Easton (2 page)

“It’s not what I expected his fleet to look like,” says the young man humbly. All trace of bravado and indignation vanished. Richard hears in his hushed tones something of the grudging admiration he himself feels.

“Nor I,” he replies simply.

“But he is a traitor and a rogue,” Dawson insists, “even with his polished cannons and unbattered sails.”

“Indeed,” Richard agrees with a sigh. “He is a traitor.”

Even as he speaks the words he feels his judgment pulling in the opposite direction. What manner of rogue would wait at the very mouth of a free port so clearly within the sphere of the English Crown and navy? What kind of traitor would set his crew scurrying upon the deck cleaning and hauling like some noble army of antiquity preparing to face the final judgment of their gods?

“It’s his protector in England who gives him such confidence,” Dawson pursues as though trying to convince himself. “He has such a protector, Admiral, does he not?”

“The family of Killigrew,” Richard answers in soft, measured tones. “A powerful influence at Court it’s true, and a great force in Falmouth and the Bristol Channel.”

“So there’s nothing so impressive about it,” Dawson persists.

Richard finds himself smiling again.

“Nothing impressive,” he echoes, merely trying to keep the young man’s spirit up. The renegade thought surfaces that Easton is a very long way from his protector now, yet his ship is pristine and its bearing noble even after fleeing the King’s justice. In reality he knows that neither kings nor protectors can help either party now. They are in a place where honour and justice are found within each human heart or not at all.

“Well,” says Richard after another pause, “traitor or no, we await his pleasure. I will stay here tonight. Go to the
Mary Rose
, Dawson. You have your instructions.”

Captain Dawson stirs himself and takes a couple of steps to the door.

“Whatever happens, Dawson,” Richard says, “do not fire a gun or cannon without my explicit instruction.”

“Sir,” he says. Richard catches a frustrated look on the captain’s face as he strides out of the room.

The fire hisses and the room gets colder. Richard stares out of the windows into the night. A constant orange glow comes from a cabin of the great flagship like a devil’s eye, piercing the blackness. There are no visible stars. The rugged hills surrounding the harbour crouch in the darkness, almost indistinguishable from the heavy, dark sky.

Richard gauges every creak of the room as though it could be the movement of the far off enemy sending tiny vibrations through the motionless night. The hours of darkness will be long and tense, he reminds himself.
Pace yourself. Don’t let vigilance turn into imagination
.

Suddenly there is a creak more alien than the others and then surely the splashing of an oar somewhere in the darkness. The window is an inch open for ventilation. Richard stands and goes to the glass. Looking out he sees nothing but the devil’s eye of the far off cabin. But he listens for the noise once more. Those of his own men not already aboard the
Mary Rose
have orders to stay off the water tonight. If there really was a splash then it had to be one of Easton’s men.

But silence descends on the night once more. Richard waits a few more moments then goes back to his seat. He stares once more at the crackling fire. A bone-weary tiredness begins to come over him. The fire draws him back to England, to images of the retirement he has often longed for—the featherbed and the muffled sound of a lute, the face of a lady he once knew. She is dressed in finest silks and gliding rather than walking toward him, her light hair flowing freely...

And then there is a noise—a knock violent and unwelcome.

Richard lurches forward in his chair, knowing he has been on the borderline of sleep. The door groans open.

Standing in the doorway are two men, neither particularly alarming in appearance. The younger has a single pistol twisted in a knot in his belt. His coat and tunic are well made, buttons sewn tight and polished. Next to him is an older man. One ear is mostly missing—only the jagged reddened edge remains, like a series of boils on the side of his head. Although his clothes are rougher than those of his companion, he stands erect and looks straight ahead like a soldier, not a rogue.

“We apologize for disturbing you, sir,” says the younger man.

Richard nods and slowly stands.

“Who do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

The young man stiffens and clears his throat.

“We are merely emissaries of our noble lord, sir,” he begins as though reciting a prepared speech. “We deserve no special attention from you.” He coughs again and then continues. “We have been asked to convey our master’s compliments and to beg you to do him the very great honour of being his guest tonight aboard the
Happy Adventure
to sup or dine or whatever is your pleasure.”

