Her mind ranged over the many that would make good husbands. The man had to have money and power and potential. And an iron will and a strong arm to control her. Yes, Liza thought. That girl’ll be needin’ a good belting on her buttocks from time to time. She be as willful as they come. And not an easy one to tame. Longstaff would be perfect. But he be married, though I heard his wife be sickly and in London, so mayhaps we should wait.
The list whittled to two. But which?
“Tyler?”
“For the luv of God, won’t thee let a man sleep? Wot is it now?”
“Wot’ll that devil do to Culum Struan?”
“Doan know. Kill him, mayhaps. I doan know. He’ll be doing something terrible, that be certain.”
“Culum be a gutty young spark to stand up like that’n.”
Brock laughed. “I wisht thee’d seen Dirk’s face. That bastard were rocked solid. Rocked solid he were.”
“The boy were right smart to give the land to the Church. He saved his da’ from danger. An’ thee.”
“Ridikilus, woman. Not me, by God. Dirk be awantin’ that hillock desperate. He’da bid and bid and I’da stopped when he were strangled by the price. Weren’t for that whippersnapper, Dirk’d be on his knees right now. Busted.”
“Or Struan’d let thee strangle. Likewise.”
“No. He be wanting that hillock.”
“He be wanting thee wrecked more.”
“No. Thee be wrong. Go t’ sleep.”
“Wot’ll he do to Culum?”
“Doan know. He be a vengeful man. They two’ve hatred between ’em now. I never seed Dirk so riled. A feud ’tween him and the boy could work nice for us’n.”
For a moment fear swarmed through Liza. Fear for her man. Fear of the violence between him and Struan. Enmity that would end only in the death of one. Or both. Dear Lord above, she prayed for the millionth time, let there be peace between them. Then the fear left her and she said to herself as she had always said, “Wot’s t’ be is t’ be.” And this reminded her of
Hamlet,
and of Will Shakespeare who was her passion.
“Why not build a playhouse, Tyler? On Hong Kong. We be staying here now, baint we?”
“Yus.” Brock brightened, his mind taken away from Struan. “That be a good idea, Liza. Right good. Afore that sod think of it. Yus, I be talking to Skinner tomorrow. I’ll start the fund. An’ we be sending for a group of players. We be putting on a play for Christmas. You think wot it’ll be.”
Liza held her tongue. She would have said
Romeo and Juliet,
but that would have been stupid for she knew that her husband would see instantly through her purpose. Yes. Tess be the key to the Brocks and the Struans. But the match be not ending in tragedy. Not like them Montagues and Capulets.
“If Gorth had done that to thee, taken thy knoll, wot would thee have done?”
“Doan know, luv. I’m glad it weren’t Gorth. Go t’ sleep now.”
Liza Brock let her mind wander. Now, which of the two’d be best? Best for us’n the best for Tess? Culum Struan or Dirk Struan?
The fog crept down on the ships at calm anchor. With the tendrils came a shadowed sampan. It nudged the anchoring fore hawser of the
White Witch
momentarily. Hands held the hawser briefly, an ax rose and fell, and the sampan vanished as silently as it had appeared.
Those on deck, the armed seamen and Nagrek, officer of the watch, noticed nothing untoward. In fog, without a shore or other ships to judge by, a faint wind and a calm sea and a gentle tide would give no hint of movement. The
White Witch
drifted shoreward.
The bosun sounded eight bells, and Nagrek was filled with panic at the risk he was about to take. You cursed fool, he thought. You put yourself in mortal danger making tryst with Tess like this’n. Doan go! Stay on deck—or go to your bunk and sleep. But doan go to her. Forget her and forget today and forget last night. For months Nagrek had been conscious of her, but last night, during his watch, he had peeked through the porthole of the cabin she shared with her sister. He had seen her in her shift, on her knees beside the bunk like an angel, saying her prayers. The buttons of the shift were undone, her nipples taut against the grasp of white silk. After she had finished her prayers she had opened her eyes, and for an instant he had thought she had seen him. But she had turned her eyes away from the porthole and had gathered the nightgown into a bustle, molding it to herself. Then she had moved her hands over herself. Caressingly. Languorously. Breasts, thighs, loins. Then she had slipped out of the shift and stood in front of the mirror. A tremble had run through her and then she had slowly dressed herself again, and sighed, and blown out the lantern and slipped into bed.
