Kit's heart started to pound. The voice had a Welsh lilt to it.

'No, sir,' he said. 'Perhaps you knew my father. My name is Christopher Hilton.' 'Tony Hilton's boy?' 'His grandson, sir.'

'Then you're a rascal, by Christ. I've known no greater scoundrel than Tony Hilton, and I'm no stranger to villainy.'

Kit felt his cheeks burn. But mainly with anger. His name, and Susan's memory, were his only worthwhile possessions. 'You'll acknowledge he was also a man of courage and ability, sir.'

'What, Tony Hilton?'

'Or must I make you,' Kit shouted, his hand dropping to his sword hilt.

'Draw on your betters, would you?' Modyford cried. 'Kit, be careful,' Jean begged.

But the big man laughed. 'Tony Hilton's grandson, by Christ. You've the manner more than the appearance. When first I came to these accursed islands I sailed with Tony Hilton. Aye, he had courage, and ability, and he was my friend. As will you be. Give me your hand, boy. My name is Henry Morgan.'

Kit had his fingers crushed.

'Christopher Hilton.' Modyford was frowning. 'You're from Tortuga?'

'Some time ago, sir,' Kit said.

'Aye. Your name was mentioned to me but a few months back, as I recall. Why, 'tis a small world, to be sure.' 'My name, sir?' Kit was incredulous.

'In St John's, it was. I've estates in Barbados, you understand, and was on my way home to Jamaica from a tour of inspection, when a contrary wind blew me into Antigua. There I was the guest of the Deputy Governor, Colonel Philip Warner.'

'And he asked after me, sir?'

'He mentioned your name, Master Hilton, but in no very complimentary terms, I am sorry to say. I spoke of the projects planned by my friend here, Admiral Morgan, and Colonel Warner wondered that we did not recruit in Tortuga. A den of cutthroats, was his description of the place. Of whom, he said, the Hiltons are the worst. There are but two left, thank God, he said, the old whore and her pirate grandson.'

'My grandmother is dead, sir.'

'Then you've my sympathy.' Modyford's face relaxed into a smile; his eyes remained cold. 'But you're not without a friend in the Warner household, lad, if it's any solace to you. The Governor's daughter, young Mrs Templeton, took me aside and asked if indeed we planned to visit Tortuga. They were then unaware that it had been taken by the Dons.'

'Mrs Templeton?' Kit's heart pounded more than when he had boarded the coaster. 'Would her name be Marguerite?'

'Aye. The most beautiful creature I have ever seen. There's the truth. And married to a man four times her age. A sad waste.'

Sad? And Marguerite had asked after him? Marguerite, whom he had all but forgotten? Marguerite, whom he had caused to hate him, he was sure. 'But, sir,' he cried, as Modyford would have turned away again. 'What did she say?'

Again the frosty smile. 'Why, I forget most of it, indeed I do. Something about giving you her regards, as she had decided to forgive you. And I did not even find out what you had done to the gorgeous creature. But I formed the impression, as much from her father's dislike as from her own consideration, that you were a man of parts. The lad is your sailing master, no doubt,' he remarked to Bart.

'Eh? Oh, yes, indeed, sir,' Bart agreed. 'He is that. And a devil when it comes to action. Why, that is what we call him, amongst ourselves. The devil's own spawn.'

'The devil's own,' Morgan said, and laughed again. 'Aye, a good name for a Hilton. A good name for you, boyo.'

'She remembers me,' Kit said to Jean, ignoring the men. 'By God. After all these years, she remembers me.'

'And perhaps me also,' Jean said with a smile. 'Will you not allow me to meet these gentlemen?'

'Oh, forgive me, dear friend. I am quite overwhelmed. Quite

... allow me to present my friend, Jean DuCasse, Captain Morgan.'

Morgan frowned through his smile. 'Admiral, Kit. You'll call me Admiral. The pleasure is mine, Monsieur DuCasse. You've wine on board this ship?'

'Oh, indeed, monsieur,' Bart said, and led the way into the great cabin.

'A Spanish merchantman.' Modyford sat at the table, still without removing his hat. 'And taken by a handful of boucaniers, by God.'

'You came in through the stern, there.' Morgan did remove his hat, placing it carefully beside him. He had found the bullet marks on the deck-head, while the stain on the table was clearly blood.

'Kit led the way,' Bart said. 'Why, he'd have taken her single-handed if we'd lagged behind.'

'Tony Hilton's grandson,' Morgan said again, smiling at the boy. 'Your grandfather had a gift of command, Kit, lad. You'd do well to follow in his footsteps. He might have made a great name for himself, but his interests lay at home, with that magnificent woman of his. She's dead, you say?'

'She was hanged by the Dons when they took Tortuga.'

'By God,' Morgan said. 'Hanged, by God.'

'So you've a score to settle,' Modyford said.

Kit stared at him. The thought of Marguerite remembering him had quite driven every other concept, even his reason for being here, from his mind. But how could he remember her, without also remembering everything else. 'Aye, sir,' he said. 'I've a score.'

'You all have, Mr Hilton,' Modyford said. 'As you were boucaniers. First thing, you'll hoist the English flag.'

'I am a Frenchman, sir,' Bart said. 'And so are all my crew, saving only Kit.'

'If you sail with me,' Morgan said. 'It is as Englishmen.'

'And do we sail with you, Admiral?' Jean asked.

'These ships are not here to rest,' Morgan said. 'I've accumulated them all the year. This ship of yours will carry a hundred men.'

'She'll sail, and fight, better with forty,' Kit said.

'Spoken like a seaman, Kit. But I need men. Men are even more important than ships. The ships must carry them without sinking. Nothing more.'

'Carry them where, Admiral?' Bart asked.

Morgan smiled at him. 'Where Henry Morgan sails is known to Henry Morgan alone,' he said. 'Saving my good friend Governor Modyford here. But I'll promise you all the riches in the world, Captain Le Grand. Ask those who were with me at Porto Bello, or Maracaibo.'

Bart glanced at the two boys. ' 'Tis what we came for.'

'Aye,' Kit said. 'We'll sail with you to hell itself, Admiral Morgan.'

Still Morgan smiled. 'It may well come to that, Mr Hilton. And you will, indeed, sail with me.' He caught the expression on Kit's face. 'And your friend, Monsieur DuCasse. We'll find you another sailing master, Captain Le Grand. These two young men are my special charge. Why, the very name of Hilton will inspire the fleet.'

Because it was, after all, a fleet. There were more than a score of ships, led by the two galleons, but dwindling down to little ten-man cockleshells, wallowing in the long Caribbean swell. A fleet, carrying him to fame and wealth? Morgan promised him no less. And what would he do then? How the mention of her had indeed brought memory flooding back, every gesture, every movement, every change in her tone. Married to a man four times her age. And a mother? He did not know. But thinking of an episode from her past. Suppose, then, he did reappear, famous and wealthy?

Supposing it were possible. He stood on the poopdeck of the Monarch, the larger of the two galleons, and watched the rest through his glass. They had been at sea for over a week, making ever south-west across an empty ocean, and throughout that time they had been favoured with a light beam wind. Yet on nearly all the ships the pumps had clacked ceaselessly, and streams of dirty brown water poured over the sides; leave vessels as rotten as these for twenty-four hours and they took six feet of water in the hold. How they were ever manoeuvred or fought, what would happen were the slightest wind to spring up ...

'It does not bear thinking about.' Morgan stood beside him.

Now that they were at sea he had discarded the coat and the rings and the rapier, and wore only an open-necked shirt and breeches, with a cutlass hanging from the belt at his waist. Yet his hair was as carefully dressed as ever; he had his surgeon attend to it every morning.

'You're a mind-reader, sir,' Kit said.

'Faith, 'tis not difficult to read your mind, Kit. You spend more time on the helm, more time staring at the charts and studying the set of the sails, more time watching those other ships, than you do sleeping. The sea is in your blood.'

'And is it not in yours, sir?'

'By God, the very sight of it turns my stomach. My people were farmers. Good farmers, lad. You've a knowledge of Wales?'

'I've a knowledge of no land save Tortuga and Hispaniola, sir.'

Morgan nodded. 'What will you do, where will you go, when you've pockets full of gold?'

'You speak as if this is to be your last venture, sir.'

'Every venture is my last, boyo. Until I am sure I'm alive at the end of it. But this one ... I pursue a dream. 'Tis a thought I have had for years. Where do you think we are headed? Look through your glass. Forward for a change.'

Kit peered at the dark line of trees, fringed with surf, which suddenly filled the horizon. ' 'Tis a large island, to be sure.'

' 'Tis the Main, boy.'

Kit brought up the glass again. The very thought made his heart pound. 'Then it is Porto Bello we seek, Admiral? I would have thought, after the attention paid it by Drake, and yourself, and God knows how many in between, that it was scarce worth sacking.'

'Porto Bello is not worth sacking,' Morgan said. 'And there is fever. Oh, 'tis an unwholesome coast. I seek more. That bay opening to port is the mouth of the River Chagres. We will anchor there. I know the place well; I reconnoitred it three years ago, which is when this plan first came to me. I have arranged with the Indians who inhabit this coast to supply us with canoes, and we shall make our way up the river. It is quite practical at this season. When the rains come, then it is a violent torrent. But now it will be calm and quiet.'

'You mean to go inland?'

'There is a lake from whence this river rises. That is our first destination. You'll command a canoe, Kit. But mark me well. This venture, like all such ventures, will be a perilous business. Keep your wits about you, and even more, stay close to my pennant. Bear that in mind, boy. Now, and afterwards. Now see to your gear. Take your friend with you.'

For the land was opening fast, and a few hours later the Monarch was slowly entering the bay, sail shortened to mere scraps of canvas, leadsman hanging in the bows to call the depths, while the deep blue shaded to a deep green, and then to pale green, so clear that they could pick out every rock and every patch of seaweed below the surface, before suddenly changing to an opaque brown as they entered the discharge from the river.

Kit stared at the shore through his glass; the beach seemed to stretch interminably in either direction, broken only by the gush of slow-moving brown water. But there were also people on the beach, just visible against the crowding trees. He had never seen an Indian, although Grandmama had told him sufficient tales of the Caribs who infested the islands south of Antigua, and against whom the Warners had waged an unceasing war of survival, despite the love shared by old Sir Thomas and the Princess Yarico. Or was the enmity because of that love, and its result, the legendary Indian Tom Warner?

But these would not be Caribs, on the mainland. Indeed, they did not look very warlike, being small, squat, brown-skinned men, wearing only breech-clouts, carrying wooden spears and bows and arrows, surrounded by dogs, and by naked children. There were women, too, gathered behind them, some entirely naked, others wearing little aprons; they would be the married ones. But if he had hoped to be excited or even interested by them, he was again disappointed. Shorter than their menfolk, with protruding bellies and sagging breasts, with flat, ugly features and dank black hair lying below their shoulders, he thought them repulsive. Or would he find any woman so, at this moment?

'The Admiral wishes us to disembark,' Jean said, and at that moment the order was given and the huge rusting anchor plunged through the suddenly dirty water to disappear into the mud of the bottom. Jean's eyes gleamed, and he was clearly excited. Like Kit, he had stripped to the waist, and wore only a pair of breeches, and the belt from which hung his pistols and his cutlass and his powderhorn, while he carried a musket across his shoulder. He was prepared for war.

Kit went to the gunwale where the twelve men who were to form his section waited. As villainous a group of cut-throats as he had ever seen, scarred and vicious. Without exception they reminded him of Bale, the villain who had dogged Grandmama with pathetic adoration, and who had no doubt long since found himself at the end of a Spanish pike. Yet all were prepared to accept a boy as their commander, because the Admiral had said they must, and because the boy's name was Hilton. He had never anticipated this kind of fame, in all his dreams of power.

But the fame of a Morgan, now, there was something to be dreamed of. A farmer, from the hills of Llanrhymny, who could snap his fingers and have every villain in the New World dancing to his tune. Because he carried the aura of success. He let no obstacles stop him. At Porto Bello he had driven priests and nuns in front of his men to receive the fire of the Spanish soldiery, and won. At Maracaibo he had taken the town without difficulty, only to find himself bottled up by a Spanish fleet and by a fort which had so fortuitously seemed abandoned when the buccaneers had entered the lagoon. He had scattered the enemy vessels with fireships and avoided the guns of the fort by a splendid piece of subterfuge, and extracted his men and himself with all their gold and hardly a casualty. And when, soon afterwards, the magazine of his ship had exploded while he was entertaining his captains to dinner, and sent them all to perdition, he had been the sole survivor, merely blown overboard. So these cutthroats would indeed follow him to hell, confident that he would lead them back again.

