Easton (16 page)

George’s face now runs with sweat. He puts his hand on Jemma’s and slowly removes it from his ankle. “I have to go,” he breathes. He checks the pistol in his belt, kisses Jemma’s hand and very slowly begins to crawl downwards. He touches the ground as silently as he can so as not to give Jemma’s hiding place away, then begins to negotiate his way around the hollows and over the ridges. Around the final bend, the cave’s opening comes into view.

Easton’s silhouette is etched against the dying sunset like a well-dressed scarecrow. George draws the gun from his belt with his left hand and unsheathes his sword with his right. He stops, still under cover of the darkness. He waits for Easton to make the first move.

A noise like a horn comes from somewhere far below in the cove. But the dark shape, hardly more than a shadow, doesn’t move.

“Here I am,” says George, surprised by the edge of defiance in his voice.

“Why didn’t you stay in hiding?” Easton asks calmly.

Easton’s dark shape remains perfectly motionless except for some hair, which lifts in the breeze like the ruffled feathers of a crow.

“I’d rather face my executioner,” George says, his voice still more indignant than afraid.

“Oh that,” Easton says, utterly relaxed and casual. “I was lying about the gunpowder. Much too heavy to lug up from the beach, and I have to leave quite soon.”

“A gentleman to the last,” says George, his hand sweating upon the sword handle.

“Ha!” Easton whispers. “Brave words! So you have noticed at last that I am indeed hardly a gentleman. Why don’t you run back into the cave?”

Easton remains uncannily still, only the hair lifting again. The sunset dims a little behind him.

“Because I won’t be played with anymore.”

“Good, then I’ll tell you plainly. Give me the child and woman. Or I’ll kill you and take them anyway.”

“Likewise, plainly; no. You’ll have to kill me first.”

George raises his pistol and aims. Despite his defiance, his hand trembles.

The strange horn sounds again from the cove below.

“My men have gone back to the ship,” Easton says calmly. Can he see the pistol in the darkness? George wonders. “We have spotted a Spanish fleet to the east. Spanish ships mean gold. Why don’t you come with me, my friend, and we’ll forget all about this?”

George’s wrist starts to ache with the weight of the pistol.

“No.”

Easton sighs, and now his dark shape does alter, his shoulders becoming hunched and asymmetrical.

“I wonder if you’ve really thought this through, my young friend,” he says in an almost comforting tone. “If you evade me this time you are merely buying yourself days, perhaps, if you’re very lucky, a few months or years of life as a vagrant and outcast. If you ever make it back to your country, you will be vilified like no man in history. Former mutinous captain with his black whore and bastard child. The gibbet will seem like a blessed relief for you—”

The sound of the horn again interrupts him. This time it blows twice. George sees the shadow turn to look toward the cove, then resume its previous position.

“On second thought,” Easton continues, “I don’t think I will kill you yet. It will be far better sport to watch what becomes of you.” He pauses again. George’s hand still grips the trigger. “Good luck, Captain Dawson. Enjoy your cave.”

The shadow turns and disappears from the opening. George hears his footsteps retreating down the hillside.

He stands motionless for some considerable time. Both arms ache under the weight of their respective weapons. When he at last does lower the gun, he still suspects a trick. But the ship’s sails are flapping hard, and there is a deathly silence upon the hillside, save for the chirruping of crickets and the odd squawk of a bird. Suddenly there is no doubt that he and Jemma are free.

George walks slowly to the entrance. He watches small rowboats race from the beach to Easton’s ships, their oars catching the moonlight like silver knives. The sails crack harder in the wind and the
Happy Adventure
begins to turn to starboard.

With his still trembling hand, George sheathes his sword. He puts the pistol back in his belt and watches Easton race up the rope ladder tied to the side of the
Happy Adventure
. He sees the crew pull him on board, their swift actions full of excitement and energy. Then he turns and slowly makes his way back into the pitch darkness of the cave.

