Thriller (53 page)

him permission to come aboard at Bermuda, as I recall it.”

“So, you were actually seeking out this frigate,
Mystere
, for

more than military reasons?”

Hornby nodded in the affirmative. “See, we’d extracted from

that blasted Portugee where Blood’s ship might lie. And more.

We knew he had geographical details of his scheme etched on a

golden spyglass, and—”

“I’m sorry—etched on a spyglass?”

“Aye. And not just any glass, mind you, but one Bill stole from

Admiral Lord Nelson himself the night of the mutiny! According to that damnable Portugee, the location of the intended naval

ambush was so secret, Bill had scratched the longitudinal and latitudinal coordinates right into the metal barrel of his glass. Now,

since Bonaparte himself had a hand in the planning of the thing,

it was likely a cunning trap. We had to get our hands on that glass

before Nelson and the whole British fleet sailed from

Portsmouth…and, by God, we did!”

“But how?”

“Therein lies the tale, don’t it, Mr. Tolliver?”

408

I took a quick sip of my drink and said, “This Lord Hawke, it

was he, wasn’t it, who saved the day? I mean to say, I know he

figured prominently in Cecily’s account of the action.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but it was the boy who accompanied him who carried the day. A scrappy one, he was, only one

year older than myself,” the old fellow said, tilting his chair suddenly backward at a precipitous angle against the wall. He was

now much excited by the telling, and I feared a tumble and broken limbs.

“Another powder monkey, was he?” I asked, scribbling.

“Aboard the British man-o-war?”

Another long silence as he gathered his thoughts and sipped

his ale.

“No, not young Nicholas. Lord Hawke’s fair-haired ward, he

was, came aboard at Bermuda with his lordship. Nick and me became fast friends soon enough, our ages being so similar. I was

nine or ten, he was eleven, I believe. When we laid alongside that

frigate after a vicious exchange of rippling broadsides, young

Nick and myself secretly boarded the
Mystere
and found ourselves right into the thick of things, grapeshot and all. Never saw

the like of such bloody struggle in all my years before the mast.”

The old fellow was warming to his tale, waving a sloshing

tankard of ale in one hand and a long thin bone of a pipe in the

other. Somewhere, a ship’s bell struck. The wee hours drew nigh.

A fresh blow had rushed up to haunt the eaves, and the fire had

died down somewhat, lending a discernible chill to the room.

“Please continue, Mr. Hornby,” I said, getting to my feet and

throwing another log or two onto the embers.

“Well, Nick had promised his guardian that he would remain

belowdecks with me on the
Merlin
for the duration of the battle. I’d suffered a nasty head wound and was ordered by the

ship’s surgeon to stay out of things. However, a fire was raging

below, one as was threatening the powder magazine, and it had

made any notion of staying below problematical. So we sprinted

up three decks and arrived topside only to find ourselves faceto-face with Snakeye himself.”

409

“Snakeye?” I said, scribbling furiously. “First I’ve heard of him.”

“A French pirate, had tattoos of snakes round his eyes and up

his nose. Fearsome creature who was Old Bill’s bloody right

hand. He’d boarded us during the melee and he chased Nick and

myself up into the rigging. We scrambled up our mizzenmast and

out onto a yardarm. When the pirate followed, dagger in hand,

we jumped. The two boats weren’t more’n six feet apart and we

both dived through a window opened on the French boat’s stern

quarter.”

“This is quite good stuff,” I allowed. “Then what?”

“Well, it was strangely quiet when Nick and me emerged from

the aft companionway. We looked around
Mystere’
s aftermost

deck and saw that it was near deserted, save the dead and

wounded. The cannons on both vessels had ceased their thunder and for’ard we could see a press of sailors from both vessels

gathered on her quarterdeck, with an occasional cheer in French

or English, rising from their midst. We heard, too, the vicious

sound of two cutlasses clanging against each other. A brutal

swordfight from the sound of it.