Or did it merely mean that to be one of Morgan's captains was a highly dangerous business? Because clearly he had been marked for such a distinction, Kit thought.

Now the rest of the fleet was bringing up; anchors rattled through their hawse pipes as sails were furled, and the ships swung to the gentle breeze while boats were lowered. The Admiral's barge was already at the beach, and Morgan was haranguing the Indians who clustered forward to receive the handfuls of beads and the few rusty muskets which they valued more than all the gold in America. Meanwhile a coxswain had planted the huge staff from which flew the Cross of St George, as a rallying point for the boat commanders, and these, as soon as the various pinnaces had disgorged the landing parties, were gathered beneath the flapping cloth. Kit and Jean hurried to join them, to stand in the company of all the weather-beaten hell-hounds who had sent more Spaniards to their deaths than he had even seen in his life. He felt suitably humbled, but more exhilarated. Gone were his doubts. Why, there must be nearly two thousand men on this beach. Two thousand of the toughest scoundrels on the face of the earth. And they waited only for the word from their Admiral.

Morgan came towards them, his boots crunching on the sand. The chieftain walked at his side, peering down the muzzle of the musket he had been given.

Morgan stopped before the three score men he had selected to lead his cohorts. He grinned at them, while the sweat stained the shoulders and armpits of his shirt.

'The chief has found us one hundred and forty canoes,' he said. 'And to do that he has scoured the entire country. Each canoe will take ten men. That means we march with fourteen hundred. I'd have liked more, but beggars can't be choosers. And it means we leave a sizeable force to guard the ships and this bay. For we must come back the way we go.'

'Up that river?' someone demanded.

Morgan drew his cutlass, began to make marks upon the sand. 'Fifteen miles to the lake. There'll be no problem up to there. Then the lake itself stretches for some ten. But after that it's walking. Through that.' He pointed with his cutlass at the wall of green jungle, matted and intertwined, which lay only a few feet away. 'I'd have no man be under any misapprehension as to what he's at.'

'Begging your pardon, Admiral Morgan,' Captain Jackman said. 'But are we not being over-elaborate? You may be sure that by now the Dons know there is a buccaneer fleet on this coast, and they will also know, by simple arithmetic, that we can mean one of only three places. Porto Bello and Nombre de Dios are plucked bones. As we must head for Nicaragua, why not let us do it direct? To ascend the Chagres can only add several days to our journey, and as it will mislead nobody, it seems to me to be no more than a waste of time and energy.'

Morgan stared at him, his mouth still forming the smile. 'So we are marching on Nicaragua City,' he said. 'That is what the Dons will think, in your opinion.'

'There is nowhere else worthy of such an expedition.'

'Nowhere?' Morgan threw back his head and laughed. 'And is not Nicaragua City also a plucked bone? Did not John Davis ascend there but two years gone, and storm the walls? Is there anything there worth having, from a woman's hole to a single pot of gold, now? Think you I would lead fourteen hundred men to such a limited feast?' He dug his sword once again into the sand. 'From the lake we descend. There is a trail, but in any event this good fellow has promised to lead us. He asks only a Spanish sword in payment, and by God he shall have mine when he delivers us upon the shores of the Pacific'

There was a moment's stunned silence.

'The Pacific?' Bartholomew Le Grand whispered.

'In the steps of Drake and Oxenham, by God,' said Captain Sharp. 'What will we do, Admiral? Seize ships and prey upon the Spanish trade with Peru?'

'Faith, that were a slow business,' said Captain Tew. 'It would make more sense to sail our own ships around the Horn.'

'Excepting that they would sink before you breasted Brazil,' Kit said.

Morgan laughed again. 'Ships?' he shouted. 'Piracy? Ships are for transport. And piracy is for those who fear to prosper. No, no, my friends. My matelots. I will open for you the gates of the most wealthy city in the world. For where does the gold of Peru, and the riches of the East Indies come ashore, my friends? Where is the entrepot for the entire trade of Spanish America? Babylon had nothing to offer when compared with Panama City.'

This time the silence was longer.

'You'd assault Panama City?' Jackman asked at last.

' 'Tis defended by an army,' Tew whispered.

'For that purpose,' Morgan said, 'I have brought an army to this beach. I tell you this: be the walls the highest and the thickest in the world, and they are that; be it defended by an army of Spanish soldiers, and it is that; and be it also a place of gold, and silver, and plate, and fine clothes, and women, my friends, the most beautiful women in the world, and it is that; and be it the safest place in the world, as it is claimed, we shall take it, or you shall bury Henry Morgan in this mud.'

3

The Scum of the Earth

A shot rang out, and then another; a ripple of fire rolled along the bank of the river, and in one of the leading canoes a man screamed with pain, and slumped over his paddle. For the rest, the bullets merely splattered the unending brown of the water.

'You and you and you,' Morgan bellowed from his boat, which led the van. 'Flush out those bastards.'

Kit cursed, but swung his canoe out of the column. On his left Jean did the same, and on his right Bart's men followed their example. This was the seventh time in two days they had been ordered to clear the banks.

'Give way,' he shouted. 'Give way.' The buccaneers obeyed, faces mouthing oaths, arms shedding sweat; they were stripped to the waist, had shaved their heads and bound them up in bright coloured kerchiefs; their feet were bare and their breeches were stained with mud and sweat. But their cutlasses were bright; Morgan's orders had made them polish the blades every evening.

Cutlasses were essential, for cutting back the ever present jungle. Surely not for cutting down Spaniards. For while the jungle never ceased its presence, the Spaniards came and went, filtering along the banks of this interminable river, delivering their volleys and disappearing again. Morgan's boast that every Indian in the isthmus would fight against the Dons had been proved false; no soldiers could move through these forests without Indian guides.

The prow of the canoe drove into the bushes which drooped over the brown water. The leading buccaneer seized the branches to push them aside, and shrank back in horror as a snake slid down the tree and wriggled into the undergrowth. For a moment the entire company hesitated, and then Kit himself went forward.

'What are you?' he demanded. 'Men or girls?' He grasped the bushes and swung himself ashore. But even as his feet left the boat he shuddered; no one knew for sure what hell might be lying immediately beneath him. There was that man the day before yesterday who had stumbled into a teeming ants' nest and lost most of his flesh before he could be dragged clear. There was that canoe which had overturned, and amongst whose crew leather-backed brown monsters called caiman by the Indians had swarmed with savage destruction before anyone could attempt their rescue. And there were the four men who had already been bitten by snakes, and had died in seconds. Beside all of those horrors, which clung to the brown water and the green banks with unceasing determination, what were a handful of Spanish soldiers?

His feet stamped through the soft earth, found the hard. He drew his cutlass, waved his arm. He could hear the shouts of Jean's men and Bart's, a little farther up the river. And he could see, too, the shattered branches and the imprints on the earth where the Spaniards had rested their muskets. But the men were gone. They were pursuing a war of attrition, knowing they could not concentrate a sufficient force in the jungle to meet the buccaneers head on.

And they were pursuing it successfully.

Bart shouldered his way through the trees. 'Christ,' he said. 'What would I give for a stretch of open ground. I'd even settle for Hispaniola again.'

'So long as we would be doing the hunting there as well,' Jean said. 'Let us regain our canoes. The Admiral has said that we shall certainly meet with resistance at Cruces, and it cannot be more than a day away now.'

'And that will be long enough,' Bart grumbled. 'My men are down to their last mouthfuls of meat.'

Kit re-embarked his crew, took his place in the stern. They had wasted half an hour in that futile action, but as yet even the centre of the long column of canoes had not passed their landing. And now, by this natural leap-frogging process, their places in the van had been taken by another three canoes, and they could allow themselves to relax. Until Cruces. For Morgan had indeed told them about this town, an important resting place on the gold road from Panama to Nombre de Dios, situated on the shore of the lake. The Spaniards would certainly fight for Cruces, and the town was fortified. There would the mettle of these men be tested. As if it had not been tested many times before. Perhaps it was his own mettle he questioned. But had he not led the assault on the Spanish brig? He had known no fear then. Only an anxious anger. So now was a strange time to start doubting himself.

Or perhaps he did not doubt himself, but only the horrors that would come afterwards. For now he had two memories to haunt his midnight hours; the priest had joined Grandmama.

'The lake,' someone shouted from the canoe in front of him. The word had been passed down the command. 'The lake,' one of his own crew shouted. He turned, and cupped his hands to call the glad news. 'The lake,' he bellowed at those behind him, and listened to the word rippling down the column like a feu de joie.

But was it a lake? Or had they in some fantastic fashion managed to cross the isthmus in four days? For the banks of the river were widening, and even disappearing from sight; he could see no land ahead, only the swarm of canoes, spreading out like a cavalry charge as they reached the open water, after the constant effort of pulling against the current over the previous days. Now they entered a world of light and air, compared with the oppression of the huge trees. Flocks of wild duck rose from the reeds on either hand, and scattered towards the sky, eagerly watched by the men, who were already weary of a diet of rotting beef. Reeds were everywhere, emerging in patches above the surface and then disappearing again. Now indeed they needed the Indian guides, or they might row round and round in circles for the rest of their lives. But the Admiral's canoe, painted a bright red so that there could be no mistakes in identification, rowed steadily forward, bearing just west of south, until even the reed-beds and the flanking forest had disappeared, and they followed an open expanse.

And now he could see land again. The morning sun reflected from the walls. Cruces. Filled with armed Spaniards determined to halt this expedition here and now. How would Morgan command the assault? Would he merely point his sword at those battlements, and leave it to the desperate valour of his buccaneers? Kit rather suspected that would be the case, and felt relieved that there were close on fifty canoes between his own and the front. He would not have to be a forlorn hope on this occasion.

Morgan's boat headed straight for the beach beneath the walls; the roofs of the town, dominated by the church, were now clearly in view. But the Spaniards were wasting no powder. The loopholes remained silent, staring at the canoes.

'Give way,' Kit shouted. 'Make haste. Paddle you devils. Paddle.'

For the exhilaration of battle was once again seizing hold of him, and he no longer wanted to lag behind. He wished to be up there with the leaders, with the Admiral and with the van. But each of the hundred and forty canoes had increased its speed, and the whole little armada surged at the walls. Yet still there was no fire, and now he saw that the main gate was open, swinging to and fro on its hinges.

'By Christ,' he whispered. Morgan had seen it too. The lead canoes were already beached, and the buccaneers were pouring ashore and up the beach, their bandannas forming a brightly coloured pattern of bouncing balls, and led by the Admiral himself; Morgan had retained his broad-brimmed black hat, although like them he had shaved his head.

'Hurry,' Kit begged his men. 'Hurry, you bastards.'

The bottom grated and they dropped their paddles. Kit was already over the side, splashing through knee-deep water as he gained the beach, to join the mob which flooded through the open gates, to debouch into the single street of the town, to stop, and stare at the empty houses, the open doors. To listen to the silence which gradually overcame even the cries of the invaders.

They huddled, insensibly, and looked towards the church. Morgan had entered there, and now he stood on the steps and faced them. 'They've gone,' he shouted. 'Run like the curs they are. They'll not have left much behind them, lads, but what they have we must find. Or we'll go hungry for the next couple of days, eh? Scatter now, and discover what you may. Kill me every Spaniard you find. We'll have no quarter. Remember that. And find food, lads. But reassemble on the note of the bugle. Forget that, and you are dead men.'

The buccaneers gave a tremendous whoop, and tore at the houses on either side. Empty, stripped of anything valuable. And yet containing enough for destruction. Beds and articles of furniture were slashed and cut and pounded into rubble; doors were torn from their hinges, windows poked out. Cellars were tumbled. But no article of food was found, much less any of gold. Tempers began to run high, curses and oaths mingled with the sweat and the clash of arms to disturb the still air.

Until a roar of joy sent them back to the street, and milling into the square. Bart's men had forced the great doors to the church cellars. Here too there were no men. But here there were casks of wine, row upon row of them.