Wood smoke hangs
thick like sulphur as Richard makes his way into the alley. Shop signs creak above his head, and the smell of rum, brandy and urine rises from the cobbles. Footsteps echo behind him. He is aware, not for the first time in the last few days, of a feeling of being followed.

Something smashes in the darkness behind him and a scream follows. The sound reassures him somehow. Such tangible violence seems to rule out the softer, more cunning presence of a spy. High above on the third floor, narrow windows show a yellow candle glare. Richard puts his handkerchief to his nose as a particularly evil odour wafts past him. But then he stops. Directly over his head swings the sign he has been looking for—The Blind Beggar.

He turns into the doorway and enters.

The lighting is dim and the ceiling low. There is sawdust on the floor, some of it turned into a kind of paste of spittle and stale beer. Grey, ragged figures hunch on benches with clay jars and bottles propped up in front of them. A man and woman copulate in a dark corner, making creaking, jerking movements. Everyone seems to ignore them. A candle rolls beside them, flickering out slowly as the woman’s leg flails to the side.

A bearded man with a set of keys woven into his coarse tunic approaches him with a flagon.

“How can I serve you, sir?” he says.

“Are you the owner?”

“I am,” answers the barman. He stiffens, perhaps expecting trouble.

“I seek Sir Wilfred Killigrew,” Richard mutters. He searches his purse for a shilling.

“He’s waiting, sir,” the man replies. “I’ll show you the way.”

The man leads Richard toward a staircase in the corner. Richard has to step carefully over the copulating couple.

“A fine establishment you keep here,” he says to the barman, his impatience showing as he is led up a set of rickety dark stairs by the faint light of the barman’s single candle.

“Not so low that we can’t rent out our private rooms to fine gentlemen like Sir Killigrew. Not so low that we don’t receive visits from the likes of yourself.”

“Indeed,” Richard answers, too tired to argue.

They reach a landing. The barman indicates a bare timber door which stands a couple of inches open, throwing a sword of orange light into the hallway. The barman leaves, taking the candle.

Richard gives three sharp knocks.

“Come!” is the answer from within.

Richard enters.

Killigrew sits at a mahogany table. The panelled room is lit by a dozen candles burning from wrought iron holders lodged into the walls. The floor is scrubbed and partially carpeted with a soft Persian rug. The contrast with below is a pleasant surprise. Yet the style is so much like Easton’s cabin, Richard even fancies he feels the room sway like a ship at sea. Killigrew is a fox-like man of thirty-five with a fashionable, well-kept beard and moustache. He wears an embroidered tunic and a silk ruff. His hat, hanging from a polished stand in the corner, has a long black feather. He smiles. There are two pewter mugs and a bottle before him.

“You were expecting my lodging here to be as unpromising as the downstairs, Admiral Whitbourne?”

“Well,” says Richard, removing his hat and approaching.

“Discretion is my byword. I take important meetings in this place because I know I will see no one from my circle here.”

“Very wise.”

Richard sits and Killigrew pours wine into the second mug, which he hands to the admiral.

His eyes glitter in the candlelight.

“I believe we may drink to the imminent rehabilitation of our mutual friend.”

“Indeed? Have you secured me an audience with His Majesty?”

“Tomorrow morning,” replies Killigrew, tipping his head slightly to the side and raising his mug. “I shall be in attendance also.”

He sips and something in the nature of a challenge comes into his demeanor.

“You need not fear me, sir,” says Whitbourne quickly. “I have given my word to Easton and I shall carry his petition without reserve. He is controlling shipping and supplies along the active part of the New-found-land’s coasts with my full support and authority.”

Killigrew lowers his mug.

“I do not fear your loyalty, Admiral. But we have an enemy in the city. So do you. One who might pose a threat, albeit slight, to Easton’s plans.”

“Indeed?”

“An old comrade of yours.”