And then today, watching her run down the beach, her skirts flying, watching her legs and wishing himself between them, he had made up his mind to have her. This afternoon on board, helpless with terror and longing, he had whispered to her and seen the blush and heard her whisper back, “Yes, Nagrek, tonight at eight bells.”
The new watch came on deck.
“Get thee below, Nagrek,” Gorth said, stamping up to the poop. He relieved himself in the scuppers, then yawned and took his place on the quarterdeck by the binnacle and shook himself almost like a dog.
“The wind veered to the east.”
“I felt it.” Gorth irritably poured himself a tot of rum. “Cursed fog!”
Nagrek went to his cabin. He took off his shoes and sat on the bunk, the sweat chilling him. Choked by his stupidity but unable to control it, he slipped out of his cabin and noiselessly tiptoed aft down the corridor. He stopped outside the cabin. His hand was wet as he tried the handle. Hardly breathing, he entered the cabin and closed the door behind him.
“Tess?” he whispered, half praying that she would not hear him.
“Hist,” she answered, “or you’ll wake Lillibet.”
His dread increased—his mind shouting “Leave!”—his ache forcing him to stay.
“This be terrible dangerous,” he said. He felt her hand come out of the darkness and take his and guide him to the bunk.
“You wanted to talk to me? What did you want?” she said, fired by the darkness and the secrecy and Nagrek’s presence, terrified by the fire, loving it.
“Now be not the time, luv.”
“But you wanted to talk secret. How else can it be secret?” She sat up in the bunk and pulled the clothes tighter around her, and let her hand rest in his, her limbs liquid.
He sat on the bunk, choked with desire. His hand reached out and he touched her hair, and then her neck. “Don’t,” she murmured, and shivered as he fondled her breasts.
“I want to marry thee, luv.”
“Oh yes, oh yes.”
Their lips touched. Nagrek’s hand moulded her, traveled her. And in the wake of his touch came the frantic terror-heat. Centering. Centering.
Gorth turned away from the fog as the bosun sounded one bell and wandered over to the binnacle. He looked down at it, the screened lantern flickering, and couldn’t believe what he saw. He shook his head to clear it and looked again.
“It be impossible!”
“What’s amiss, sorr?” the bosun said, startled.
“The wind, by God. It be west! West!”
The bosun ran to the binnacle, but Gorth was already charging along the deck scattering the seamen.
He leaned over the bow and spotted the severed hawser. “Belay there! We be adrift!” he shouted in sudden panic, and pandemonium swept the deck. “Let go the aft anchor! Godrot you, hurry!”
As the seamen rushed for the aft hawser, the keel scraped the rock bottom and the ship shuddered and cried out.
The cry swept through the timbers and into the furnace of the cabin, and Nagrek and the girl were paralyzed for an instant. Then he left her clinging warmth and was out in the corridor and charging for the deck. Brock ripped open his cabin door and half saw Nagrek racing up the gangway, and he half noticed that the girls’ cabin door was open but forgot it in his blind rush aloft. Liza hurried out of the main cabin and across the corridor and through the open door.
As Brock came onto the quarterdeck, the anchor was let go, but too late. The
White Witch
gave a final scream, heeled slightly to port, and grounded heavily. At that moment sampans swarmed out of the fog and fell on her with grapples, and pirates began to scramble aboard.
The pirates were armed with muskets, knives and cutlasses, and the first on deck was Scragger. Then the men of the
White Witch
were fighting for their lives.
Gorth sidestepped a Chinese who lunged at him and, catching the man by the throat, broke his neck. Nagrek picked up a fighting iron and slashed at the encroaching horde, noticing Scragger and other Europeans among the Chinese. He maimed a man and rushed toward Brock, who was covering the gangway into the quarters below. And to the bullion in the hold.
Scragger cut down a man and backed off, and watched his men attacking. “Below, by God!” he shouted, and he led the rush at Brock. Others swept forward and decimated the first of the watch that was pouring from below decks.
Brock blew the face off a European, ground the useless pistol into the groin of another and slashed a beserk swath with his cutlass. He lunged at Scragger, who sidestepped and pulled the trigger of his leveled pistol, but at that second Nagrek crashed into him and the ball whined harmlessly into the fog. Scragger whirled, snarling, and hacked at Nagrek with his cutlass, wounding him slightly, then turned in the melee and hurled himself at Brock again. His cutlass sliced through a seaman; then Brock had him by the neck and they fell, flailing with fists and knees. Brock gasped as Scragger’s cutlass crunched into his face. He picked himself up and flung Scragger aside and cut at him. Scragger rolled away just in time, and the cutlass fractured as it smashed into the deck. Brock buried the broken cutlass in a Chinese who jumped at his throat, and Scragger darted to safety behind a screen of his men.