“Anyway, I looked aloft and saw the Union Jack still fluttering

from our maintruck. And, the battle-torn French flag was still flapping at the top of the enemy mizzen, so I knew Old Bill had not

surrendered. This, despite the volume of lead we’d poured into

him. Nick and I each took a cutlass off a dead sailor and we crept

for’ard and climbed atop of the pilothouse so as to look down on

the quarterdeck unobserved. We inched ourselves along on our

elbows until we could just peek down and see the action not ten

feet below. The crews of both vessels were pressing aft, trying to

get a glimpse of the fight taking place at the helm and—”

“The main fighting had stopped?”

“Aye. A great sea battle had come down to a two-man war. Captain William Blood and Lord Hawke were locked in a death struggle. What a sight! Old Bill was a spectacle, wearing what must

have been magnificent finery, white silk breeches and a great flaring white satin captain’s coat, but now all this flummery was torn

410

and soiled with blood and black powder. He had Nelson’s spyglass, all right, jammed inside his wide belt. Hawke had a terrible gash down his right cheek and his shirtfront was soaked with

his own blood. Still, he had his left hand rigidly behind his back,

fighting Blood in classic dueling fashion, but with more fury in

his eyes than I ever thought possible… Another drink, sir?”

“Yes, of course! Keep going though…”

Hornby called out for another round and continued.

“Hawke parried Blood’s wicked blows each and all and thrust

his cutlass again and again at the darting pirate. But, despite

Hawke’s genius-like finesse with the sword, it was immediately

clear to us boys that this was the fight of his life, as Blood brutally laid on three massive resounding blows in quick succession.

“‘It’s finished, Hawke—surrender!’ Billy cried, advancing,

‘There’s not a swordsman alive who can best Billy Blood! I’ll cut

yer bleedin’ heart out and eat it for me supper!’

“‘I think you shall go hungry then, sir!’ Hawke replied, slashing forward. ‘No, it’s the brave kidnapper of small children who’s

finished, Blood.’ Then, in the nick of time, Hawke deflected with

his sword a tremendous cut that would have surely split him to

the chine.

“‘Look!’ Hawke cried, ‘Even your own crew has little stomach

left for you, Billy Blood. See how these Frenchies stand idle, waiting to see their turncoated English captain’s blood run in the

scuppers?’

“Hawke, in a dancing parry and lunge, laid on a powerful blow

and a great clang of iron rang out over the decks. It was true.

Blood’s men had all fallen silent, weapons at their feet, watching

the battle with rapt attention. Our own Captain McIver, having

dispatched the last pockets of resistance on deck, had now ordered a number of our marines to keep their muskets leveled at

the few remaining French who hadn’t yet thrown down their

arms, in case they had any rash notions of coming to Billy’s aid.

“‘Lying dog!’ Billy screamed, his face flushed furious red. He

charged Hawke then like a wounded rhinoceros, bellowing at the

411

top of his lungs. Hawke raised his cutlass to defend the ferocious

blow, but Billy stopped short at the last instant and spun on his

heel, whirling his body completely around and striking with huge

force at Hawke’s upraised blade. The sword was brutally ripped

from his lordship’s hand and went clattering across the deck.”

“No!” I cried, finding myself right in the thick of the battle. I

took a swig and leaned forward, eager for more.

“Aye,” Hornby continued. “A cold hand gripped our young

hearts as we watched Hawke retreating, completely defenseless

against that murderous scalawag, and stumbling backward, tripping over wounded men lying about the decks awash with blood

until he fell down.

“At that point, a young Royal Marine leveled his musket at

Bill’s heart, but Captain McIver pushed his barrel aside, shaking

his head. It was Lord Hawke’s fight, win or lose. Honor dictated

that he finish it.

“‘Captain Bonnard!’ Billy cried, pausing to shout at his own

Imperial French Captain of Marines, ‘Why have your men ceased

fighting? To watch this pitiful coward die? I order you to attack

with vigor! Kill these English dogs.’”

Hornby paused, then stood and turned his back to the fire,

warming himself.

