Voyage of Plunder (10 page)

Well,
I thought,
what do you know. A hideaway. Secret and alone.
After pondering another moment or two, I smiled, then turned and dashed through the jungle toward the beach as if I had wings, thinking,
I claim this hut for Daniel Markham, gentleman adventurer and seeker of revenge.

Over the next week, besides my two days spent careening the
Tempest Galley,
I worked on my hut.

First I hacked away the vines and plants that had grown over it, swept out the debris, and scrubbed both the floor and walls with vinegar to rid it of the stench. (I was delighted to learn that the floor was fine and smooth, made of some kind of hardwood.) Next I constructed rafters of bamboo like I'd seen on the other huts of the island, securing the ends with vine. Afterward I covered the rafters with banana leaves, weaving them together with more vine so they wouldn't blow off.

Both the roof and floor of the hut continued past the front wall, creating a covered veranda that, in my opinion, was quite cheery. I built railings of bamboo and fixed the rickety steps that led off the veranda to the clearing. Finally I cleaned underneath
the hut and around the clearing itself. Brush, leaves, animal droppings, discarded construction materials—I hauled it all to a nearby area in the jungle that I had designated as both my privy and my dump.

I fetched my belongings from the
Tempest Galley
and brought Timothy back with me as my first houseguest. We sat on the veranda as the heavens opened and it began to rain. We chewed on pineapple slices, quite dry as rain pounded the roof of banana leaves and rivulets of water streamed off the edges. A lizard crawled along the railing. I slapped a bug on my neck, leaving a sticky smear of pineapple juice.

“Nice place,” Timothy said as he gazed around, his mouth full of pineapple.

“You could move in with me.”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“There's enough room for several hammocks. Maybe Abe is looking for a place to stay.…” My voice trailed off as I remembered Abe was a pirate. But, I reminded myself, he was really a cook more than a pirate. In fact, it had been
years
since he'd participated in battle.

“I dunno,” Timothy said.

“But I thought you liked it.”

“Sure I do.” Then he looked at me from beneath his mop of hair. “It's just that—you know.”

“What.”

He shrugged again. “Well, it doesn't seem as much fun, is all.”

“Oh,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. “Tomorrow after our sword-fighting lesson with Caesar, we can build some furniture. A table and a chair, certainly. Maybe a real bed. You can sleep in it first.”

He wiped his hands on his breeches. “You don't have any rum punch by any chance, do you?”

“No.”

After a while, Timothy stood. “Well, I guess I'll be going.”

“But—it's raining. You'll get wet. Why don't you stay here for the night? You can have the hammock.”

He gave a crooked smile. “Another time. See you.” And with a wave, off he ran into the hard rain, disappearing from sight down the path.

I watched the lizard for a long time, telling myself that it didn't matter.

It was still raining hours later when I blew out my candle and climbed in my hammock, the darkness of the jungle closing about me.

Sometime during the night, after the rain had stopped, I was awakened by a noise. I raised my head, listening. There it was again. Branches snapping. Leaves being thrust aside. Footsteps.

Timothy? Is that you?

I jerked up too quickly and accidentally tumbled out of my hammock. I stood, cursing, tangling my hand in my hammock, bumping my head against the wall, kicking a shoe across the floor.

Voices.

Shaking, still blurry from sleep, I lurched out onto the veranda.

Not forty paces away, three men moved toward me, following the path. One held a lantern, its brownish light casting monstrous, swaying shadows.

As yet, no one had seen me.

I returned to my hut, blindly searching for my pistol and cutlass. My hand touched the pistol, and I shoved it in the waistband of my pants, feeling the sting of metal. After groping around for a few more seconds, I touched leather—my crossbelt. I fastened on my crossbelt with its cutlass and stumbled for the door.

Without a sound, I descended the stairs and fled. A few moments later, I was at my dump. I crouched behind a plant with dense foliage, watching, breathing like a hurricane, my heart crashing, leaves wet against my cheek. Whatever these riffraff were up to, it was no good, of that I was certain. I hoped against hope they would not find my hut.

As they stepped into the clearing, I recognized two of the pirates: Rat Eye and Gideon Fist. The other pirate I did not know. Black hair sprouted from him like on an ape I had once seen in a cage back in Boston. Like the other two, he was heavily armed.

“Under the marked tree,” said Fist, pointing.

Aye,” growled Rat Eye. “I remember it well.”

Carved into the trunk of one of the palm trees was a crooked
X.
I had seen the mark before and wondered about its significance. I had a dread that I was about to find out.

Rat Eye set down the lantern, and the hairy pirate handed him a shovel before taking another shovel in hand and starting to dig. The two of them labored while Fist lit his pipe, squinting at the proceedings through the smoke. Occasionally he glanced back down the trail as if to be sure no one had followed them.

For the next half hour or so, I heard nothing but grunts and oaths, the slice of the shovels, the whisper of thrown sand, and the patter of rainwater from a jungle so recently drenched. A bug bit my arm, and I crushed the insect, hoping that whatever the scoundrels were looking for, they would find it quickly and leave. As yet, no one had tossed so much as a glance at the hut, hidden in shadows on the far side of the clearing.

Thunk! Thunk!

“Found it!” cried the hairy man.

“A lovelier sound I've never heard,” said Rat Eye, grinning. He straightened, puffing hard, his shoulders and head extending above the pit. He wiped his brow with his sleeve.

“Well done, men.” Fist emptied his pipe before stowing it back in his pocket. “Just set it up here next to me, and I'll take care of the rest.”