'They'll be fit for naught for days,' Kit muttered. He stood close by the Admiral.

'Aye,' Morgan said. 'But there's none of us here will restrain them from that liquor.'

They were already stoving in the casks, holding out mugs and even hands for a first taste of the flowing red liquid. And now the first cup was filled, and the man who had thrust the first bung raised it high. 'Here's to ye, Admiral Morgan,' he bellowed, and gulped at the wine, allowing it to flow out of his mouth and down his cheeks, cascade over his shoulders. 'By Christ, but that was good. And another, lads.' He bent to refill his mug, and gave a shriek of agony, which was echoed by the man beside him, who had also finished a mug.

Cups dropped, and the men crowding round the barrels reeled backwards. Three of them lay on the floor of the cellar, gasping and writhing.

'Poisoned, by Christ,' Morgan said. 'We should have known. By God, lads, we had better be on our way. You'll know what to do to those Dons when we catch up with them.'

'But what will we eat?' asked a voice.

Morgan stared at them. 'You'll eat in Panama City,' he shouted. 'What are you, then, afraid of going hungry for a day or two? The sooner you get back to the trail, the sooner we'll be there.'

In the square the first drops of rain began to fall.

* * *

A bugle blast wailed through the forest, and the weary men stopped moving. Many immediately sank to their knees and then on to their bellies, regardless of the soaking leaves or the inches-deep mud stirred up by those who had gone before. And where they fell, they lay. There was no point in calling them to stack arms, in commanding them to pitch tents. They possessed neither food nor cover. At least half of them shook with fever. But they marched, and would continue to march, through the endless jungle. Because to stop meant death.

Kit pushed his way past the wet branches, and found Jean. The Frenchman sat on a fallen log, and had taken off his belt, already half chewed into strands.

'That is worse,' Kit said. 'It but makes the juices flow.'

'Aye. But my belly is filled with gripes and wind. I explode as I walk,' Jean said. 'Think you these men will have the strength to fight, when we reach the ocean? How does the Admiral know he can trust these Indians? How do we know we are not being led round in circles?'

'Because we are seamen, and are following the course of the sun,' Kit reminded him. 'So, eventually, we must again come to the sea. We know it is there.'

'I wish I possessed your confidence,' Jean grumbled. 'Whisht.'

Something had moved in the bushes close by. Kit turned, slowly. Behind them the army was still settling, with an enormous rustle of sound, but muted; there was no laughter and no shouting, there was no reason for either. There were only sighs and curses. And in the jungle something had moved, not twenty feet away.

'A Spanish scout, you think?' Jean whispered.

'I doubt it. They can have no doubts where we are and in which direction we are headed.' Kit dropped to his knees, cautiously parted the bushes to make his way forward. 'By Christ.'

Jean was at his side, peering into the gloom. And drawing his breath sharply. In front of them was a large bird, with brightly coloured wings, one of which seemed broken, for it could do no more than drag itself through the bushes.

'What is it?' Jean whispered.

'Some kind of pheasant, perhaps,' Kit said.

'But it will be good to eat.'

'Aye. You go that way.' Cautiously he wormed his way through the grass behind the bird, his knife in his hand. His powder was too damp to fire, and in any event, he had no wish to alert anyone else to his prize. His mind was entirely caught up with the problems of his own belly.

The bird had heard him coming. It turned and scuttled through the trees, away from Jean as well, moving much faster than they could. He rose to his feet in frustration, threw himself full length, missed the tail feathers by inches, and listened to the squawk of terror. He reared back on his heels, and gazed at the black man. He had seen him before, marked him for his size and his demeanour, for he was about the biggest man he had ever seen, and carried himself with a studied dignity. His face was long, and the colour of midnight, which he accentuated by wearing a white bandanna. His expression was bland and disinterested, even now, as he held the fluttering bird in his hands. Like everyone else, he wore only a pair of breeches and his feet were bare. Unlike most of the others, however, his only weapon was his cutlass. Perhaps he knew sufficient about tropical forests to understand that powder was not a reliable commodity in these conditions.

Now he grinned at the two young men, and with a sudden twist of his wrists ended the pheasant's life.

'We saw him first,' Jean muttered, rising from the bushes to the left.

The giant continued to smile. 'We saw him together, Monsieur DuCasse,' he said, his voice quiet. 'But we will have to share him raw.'

Kit frowned at him. 'You do not claim him as your own?'

I will share him with you two gentlemen, Master Hilton,' he said. 'But no others.' He squatted, was already plucking at the feathers.

'How are you called?' Jean asked.

The Negro shrugged. 'I no longer have a name of my own, sir. I was given a title by my late owner. Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa. How does that sound, sir?'

'By God,' Kit said. 'He had a sense of humour, your owner.'

Agrippa shrugged again, and tore off a wing, which he offered to Kit. 'He was a devil, Master Hilton. You will still find the marks of his whip on my back.'

"Where was this?' 'Barbados, sir.'

Now Jean was also eating, the blood rolling down his chin. 'And you made your way from Barbados to Port Royal?'

'Indeed, sir. After being a slave, and having escaped, all other aspects of life come easy.'

Kit stared at the man. There had been no slaves on Tortuga; there had been no reason for them. And the knowledge that they were employed in the islands farther south, and in Jamaica as well, for that matter, had never really meant much to him before. He had put them down as a people apart, black people. But here was a black man speaking with a more educated choice of words than anyone in the fleet.

Agrippa was smiling at him. 'Because I was a slave, Master Hilton, does not mean that I am a mindless savage. I do not come from the great river, from the great bay. My lands are farther north. I am a Mandingo, sir. There is Arab blood in my veins.'

'And where did you learn such good English?'

'My master taught me. He was an intelligent man, and he perceived my own intelligence, and so taught me more.'

And yet scarred your back,' Jean observed.

'Have you not observed, Monsieur DuCasse, that it is the most intelligent people who are the most cruel? As perhaps they think more quickly than stupid people, so they have more time to think, but no more subjects to think about, and so they must fill the empty spaces with their desires. And deep down inside all of us there is a desire to hurt, to be cruel.'

'My God,' Jean said. 'A Negro philosopher.'

'There were philosophers in North Africa long before any were discovered in France, Monsieur DuCasse.'

Jean frowned, and then smiled. 'Why, I suppose you are right, Master Agrippa. And I thank you for securing our bird for us. Now I must rejoin my men.'

'And I also.' Kit stood up, and hesitated, then thrust out his hand. ' 'Tis strange, how people meet, Master Agrippa. My thanks.'

The Negro hesitated in turn, and then closed his fingers over those of the boy. 'I have never shaken hands with a white man.'

Kit was embarrassed. 'I'd have you march with my section. I'll speak with the Admiral.'

Agrippa's grin had returned. 'I march with my own section, Master Hilton. At its head.'

'You?'

'Why not? Admiral Morgan wishes only the strength in a man's mind, the strength in his arm. He shows no interest in the colour of his skin.'

'Aye. He has the hallmarks of greatness.'

'Which is why we follow him, Master Hilton. For be sure that many of us will die, before we regain the mouth of the Chagres. Now I bid you farewell. I will see you in Panama.'

A strange meeting, with a strange man. But a most valuable one, if only because it had taken some of the griping pain from his belly, Kit thought. Next day he looked for the big man, but did not find him. The army straggled now, a long column of sweating and cursing and starving men. At least the rain had ceased two days ago, and the forest was again dry. And now they were descending, and walking was easier. But it was distressing to hear the wind growling in his belly, and to listen to the grunts and farts of the men around him, to watch them chewing at their belts, and tearing leaves from the trees to cram into their mouths. Now they all suffered from leaking bellies as well, the more nauseating because they could excrete only liquid. Within a week they would be too weak to raise a weapon, much less force their way through the jungle.

Within a week. He had lost track of days. They came and they went. They had paddled up the River Chagres for nearly a week; they had left their canoes at Cruces, and they had marched through the forest for nearly a week. And now it was again night, and the men groaned and cursed and snored around him. And yet there had been no suggestion of mutiny. Was it because they knew that they could only go on, or die? Or was it because they trusted their Admiral? He had led them into hell before. Surely he would lead them out the other side, this time again.

'Whisht.' Portuguese Bart, crawling through the darkness. But a darkness already tinged with grey.

Kit sat up. 'What is it?'

'The Admiral summons his commanders to a conference,'

Bart whispered. 'Come quietly.'

Kit picked up his cutlass, it was second nature now, whether he needed it to slash at a jungle creeper or to protect himself from snake or spider, and made his way along the column, past the line of sleeping men, lying as they had fallen from yet another endless march through the forest. It took him half an hour to reach the head, and by then the dawn chill was already spreading through his bones, and the first light was commencing to shroud a grey mist across the trees.

They crossed a sudden open space, and came once again to the trees. Here they grouped, near a hundred of them, the men who would be responsible for making the buccaneers fight, when it came to that.

And in their centre was the Admiral. 'Hush,' Morgan said. 'Listen.'

Across the suggestion of dawn a bell tolled, gently in the distance. They stared through the trees, but could see nothing; the mist blanketed the forest in front of them.

'A mule train, you think?' Jackman whispered.

'How can that be?' Sharp demanded. 'There is not a Spaniard in all America but knows we are in this forest.'

'That bell is the cathedral in Panama City,' Morgan said, grinning at them. 'We have arrived, my bravos. Awake your men, and bring them forward. We will leave the forest under cover of this mist, and be in position before the city awakes.' He drew his cutlass, and raised it above his head. 'This day we unlock the doors to more wealth than any man here has ever dreamed of, let alone seen. Today we make ourselves immortals, lads. This day Henry Morgan comes to Panama.'

Supposing they lived to tell of it. For now the mist would lift. Kit knew the signs too well, from his years in Hispaniola. There was the sudden increase in heat, the sudden closeness of the air, the sudden change in the colour of the vapour around them, from white to yellow. And where were they, in relation to their goal? He doubted even the Admiral knew that. The bell had ceased to toll some time before, or its knell had been lost in the clank and rustle of twelve hundred men tramping across the ground.

Certainly they had left the forest, some time ago, and now

followed a well-defined path down the hillside, but even the path was flattening out. And was this path not the Gold Road, which led straight through the main gate of Panama City itself? Would they not see the enemy until they banged on those iron-bound portals?

Or could Panama also have been abandoned? There was a dream, born of fear, of the nagging, grinding pain in his belly, a pain induced as much by fear as by hunger. Now he marched on the Spaniards, as they had once marched on him. He had been less afraid, then. He had known less of what life and death were about.

The mist cleared. The sun drew it from the ground as a woman might whisk the sheet from the bed she would remake. And the buccaneer army stopped, and stared, while a rumble of amazed murmur rose from their ranks. They had almost arrived at the foot of the empty hillside, worn free of trees and most of its grass by the fall of how many hundreds of thousands of feet, down which the Gold Road flowed? The road itself continued in front of them, skirting the plain to arrive at the gates of the city, huge timber erections studded with iron, which filled the open spaces in the high stone walls, while beyond the walls there could be no doubt that here was a city; the rooftops and the balconies rose above the battlements, and above even the rooftops there rose the towers of the four cathedrals. These towers now once again gave off a peal of bells, summoning the people of Panama to arms.

Panama promised wealth; the district around it already provided beauty. To their right the plain undulated towards the sea, clearly not the parade ground they had first supposed it, but rather a rabbit warren of bushes and ravines, not deep, but sufficient to hide a man. Or men. And beyond it the eternal surf played on the endless beach, guardians of an ocean which stretched half-way round the world to the kingdoms of the Great Khan, and the Mikado of Japan. The sun, rising from out of the forest behind them, sent a long swathe of glowing gold across that fathomless sea, suggestive of the prize they sought, if they had the courage, and the stamina, and the ability.

For Panama was awake. The gates were open, and out there came squadron after squadron of lancers, dressed in bright uniforms, with brighter pennants flying from their spearheads, yellow and red. Kit looked around, and found Jean and Bart Le Grand staring with him. How many men present had a long score to settle with the Spanish lancers?

Behind the lancers there came the tramp of infantry, displacing as much dust as even the horses, an immense mass of men in breastplates and helmets, pikes or muskets at their shoulders, every step matching every other. This was the Spanish tercio, the infantry division which had conquered the world with the same ease as it had conquered Europe.

