Marbeck and the Privateers (21 page)

A yawn was coming on; shifting position, he closed his eyes and stretched himself. His body was stiff, the hurts of recent days still tender. Slowly he straightened up … then froze.

Seemingly come from nowhere, a light was bobbing on the sea, barely a dozen paces from the shore. In its faint glow he saw the outline of a small boat, and the gleaming shafts of oars. Swiftly he turned towards where Niles waited, and heard a low whistle: the man had seen it and was ready. So throwing off his cloak, Marbeck strode forward, pebbles crunching underfoot.

‘Over here!' he called. ‘Come ashore and show yourselves!'

There was no answer from the incoming boat. He watched it materialize: a dinghy, clinker-built, rope buffers hanging over its sides. There were two figures, one erect in the bows, the other active behind him, shipping his oars. The forward figure was narrow-shouldered, bare-headed and motionless. Keenly Marbeck's eyes swept the water, either side of the boat and beyond, but there was no sign of another. Soon the little craft was beached, grating on the shingle, and at once the forward figure sprang into life. With an alacrity that took Marbeck by surprise he leaped from the dinghy and waded ashore, waist-deep in foaming surf. A light swayed crazily: he was carrying a lantern. Soon he was in the shallows, a surprisingly tall man in shirt and knee-breeches … and now there was no mistake. The hand with the lantern was above his head, but where the right arm should have been there was but an empty half-sleeve. Standing rigid, Marbeck waited for Gideon Swann to approach. So intent was his gaze, he paid little attention to Jack Swann, who was also in the water, heaving the boat onto the shore. Then at last he was face to face with his quarry.

The man was wheezing: Marbeck heard the rasp in his throat. He was heavily bearded, an old-fashioned lace collar about his neck. Bringing the lantern forward, he peered into Marbeck's face, then an oath flew from his mouth like a small explosion.

‘Where's this pardon?'

Marbeck breathed in, but did not reply immediately. From the corner of his eye, he watched the younger Swann drop a rope onto the shingle and anchor it with large stones. Finally he said: ‘It's by the torch … will you come closer?'

‘Nay – this light will serve,' the older man grunted. Marbeck could see his eyes now: wary and hard as granite. His face was deep-lined, crosshatched with tiny scars, the mouth turned down in a permanent grimace.

‘I have quill and inkhorn there,' Marbeck persisted. ‘I need your signature.'

‘So I heard,' Swann muttered. And when his son came up to stand beside him and glower at Marbeck, he added: ‘I also heard you've had hard words with my boys, throwing your weight about. That's a dangerous thing to do … Being a stranger hereabouts, you mightn't know it.'

Marbeck glanced at Jack Swann, who was armed as before with a pistol and his billhook. His father wore an old cutlass at his belt, but no other weapon. Choosing another tack, he went on the offensive.

‘You're in no position to throw out barbs, Swann,' he said flatly. ‘If you fail to satisfy my warrant, the Lord Admiral's sworn to send a fleet to hunt you, even to the high seas. He's a loathing for pirates … You know how that'll end.'

But the other man seemed unfazed. Marbeck smelled his breath now, and recalled Woollard's words about his dulling his senses with drink. He gave a sniff, and said: ‘Or are you so afraid of Quiney, you set your own life at naught?'

‘Afraid?' Swann echoed. Beside him his son bristled, but held his peace; clearly he was under orders to do so. ‘Why yes … I'm afraid, my friend.' He thrust his face forward and a lop-sided grin appeared, revealing the stumps of a few teeth. ‘That's how I've lived long; too long, some would say. But they're not here, and I am – as are you, for now.'

Marbeck steeled himself. Only yards away the surf thundered … he couldn't hear Niles and his soldiers, but hoped they were closing in. Meanwhile, the air of menace directed at him from both Swanns, father and son, would have made most men quail. His hand strayed unbidden to his sword, and only with an effort could he stay it.

‘I grow tired of this,' he said finally. ‘Are you willing to take my offer? Turn King's evidence against your fellow Reuben Beck, and against the owner of your vessels …'

‘Who?'

Without warning, Swann lowered the lantern so that his face was in darkness. Deliberately he set it on the pebbles, and took a side-step. The light would be visible out at sea … warning bells clanged in Marbeck's head, but he stood his ground. ‘The captain of the
Amity:
the devil you sail with,' he snapped. ‘As a prize, I wager he's worth more than you are. They'll spend a fortune chasing him, and in the end he'll hang at Wapping. Do you want the same fate?'

