Cross of Fire (44 page)

‘Look! There’s where the priest came in,’ he pulled the face to his. ‘Where we’ll come in. Come back again.’

Hugh looked at the gold cross, at his feet spilling with gold coins that trembled and chinked with the shaking of the cave.

‘Aye, Pat,’ he said. ‘Aye. You were right. I’ve seen it. You were right.’

‘You tell them that. If we get out. Bring Levasseur.’

They turned and stared at empty space.

Hugh scrambled to the place where the pirate had been, swept his hands over the earth as if the body hid in dust.

Devlin went to the edge of the pool, looked down at his boats now dragging in the others.

‘This is his place,’ he said. He looked back at the gold cross. ‘Not ours.’

He spun the axe back to his fist, threw his arm behind and hurled it at the cross.

The gold pealed as the axe sank into its heart and quivered as it stuck. He imagined the wooden splinter buried within gasping at the air. And then his vision vanished beneath the rock.

‘We’ll be back, Hugh.’

They jumped the edge as the collapsing chamber clawed at their backs, dust fingers grabbing at their heels.

Silent seconds under the water, spiralling down, their boots on the faces of the dead pleading up at them. They kicked away with bullets of stone bubbling down past them and then broad arms heaved them back to the noise of the world falling.

‘We’re going,’ Peter Sam declared, and the oars played fast and the rock chased them out, never harming but only warning them to be gone. Only Adam Cowrie, some religion still pressed in him, crossed himself when at last they met the day and swore that it was the cross within the cross that had blessed and saved them.

‘You think so, Adam?’ Devlin said with his old grin, slapping the dust from his hair while Peter Sam made a tourniquet for his arm.

‘I didn’t see it doing the last king of Ireland any favours.’

Chapter Thirty-Four

The bosun stood to his duty. Thomas Howard had been restrained in leg-irons in the larboard gangway. According to the Custom of the Sea he was to be given twenty-four hours to make his own cat-o-nine-tails. Under the circumstances he had only twelve as subject to the requirements of the service.

Coxon had pulled from his shelf the Fighting Instructions, part of which detailed the Articles of War of 1661.

It contained thirty-five acts of discipline all derived from the ancient Laws of Oleron, the customs of the sea that made the oceans a law unto themselves.

Thomas Howard had contravened at least four of them. Only one of them did not have ‘death’ as its last word, and that would do. He read it again. Plucked from it what he needed.

Every Captain Commander and other Officer Seaman or Soldier of any Ship Frigate or Vessel of War shall duly observe the Commands of the Admiral or other his Superior or Commander of any Squadron as well for the assailing or setting upon any Fleet Squadron or Ships of the Enemy Pirate or Rebels or joining Battle with them or making defence against them as all other the Commands of the Admiral or other his Superior Commander upon pain to suffer death or other punishment as the quality of his neglect or offence shall deserve.

He put the book open to the table. The bosun, the other warrant officers to read and agree. No need to mention the other disciplines, the more appropriate. They all read too final.

Outside, the bosun took the offered ropes from Howard. He tossed the worst of them to the sea and selected the nine best knotted for waxing and splicing to a cut piece of hawser. He said nothing, and Howard kept his eyes low, out of the sun.

The bosun went to select his team, one or two of them to be left-handed. No punishment had been set but no harm in being prepared. The choice of left-handers would make a difference when they lashed against the right-hand stroke already laid.

Coxon had chosen the indictment both out of compassion for Howard and the fact that mutilation or death would require warrant from higher authority. Manvell was set for Martial Court, which would be at sea but back in English waters. He did not want Howard to suffer so, to crush a promising young career. And he needed the ship to see the way of the path of sedition. He closed the book.

‘Agreed, gentlemen? Twelve lashes.’ The most available without a court.

The bosun, purser, master, carpenter and cook all concurred. The First Lieutenant was understandably absent.

The whole ship’s company mustered, Manvell included, their heads uncovered. A hatch-grating lay wedged against the gunwale and the skidbeams. At the sound of the slam of wood Coxon read the indictment and offered Howard his chance to speak.

Howard stared at the grating. He pulled his shirt over his head, let it fall and stepped forward.

‘Bosun’s mate,’ Coxon ordered. There was no need to raise his voice; the ship stood already hushed. ‘Do your duty.’

Howard’s arm was taken and he was walked to the grating, his cheek laid upon it as his wrists were tied to its sides.

The bosun handed the cat to the first of the six. Custom. Tradition. One arm out to the prisoner’s left shoulder, the arm with the cat at the same level. He would sweep the full length of the arm across the back, keeping it straight until one arm replaced the other now behind. A pivoting move was decreed so no undue or sadistic force could be used and no man could pull his sweep. The bosun’s only power over the rule was to bring a left-handed man up next. His sweep would cut the knots across the lashes. Bring new flesh out. Each man before he threw would run the waxed tails through his fist to remove the clots of blood for his fresh swipe.