The young man and his companion continue to stare straight ahead and Richard pauses for a moment. Of all possibilities this was the one he expected least. Only two men, respectful and poorly armed for buccaneers. He was prepared to see muskets and boarding axes on any who were to venture on land, and he had expected a small army.

“This is most kind of your noble lord, sirs,” Richard says, “but it is far more fitting that I myself, being the host of this settlement, should extend my own hospitality to your captain.” Richard catches sight of the burning eye of the
Happy Adventure’s
cabin as he talks. Has he been watched all evening? They seemed to have not the slightest doubt who he was or where to find him. “Will you return to your lord and ask him with all civility and good wishes if he will join me here to sup?”

The young man looks down, clears his throat again and addresses Richard as formally as before. “Honoured sir, our captain told us to expect such a true and hospitable answer from one of such unquestioned nobility. But he will not hear of it.” He coughs abruptly, then resumes. “He knows well that those in the plantations hereabouts are too encumbered by the trials of day-to-day living to be put out by receiving visitors. So he asked us to let you know that he wishes to bear full responsibility and burden for all hospitality. Our master will hear no refusal.”

The man finishes his speech and continues to look straight ahead without blinking.

Richard nods and smiles slightly, knowing this stage of the battle is lost.

“Give me a moment and I’ll be with you.”

The two men turn straightaway and march into the small corridor beyond the room. Richard takes his coat and adjusts his sword. He thinks about his pistol, but leaves it. No invitation to dinner can be answered by a man who is so armed and they are clearly playing a courtly game; he will abide by the rules and take merely his sword.

The black water laps against the sides of the
Happy Adventure
, making a noise like a dog licking milk from a bowl. The moon has started to show at last, a couple of stars peeking through the clearing clouds. Richard climbs up the rope ladder behind the older of the two men. The dampness from the water seems to rise and seep into his bones. The vision from his dream of the lady in silks and the feather bed returns. What obscene parody of that vision might he find aboard? The annals of piracy are filled with stories of degradations too terrible to name. Easton is surely no exception to that. A man at sea is a man at sea.

Richard’s sheathed sword bumps against the side on the way up until he reaches the deck rail. The older of the companions lends his hand as Richard climbs over. The younger man climbs aboard after Richard.

“Follow me, sir,” he says.

They walk along the deck toward a large, handsomely mounted series of cabins. They pass a huge, well-muscled man who stands shirtless by the deck rail, his arms folded, a large knife enfolded in a linen sash across his belly. He is expressionless, looking out into nothing. Farther along the deck there is another such sentry, his skin as dark as chocolate, strange black markings on his arm like notches carved in a tree. Their nakedness and their lack of firearms make both men seem all the more fearsome, as though sheer brute strength and courage is all they need.

Suddenly Easton and his fleet look all the more indomitable.

Richard’s two guides lead him around to a cabin entrance, their footsteps resounding in the eerie silence. The younger man opens the door without knocking. Then he steps out of the way and gestures for Richard to enter.

Richard takes one step over the threshold.

The first impression of the interior is of luscious, candle-lit warmth and opulence. A handsome, dark-haired man of perhaps forty immediately rises to meet him. The ruff around his neck, the fine embroidery of his tunic and the silver buckles of his shoes seem almost miraculous in the setting. Richard takes a step backward as though retreating from an impossible dream. It is as though he has been carried back into the royal court in London.

“Admiral Whitbourne!” the stranger exclaims in a cultivated and rather gentle voice. He takes Richard’s hand as though they are old friends. The man’s dark, almost black, eyes reflect the candlelight, creating the impression of constant ever-changing thought and an ocean-like depth.

“Sir?” Richard finds himself saying, rather stupidly. This cultured, noble character can surely not be Easton, he thinks. Richard’s gaze scans his smooth face, shaved but for a moustache and chin beard. No scars or blemishes of any kind.