'By Christ,' someone muttered. 'But there are thousands of them.'

The buccaneers watched the enemy form line, the infantry in the centre in a solid body, the horsemen milling about on each wing. Nor apparently were the Spaniards yet finished summoning their army; a real cloud of dust rose from close by the city gates. More cavalry? Morgan stared through his telescope, his whole face a frown. 'Cattle, by God. They mean to rout us with cattle.' He closed the glass with a snap, turned to face his army. 'You'll run, God damn you. Make for the plain, and take shelter in the ravines. But stay close.'

The buccaneer army debouched from the road without any further hesitation, making little noise beyond pants and grunts as they staggered for the plain. From the Spanish ranks there rose a cheer, as they assumed their enemies to be already defeated.

'Kit Hilton,' Morgan bellowed. 'Bart Le Grand. Jean DuCasse. All you men who were boucaniers. Assemble here, by God.'

Kit left the men who had crewed the canoe with him, ran to Morgan's side, trailing his heavy musket. Soon there were two dozen of them.

'We've a hard day ahead of us, lads,' Morgan said. 'They outnumber us, and they're regular troops. Our boyos are weak with hunger, and they'll need all their strength. So isn't it a good thing the commandant has done, driving those beef cattle towards us?'

The herd was continuing to approach at a gallop, the hammer of their hooves making the earth shake, while the dust cloud eddied above them.

'You leave it to us,' Bart said. 'We'll not waste a ball, Admiral. Come on, my bravos. To that ridge.'

Kit followed him across the uneven turf. Outnumbered, two to one, by regulars. His belly rose to meet his heart, and his heart sank to meet his belly. What hope had they? But perhaps, after they had slaughtered some of the cattle, Morgan would lead them back into the forest and safety.

Except that what safety could there be for a defeated band of buccaneers, fifty miles and incredible hardships away from their ships, who had even lost faith in their general?

Supposing they survived the cattle. He lay on his belly on the already dry earth, and watched the tossing horns, the scorching hooves, the seething dust pounding towards him. Nothing would stop them now. His throat tightened.

'That big black bull,' Bart growled. 'And those on either side. We must drop them together, friends, or they will trample us to death. Take your sights. But wait for my command.'

Kit licked his lips, and found he had no saliva. But his breeches were wet. Christ, how frightened he was. The stampeding cows were not more than a hundred yards away. Would Bart ever give the command? Would there be time even to squeeze the trigger? And suppose the flint misfired?

'Fire,' Bart shouted, and the muskets rippled flame and sent black smoke up to join the dust.

'Load,' Bart shrieked. 'Load, you miserable sons of whores. Load.'

Desperately Kit crammed a ball into the muzzle of his gun, and rammed it down. There were cows all around him now, hurtling past, lowing and roaring, but separated by the wall of flame which had been hurled at them as much as by the dozen which had collapsed to form a mound immediately before the score of crouching men. And now the muskets were sounding again, driving the herd of cattle into two ever-divergent streams; at this range not even a musket could miss.

The sound lessened, although the dust continued to whirl and make them cough and choke. And now it was replaced by a tremendous whoop as Morgan led the main body forward. Men swarmed around Kit, tearing at the still breathing cows, slicing through quivering limbs and stripping the tough hide away from the warm red meat beneath. Some were already lighting fires to roast their breakfast; the main part just crammed the raw meat into their mouths. 'Kit. Kit. Where are you, Kit.'

Jean carried a beefsteak in each hand. They had been charcoal broiled, so that the outsides were black but blood still oozed.

'Eat one of these,' Jean commanded. 'And feel the strength flow back into your limbs.'

The meat was hard and tasteless, but to teeth which had chewed nothing but leather belts for three days it was like eating the tenderest of sucking pigs. Saliva mingled with the blood which filled his mouth.

'You shoot good, Master Hilton,' Agrippa tore at a rib. 'Now we must all fight good, eh?'

The dust had cleared, and the Spanish army lay in front of them, amazingly still, whereas surely, Kit thought, had they but launched an attack while the buccaneers were feeding, the victory would immediately have been theirs. No doubt they counted the victory secure in any event. And the moment was already past, for the bugle was sounding again, and the men were reluctantly scrambling to their feet, many tucking meaty ribs and lumps of steak into their belts.

Morgan had moved to the front. 'Musketeers,' he bellowed. 'Bart Le Grand, take the right flank with a hundred men. Kit Hilton, take the left. Not sharpshooters only, now. Any man who can fire a musket quickly and knows how to aim. The rest follow us.'

'You'll march with me, Jean,' Kit said.

'I would like that privilege also, Master Hilton,' Agrippa said.

'And you shall have it, by God. Come, load those pieces.'

The main body was already moving forward; Morgan's captain had unfurled a tremendous Cross of St George at the head of the column, flying from a long spar.

'You and you and you,' Kit bellowed, singling out men with clean-looking firepieces. 'To me on the flank. Come on, now. Make haste.'

For he could see what Morgan feared. As the buccaneer army advanced across the plain, the two bodies of lancers had also moved forward, trotting from their positions in line with the tercio, and obviously meaning to charge the flanks of the attacking army. The cattle still stampeded aimlessly across the open ground beneath their banner of eddying dust, and behind them also now were the steaming carcasses and smouldering fires of half an hour ago. And now the thudding of the hooves was growing loud again as the horsemen approached, gradually fanning out into a line as they drew parallel with the buccaneers.

The bugle sounded, and the flagstaff was placed in the ground; they were still out of range of the infantry, at a quarter of a mile distance.

'I think we are opposed by a fool,' Agrippa muttered, settling the stock of his firepiece into his shoulder.

'Hold your fire,' Kit commanded, remembering how Bart had controlled them against the cattle. He walked up and down the line of half-naked, bearded, sweating savages he had been asked to lead. 'Hold your fire.' He took his place at one end of the line, and heard the rattle of cutlasses behind him. The cavalry-were lowering their lances, and the trot was becoming a canter. He estimated there were just over a hundred of them on each flank.

'Remember Hispaniola,' Portuguese Bart yelled, and the cry was taken up. 'Remember Hispaniola.'

'Fire,' Kit shouted, as the range closed, and the muskets rippled with explosion and smoke. The lancers did not check, but a good score of their number fell, and the collapsing horses brought down several more.

'Load,' Kit yelled. 'Load, make haste. Load.'

But there was not time. The horsemen were coming on again.

'Pistols,' he bellowed. 'Pistols and cutlasses. Steady now.' He drew his own weapon, braced his feet as if he would fight a duel, and fired; a horse in front of him reared and whinnied, throwing its rider and falling backwards on to him. And then the noise of the immediate conflict was drowned in a tremendous roar, and he looked over his shoulder. Morgan had deemed the safety of his wings in good hands, and had given the order to charge. With a howl of contempt and fury a thousand buccaneers launched themselves in a small, tight body against the very centre of the imposing force in front of them.

But for the time being Kit and his musketeers were fully engaged with the horsemen. Now the melee became general, and in the first rush three of the buccaneers went down with spears in their bellies. But at close quarters the spears could only be used once, and long before the horsemen could control their mounts or drag their swords free they were seized and jerked from their saddles, and butchered on the ground. Cutlasses rose and fell, blood splattered and stained the brilliant steel, men howled, with pain and despair and with exultation, horses neighed with utter terror and added to the confusion as they raced to and fro.

But this fight was won. 'To me,' Kit bellowed, his voice hoarse and sweat running down his cheeks. 'To me. Follow me. Jean. Agrippa.'

'We are here,' Jean shouted. And so were still seventy others. Kit pointed his cutlass in the direction of the city, and advanced at a run, and checked in amazement. For now the dust again cleared, and in front of him the much-vaunted Spanish infantry were fleeing in every direction, some seeking the seashore and the boats which waited there, others running with desperate fear for the terrible safety of the forest. Morgan's charge had won the day, and already the buccaneers were battering at the gates of the city itself.

Had ever a day been so hot, and it was still early in the morning? Had such a day ever been seen, in all the brief history of America? For had such a city ever fallen to so few men, and to such men? They ran through the streets, no longer fearing opposition where there was none. The houses were shuttered and silent, and perhaps empty. They reached the central square, and gazed in amazement at the immensity of the cathedral, rising up and up and up, its square tower the one they had seen from the forest. Then they gave a whoop, and ran for the great barred doors.

Others had found the city hall, and beneath it, the dungeons. Here there were shouts and screams, and the buccaneers seized glaring torches and made their way down the noisome corridors, bursting open the doors of the cells to release the things that lay within. For these were surely not men. Some had lost one eye, some both; the marks of the fire still clung to their temples and foreheads. Others had lost cars and fingers and toes, and others whole limbs. More than one had been castrated. And all had been whipped so savagely their backs were masses of festering sores, while all showed the bones and paper-thin skins of men who had been starved as a matter of course. And these were the lucky ones, whom the Inquisition had not yet burned.

'By God,' Morgan said. 'By God. We'll have a Spanish life for every mark on every body. What say you, boys?' The roar of angry lust filled the gaol.

'Make them scream, boyos,' Morgan shouted. 'And make them yield every last drop of wealth they possess. Tear it from their living bellies if you have to. And bring it to the square in front of the cathedral. For mark my words; we share and share alike, according to the articles under which we sail. The man who forgets that hangs.'

They uttered another scream and poured into the square once again, their yells mingling with those already issuing from the cathedral, where some of the buccaneers were dragging out the great gold services and tearing down the crosses from the walls, while others had invaded the offices at the back of the building, and the cellars below, and reached the hiding nuns.

That was too terrible to contemplate. Kit found himself in the midst of a band rampaging down a side street, ignoring promising shops and smaller dwellings as they searched for bigger game, and finding a mansion at the end of the street, set back from the road behind wrought-iron railings and a huge, locked gate. But these were seamen. They swarmed over the wall in a matter of seconds, advanced across the splendid garden, kicking aside rose bushes and flowering oleander, their sweat and the blood on their arms drenching even the odour of the jasmine.

A dog barked, and two ran from the rear of the building. They were met by swinging cutlasses and stretched lifeless on the patio before the front entrance. Now, Kit thought, this day, we avenge your death, Grandmama. Fully. But he felt sick.

The door was barred, but had never been intended to resist so tumultuous an assault. Muscular shoulders were hurled against it, regardless of bruised flesh or broken skin, and it flew open. Kit was one of the first through, scattering across a parquet floor beneath a high, painted ceiling, to come to rest against a mahogany dresser, to stare at the huge vases in front of him, filled with bright flowers.

'By Christ,' someone said. 'Solid silver.'

'There'll be more,' another said, and ran into the inner room. Here double doors opened on to the centre courtyard, a place of peace and more flowers, where a fountain played. ' 'Tis a palace.'

'And empty?' someone demanded.

'There'll be cellars.' The first speaker, whose name was Scotch Mack, had taken command. 'We'll to them first. Come on, lads.'

They flooded across the courtyard to the kitchen, where the fires still glowed in the huge ovens; it was so early the family had not yet even had time to breakfast before the disaster had fallen on their city. A pan of cooking fat simmered gently, giving its tang to the already rancid air. And there, sure enough, was the door leading down to the cellars. This too was barred, and this too was torn from its hinges in a matter of seconds. They tumbled down the staircase to find themselves in the midst of endless rows of bottles.

'French wine, by God,' Mack shouted, and seized one, to snap off the neck against a pillar and upend it over his face. They all followed his example. Warm liquid splashed on to Kit's cheeks and flooded down his neck; some found its way into his mouth and helped to calm his tumbling nerves.

But already the buccaneers were battering against an inner door, and a moment later they gazed at the people inside. A man, well past middle age, tall and with some dignity in his face to offset his obvious fear. A woman, no doubt the man's wife, for she was of an age with him, like him wearing an undressing-robe over her nightclothes, thin and pale, with white hair loose on her shoulders. Two Negro women, dressed, and wearing aprons. And another woman, younger than the couple, although considerably older than any of the buccaneers. Their daughter, Kit estimated. She was tall and plump; her hair was a rich brown and her face had the aquiline splendour of a woman accustomed to rule. Now she stood in front of her parents and her servants, her hands clasped. She wore a deep blue robe which brushed the floor, and her hair was also loose, gathered in a long strand over one shoulder.