Whitbourne searches the cavern of his mind for a clue. Killigrew clearly wants him to guess. Perhaps this is some trick to test his loyalty. What old comrade of his could there be in London who knows about Easton’s depravity, unless by some chance?

“To whom do you refer?” he asks at last.

“A certain former Captain Dawson.”

“What?”Whitbourne laughs and almost spills his drink. “Captain Dawson is long gone from England. Easton left him in a cave in Hispaniola. It is quite impossible.”

“I assure you he is here with the black woman he stole from Easton and her young half-caste child. She is posing as Dawson’s slave.”

Richard sighs slowly. “I had not considered this.” He leans back and cradles the back of his neck in his hands. “The young fool!”

“We are relying on you to deal with it. He has certainly come to speak against Easton if he gets the chance.”

“But he would surely not get admittance to the Court.”

“He has not so far. We are hoping he never will and would have used the garotte long since had we not been uncertain of his connections. Does he have friends you know of?”

Whitbourne keeps his hands on his head. The pendulum from the corner clock ticks through his thoughts.

“The only friends Dawson has of any note are now quite beyond his reach. He was engaged to marry Rosalind Grantham, daughter of Maximillian. They now believe he is dead.”

“Then we can perhaps silence him without fear of reprisal.”

“No,” says Richard quickly, leaning forward. “It is too dangerous. The presence of the slave and child would cause questions.”

Killigrew’s eyes sharpen with distrust. Richard has clearly seemed too eager to save Dawson.

“I take it,” says Killigrew with an edge creeping into his voice, “you have no fondness for this young man. We must allow no sentiment to fog our plan.”

“Indeed it will not,” says Richard, meeting Killigrew’s hard stare with his own. “But I can stop him from using any connection that might harm Easton. It will be easy enough in the circumstances. And far safer than the garotte. I will make him simply disappear as a threat. All I require from you is his address.”

Killigrew’s stare remains on him for a moment. Then just when Richard believes more persuading might be necessary, Killigrew nods, apparently satisfied. “Good,” he says. “If you are sure you can get Captain Dawson and his chattels out of our way, we will move forward and secure Easton’s pardon.”

When Richard takes to the street once more he finds his thoughts spiraling into darkness. He walks slowly toward his lodgings near the Temple. He thinks of young Dawson huddled within London’s poisonous lanes with the black witch, pretending that she is his slave. It’s a miracle he has managed to slip between starvation and the gallows for so long, a miracle he has kept up the pretense. If the residents of this city were to suspect their relationship they would tear both them and the child apart in an instant. And to think he once had the makings of a quality officer—diligence, courage and patience. All that was missing was the knowledge of the workings of power, and he would perhaps have gained that in time had Easton not arrived off their coast. Perhaps he should have prepared the boy better in the first months under his charge. Perhaps he should have drummed it into him, the pressures faced by men when they are taken prisoner, how the rules become
more
important as the trappings of civilization disappear, not less so. He should have explained that if you let go of order and custom for a second, if you disobey a single command or let yourself be tempted, then you let slip forever that thread which connects your life to all that is decent and sane, and you fall into the pit of the most despised and wretched. He should have drawn a clear picture for the young man of the bestial sins into which disobedience and indiscretion could lead him, although Richard himself could not have guessed how far he could have fallen.

Richard’s footsteps echo again, that particular London echo which is slower and more hollow than the original sound which produced it. With an effort he keeps himself from turning to look behind him—he knows he is reaching the age when men begin to imagine ghosts pursuing them. The echo continues, but he shuts it out.

Killigrew’s fear over Dawson still weighs on Richard. He doesn’t want the young man killed, and he knows it is only good fortune that Killigrew has held off this long. In one sense Richard doesn’t know why he should be so worried about it. Death is surely preferable to the life Dawson is living at present. But, then again, there is one chance, something that crept into his brain while he talked to Killigrew—a chance that caused him to make that somewhat rash promise that he could deal with it in a way that would ensure no trouble.