Swann made no reply. His head was cocked, as was his son's. Both had tensed visibly; involuntarily, Marbeck grasped his sword-hilt. ‘I've already spelled out the terms,' he said harshly. ‘You've a chance to alter your life's course, come ashore and spend what days remain to you as a free man. Or do you mean to die like a brigand with—'

But he broke off, and his heart sank; for in that moment he knew he had failed. There was noise from behind: footsteps clattering on the pebbles, and Niles's voice rang out.

‘Hold! You men are arrested in the King's name – give up your weapons!'

As if for emphasis, the crash of a large wave followed – and at once both Gideon and Jack Swann sprang apart, hands going to their belts. Marbeck groaned: the fight which he'd feared was about to start anyway. Stepping back, he drew his own sword as figures loomed in the lantern-light. Weapons were being drawn;
why couldn't they wait for my signal
, he thought …

‘Stand still! Carbines are trained on you!' Niles shouted. He stepped forward, a squat figure in cuirass and helmet. One of his men came up and dropped to a knee; he did indeed hold a light caliver, which he levelled at Gideon Swann. And now, the remaining two soldiers came into view.

‘Well, what's to be done?' Marbeck demanded, sounding a good deal more confident than he felt. ‘You can die where you stand, and few will care. Or you can give yourself up and—'

His last words, however, were drowned by the report of a heavy firearm – but it came from the direction of the sea. Someone cried out … Marbeck ducked, his gaze swinging to left and right, even as an answering shot came from Niles's carbineer. And at once, matters were out of control: there was a cry of agony, and he knew that Gideon Swann had been hit. Then, in the lantern's dim light, he saw them: two narrow boats coming in fast, crunching onto the shingle. Figures leaped ashore, splashing through the waves … and in seconds, mayhem broke out.

It couldn't be called a battle: it was a vicious brawl. Niles was shouting, sword in hand. Another shot rang out, then another, but it was impossible to know from where, or whether either had found a mark. His soldiers thrashed about in the light of torch and lantern … while from the surf, at least a dozen barefoot men ran with savage cries, swords and daggers in hand. One thing was clear, however: Gideon Swann was in a sitting position on the shingle, and beside him his son knelt, bawling at him.

‘Damn you! You wouldn't listen … Have you lost your nose for betrayal? We're dead meat!'

A curse on his lips, Marbeck moved forward – then checked himself: from his right one of the seamen was bearing down on him, cutlass raised. Crouching, he swung his rapier and parried the man's blow, while his left hand yanked his poniard from its sheath. As their swords clashed, his opponent's weight threatened to throw him off balance. But when the cutlass flew up again, he drew back slightly, then thrust his poniard forward into the sailor's stomach. There was a shriek, and he fell on his back; his blade swept the air, but he was no longer a threat.

Others were, however: whirling round, Marbeck grew aware of the cacophony of shouts and clashing weapons that had been going on all along. He saw bodies on the shingle: two or three, at least. Niles had vanished, while the Swanns were … where?

They too had disappeared; he looked about, but saw no sign of either of them. Jack, he assumed, had raised his father up and was trying to get him away. Sword outstretched, he took a step towards the waves, where the outline of three boats was visible: Swann's, and the new arrivals. They had waited offshore all along, he surmised, without lights. Cursing again he made for the sounds of combat, and stumbled upon two seamen, standing over one of Niles's soldiers. By the time Marbeck drew near the death-stroke had been given: blood spurted as the man's neck was pierced.

But the men saw him and prepared to engage – whereupon a recklessness came upon him: a mixture of rage and regret that left no room for self-preservation. Noise filled his ears: shouts and cries, the clang of weapons, the roar of the surf. A blade sliced towards him which he was hard-pressed to dodge, but it gave him a chance: a powerful thrust and his poniard found its target, sending his assailant reeling away. At the same time he lunged at the second man, who was a yard behind. It was a cruel move – one he rarely used, but it served: he felt the sword-point quiver as it sank into his assailant's throat. The man choked but managed a last jab with his cutlass, which caught Marbeck's arm.