'By God,' someone grumbled. 'They're old.'

'They'll have children,' Mack promised. 'And gold, buried.' He seized the younger woman by the hair, dragged her against him. She gasped for breath, and tried to maintain her dignity as he brought her close. 'Gold,' Mack shouted into her face, and she gagged on his breath. 'Where have ye buried your gold?'

She tried to shake her head, but that was impossible.

Her father spoke, in a thin voice which trembled. 'We have no gold buried, monsieurs,' he said in French. 'What we own you see about you. You are welcome to it. Leave us only our lives, I beg of you.'

Mack stared at him for a moment, and then thrust out the hand holding his cutlass. The old man swayed backwards, but the thrust none the less split his undressing-robe and nightshirt, and slashed his chest. He stared down at the blood in horror.

'Bring them,' Mack shouted, and started up the stairs, still holding the woman's hair, so that she had to run behind him, her body dragged forward. She struck at him with her fists, and another of the buccaneers swept her legs from the floor. The pair of them carried her up the stairs, and deposited her on the kitchen table. The rest brought the other four people. Kit found himself holding the old woman by the arms as he pushed her forward. She glanced over her shoulder at him, and whispered in French, 'But you are only a boy.'

The sickness in his belly grew, into a huge solid mass which threatened to erupt at any moment.

Mack was shaking the younger woman to and fro by the hair, in front of the old man. 'Gold,' he repeated. 'Tell us where you have hidden your gold.'

The old man fell to his knees, still clutching the blood seeping from the wound in his chest. 'Oh, God,' he begged. 'Oh, God.'

The two Negresses cowered against the wall; the woman Kit was holding also sank to her knees, and he let her go. The younger woman said something in Spanish, her face twisted with pain as Mack dragged on her hair.

'We'll make ye squeal,' he growled. He looked around him, quickly, searching the kitchen with his gaze. The woman's eyes followed his, rolling. And then he smiled; he had seen the pan of cooking fat. 'Heat that up,' he said.

One of the men gave a whoop, and thrust the pan over the flames. Immediately it began to sizzle, and the aroma drifted through the kitchen. Mack let go of the woman long enough to grasp the front of her undressing-robe and tear it free. Underneath was a white nightgown, and this too was torn away, to reveal large, sagging breasts, nipples hard with terror, flesh white and filled with pumping blue blood-vessels.

'Over here,' Mack said. 'We'll cook ourselves some breakfast.'

The woman screamed, a shriek of real terror as she understood what was going to happen to her. Kit ran from the kitchen and up the stairs. So she was a member of the nation which had murdered Grandmama. Against whom his family had fought all of their lives. Against whom he must fight all of his life and against whom he had sworn eternal vengeance. But in such a bestial fashion?

He paused, at the top of the huge staircase, facing a gallery of empty doorways, and listened to another scream, while the smell of cooking flesh came seeping upwards. He hurled himself forward, through the first doorway, found himself in a bedchamber, a wide expanse of costly drapes and highly polished wooden floors, dominated by the immense tent-bed in the centre of the room. He flung himself on this, pulled the pillows over his head, stuffed them into his ears as shriek after shriek, now accompanied by roars of laughter, came howling upwards through the house.

And heard another sound, closer at hand. He sat up, right hand instinctively snatching the cutlass from his side. The room was empty, but a door had opened, and then closed. And now he saw the door, a small one clearly giving access to a dressing-room. He tiptoed across the floor, seized the handle, pulled the door wide, gazed at the two girls, huddled against the far wall from whence they had been dragged by their mother's screams. Because clearly they were her daughters. One was perhaps fourteen, the other a year or two younger; each possessed the statuesque dignity of their parent, if that still existed, the strong features, the rich brown hair, the tall bodies, hardly concealed beneath their nightdresses. No doubt their father had fallen on the plain. Or had he run like a coward to the shelter of the forest, leaving his women to suffer?

'Oh, Christ,' Kit said. Because here was what those monsters downstairs really sought. The gold would keep, but not their lust.

The girls stared at him. The woman downstairs had stopped screaming, and the only sound was the terrible laughter.

Kit ran back across the room, closed and bolted the bedroom door. The girls watched him. They held hands, but had said nothing. 'Listen,' he said. 'I claim you as my prisoners. My slaves, eh? Be that, and you will be safe.' He spoke in French, and watched the older girl's eyes flicker. 'You understand me,' he said. 'What is your name?'

'Isabella.' The voice was low. Perhaps she was not afraid. Perhaps she did not know what might soon be happening to her.

Kit sat on the bed. Suddenly he was exhausted. And afraid. Of himself. 'Isabella,' he said. 'You understand what is happening?'

She nodded, and her sister's fingers tightened on her arm. 'Come here,' he said.

She looked down at her sister, and then gently freed her hand and walked across the room to stand in front of him. The nightdress became filled with light as she stood between him and the window; he could trace the curve of her thigh, the long line of slender leg beneath. Was he then no different to those abominations downstairs?

But she was close enough to touch. She humoured him, perhaps in an attempt to save her sister. There was courage here, and resolution. Perhaps even curiosity. Or was he no more than hoping for these things? Because he could not save her now. It had been too long. It had been forever, in fact, and here was no whore, but something young, and fresh, and totally innocent. Something beyond his experience, beyond his wildest dream. His hands stroked through her hair, and drifted across her shoulders and she understood her fate. He held her close and buried his face in the front of her nightdress, and found softness there too. She was Marguerite Warner, come to life, here in his arms, passive and non-resisting. She was a dream, suddenly walking. Yet he did not wish to hurt her. He prayed she would not resist, as his hands slipped down her back and raised the nightdress over her thighs. Her legs were better than he could have hoped; the down on her belly came as a surprise, but one which only increased her desirability. He lost his face in that dry forest, and realized that he was afraid to raise his head, afraid to look into her face. But this had to be done, as he laid her on the bed beside him, and found to his amazement that her mouth was open. With passion? Or with prayer? Tears rolled out from her eyes, but he felt her fingers biting into his shoulders as his body crashed on to hers, and again. It took no more than seconds, such was the urgency of his passion. She moaned once, and then lay still, as did he for some seconds, before slipping from her body and from the bed, to kneel beside her.

'May God forgive me,' he whispered. 'May you forgive me, Isabella. May God have mercy on me. I swear, I will protect you. I will marry you, Isabella. This I swear. I will look after you and honour you, always, Isabella. And I shall protect your sister. This I swear, Isabella. Say that you understand me. Say that you believe me.'

Now he wept as well, and the girl had ceased crying. She stared at him, her forehead gathered into faint wrinkles. A voice shouted outside, calling his name in the rolling tones of Agrippa.

He went to the door, unlocked it. 'They said you were up here,' Agrippa said. 'I feared for you, Master Hilton. I fear for us all; this army has gone mad. And now the town burns.'

Kit inhaled, and smelt the tang of smouldering wood. 'Aye,' he said. ' 'Tis not a day I shall want to remember. But ...' he saw the expression on Agrippa's face, and turned, as the pistol exploded. He gazed at the figure of the younger girl, falling forward to her knees as a gush of blood exploded from the white front of her nightdress. 'Oh, Christ,' he cried.

But there were two pistols in the belt he had so carelessly thrown on the floor. The girl Isabella had turned to face them, and as they watched she dropped the weapon she had just fired and drew the other. Her face remained as impassive as earlier when she had been raped; only the dark eyes suggested the torment that was burning in her brain.

'Duck, man,' Agrippa yelled, seizing Kit's shoulder and throwing him to one side. But Kit knew the bullet was not meant for him. She had already reversed the pistol and placed the muzzle inside her own mouth.

Song and laughter filled the forest, scattered outwards from the river, accompanied the splashes of the paddles. But even paddling was no labour, on this journey; the boats flowed with the stream. And besides, they followed the lead canoes, on which the gold was stacked, as a pack of dogs might follow a butcher's van. They homed, on the beach at Chagres, where everything they had ever dreamed of would be granted to them.

As if they had not already accomplished their wildest dreams. There was scarce a sober man in the army, and they had brought enough wine to float their fleet with them. They had brought captives, too, women and young girls and boys, and those who did not work the paddles continued a week-old orgy in the bilges of the canoes. They sang, and laughed, and belched, and fornicated, and crammed their mouths with sweetmeats and fine cheeses, and relieved themselves where they sat. They were men who had scaled the heights, and taken the untakable. A vast stench accompanied the fleet. Port Royal might have transferred itself bodily to the Panamanian jungle.

'A ship.' Jean DuCasse lay in the stern of the canoe and waved at the branches which occasionally passed overhead. 'I shall buy a ship. Twenty guns to a broadside. Sakers fore and aft. I will put a copper sheath on her bottom. No worm for Jean DuCasse. With that ship, I will conquer the world. You'll sail with me, Agrippa?'

The Negro smiled, but his smile was sad. 'What of Master Hilton?'

'Christ.' Jean stuck out a foot, prodded a toe into Kit's thigh. 'He is a melancholy fellow, for a devil from hell. I know not what will become of him. Kit, Kit. They were but bits of flesh. Had you not taken the girl, someone else would, and much less gently.'

Kit turned. 'We are all bits of flesh, Jean. We are but arrogant if we assume that God could ever have created us in His likeness.'

'Listen.' Jean stared at the bottle, and threw it over the side. 'Listen. Those were Spaniards. They hanged your grand-mother. Whatever they suffered was yet too good for them.'

'What we will suffer will surely be too good for us,' Kit said. 'There were no men at Panama, Jean. There are no men here. Does it make you proud to belong to a pack of wild animals?'

'For Christ's sake,' Jean shouted. 'What would you do? Fight for the Dons, then?'

Kit sighed. 'Had I a flaming sword I would destroy us all,' he said. 'Dons and buccaneers, and leave these blessed islands to the Indians, as I have no doubt was originally intended.'

'Bah,' Jean declared. 'Did not the Indians kill one another? Are not the Caribs cannibals? Now, how much worse can you get than that? Did you see any Spaniards eaten alive, back there?"

'Is that the worst fate which can befall a man?' Kit demanded. 'I tell you this, I have done with it. May Heaven strike me dead if I ever seek to take a human life again, save in defence of my own.'

'There speaks a unique buccaneer,' Jean said. 'What say you, Master Agrippa?'

The Negro continued to stare at Kit. 'That Master Hilton is right, Monsieur DuCasse. Supposing such a thing is possible. I had thought there could be no man more vicious than a Barbadian planter. Now I know better.'

'God's truth,' Jean said. 'You are a right pair. What will you do, then? Become priests?'

Kit stared at the blue vault of the heavens; they were close to the beach. 'What do you estimate each share in this victory will be worth?'

'You mean you will dirty your hands with such bloodstained money?' Jean asked. 'You amaze me.'

'If I can put it to good use,' Kit said. 'Tell me its worth.'

Jean shrugged. 'They are speaking of a thousand pieces of eight to the lowest deckhand, and each of us commanded a section.'

'Then say five thousand pieces of eight.'

'But you also commanded a squad of musketeers.' Agrippa said. 'Which indeed played a decisive part in the battle.'

'Ten thousand pieces of eight, Kit,' Jean said. 'I would estimate that to be your share. There is a fortune, if you like.'

'In gold,' Kit said. 'There will be few people can have seen that much money before. Not in the Leewards, to be sure. I'll to Antigua, by God. And buy myself a plantation. Will you come with me, Agrippa?'

'I'd know your purpose.'

'No slavery. You have my word. A plantation on which men will work for a decent wage, and hold their heads high, because they are free. What say you to that, black man?'

Jean laughed again. 'Faith, the noise of battle has addled your brain, Kit. Slavery is a natural condition of man, unless he be strong enough to fend for himself. Besides, your fellow planters would stone you in the street.'

'That pack of curs? I'd have their tongues out of their throats before they could spit.'

'And what of your oath, not to spill blood save in self-defence?'

Kit flushed; he had already forgotten those hasty words. 'I meant, save in a worthwhile cause.'

'Now you are being specious. What you should say is that you fell in love with a pair of Spanish thighs, and were saddened to see them disappear. But what would you have done with them, Kit, once they were yours? They could never have done other than hate you. Come now, own the truth of what I say.'