“Don’t tell me, sir.” the stranger says. “You were expecting a rogue and a pirate!” The candlelight dances in his eyes and he smiles more broadly. “Politics has made such a figure of me, alas,” he adds, with a weary shrug. “Yes, sir. I am indeed Easton. Welcome to my ship and leave some of the happiness you bring.”

He grasps Richard’s shoulder with his free hand. His touch is at once soft yet holds the subtlety of great power and Richard feels himself turned a half circle to the right under its influence. “This is more than I hoped,” Easton says warmly. Richard finds himself staring down at the occupant of a chair upholstered in black and gold silk. Gazing up at him with a combination of shock and pitiful embarrassment is the young face of Captain Dawson.

“
Captain Dawson has
just arrived. I sent a little party aboard that charming little ship, the
Mary Rose
. I hadn’t dared to hope two such busy men would both answer my humble call. But this is splendid.”

Easton stands motionless in front of Richard for another moment, the same ingenuous smile on his face. “Please. Please be seated,” he says almost gently.

Richard obeys, for a moment locking eyes with Dawson, who attempts some muted gesture of helplessness. Richard casts his eyes to the ceiling for a second to convey, he hopes, that patience is their only option, then finds himself taking in the cabin properly while Easton rings a little golden bell on a side table.

Richard has never seen such opulence in a ship’s cabin before, even in ones known to have housed royalty. All the walls are panelled. Bunches of grapes are carved into the mahogany uprights which support the white ceiling; they glisten under candlelight like living fruit fresh cut from the bough. Along one wall is a library under glass. The gold leaf designs of the titles likewise catch the flames bobbing steadily from the various ornate candle holders. Hanging from the panels are silks and woven fabrics of colours and designs unfamiliar to Richard—combinations of turquoise and gold, scarlet and black, and patterns of exquisite delicacy.

Suddenly Easton catches his eye. The pirate captain has been staring at Richard complacently, measuring his thoughts by studying his changing expression.

“You are admiring my silks. They are from Tunisia and Morocco.”

“Indeed,” Richard says. “They are most becoming.”

From the corner of his eye Richard senses Dawson shifting on his seat.

“You are most kind,” replies Easton with a bow.

“I wonder, sir,” Dawson breaks in with the subtlety of musket fire, “whether it would not be more tasteful to ornament your cabin with the emblems of your homeland?”

Richard holds his breath. The boards creak softly beneath them and the cabin sways almost imperceptibly.

But Easton hasn’t even winced. Indeed, his smile broadens slightly and he catches Richard’s eye as if to say they must both humour the young man.

“Young captain,” Easton says, “I find these days people are offended no matter what the decoration on my ship. When they behold the gifts of foreign princes, they think me a traitor who barters his honour for silk. When they see the cross of St. George upon my mast, they think me a hypocrite.” He is quiet for a moment and smiles almost sadly. “I have learned not to try to please anymore. In any case, England, much as we love it, has its limitations for men of taste.”

There is a sharp sound from the corner of the cabin opposite the main entrance. A large hatch creaks open, revealing a dark and narrow doorway. Richard watches as the figure of a woman emerges through it. She is carrying a tray and is dressed in the style of a serving wench in plain white tunic, bonnet and skirts. First Richard thinks it must be the darkness at the other side of the door that creates a curious illusion. But as she steps into the full candlelight he sees it is real. The woman’s bare forearms, and even her face, are dark chocolate brown in hue. She is clearly a slave, but dressed respectably like a serving woman. She approaches with a golden tray which she places on a serving table by her master. Without looking directly at anyone, she fills three goblets with the quiet, expert efficiency of a matron, then keeping an arm’s-length away and still averting her eyes, hands one to each guest. All the while silence reigns. Easton watches with barely concealed amusement.

Dawson’s eyes stare in fresh indignation as he takes the goblet, his fingers almost touching those of the slave. This is his clumsiness, not hers. Richard, in turn, takes his drink more deftly than his young friend. Then she turns to Easton, her face for the moment no longer visible to Richard. Easton does touch the woman’s fingers, deliberately it seems and in a slow, lingering fashion. His smile never leaves his face and for a moment appears to be directed at the slave, giving the fleeting but undeniable impression of intimacy.