Pirates of the Timestream (11 page)

“Taking Jamaica from the Dons was so easy even that pair could manage it,” Morgan continued. “But afterwards . . . those of us that the diseases and starvation didn’t carry away were lucky not to be chopped up by the runaways. And believe me, dysentery and plague were better! All in all, less than half of us survived. Those were fighters I’d not want to face again!”

“Like Zenobia’s crew of Maroons,” Jason suggested, pointing over the rail and across the water at
Rolling-Calf.
“It seems you don’t hold a grudge where they’re concerned.”

For an instant, Morgan looked blank, as though he didn’t even understand the last sentence. “Oh, aye, I’m damned glad we’ve got them with us. And Zenobia herself . . . By God, she’s worth any two men in a fight. Cut! Slash! That’s her way!” His voice dropped. “Since you’re new, there’s something I ought to tell you. Tongues will always flap at anything out of the ordinary—and God knows Zenobia’s out of the ordinary! You may hear some idiots among the crews telling stories about her . . . as though she was some kind of, well, witch.” Morgan looked grim—as well he might, Jason reflected, for such accusations could have grim consequences in this century. Certain female residents of Salem, Massachusetts would learn that in 1692, the same year Port Royal would vanish beneath the sea. “But don’t listen to them. It’s just ignorant sailors’ foolishness. She may be a devil of a fighter, but there’s nothing really unnatural about her.”

You might be surprised,
thought Jason.

* * *

“So, how did it go?” asked Mondrago later.

“Well, Roderick got a couple of historical mysteries solved,” said Jason.

“That’s nice.” Mondrago did an admirable job of containing his excitement. “I’ve got some news that isn’t quite so good.”

“What?”

“Remember that last batch of men that came aboard before we set sail? I’ve tried to check them out without being noticed. Nothing special about most of the ones I’ve been able to get close to. But one . . . well, he wasn’t one of those we saw in Port Royal the day we arrived. But I got a good look at him, and I think I know the signs. He’s one of the Transhumanist goon-caste types.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As Morgan had predicted, the voyage to Cow Island was not a long one. But brief as it was, it served to complete the time travelers’ off-the-deep-end acculturation.

It was easier for the Service people, of course, inured to culture shock as they had long since become. And even the academics and Nesbit had learned while in Port Royal to adapt to seventeenth-century standards of sanitation and personal hygiene. But none of them had ever experienced the hellish conditions below decks on really overcrowded sailing ships.

Aboard
Oxford
they were better off than most of the fleet, for accommodations aboard the frigate were a good deal roomier than those being endured by the crews of the smaller vessels. Nevertheless, at sea the gun ports were closed and the hatches battened down, so they existed in stifling, rancid-smelling darkness as the ship rolled and lurched and creaked without letup. And aside from the ship’s head—the platform jutting forward from the bow, which was to give its name to all latter-day maritime toilet facilities—the only places to answer calls of nature were the corners of the decks on which they slept. Jason could only imagine what it was like in really heavy seas, with even salted seamen vomiting, or when intestinal ailments stuck (as they invariably did, due to the abominable quality of the drinking water) and diarrhea became widespread.

It didn’t help that they had to keep their twenty-fourth-century fastidiousness strictly to themselves. Given the absolute lack of privacy, any squeamish reactions to conditions everyone else took for granted would have drawn attention. But the point had been emphasized in their orientation, and even Nesbit only gave Jason a couple of anxious moments. Still, the group couldn’t help acquiring a certain reputation for keeping to themselves.

Needless to say, they went topside at every opportunity. One afternoon, Jason did so, to find Henri Boyer already there, leaning over the port rail. It was a clear day, and off the port bow, to the northeast, it was now just possible to glimpse the Massif de la Hotte, the mountainous western tip of Hispaniola’s southern peninsula. But Boyer was gazing aft. Quite a few others were doing the same, including Morgan.

“Look,” said Boyer, pointing. In the far distance was
Rolling-Calf
, her sails furled, dead in the water and falling further and further behind the others. Morgan turned, muttering an oath.

“What’s the matter, Captain?” Jason inquired.

“Arrgh, it’s what I was telling you about before. I’m having trouble finding anyone to send over there to Zenobia to find out what’s wrong. None of these ignorant fools want to set foot aboard
Rolling-Calf.
They’re all pissing in their breeks with fear of witchcraft and black magic. But I can’t afford to bring the whole fleet about, although I’ll have everyone take in sail.”

Abruptly, Boyer stepped forward. “Send me, Captain. She knows me—I met her back in Port Royal.”

Morgan’s scowl vanished. “Well, thank God there’s one
man
aboard this ship!” he roared, loudly enough to be heard by the generality. “I’ll have a boat readied.”

“Good work, Henri,” Jason murmured. “Maybe you’ll have a chance to get some questions answered. And by the way . . . take your musket with you as well as your cutlass.”

“Why?”

“Oh . . . just a feeling I have.”

