light shot into the sky and vanished, there was a dull rumble of falling timbers
and debris, and we saw great crowds of men fleeing down a street.
There were flames everywhere now, and the deafening sound of muskets. Behind us
we could hear the boom of guns from the ships.
We pushed through a crowd of rushing, shoving men and turned into the
comparative quiet of the side street. A man ran past me, his face white, his
eyes distended. I do not think he even saw me. A woman with a child cowered in
the corner of a stone building, half hidden behind a barrel. It was as safe a
place as any.
As we came upon the ship chandler’s shop, the front of the shop was smashed by a
cannonball. We forced open the door.
Inside, on the floor, a man lay dead, his skull crushed by a falling timber.
Clutched in one hand was a sack which he had begun to fill with gold from an
open strong box.
Near him lay a bundle of papers. They were signed Diego de Guzman.
“It is he,” I said. “Our paymaster is dead!”
Jeremy Ring flashed a smile. “His gold is not. Do we collect it?”
“Of course.” I tucked the order for payment into the dead man’s pocket. “There,
senor. The order is yours, the gold is ours.
“Take the box,” I said, “perhaps we shall be overpaid a little, but who will
care?”
Jeremy dumped the gold back into the strongbox.
He tilted the box. “It is heavy.”
“It will be lighter,” I said, “when we spend it. But then,” I added, “gold is
forever heavy.” Yet I was not looking at Jeremy Ring when I spoke.
Four men had burst into the door, swords in their fists, stopping suddenly upon
seeing us.
“We will have the box,” said the first. He was a blond and square-faced man of
forty-odd with a livid scar across his brow and going into his hair. His face
seemed familiar though I knew for a fact I had never seen him before.
Flames crackled and a nearby man cried out in pain. It was almost dark, and I
had not noticed him in the leaping shadows. Out upon the bay, a big gun cleared
its throat with a gush of flame.
My father’s blade was in my hand when I looked at the square-faced man. “‘At
midnight,'” I said, “‘in the flames of a burning town!'” I could hear my
mother’s voice. I felt as though another force had entered my body.
His ugly scar went a deeper red; the flames played a shadow game across his
craggy face. His eyes went wide and he stared at me. “My God!” he said, and we
crossed our blades.
21
Oh, he was a strong one! The instant our blades crossed I knew he was good …
and dangerous. No stronger wrist had held a blade against me since I last had
fenced with my own father.
” ‘At midnight in a flaming town!’ ” I repeated, and he faltered, but only a
little.
“Are you the one?”
“I am … are you ready to die?”
“What man is ever ready?” He moved in, thrust, stooped suddenly and slashed a
lightning stroke at my legs. Only I sprang back, and was sailing as he came to
me again.
“My father taught me that one,” I said.
“Your father? Must I fight him, too?”
“You fought him once,” I said, “and bear the mark.”
He was wary, pressing, but wary. I heard a pistol go off nearby, and from the
tail of my eye saw a man sprawl dead, then saw another shot, and yet another.
“Ah? Was it he? But she said she had no husband!”
“She found him then,” I said, “when he put his mark on you.”
High mounted the flames, roaring, crackling, burning all about us. Red light
gleamed in his eyes, reflected from his face, and the pall of smoke lay heavy
over all. Our blades caught the glow and shone back the light. They clashed and
joined, and the man and I stood like brothers close together, our swords uniting
us. Then a quick disengagement.
“Finish him, Barnabas. We’ve far to go and the ship, by your order, will not
wait.”
Our blades crossed, I thrust, he parried, and I felt the thin line of pain as
his blade caressed my skin and left a streak of blood for marker.
He was strong and very quick, a superb swordsman. Was he too good? Would we both
die here?
No! There was Abby out there, and had it not also been foretold that I would
have four sons?
Sweat streaked my face. Blood ran down my side. I moved warily.
“She was a grand, beautiful lass,” he said suddenly, “with a fine lot of courage
in her. Not a bit was she afraid, but she stood and told me to my face what
would come.”
“And well she knew,” I said. “For she had the blood of Nial!”
“Aye.” The blond and savage man moved in quickly, his blade like the flash of
lightning in a far-off storm. “It took me a fair while to learn who he was!”
Suddenly his eyes lifted from our blades to mine, an instant only, “But she was
wrong, for it is you who die this night, Son of Hers! You!”
He thrust low and hard, but my father had taught me that, too, and my blade was
double-edged. I parried … quite gently, and lifted quick my blade … not
gently.
My sword-edge missed his belly I’d intended to open but cleft his chin … clean
through as you’d slice a cheese. And then the smallest thrust forward and my
blade was four inches out the back of his neck. He fell, almost twisting my
father’s sword from my hand, but I put my foot on his chest and drew out the
blade.
The man was dead.
We went away then, dragging the strongbox, which was heavy enough for four men,
and then Jeremy found a barrow and we loaded it in.
We ran, pushing the barrow at a stumbling run, first me, then Jeremy. We passed
dead men and fleeing women and children, and then we reached the shore.
Blue was there. He had thrown matting over himself and the boat to conceal them
from eyes who might want to escape across the channel.
We climbed in with the box and shoved off. Blue dipped deep the oars and the
boat shot forward, and we looked once more at our ship.
“The devil!” Jeremy said. “She’s moving!”
“Is she?” I looked. Was she? For a moment I could not tell, and then … yes,
she was, moving outward! She had caught the tide and was letting it take her, no
sails lifted to attract attention, just a hand at the whipstaff.
“Let me spell you, Blue.” I moved to the oars. He let me have them, and I put my
back into it and the boat leaped forward. The tide was helping us, too. I
glanced at the sky. There were stars, but it was fainting light, also.
We were gaining on the Abigail, and nearing the British warship.
We came alongside, and hailed, and somebody tossed us a line which we made fast
to the boat. Then some tackle and we sent the chest up, and then a quick
scramble and we were aboard, too, and picking up the ship’s boat.
Yet scarcely was I aboard when a hail came from the starb’rd side. “Heave to!
We’re coming aboard!”
Tilly crossed to me quickly. “It’s the Royal Navy. What shall we do?”
“Heave to, instantly, and do our best. We’re a Flemish ship with a largely
British crew who were almost trapped by the Spanish until the coming of the navy
gave us a chance to escape.
“Tell him that. It is all we can do. Keep Watkins and Wa-ga-su below and out of
sight. If we have to, we’ll bring Wa-ga-su up and be returning him to America as
an emissary for Raleigh to the Indians, where he’ll land his colony.”
“You think quickly,” John Tilly said dryly. “I hope it works.”
“So do I,” I said. “Otherwise it’s Newgate for me.”
The officer came over the side, a neat, trim-looking man, a fighter by the look
of him and one who knew his business. “What ship are you?” he demanded.
Of course, he had seen the name on the hull, but it was a formal question.
“The Abigail, Captain.” He was no captain but the unofficial promotion would do
us no harm. “A Flemish ship with mostly an English crew. Thank God you came when
you did. We’d sailed right into a trap.”
“What do you mean?” The officer’s eyes were missing nothing, but John Tilly was
the typically stalwart British merchant officer, and must have pleased his eye.