“And there the battle turned, Mr. Tolliver. ‘I’ll take no more

orders from you, Monsieur Blood,’ the Frenchman Bonnard said,

stepping forward and drawing his own blade. A cheer went up

from his tattered crew. ‘We’ve hardly a soul with a will left to fight,

a fire rages amidships, and we are grievously holed below our

waterline. Any fit French captain would have seen this mighty

ship to victory this day, sir, but you have precious little fitness

in that regard. We had no chance under your hand. We have suffered you long and long enough, sir! Enough! You are unfit to

command this vessel, and I intend to negotiate her surrender on

behalf of this crew. Throw down your sword, Captain Blood, you

are under the arrest of the Imperial French Navy! Bo’sun, strike

our colors, we are surrendering
Mystere
to—’”

412

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Hornby,” I said, “but there were

children held captive below, were they not? What was to become of—?”

Hornby eyed me then and I lowered my head, most sorry for

my interruption.

“‘Mutiny, is it then?’ Billy said, and he threw back his head and

laughed. ‘I’ll slit your mutinous French throats ’afore I’m done,

but I’ll begin with this English swine!’ He swung his gaze round

on Hawke, then lunged forward, his blade tip aimed at Hawke’s

heart. Rapt, I was, and barely aware of young Nick climbing to

his feet beside me.

“‘Lord Hawke! Up here!’ Nick shouted, and everyone turned

to see him standing atop the pilothouse. He pulled the cutlass

he’d borrowed from his belt and threw it down to the emptyhanded Hawke. Nick’s toss was short and the sword fell to the

deck at Hawke’s feet. I saw my new hero bend to retrieve it, but

Bill was using the moment’s distraction to circle in toward

Hawke, his sword poised for a murderous blow.

“Hawke and his blade were coming up as Blood’s blade was

coming down. The flat of Billy’s sword caught Hawke hard across

the shoulder blades, driving him back down to the deck. His head

thudded hard and I could see he was stunned. His sword had

landed a good fifteen feet away. Nick looked at me, and I could

see in his eyes what he had in mind.

“It was only about ten feet from our perch down to the quarterdeck, and Nick timed that jump perfectly. He came down

squarely on the shoulders of Captain Blood, straddling his head

and clamping both hands over the enraged pirate’s eyes. Blinded

and snorting, Bill whirled about, staggering over the bodies of

the dead. He shook that tenacious boy clinging to him, tormenting him, but Nick held on.

“Nick saw me then, peering down from the rooftop, and cried

out, ‘Down to the brig with you, Martyn Hornby! See if you can

find Lord Hawke’s boy and the children! His lordship and I have

this well in hand.’ Nick had somehow snatched the prized spy-
413

glass from Bill’s waist…and then I saw Nick flying through the

air as Billy had finally ripped him from his shoulders and flung

him like a rag doll hard upon the deck.

“
Well in hand
, I thought, disbelieving. But I did as Nick said,

and slid backward down off the roof, much as it pained me to

leave that grave drama and then—”

“Wait!” I said, leaping to my feet and banging my shin on the

hearthstone. “For all love, Mr. Hornby, you didn’t leave your ringside seat at that very moment?”

“Mr. Tolliver, I was gone only a short while, and what I missed

was filled in enough so’s I feel I’ve seen what happened with my

very own eyes, sir,” Hornby said, seeming startled by my outburst.

“Well, then, please don’t stop the tale there, sir,” I said, returning to my seat. My pen hovered above the page, quivering

to inscribe the conclusion of the adventure.

“‘I’ll have that glass back!” Blood roared, planting one of his

gleaming Hessian boots squarely in the middle of Nick’s chest.

Bill poked the tip of his razor-sharp blade at him, prodding Nick’s

jacket. Then he slashed the boy’s thin blue coat right through and

the gleaming spyglass spilled out onto the deck, rolling away as

Nick tried desperately to grab for it. In a flash, Blood’s hand shot

out like some inhuman claw and clutched it, raising it aloft

where it shone in the sun.

“‘No!’ Nick shouted. ‘That’s Nelson’s glass!’ He was clawing at

Blood’s leg, trying to rise from the deck, but Billy still had him

pinned with his boot pressed painfully in the boy’s stomach and