* * *

By now, Boyer had listened to enough of Grenfell’s lectures about this era’s sailing vessels to identify
Rolling-Calf
with some confidence as what was called a “ketch”—two-masted, armed only with a few small guns, and with a tiny poop. (Only landlubbers called it a “poop
deck
,” he recalled with the smugness of the nautical neophyte.) Zenobia stood on that poop, looking down at a small boat being towed just astern, from which a diver was just slipping into the water. Boyer’s two rowers brought their boat up alongside, and a line was cast to them.

“Ahoy!” Boyer called up to Zenobia. “Captain Morgan wants to know if you need assistance.”

“Our rudder is fouled. But we can fix it ourselves. We don’t need anybody’s help!” Having gotten that out of her system, Zenobia allowed her truculence to soften a trifle. She even smiled down at him. “But since you’re here anyway, I suppose you may as well come aboard.”

“Thanks.” Boyer did so, somewhat awkwardly with the heavy musket strapped to his back.

“That looks like a good-quality piece,” Zenobia commented approvingly.

You’d be surprised
, thought Boyer. He changed the subject.
“I haven’t seen you since . . . that night before we left Port Royal. I never got a chance to ask you—”

“Sail ho!” came a lookout’s shout.

From almost due north, a ship was sailing about sixty degrees into the wind, coming straight for the immobilized
Rolling-Calf.

With a curse, Zenobia took up a spyglass. “It’s
L’Enfer
,” she said, in a tone of voice that did not conduce to Boyer’s peace of mind.

“You know her?” he asked.

“Aye. She’s one of the French ships that
haven’t
rejoined Captain Morgan. No surprise there. Her master—he’s known only as ‘Captain Gaspard’—was a crony of L’Ollonais. For some reason, he wasn’t along on L’Ollonais’ final expedition, so he unfortunately didn’t get chopped up by the Darien Indians like the rest of them. Instead he’s gone rogue. He operates out of Tortuga, but even the other French don’t much like him. He plunders his fellow buccaneers.”

Like this one
, thought Boyer with a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach as
L’Enfer
drew closer.
The sick or crippled animal that’s fallen out of the herd and become a straggler.

But in any ecosystem, predators don’t normally prey on each other.

“I thought the Brethren of the Coast didn’t do that,” he protested aloud.

“They don’t,” said Zenobia grimly. “Not even L’Ollonais did. But Gaspard is a mad dog.”

Before either of them could speak further, a twin report crashed out from across the water and a cloud of smoke rose from
L’Enfer
as her bow chasers fired. There was a whistling
whoosh
and two geysers of water erupted ahead of
Rolling-Calf.

“That’s just to frighten us,” said Zenobia with a calmness Boyer wished he could share. “He doesn’t want to sink us. He wants to strip us bare of everything—including the crew, to sell back into slavery.”

Boyer involuntarily glanced down at the African-dark skin of his forearms, and felt clammy sweat begin to break out. He forced steadiness on his voice. “But without our rudder we can’t maneuver. He can approach us from a direction where our guns can’t bear.”
Rolling-Calf
had only four small guns, mounted in the waist two to a side, besides the little swivel guns on the rail, which crewmen were already loading with a crude grapeshot of musket balls and scrap. Boyer decided they had the right idea, and hastily loaded his musket.

“Maybe that’s what he thinks.” Zenobia studied the attacker’s course and seemed to do some mental calculations. Then she leaned over the taffrail and shouted orders to the men in the boat. “Will your boat help?” she demanded of Boyer.

“Of course. You men,” Boyer called out to his rowers, “take your orders from her.”

The two
Oxford
crewmen looked dubious, but only for a moment, for
L’Enfer
was getting closer and the sound of Gallic taunts could now be heard. They put out their oars and joined with Zenobia’s Maroon boatmen in towing
Rolling-Calf
’s stern to port.

L’Enfer
was closing rapidly now. She was a two-master like
Rolling-Calf
, but obviously bigger. Boyer, from his limited knowledge of ships’ rigging, thought to classify her as a small brig. Typically, she was overcrowded with men. Their jeering was starting to take on an ugly undercurrent as they saw what Zenobia was up to, for
Rolling-Calf
’s stern was starting to swing perceptibly, bringing her portside guns into line. One of them, a powerfully built man dressed more flamboyantly than his fellows, waved his cutlass and screamed an order.

“
Down!”
yelled Zenobia.

Boyer had barely obeyed when
L’Enfer
’s starboard guns thundered and sent iron balls crashing through
Rolling-Calf
’s upperworks. He heard a scream as a crewman was lacerated by the large splinters that Grenfell had mentioned were among the chief terrors of battles like this between wooden ships.

“Still avoiding hitting us below the waterline,” observed Zenobia with inhuman calmness, just as
Rolling-Calf
shuddered to the discharge of her two portside guns. They smashed into
L’Enfer
’s side, rocking the larger ship and sending some of her men who had been clinging to the rails toppling over into the water. The rotten-eggs smell of burning black powder filled the air.