Yet he felt no pain: only a tug as his sleeve was torn. The next moment cold rage took over: slashing to left and right he drove his opponent back, watched him topple over, yet kept on. The man was whimpering, blood everywhere, then suddenly he went limp. Panting, Marbeck stepped back, and veered aside as pebbles crunched behind him. Breathlessly he flung himself round … and stopped dead.

‘El Mirlo don't like what's done here.'

A figure stood before him, lightly built and alert in every muscle. He wore a good coat trimmed with copper lace, while his hair hung to his shoulders, bound in plaits. He also wore a necklace of what looked like little blackened sticks … until with a shock, Marbeck recalled the grisly trophy hanging from a beam in the King's Arms, and saw what they were: human forefingers, a dozen or more, threaded on a cord. Then he met the man's glittering eyes, and knew at once whom he faced.

‘You see the tokens,' Reuben Beck said, in a voice that grated like a rusty lock. ‘They were the lucky ones … others gave up their choicest parts: they decorate a bulkhead on the
Amity
.' He gave a chuckle, then spat … and abruptly a pistol appeared, to be thrust in Marbeck's face.

‘Who art thou?' he demanded.

Marbeck returned his gaze, but gave no answer.

‘You're the last to fall – did ye not know it?'

His mouth dry, Marbeck glanced swiftly about and realized that the fighting had ceased. There were groans from the wounded and dying … sprawled bodies were visible, on the edge of the torchlight. Then one of the newly arrived sailors walked into view, bare feet slapping on the pebbles.

‘Do we get Swann?' he said, moving close to Beck. ‘The son, I mean … the old man's dead.'

There was a pause before, without taking eyes off Marbeck, the captain nodded – then spoke in Spanish. ‘
El Mirlo permito.
'

The seaman disappeared, and a moment later Marbeck heard a cry of pain: Jack Swann was about to suffer some terrible fate. He eyed his captor, realizing that he still held his sword and poniard.

‘Let those fall,' Beck said, seemingly a step ahead of him. Marbeck drew a breath and dropped his weapons on to the shingle. Without looking down, the other kicked his rapier away. ‘A question was asked,' he said in his curious speech, with its vaguely Mediterranean accent. ‘Who art thou?'

‘Janes,' Marbeck said. ‘Envoy of the Lord Admiral …'

‘You lie.'

Without rancour Beck smiled, as if he'd expected it. ‘El Mirlo thinks you serve another master. But the master of the
Lion's Whelp
heeded you, and not the warnings of his crew. He was weak … his men knew it, and cleaved to me. Now he's paid, and they'll choose another from amongst their number, so their trade may continue.'

‘Trade?' From somewhere, Marbeck found his anger: a source of strength. Breathing steadily, he threw a baleful look at his enemy. ‘I know about that,' he said. ‘As I know who fits you out, and takes the bulk of the proceeds. Do you think it could stay a secret for ever? Word has already gone—'

A painful blow silenced him, a crack on the side of his head from the barrel of Beck's pistol. The man moved so quickly, even Marbeck was caught unawares. His temple throbbing, he swayed slightly, but kept his balance.

‘El Mirlo's prize is short,' the man said softly. ‘He expected more captives. Now there's only the other Swann boy, but he will be found. Which leaves you … a lucky man.'

Keeping expression from his face, Marbeck stared back at him. Outside his field of vision things were in motion: he heard the voices of Beck's men, those who survived … or rather, as he had now learned, they were Swann's own men who had mutinied against him.
The weaker of the two …
Woollard's phrase flew into his mind, even as grim awareness swept over him: Niles's men were dead or dying, as was Gideon Swann, while his son was a prisoner. Niles himself had either fled, or was also dead. Marbeck was indeed the last … was that what Beck meant, by calling him
a lucky man
? Then the penny dropped.

‘You mean to make me a slave,' he said. And when his only reply was another throaty laugh, he added: ‘Well, I won't let that happen. I'd prefer to die on English soil. A doomed patriot, if you like.'

A frown appeared on Beck's brow. ‘That would be a pity,' he replied. ‘You fought well … you're strong. Fetch a good price in the Bedestan.' He glanced at Marbeck's clothes, and his brow cleared. ‘A handsome dandy,' he said. ‘El Mirlo can barter with that. Painted and decked as a maid, you'd fetch an even higher price, from men of certain tastes.'