'I'll have no more of this,' Kit said. 'There is a new oath. I'm to Antigua, and a better life. By God, I'll make sure of that.'

'Then I'll come with you, Master Hilton,' Agrippa declared. 'Add my share to yours, and we'll be doubly sure of that plantation. 'Tis a dream I have had. Make it come true, and I'll never leave you

'And here's my hand on it.' Kit felt the firm grip of the huge black.

'And there's the beach,' Jean said. 'So you can set about making your dreams come true. But what's that?'

They sat up to stare forward. The river was widening before opening into the bay where the ships lay at anchor, and beyond was the blue water of the Caribbean Sea. Each was a most welcome sight. But not apparently to all. The first men to reach the beach and scramble from their canoes were veiling and gesticulating, and now they were rounding the last bend they could see that the Monarch had already put to sea, and was in fact nearly hull down as she made her way towards Jamaica.

'But what is the matter?' Jean led them ashore. 'Bart. Bart? Give us a reason for this hullabaloo.'

'Reason?' Bart bellowed, his face red with rage. 'Reason? Why, did not that foul wretch Morgan promise that the money would be divided here on the beach at Chagres? And to make the division easier did he not command that all the goods we assembled were to be shipped in the lead canoes?'

'So he did,' Kit agreed.

'Well, sir, you may be interested to know that this villain, whom you are proud to call friend, travelled down with those canoes, ever urging his men to greater efforts so as to draw away from the rest of us, and on reaching the beach he loaded every last penny on board that ship of his and put to sea.'

'But ...' Jean stared at the angry faces, gathering in ever increasing numbers on the edge of the water to stare after the departing flagship, demanding explanation from the crews they had left behind, who could only say that they had known of no arrangements made in Panama, as they had not been present. In loading the Admiral's ship they had done no more than obey orders, as they had always obeyed the Admiral.

'What must we do?' Jean asked, staring at Kit.

Kit began to laugh.

But that was long ago. How long? Since the beach at Chagres? Or since he had laughed?

Or since he had lain upon the girl Isabella, and known a moment's paradise before stepping down into hell?

And would he ever laugh again? He sat on the beach and gazed at the empty harbour. Empty compared with the crowded activity they had seen on their first arrival here, more than a year gone. It had been full once more, when the fleet had come storming back from the Chagres, searching for their Admiral. But the Admiral had gone, stopping at Port Royal long enough to pick up his friend Tom Modyford. Some said they had had no choice; peace had been signed between England and Spain on about the day Morgan had disembarked his army, and so for all the Cross of St George under which they had marched, they

had committed piracy and robbery, murder and rape—not an act of war. Morgan and Modyford had gone home to explain, and attempt to avoid the hangman. And they had taken the money with them. Perhaps to bribe the King. Who could be sure? Certain it was that none was left in Jamaica.

Kit had supposed then that he would witness another sack, another horror to equal that of Panama. But was Port Royal worth sacking, when they could have anything of value there for the asking? And for the main they were English, and this was a part of England. They would be murdering their own kind, and not all of them were prepared to go as far as that. He had played a part in averting that disaster, and was proud of it. The result was that the French had left immediately, angrily declaring that they would never again sail with the English. Bart had gone amongst the first, and Jean had gone with him. He had made a last effort to persuade Kit to accompany him. They had been friends all their lives; they had watched their only relatives die together. They had fought for each other for two years in Hispaniola, and they had shared everything in life worth having.

Kit had refused. Then, he had still been gripped by the tragedy in which he had participated. He had been as confused and as disappointed as any of them. He had both liked and admired Morgan, as he had respected the Welshman's courage and ability. He had thought that they might become friends, that he himself had been marked out for advancement by the buccaneer Admiral. He remembered the words Morgan had used before they had landed. 'Stay close to me,' the Admiral had said. At the time that had meant nothing more than that Morgan wanted his section commanders close within earshot. But had he even then been planning to desert his men? Had he led them through that frightful forest, won for them that fantastic victory over a Spanish army, and then loosed them in that abominable sack, all the time only waiting for the business to be completed so that he could steal the fruits of their valour?

If that were so, and who could doubt it, then what remained in life worth having? That had been no act of revenge against the Spaniards, no act of war, even, in defence of the British colonics in the Caribbean; rather had it been a calculated robbery of the very men who had followed him to hell and back. Kit's personal anger at having participated in such a crime and in such a dupe redoubled every time he thought of it. As his own resolution, his very manhood, had dwindled every time he thought of it. So he had stayed, waiting in Port Royal, perhaps for Morgan to come back, perhaps for the memory of that dreadful day in Panama, which obscured even all those other dreadful days before, to fade.

He had become a beachcomber, in a society of thieves and whores. He was not the only beachcomber. How had he despised those gaunt and dead-eyed men in the tattered breeches who had kicked the stones along the Tortuga shore? How he had thought Bale too low even to be considered human. He had thought, had any man the right so to misuse the gift of life? But had not all those men, even Bale, something similarly terrible of which they dared not think, and of which they dared not risk a repetition?

And Morgan had not come back. There were rumours that he had been convicted, and would be hanged, and others, that he had amused the King, and so would be acquitted, and return in triumph. To face the men he had deserted? There would be an act of courage.

Footsteps. He did not turn his head, because these he recognized. He was not alone. Perhaps Agrippa, in that huge black brain of his, locked behind those sombre dark eyes, had also found Panama beyond the reaches of his stomach. Or was Agrippa also waiting to have his revenge on the Admiral? How many were there like that?

'A bottle of wine,' Agrippa said. 'And this fish. Roasted, fresh.'

The snapper was still hot.

'Now, where did you get that?' Kit asked.

'A bet,' Agrippa said carelessly. 'That I could not balance my cutlass on the end of my chin.' He grinned. 'There are always people who will bet me that. This one is a dandy.'

He pointed at the only ship in the harbour which looked capable of going to sea in safety, a trim two-masted schooner which had dropped anchor but two days previously.

'A dandy, in Port Royal?' Kit chewed, slowly. They did not eat this well every day; they did not even eat every day.

'A sight-seeing Virginian,' Agrippa said. 'Do they have slaves in Virginia, Kit?'

'Now that I cannot say. Why, had you thought of shipping with this man?'

'Him, no,' Agrippa said. 'He is a shade too tart for me, and besides, there is a wildness in his eye. But it is a fact that every day we spend here we grow less fit to spend any days at all anywhere else. We must do something, Kit.'

'I make no claim on your company.'

'While you sit here and rot? By God, I will soon think that Monsieur DuCasse was right, and that you pine after that girl. No man should brood for so many empty months. What of those dreams you spoke of?'

'Like most dreams, they were overly dependent upon money,' Kit said.

'And can we not earn some more?'

'By pirating? The thought still turns my stomach.'

'By shipping as seamen, then.'

'By Christ, but you are a simple soul. Do seamen exist any better than sitting here? Except that they must work and be flogged for their pains. I'll hear no more.'

He got up and walked away from his friend, into the acrid stench of the town. He was at least safe from molestation. Most people here knew Kit Hilton, and all had heard of his grandfather. They knew he could handle his cutlass better than most, and they knew he had commanded the musketeers before Panama. If he chose to waste his life on the beach, there was no one in Port Royal disposed to make an issue of it; rather did they still remain anxious to greet him, to receive a nod or even a glance from so famous a buccaneer.

But this day he walked with more purpose than usual. A man with a wildness in his eye. A tantalizing phrase. He would see for himself, and if the stranger was indeed a gentleman, he should not be hard to find, in these surroundings. Besides, he knew where to look. The tavern lay at the end of the street, and even on a hot afternoon would be filled with thirsty seamen, and acquisitive whores, and the hangers-on to both, the pimps and the men who were handy with a pair of dice, and equally with their knives when the dice would not roll true.

Today the tavern was more crowded than usual. Men overflowed through the door on to the street, scuffling and muttering amongst themselves as they fought for a better position, while the effluvium of their unwashed bodies surrounded them like a miasma. Kit elbowed his way through them, reached the doorway, gazed into the termite-eaten timbers of the room, at the long board set upon two empty barrels which served as a pot-table, littered with bottles and jars, for most of the liquor sold in this establishment was home-brewed and the more potent for that. Beyond the trestle, the space that was normally crowded with drinking, lecherous seamen had been cleared; here three men crouched on the floor and rolled dice. Two of them Kit knew well enough; he had been with Captain Jackman on the march to Panama, and had often enough been offered a berth on his ship since returning. And John Relain was an officer in the garrison; his face was deeply pock-marked, and he moved stiffly, as if the habits of discipline and drill had entered his very bones. Except when rolling dice; then his lean face came alive and his shoulders quivered with excitement.

But it was the stranger he had come to watch. He and everyone else. A gentleman, certainly. He had discarded his blue coat, and his shirt was cambric, and freshly laundered; Kit had forgotten that clothes could be so white. His breeches, too, were of best broadcloth, in pale blue, and his stockings had a whiteness to match his shirt. But his clothes were irrelevant, merely a showcase for the man himself. He knelt, but Kit estimated that he was tall enough, and he had a good pair of shoulders. Above which, at the top of a somewhat long neck, was a singular face, with features that were large but splendidly proportioned, to form an impressive whole, dominated by the straight nose and even more by the sparkle in the grey eyes. Expressions flitted across his face with rapidity and completeness, changing in less than a wink from a frown of pure venom as the dice disobeyed his whim to a smile of a quite dramatically winning quality when he saw the game was his. He was bareheaded, and wore no wig, although his hair was cropped sufficiently short to suggest that he was no stranger to one.

And the dice was rolling his way often enough to keep that winning smile more in evidence than the disturbing frown. That much was testified to by the pile of coins beside his elbow. And that was what the onlookers wished to see. Captain Jackman was a bad man from whom to take too much. Already his face was red and his great, shaven scalp glowed.

The strange young man was rolling once more. 'Seven it is,' he said, triumphantly. 'My stake, sir. You'll bet again?'

'And your dice, by Christ,' Jackman growled. 'We'll have another pair.'

The young man frowned. 'Do you seek to question my honour, sir?'

' 'Tis too steady a winner you are. What say you, Master Relain?'

'Aye,' the soldier agreed. 'We'll have them changed.' 'Then, sir,' the young man declared, 'I withdraw from the game.'

'You'll not, by God,' Jackman said. 'You've my money there.'

'You mistake the situation, sir.' The young man scooped the money into his hat, and stood up. 'It is my money, now.'

'A cutpurse, by Christ,' Jackman said, and also got to his feet, drawing his cutlass as he did so. The American stepped back, laid the hat on the table with a resounding tinkle, and found his own discarded swordbelt. But he wore nothing heavier than a rapier, a wisplike gleam of steel, hardly calculated to face a cutlass, especially when wielded by such an old hand as Ben Jackman.

As the onlookers knew. 'Cut his whistle for him, Ben,' they bawled. 'Take off his ears.'

Jackman grinned, and whipped the cutlass to and fro. The young man watched him come, no longer smiling, but not obviously concerned, either, his right leg and his right arm alike thrust forward, his left arm free behind him and pointing at the ceiling; clearly he had been taught swordsmanship in a good school. But this was no school at all. Jackman leapt forward, and the two blades clashed for a moment; the young man sought to parry and then riposte, and saw his blade beaten aside by the sheer force of the onslaught. He recovered quickly enough, and was again in position to parry the next sweep, but this was travelling with such tremendous violence that it swept the slender sword from his hand, to send it clattering against the wall, while the onlookers howled their glee.

The young man glanced after his weapon. His face was pale, and he breathed a trifle heavily, but he remained apparently unafraid.

'His ears, Ben,' the crowd shouted. 'Off with his ears.'

'Aye,' Jackman said, advancing. 'I'll have them, and my money too.'

The revulsion against these men, against himself for being one of them, against the heat and the stink and the avarice with which he was surrounded, welled up into Kit's throat. Before he had stopped to weigh the consequences he had drawn his own cutlass, reversed it, and thrown it across the room. 'Try stronger metal, Virginian,' he suggested.

There was a lull in the tumult, as heads turned, amongst them Jackman's. The young man hastily reached forward, stooping to pick up the cutlass and ducking under Jackman's arm in the same instant, and turned, his right arm snaking forward. He may never have been taught the use of a cutlass, but he clearly knew weapons; the broad, sharp blade was already waving menacingly, and now he smiled, and it was Jackman's turn to frown.

