful to her.

  “Lady Pamela,” he said urgently, barely remembering to keep his voice low. “Wait—”

  “Leave her be,” the watchman growled.

  Noel said quickly, “I can help you find the killer. I can lead you to the pirate ship.”

  She hesitated, looking back. The moonlight gleamed silver on her hair.

  Stay quiet, Noel told himself. She’s going to cooperate.

  Without a word, Lady Pamela bowed her head and walked away.

  The watchman gave Noel a shove. “Lie down and make yerself quiet. I want no more from ye the rest of the night. And don’t be putting ideas in yer head, neither.”

  Frustrated, Noel obeyed. The watchman moved away on his rounds. The muted sound of the ship’s bell chimed the hour. Noel sighed. He’d had a chance and he’d blown it. He might not get another. Meanwhile, Leon was free and far away. It wasn’t fair.

  Natty Gumbel’s ragged snoring abruptly stopped. His hand seized Noel’s ankle. Noel’s heart jumped into his throat.

  “No one betrays the Brotherhood, lad,” Gumbel whispered. “We’ll get ye if ye try it. Fer the rest of yer days, ye’ll be a marked man. Fer the rest of yer days, ye’ll wonder when it’s goin’ ter happen…a knife in the ribs, poison in yer ale, a carriage runnin’ ye down in the streets. Think about it a long time, matey, afore ye decide to do us wrong.”