Gorth was charging into the main-deck malestrom, cutting, hacking, when a knife ripped into his side and he gasped and fell. Brock saw his son drop, but he stayed at the gangway fighting and killing.
Below, Liza Brock herded Tess and Lillibet into the main cabin. “Now, doan thee fret, girls,” she said, slamming the door from the outside.
She planted herself in the corridor, a pistol in each hand and two spare pistols in her pocket. If the enemy came down the gangway before the fight was over, it would mean that her man was dead or unconscious. But four pirates would die before they passed her.
Led by Scragger, the pirates slammed into Brock’s crew and were again repulsed. More seamen fought their way out of the fo’c’sle. Three of them joined Brock near the gangway and they flew at the pirates, driving them back.
A belaying pin smashed into Scragger’s back and he knew the fight was lost. Immediately he shouted something in Chinese and his men broke off battle, shinned like rats down the side into the sampans, and fled. Scragger leaped off the prow and vanished into the water. Brock grabbed a musket from one of his men and rushed to the side. When Scragger’s head broke the surface for an instant, Brock fired but missed and the head disappeared. Brock swore, then hurled the empty musket into the darkness.
His men began firing at the sampans, which quickly dissolved into the fog. When there were no more escaping pirates to kill, Brock ordered the enemy dead and wounded to be cast overboard and turned his attention to Gorth.
Blood was oozing out of the wound that Gorth covered with a clenched fist. Brock pried his son’s hand away. The knife had cut deeply under his arm and toward his back. “Have thee coughed blood, lad?”
“No, Da’.”
“Good.” Brock wiped the sweat off his face and stood up. “Get pitch. And grog. Hurry, by God! Them wot’s cutted, come aft. The rest get to the boats and pull us’n off. Tide’s full. Hurry!”
Nagrek tried to clear the agony from his head as he got the boats lowered. Blood streamed from his shoulder wound.
Brock gave Gorth a tankard of rum, and as soon as the pitch was bubbling on the brazier, he dipped a belaying pin into it and worked the pitch into the wound. Gorth’s face contorted but he made no sound. Then Brock doctored the others with rum and pitch.
“Me, sorr, you forgot me,” one of the seamen moaned. He was holding his chest. There was blood froth on his lips, and air sucked and hissed from the wound in his chest.
“Thee’s dead. Best make thy peace with thy Maker,” Brock said.
“
No!
No, by God! Give me the pitch, sorr. Come on, by God!” And he began screaming. Brock knocked him out and he lay where he fell, the air hissing and bubbling.
Brock helped Gorth up. Once erect, Gorth stood on his own feet. “I be all right, by God!”
Brock left him and checked aft. The boats were pulling strongly. It was slack water.
“Put yor backs into it!” he shouted. “Ready a fore anchor, Nagrek!”
They hauled the ship to safety, the leadsman calling the soundings, and when Brock was sure that they were safe, he ordered the anchor let go. The ship swung with the ebb tide and settled herself.
“Sailmaker!”
“Aye, aye, sirr,” the old man said.
“Sew shrouds for they,” he said, pointing at the seven bodies. “Use the old mains’l. A chain at their feets and over the side at sunup. I be sayin’ the service like always.”
“Aye, aye, sirr.”
Brock turned his attention to Gorth. “How long after thee came on watch were we grounded?”
“Naught but a few minutes. No. It were just one bell. I remember distinct.”
Brock thought a moment. “We couldn’t be drifting from our moorings to shore in one bell. Nohow. Then we beed cut adrift in watch before.” Brock looked at Nagrek and he flinched. “Thy watch. Twenty lashes at sunup for them wot was on deck.”
“Yes, sir,” Nagrek said, terrified.
“But for thee I beed deaded from that God-cursed pirate’s pistol, so I be thinking about thee, Nagrek.”
Then he went below.
“All’s well, luv,” he said. Liza was stationed like a rock in front of the children’s cabin.
“Thank you, Tyler,” she said and put down the pistols. “Were it bad?”
“Passing bad. It be the bullion. Pirated in harbor! In harbor! There beed English among pirates. I killed one, but the leader, godrot him, he slipped away. The kids all right?’”