'By Christ,' Relain muttered, and drew his sword.

'Avast there.' Kit moved against the wall, and levelled his pistol.

'By Christ, Kit Hilton. You'd take a sharper's side?'

' 'Tis yet to be proved that he has cheated,' Kit said. ' Tis more likely your luck has run low.'

'By Christ,' Jackman said, still watching the American, but making no move to advance. 'You'd turn this into a melee, Kit? You'll find too many against you.'

'You'll need men with stomach, Captain Jackman.' Agrippa's bulk filled the doorway. He had not yet drawn his cutlass, but his hand rested on the hilt. The spectators muttered amongst themselves, but even Jackman's crew were reluctant to become involved in a fracas which must cost some of their blood to no obvious profit.

'Ah, bah,' Jackman said. He slid his blade into its scabbard, and picked up his hat to cram it on his head. ' 'Tis only money, by God. There is plenty more where that came from.' He stepped past the motionless American, followed by the soldier, and pushed his way into the crowd.

'Faith, sir,' the young man said. 'I owe you my ears, it seems.

And maybe more.' He made one or two passes with the cutlass, and then reversed it as he held it out. 'You'll find that I understand a debt, sir. And this weapon it seems I must learn to use. They call you Kit Hilton, sir. 'Tis a name I have heard. Daniel Parke, of Virginia, at your service.'

'And this is Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa’ Kit said.

Parke already holding out his hand, checked and half turned. 'Indeed, we have already met, when his dexterity cost me a gold coin. He is a good servant, I have no doubt.'

'You mistake the situation, Mr Parke,' Kit explained. 'Agrippa is my friend, not my servant.' He found the American's fingers dry and firm, despite his exertion. But Parke did not offer to shake hands with the black man.

'Then is he a good friend also,' he said. 'I would depart this place, gentlemen. I have a ship, at anchor in the bay. Perhaps you would join me on board for a glass of wine.'

'That would be most pleasant, sir,' Kit agreed, and accompanied him out of the tavern, Agrippa following behind. 'Did you say the ship was yours?'

'A charter, you understand. It is my father's wish that I visit the Caribee Isles, to understand something of this sugar cane which is on everyone's lips. Perhaps it can be planted with profit in Virginia.'

'And for that he chartered a ship?' Kit wondered. 'By God, sir, gambling for you can surely be nothing more than a pleasure. But you'll find little cane in Jamaica.'

'So I have discovered,' Parke said. 'And to say truth, it was not my father's intention that I come here. But, visit the West Indies and not see Port Royal? I could as well sail the Atlantic and not pay my court to His Majesty. Although, had you not happened on the scene my stay here might have been a miserable one. Again, my thanks, sir. You have but to name your wish, and I shall giant it, if I can.'

'I wish no reward, Master Parke,' Kit said.

'To you, Kit, my name is Daniel. I'd not have you forget that.' They were at the shore now, and a boat was pulling from the schooner. Parke halted, and looked Kit up and down. 'I said I heard your name; now it comes to me. Your father was Governor of Tortuga a while back.' 'My grandfather,' Kit said.

'No matter. You are cast in his mould. And you are a buccaneer. A compatriot of these people, I have no doubt.'

'I was with Jackman, and Morgan, at Panama,' Kit said. 'As was Agrippa.'

'The devil,' Parke said. 'I envy you, sir.'

'As I envy you, Daniel, for having not yet discovered the beast in man.'

'Ah. And so you turn against your fellows. And yet would remain here in their company? Be sure, that even with this gigantic fellow to guard your back, they will find a way to slip a knife between your ribs. At least let me offer you a passage to some more congenial clime.'

'You are returning to Jamestown?'

'Not for a while. I must first pursue this stalk which has become so valuable. I am bound for the Leewards. St Kitts and then Antigua. I have letters of introduction to Sir William Stapleton and Colonel Philip Warner.'

'Warner,' Kit muttered. How painfully his heart pounded, and he had thought to forget that name, with all his other memories.

'You know Colonel Warner? His family is the oldest and most famous in these islands, so I am told.'

'With mine, Daniel. Together they founded these colonies.' 'Indeed? But you have not answered my question.' 'We have met, Colonel Warner and I.'

Parke gazed at him, frowning, and then smiled that tremendous smile. 'Then meet him again, Kit. As my guest. I promise you he shall sing a different tune.'

Kit glanced at Agrippa. 'What say you, Agrippa? 'Twas our first idea.'

'You have but to decide, Kit.' The Negro's voice was as calm and as deep as ever.

'Then we accept, Daniel,' Kit said. 'And here is my hand on it.'

'And mine,' Parke cried. 'I am honoured by your company, sir. Here is my boat. Unless you have gear to gather, we can weigh anchor this evening.'

'No gear,' Kit said. 'And to say truth, I shall not even cast a glance over my shoulder.'

The boat was at the beach, and Parke ushered his new friends on board. He sat beside them in the stern, took the two dice from his pocket of his coat, and dropped them over the side, watched them drifting downwards through the translucent depths. ' 'Tis certain they will bring me no more fortune than they have already achieved.'

Kit smiled. 'You flatter us, Daniel. Now tell me straight, were they loaded?'

Parke's laughter filled the afternoon. 'But of course. How else may a gentleman be sure of winning?'

4

The Lady of Green Grove

'By God, but 'tis a thriving place.' Daniel Parke clung to the rigging as the schooner brought up into the wind and dropped her anchor. 'They tell no lies when they speak of the prosperity of Antigua.'

Kit could not quarrel with that judgement. St John's nestled beneath the gentle hills which surrounded it, in strong contrast to the more rugged outlines of St Kitts, which they had left at dawn. And it prospered; the steeples of the churches, the fresh paint on the houses, the bustle on the waterfront and even more important, the activity in the harbour itself, where two ships were being warped away from the quayside to allow two more to take their places, were sufficient evidence of this. But for a week now he had known the nostalgia of being amongst these islands, where it had all begun, where Tony Hilton and Edward Warner, and Susan Hilton as well, had fought side by side to establish themselves, where they had slept under the sky often enough, with no change of clothing and no certainty where they would obtain their next meal. How Susan would have stared at this metropolis.

And how inadequate did he suddenly feel. For had he a change of clothing? Daniel had done his best, and they were much of a likeness in build. But Daniel's clothes had been made by the best tailor in all Virginia; they were magnificently cut, and cut from magnificent cloth—and they had been intended to cling to Daniel's frame like a second skin. Too obviously they had not been so created for Kit Hilton. And these haughty planters would know that.

'There's a boat waiting, Mr Parke,' said the captain of the schooner. 'I know you're in haste to be ashore. Your baggage can follow later.'

Daniel Parke stepped down from the rigging, and preened himself. He wore a mauve velvet coat with gold buttons, and in honour of the occasion had donned a grey periwig beneath his black tricorne. His cravat was white, and edged with lace; his shoes black leather, with red heels and metal buckles; his stockings were grey. He did not deign to carry a sword at all, but preferred a gold-handled cane. 'Do you think I will stand out well amongst these islanders, Kit?'

'You'll have them bowing,' Kit observed, and straightened his own hat, a plain brown tricorne. He wore no wig, and his coat was open over his white shirt. And he carried a cutlass, hanging from a leather baldric. He had no wish to rival his friend, even if that had been possible. But Christ that he would stop sweating from fear.

Fear of what? Of stepping ashore amongst civilized people, knowing what he was? Or fear of seeing the Warners again, and one Warner in particular? Again, knowing what he was.

'Let us assault this shore,' Parke decided, descending the ladder to the boat. For this, Kit was coming to realize, was how his new friend looked at life. There could be nothing ordinary, nothing dull, nothing even peaceful, around Daniel Parke. Life was a military exercise, a continual battleground, with Marshal Parke ever eager to tilt at whatever windmills he could find.

'And Agrippa?'

'Oh, bring the big buck, by all means,' Parke said. 'We may have need of his muscle.'

Agrippa took his place in the bows, while Kit sat aft with Parke, and the boat pulled for the shore. It was early afternoon, and the sun was starting to drop, but it remained close and hot, although a breeze entered the harbour from the Atlantic, separated from them by the other myriad islands they had seen from the ship as they rounded the headland. But there were no other islands, once one made the acquaintance of Antigua. None which mattered, at any rate. Soon they were in the midst of the bumboats and the jollys, which were making their way out to the new arrival, handled by sweating white men in garb hardly superior to any to be found in Port Royal, Kit discovered to his relief, but in the main cheerful, happy, and more important, healthy-looking men. For he had heard sufficient tales of the debilitating fevers which could ruin a man's health in the southerly islands, and he had seen enough of it in the march to and from Panama.

The boat nosed its way alongside stone steps, and the oars were shipped. Agrippa took the painter ashore, and Kit and Parke followed him on to the crowded jetty where the stevedores, mostly Negroes these, stopped to stare at the new arrivals, and the few white men also gaped. 'By God,' someone said. 'A gentleman. A regular macaroni.'

Parke tapped the fellow on the shoulder with his cane, and the suggestion of laughter died as he took a closer look at the American's face, and eyes. 'Aye,' Parke said. 'I am a gentleman, and you'd do well to remember that, before I have my friends here set about breaking your heads. Buccaneers, my bravos. Morgan's men.'

The onlookers, now fast forming a crowd, gaped some more, and Kit and Agrippa exchanged glances. Parke had made them relate their adventures in Panama often enough after dinner on board ship, but that he would shout their erstwhile activities from the rooftops had not crossed their minds.

Certainly he was pleased with the effect of his words. 'You'll not have seen their like in this backwater, I'll wager. Now, you, I have letters for the Deputy Governor. You'll direct us to his estate. Quickly.'

'Sure, and Colonel Warner's estate is a tidy drive from town.' someone said. 'Ye'd do better to try the Ice House, your honour. 'Tis certain ye'll find him there.'

'The Ice House?' Parke queried. 'There's a strange name. Can you tell me what they store there?'

'Why, ice, your honour. Brought all the way from the Arctic, it is. Ye'd not have a gentleman's drink warm for lack of a drop of ice, now, would ye? 'Tis the big house on yonder corner.'

'Ice,' Parke said. 'Brought all the way from the Arctic, by God. To cool the drinks.'

'Does it not melt before ever it reaches this far south?' Kit asked.

'Oh, no, sir,' explained the foreman. 'The ships are specially constructed, ye understand, the holds lined with metal covered in sawdust, to keep down the temperatures. And fast they are. 'Tis scarce a fortnight's voyage, for them.'

'Special ships to cool a man's drink,' Parke said, in continuing wonderment. 'And all financed by sugar. By God, sirs, 'tis an economic revolution we are witnessing. I think we shall investigate this fabulous house.' He led them up the street, cane slapping against his stockinged legs as if he would encourage himself. Now they left the bustle of the docks and found themselves on a wide and pleasant road, no more than rutted dust, to be sure, but lined with enormous trees, each a mass of brilliant red flowers, and backed by shops and houses, in a profusion and state of repair Kit had seen nowhere save in Panama itself.

'What a splendid sight,' Parke cried, pausing at the corner.

'The trees arc called poincianas,' Kit said. 'And are named after an erstwhile governor of French St Kitts, the Sieur de Poincy, who was something of a botanist.'

'By God, Kit, but you're a mine of information.'

Kit flushed. 'My grandmother was acquainted with the gentleman.'

'Was she now? But it was less the flowers I was admiring, magnificent as they are, than the evidence that even the humans in this delightful place are worthy of closer inspection.' He pointed with his cane, and the two white girls on the far side of the street giggled and darted away. Their faces were concealed by the shade of enormous straw hats, but their figures were indeed eye-catching, especially as they appeared to be wearing but a single petticoat beneath their muslin gowns. Parke glanced at his companion. 'But you, I observe, show no great interest in nubile females.'

'Perhaps I have seen sufficient such as they are reduced to the last extremity by lustful fingers,' Kit remarked. 'Amongst them my own.'

'By God, sir, but on occasion you are an uncommonly solemn fellow. So you once forced a Spanish hymen. You may be sure that in taking her own life, and that of her sister, she committed by far the more serious crime by the lights of her religion. This seems to be the right place.'