With a grunt and a heave-ho, Rat Eye and Hairy hoisted a wooden chest onto the ground next to the pit. Then they clambered out of the pit as Fist took a key from around his neck, unlocked the chest, and lifted the lid. Sand trickled away, and the hinges creaked.

My breath caught. Jewels, coins, gold and silver bars, crowns, bracelets, necklaces—it was a king's ransom. Fist dug in a hand, and I heard the sound of treasure.

Rat Eye giggled, and his eyes gleamed.

Hairy grabbed a handful of loot and began to dance about. “By the devil, 'tis good to see it again. We're rich! We're bloody rich!”

“Those half-wits aboard the
Defiance
don't know we stole 'em blind,” said Rat Eye. “They still think we nabbed nothing but sails and kettles aboard our last prize.”

“Nor will they ever know.” So saying, Fist drew two pistols, one in each hand, and aimed them at Rat Eye and Hairy.

airy stopped midtwirl, mouth hanging. A ruby slipped from his hand.

“Cap-Captain Fist,” stammered Rat Eye. “What—what're you doing?”

“I'm obliged to you rascals on three accounts,” said Fist. “First, for stealing the goods. Second, for keeping your mouths shut about it.…”

Suddenly one of the pistols blasted. With no more than a wheeze, eyes wide, Hairy crumpled to the ground. I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.

“And third, I'm much obliged to you for digging your grave and saving me the trouble.”

Rat Eye sprang to his feet and sprinted for the jungle. He took four steps, five, before
the other pistol rang out. His cry cut off, Rat Eye sprawled on his face, twitched, then lay still.

Smoke hovered about Fist's head. “Fools,” he hissed. “Let what is buried stay buried.”

After stowing his pistols and glancing again down the path, he pried Hairy's hand open and retrieved every diamond ring, pearl necklace, gold coin, ruby, and emerald, tossing them back into the chest. He then shoved Hairy with his booted foot. Eyes open and glazed, Hairy slid over the edge of the pit and disappeared. Fist dragged Rat Eye across the sand and flung him in after Hairy. There was a soft, sickening thud.

For a long time, Fist stood at the edge of the pit, staring down. He filled his pipe, lit it, and smoked. Soon the air reeked of tobacco. I wanted to run away as fast as I could, shrieking at the top of my lungs. The desire pushed against my breastbone, and I clenched my jaw.
Why doesn't he hurry?

Still Fist smoked, until finally he emptied his pipe and stowed it, then bent and closed the chest. The lock clicked. He pushed the chest until it rested at the lip of the pit. With a grunt, he jumped into the hole and lifted the treasure down.

He will fill the pit, and then he will leave,
I thought, wondering how long I could keep my wits together. Not only did I want to shriek bloody hell, but the damp jungle had soaked me through, insects kept biting me, my legs cramped, and slimy and sucking things crawled over my bare feet.

Fist climbed out and surveyed the situation, scratching his beard absently, as if, again, he had all the time in the world. Then, to my anguish, he took out his pipe again and strolled over to the hut. He arranged his cutlass and pistols, then sat on the top step to smoke.

By the devil! That's Fist's hut!

I almost groaned in agony, thinking of all the hours I'd spent
rebuilding the place and cleaning it up. Now I realized all the time had been wasted. I couldn't stay there. Then the hair prickled on the back of my neck. Slowly at first, then rising like a bristle brush.

My shoes are inside. My candles and tinderbox. My dagger. My hammock. A Bible. If Fist looks inside …

As if reading my thoughts, Fist's head jerked up, like an animal that catches a scent. He reached out and grasped the new veranda railings as if seeing them for the first time. He looked at the steps, newly repaired. Faster than I thought a giant of a man could move, he fetched the lantern from near the pit and then thundered up the steps and into the hut. I saw light gleaming and moving from between the cracks. Returning to the veranda, Fist set down the lantern and drew his cutlass.

With the rasp of steel, chills swept down my spine. Every hair on my body stood on end.
Should I run? Should I stay where I am? Should I just shoot him with my pistol? What if I miss? O God in heaven, I'm a dead man.

Fist circled the perimeter of the clearing, quietly, slowly, brushing aside the vegetation with his cutlass and peering beyond. While there wasn't a path between the clearing and the dump where I now crouched, there must have been some kind of indication that I had passed through there, for upon reaching that point, Fist paused, knelt, and studied the ground. Then, to my horror, he stood, brushed aside vines and branches, and entered.

My God, he's coming!

I waited a few more seconds to be certain, then fled in the opposite direction, into the pitch black, my legs screaming with cramps, my ears thundering with the beat of my heart. An instant later, I stumbled over the debris pile. A sound escaped my lips. Before I even knew what I was doing, I was off and running again, blinded by the dark. I heard the crash of underbrush. Wet
leaves slapped my face. I heard a curse and the sound of someone falling, and knew Fist had likewise tumbled over the debris. Then the sounds of running. Of a cutlass slashing. And slashing. Of breathing. Heavy. Ferocious. Closer …
closer …

Right behind me!

I whirled and drew my cutlass, whipping it through the darkness, hoping it would bite flesh, instead hearing the crash of metal as it met Fist's cutlass. The shock echoed up my arm. Without waiting I slashed again, missed, moving backward, stumbling over roots. Fist grunted as he swung his cutlass. I ducked, hearing the whistle of air as it passed overhead. Immediately I swung again, feeling my blade cut deep, hearing the
chunk
of metal on flesh and bone. Fist roared with pain.