But then the big, gaudily dressed man who had to be Captain Gaspard shouted another order, and a series of grappling hooks were thrown out to entangle
Rolling-Calf
’s rigging. Men hauled on their lines, and the two ships began to draw together.

Boyer got to his feet and hefted his musket. Zenobia gave him a sharp glance, for it was unusual for anyone to try sharpshooting from a rolling deck. Ignoring her, he activated the laser target designator as he drew a bead on one of the men holding a grappling line. Squinting through the inconspicuously tiny sight at the pirate’s magnified image, he gave the trigger a half-squeeze and saw a red dot appear on the man’s chest. He completed the squeeze, the musket barked and recoiled bruisingly against his right shoulder, and through the smoke he could see his target fall. Only later would he have the leisure to reflect that he had, for the first time in his life, killed a human being.

“Good shot!” exclaimed Zenobia. Then she gave a puzzled frown, as though thinking it had been a little
too
good, and for an instant Boyer wondered if he had made a mistake. But then the two hulls ground together, the screaming French pirates came swinging across the gap on ropes, and they both had other things to occupy their minds.

Zenobia fired two flintlock pistols at once into a Frenchman who was still in midair. As he dropped, squalling, she threw the pistols into another man’s face and whipped out her cutlass. Then Boyer could no longer see her, for the deck became a maelstrom of brutal hand-to-hand combat as more Frenchmen swarmed aboard. One of them crashed against a Maroon who was about to discharge a swivel gun into the mass of boarders, knocking him aside and slashing him across the belly with a cutlass. As the Maroon fell with a scream, doubled over and trying to hold in his spilling guts, the Frenchman turned on Boyer, who had dropped his musket and now had his own cutlass out.

He immediately found that his limited orientation with the weapon was no match for his opponent’s experience and sheer, mad ferocity. With a series of artless but powerful swings, the pirate beat down his desperate defense. Then Boyer’s feet slipped in the blood that was rapidly covering the deck, and he fell over backwards. With a yell, the pirate gripped his cutlass two-handed over his head and brought it down.

Before Boyer even had time to despair, Zenobia appeared and, with a single slash of her cutlass, severed both the Frenchman’s hands. For a split second he stared stupidly at the blood-spurting stumps. Then Zenobia’s sea-booted foot shot out and kicked him backwards, to topple over the gunwale.

“Thanks!” gasped Boyer as he tried to scramble to his feet. But then Captain Gaspard, his finery begrimed with blood and smoke and his bearded face a mask of fury, appeared out of the melee, swinging a cutlass. Zenobia, still off-balance, grasped his sword-arm. But not even her genetically enhanced strength was a match for the Frenchman’s gorillalike arms, and he flung her away. Her back slammed into a mast, knocking the wind out of her, and as she slumped to the deck Gaspard raised his cutlass.

It was as though Boyer existed in a state of accelerated time, with the din of battle a faint roar and the combatants moving with dreamlike slowness. Without thought, he lunged for the unfired swivel gun behind Captain Gaspard. Grasping the little artillery piece by the ball-shaped cascabel at its breech, he swung it sharply around on its stirrup mounting. With a
clunk
audible even above the general noise, the cast-iron barrel connected with the back of the Frenchman’s head, sending him staggering forward.

He must, Boyer thought, have had a very hard head. He quickly regained his balance and turned around. His face—ugly at its best—was now contorted beyond all human semblance, and his eyes held nothing but insane rage. He gathered himself and lunged, roaring his hate.

But Boyer had taken up the match and thrust it into the small brazier mounted on the inner surface of the gunwale. Now he pointed the swivel gun and inserted the glowing match into its touch-hole.

The swivel gun crashed out and belched fire. Captain Gaspard’s head burst backward like an overripe melon, spattering blood and brains and bone fragments across Zenobia even as she reared to her feet with a cry of triumph. At that moment, Boyer’s time-sense came by into synchronization with the rest of the universe.

The ear-shattering blast of the swivel gun had brought the battle to an abrupt pause. But only for an instant, for the Maroons took heart and began to drive the now-dispirited boarders back. Boyer, suddenly in the grip of reaction, sank to the deck. But Zenobia plunged back into the battle with the superhuman quickness of her heritage, her cutlass singing a whining song of death as it cut through the air and men’s limbs.

Then, all at once, the French pirates broke off the fight and scrambled back aboard their own ship. As the wind blew the smoke away, Boyer looked forward and saw why. In the distance,
Oxford
and her consorts were coming about. The French renegades might be crazy, but they weren’t stupid. They cut the cables of the grappling hooks and pushed off, making no attempt to sink
Rolling-Calf
in a fit of pique, for without their captain they weren’t about to risk getting Henry Morgan sufficiently annoyed with them to spend time on a stern chase. Nor did the Maroons provoke them into doing so by firing their own guns. The two ships parted with nothing more than an exchange of obscene insults and gestures.