No man relished the duty but it was part of the service, and no captain truly wanted it done to his working crew. What point taking a man out of work by wounding him? Every hand weighed as much as every barrel and sail, as every nail and carpenter’s band. The punishment was present for the threat only. Mostly.

But this was an officer who had cost them gold, had freed the pirate who had helped take their good captain’s old ship with Devlin – the ship where their brothers had been slain, where this traitor himself had served and watched them die. And besides – and the whisper travelled the ship – how often the chance to strike the better-born that took a whip to them at any slight?

There had been no need for lots to be drawn.

The hawser rope and its tails were weighed by the first to step up. He slapped it to his hands and Howard closed his eyes at the sound and tensed his back. Not the best practice, and the sailor grinned. The pup would learn that instantly.

He snarled away the grin and set his arm, but Manvell had seen enough.

‘
Hold there
!’ he cried and the sailor dropped his arm.

‘This man does not deserve punishment!’ He stepped from the ranks along the larboard gangway and stared Coxon down.

‘Mister Howard,’ Manvell said, ‘was following my order to release the pirate.’

Walter Kennedy, standing behind Coxon, hid his joy with his hand. This day was growing lively now. He had expected himself to be punished for his drunken dereliction. Now it was as if he was in the gallery of the Bailey. Common salt Walter Kennedy, he who had killed his father and pirated his way around the world, at court on a king’s ship. He rocked on his heels with glee.

‘What, you say?’ Coxon said.

Manvell stepped forward more, became the player on his own stage.

‘I ordered Mister Howard. I must take the blame, Captain. I insist.’

‘
Insist
?’ Coxon’s jaw clenched. ‘Your indictment will come, Mister Manvell. It cannot be replaced by lash. If you are guilty, Howard is guilty. Still the same. He did not report your . . . mutiny.’

‘Then I request that Mister Howard is judged by advocate. He should face the same law as I.’

The bosun and his team stood back, looking to Coxon only.

‘Manvell,’ Coxon rubbed his eyes as if weary. ‘If you wish to put Mister Howard to a martial court I can assure you it will be more than his back that he loses. Is that what you want?’

‘No, sir,’ Manvell snapped himself tall. ‘But perhaps a martial court will listen to how the
Standard
has truly been betrayed.’

‘I repeat,’ Coxon matched Manvell’s height, toe to toe. ‘The result will not be favourable. I am lenient enough to protect Mister Howard from losing his neck and his career.’

He nodded at the looks of the
Standard
upon him.

‘As I would any of you. I do not hold the same for mutineers. As you, Manvell, have just confessed yourself to be. I will commend to the court your honesty.’

Coxon saw the pride fall. Manvell felt sure now that he would never see his child, twins or not. He would never see his wife’s face again.

A cry from Thomas Howard silenced them. The whole ship fixed on the pale body stretched over the grating.

‘No!’ he bellowed deep, from his pit. ‘None of this!’ A broken phrase, almost meaningless. ‘I bargained!’

The wind and the rigging were the only sounds.

‘I bargained with the pirate! Nothing of this is Manvell’s!’ His shoulders sank.

Coxon pushed Manvell aside and went to Howard.

‘Bargained?’ His voice in Howard’s ear. ‘What say?’

‘I meant . . . no harm, sir,’ Howard said.

Coxon clasped Howard’s tied fist.

‘I know, Thomas,’ he said. ‘But this must be seen to be done. Below you spoke in front of them all. In front of the
Standard
. In front of the king. You understand? What did you bargain?’

‘The island,’ he said. ‘The names. He gave to me the Porto names. Said you would know.’

Coxon pulled his hand away.

‘Why not say this before?’ His manner back to the judge in black cap. Howard turned his face away and Coxon felt the eyes of the ship crawl over him.

He left the grating. Faced Abel Wales only.

‘Return Mister Manvell to his quarters. In his irons, Mister Wales. Punishment is to be rescinded. To be pending.’ He addressed the
Standard.

‘Lieutenant Howard was not questioned fully, gentlemen. I acted in your good faith. Swiftly. Only considering your loss. It seems Mister Howard has gained from the pirate where your treasure lies.’

The ship roared. The cat was slung disappointedly over a shoulder.

‘We will plot our course anew within the hour!’ The roar came lustful now, blood under it.

The bosun went to the ropes around Howard’s wrists. Coxon grabbed the thick forearm.

‘Mister Wales,’ he said. ‘I will do it.’

He picked up the shirt and draped it across Howard’s shoulders as his fingers fumbled fatly at the knots.

‘My chambers,’ he whispered to the head still turned away and watching Manvell being pushed below. ‘You will tell me what you know.’

Chapter Thirty-Five