They had paused before a large doorway set into the highest building on the street, which appeared like a gigantic warehouse, for it stretched back a considerable distance as well. Parke rapped on the door with the head of his cane, and after a moment it was opened by a Negro wearing white breeches and stockings beneath a blue coat, with a white wig on his head and black leather shoes on his feet. 'Your pleasure, sir?' he inquired.

'By God,' Parke said. 'By God. You'd do well in Jamestown, by God. We seek your Governor, Colonel Philip Warner.'

'Colonel Warner is within, sir. Will you enter?' The doorman's gaze flickered to Kit, and he hesitated, and then bowed again.

'Thank you, fellow,' Parke said. 'Make way there. Make way.'

For the majordomo had straightened and was blocking Agrippa's way. 'No slaves are permitted, unless they are employed by the House.'

'Slaves?' Parke said. 'Who spoke of slaves? This man is my friend.'

'I should have said, sir, no man with a black skin is allowed within, unless he is employed by the House.'

'I'll have you whipped, you insolent dog,' Parke shouted. 'By God. Kit, cut me this fellow's ears.'

'In truth, Mr Parke, I'll not be the cause of a riot,' Agrippa said. 'I'd as soon explore this pretty little town.'

'By God,' Parke said. 'You'll go where I go, by God, if I so choose. Stand aside, fellow.'

Suddenly the street was crowded, with white people and black, issuing from stores and behind trees from whence they had been surreptitiously watching the strangers. It occurred to Kit that they might well have a riot after all. For the major-domo was showing no signs of yielding.

And Daniel Parke was going red in the face. 'By God,' he shouted. 'Kit, draw your sword. Draw it, by God, and clear me a path.'

Kit chewed his lip, uncertain what would be best, when a voice inquired, quietly enough, 'What seems to be the trouble, John?'

The majordomo sighed with relief. 'These gentlemen, Colonel Warner, sir, wish to bring a black man into the Ice House.'

As if Kit could ever really have forgotten that voice, that strut. And yet, to his surprise, Philip Warner this afternoon wore none of the finery he had sported in Tortuga, but preferred a plain coat and an unruffled shirt, with loose trousers rather than breeches, hanging over riding boots. He did not carry a sword, and did not wear a wig, but instead a black tricorne. Nor were any of the men crowding behind him better dressed.

'Strangers,’ he observed, gazing at Parke with a frown. 'And you would begin by changing our laws? I'll have your name, sir.' But before Parke could reply, his gaze had flickered across to Kit. 'By God,' he said. ' 'Tis the buccaneer himself.'

'I sailed with Morgan, Colonel Warner, certainly,' Kit confessed. 'But that was in my heritage, would you not agree? Now I have given up the life in a search for something better.'

'Morgan? Morgan, did you say?' The other planters pushed forward. 'Were you at Panama?'

'I had that misfortune, sir,' Kit replied to the man who had asked the question.

'Fear not, gentlemen,' Colonel Warner said. 'The lad is an old acquaintance of mine. Kit Hilton. You'll have heard the name. His people were in the employ of my family when first we came to these islands.'

'Why, sir, I ...' Kit bit off the words. He had no wish to brawl with the Deputy Governor, at this moment.

Warner smiled at him. 'And faith, lad, you look the part. What of your friend?'

'By God, sir,' Parke declared. 'I had supposed you had forgotten my existence. Daniel Parke, of Virginia, at your service.'

'Parke?' Warner extended his hand. 'Why, sir, a thousand apologies. I received a letter but a fortnight gone, from your father, informing me of your impending visit. Why, sir, I but wish you had established yourself sooner. Now my manners stand shot to pieces, with only patchwork left to be accomplished. But I had not expected to find you in such company.'

'Kit is my good friend, Colonel Warner.'

Warner continued to smile. 'And mine. Why, when last was it we had the pleasure of meeting, Kit? Two, three years?'

'More than four, Colonel,' Kit said.

'And since then much has happened. Yes, indeed. You'll take a drink of rum punch with me, gentlemen. Not your servant, Kit. Our laws are meant to be obeyed.'

'My ...'

But Agrippa interrupted him. 'I will look at the town, sir,' he said, gravely.

'A likely fellow,' Warner said. 'You must tell me how you came by him. But first of all, the punch. Back, gentlemen, let us show our visitors true Antiguan hospitality."

'Punch?' Parke demanded, as he was escorted from the lobby into a large room, distinctly cool as opposed to the heat of the street, but remarkably lacking in furniture; the bare wooden floor was scattered with sawdust, and there were only some tables against the far wall, behind which Negro servants, as liveried as the doorman, were handling mugs while others came through from the back door with enormous blocks of ice set in wooden tubs, which they proceeded to assault with hammer and spike rather in the fashion of marauding artillerymen.

'The sweetest drink in all the world.' Warner assured him. 'And made from our own good sugar. The liquid molasses, you understand, suitably thinned and fermented. There you have the rum. Add some lime juice, to keep out the scurvy, and some sugar, to sweeten it up again, and a good deal of ice, for fear the strong liquor lays you flat in a single blow, and you have nectar, Mr Parke. Sheer nectar.'

'Knock me flat?' Parke grumbled, raising his mug. He drank, with a lusty sigh, and stepped back. 'By God.' He blinked. ' 'Tis certainly stronger than wine.'

Kit, who had made the acquaintance of rumbullion on board Morgan's ship, sipped his punch more cautiously, very aware that he was being scrutinized by every man in the room. Perhaps he was the first real-life buccaneer any of them had ever seen. It certainly behoved him to tread warily in this society. But already questions were bubbling into his brain, if he dared ask them.

'Aye,' Philip Warner said. 'We had heard of the fate of Tortuga in the recent war. But you cannot say I did not warn you, Master Hilton. I trust your grandmother made her escape in time?'

'My grandmother was hanged by the Dons,' Kit said.

'The devil,' Philip muttered, and a murmur of outrage went round the room. 'And so you sailed with Morgan. By God, I cannot altogether blame you. And as you pointed out, it is in your blood. And so what brings you to Antigua? You're no cane-planter, I'll be bound.'

Kit glanced at Parke, who promptly came to his rescue.

'No, sir, he is not. But he has sworn to turn his back upon villainy and bloodshed, having had a bellyful in Panama. Kit seeks employment, Colonel Warner. And be sure you will find no stouter seafarer in all these islands. I give you my word on that.'

'Employment?' Philip Warner stared at Kit. 'You came to Antigua for employment?'

Kit was flushing with embarrassment and even anger at Parke's latest pronunciamento. 'No, sir, I did not. Having made Mr Parke's acquaintance, I agreed to accompany him on a tour of these islands.'

'Oh, come now, Kit,' Parke said. 'Do not dissemble before these gentlemen. Would you not make your future here amongst your own kind, rather than come with me to America, a nameless vagabond?'

'I do assure you, Daniel,' Kit began, but Parke was already bounding off on another, more vital subject.

'I wonder, Colonel Warner, if I might ask after your daughter, Marguerite? I have heard that she is the most beautiful charmer in all the world.'

Philip Warner's gaze was cold. 'In Virginia, sir? In any event, my daughter is lately widowed, of Harry Templeton, may God rest his soul in peace, and is not at this moment receiving.'

Marguerite, a widow? Now why, Kit wondered, did that set his heart pounding? They had met but once, and four years in the past, yet suddenly her memory came clouding back with a clarity he had thought to have lost forever. And if Modyford was to be believed, she might also remember him.

'Then I apologize,' Parke said, without a hint of embarrassment. 'Now, tell me, can the Deputy Governor of Antigua not find a suitable post for a man of Kit's talents? Especially as he is an old friend.'

Warner pinched his lip, and glanced at his companions.

'I seek no charity, sir,' Kit insisted. 'Nor will I accept any, even from you, Daniel. If my passage irks you, be sure that I am prepared to work it, from here to Barbados.'

'And what would you do there that you cannot do here?' Parke inquired. 'If only you would understand that I seek to help you, dear Kit. The Leewards are the future of this hemisphere, sir, nay, of this entire empire. So it is loudly said, and what I have seen here today but convinces me of the truth of that statement. I have heard a respectable merchant, a man with much knowledge of trade and affairs, declare that within fifty years an ounce of good sugar will be worth more than an ounce of pure gold. I will not dispute that point, sir. I but suggest that you remain in close proximity to such a bottomless mine, for be sure that wealth will filter.'

'An admirable sentiment, and prognostication which agrees with my own,' Philip Warner said. 'But to find a suitable post for Hilton ...'

'The sloop,' said the man who had first addressed Kit, a heavy-set fellow with a shock of red hair, and not much older than himself, Kit estimated.

'Edward Chester,' Philip said offhandedly. 'One of my associates. You have a solution to this problem, Edward?'

'Indeed, sir. Do we not at this moment need a master for the Bonaventure, and is not Mr Hilton a seafaring man, who comes from a line of seafaring men? And a man of spirit, too. Why, he could be the answer to a prayer.'

Warner was frowning as he gazed at Kit, while Kit's heart was bounding with excitement. A ship, of his own? Even if it was only a trading sloop? And based on St John's. Where surely a chance meeting could be arranged.

'These are treacherous waters,' Warner said.

'None a seaman might not navigate,' Chester insisted.

'And treacherous times.'

'For a man who sailed with Morgan?'

'Tell us of this sloop,' Parke said. 'I do assure you that Kit will handle her as I might handle my horse, and there is no better horseman in all America.'

'Indeed?' Philip asked, somewhat drily. 'Perhaps I doubt that it will be sufficiently interesting for Mr Hilton. We speak of a sloop, you understand, which is jointly owned by a consortium of planters here and which trades with St Eustatius.'

Kit frowned. 'Is that not a Dutch colony?'

'Indeed, sir, so it is,' Chester explained. 'And as the meinheers, very generously, do not charge any duties upon their imports to that island, wc find it convenient to import most of our European goods through their warehouses, and then bring them here privily.'

'Smuggling, by God,' Parke shouted, and burst into laughter. 'I like the sound of that.'

'We prefer to call it customs avoidance,' Philip Warner said.

'But ...' Kit stared at them in horror. 'Are we not at war with Holland? And what of the Navigation Acts? Are we not specifically forbidden to carry any goods to or from English soil except in English bottoms, and equally forbidden to trade with any country save England herself, or our sister colonies?'

'By God,' someone in the crowd said. 'And this man sailed with Morgan?'

Kit rounded on them. 'However mistaken he may have been, sir, in his knowledge of current politics, Admiral Morgan considered he was carrying on legitimate warfare against the flag of Spain, when he landed at Chagres. Now, were you to offer me a command against St Eustatius ...'

'By God,' Chester said. 'What a bloodthirsty fellow you are, Mr Hilton. And did you not just claim to have turned your back on violence? Why should we fight the Dutch merely because some trumped-up ass in Whitehall suggests it? Those Hollanders are far more our people than any of the mountebanks who surround the King.'

'Treason,' Kit said. 'You speak treason, sir. And before the Deputy Governor.'

The assembly looked at the smiling Philip Warner. 'It seems that you require a simple lesson in West Indian politics, Kit,' he said. 'To be sure, Sir William Stapleton would call what we have just heard, treason. But Stapleton, fortunately for us all, is in St Kitts, and that is hull down on the horizon. And he is not a planter, sir, not one of us. He is merely an ambitious soldier with a reputation to make or lose. We, sir, cultivated these islands before the gentlemen in Whitehall knew of their existence. Your grandfather was involved in that venture. And when Whitehall discovered that we could make a living here, their one thought was to tax us as heavily as they might. And in those days we grew tobacco. When we, not they, discerned the additional value to be gained from sugar, they had no desire to advance us the money or provide us with the slaves we needed; we might have starved, but for our friends the Hollanders. And now that we are again prosperous, more prosperous than ever before, in fact, thanks to the men of Amsterdam, Whitehall would slap yet heavier taxes upon us. Sir, I am often sickened at the thought of being an Englishman. Indeed, I am not. I am an Antiguan. As are these gentlemen. As must you be, if you would remain here. We lack the power, at present, openly to defy the Government, but I'll be damned if we'll pay them more than lip service. Do I speak for us all?' There was a roar of approbation.

'By God,' Parke said. ' 'Tis a spirit I cannot help but admire, even if I doubt it would be well received in Jamestown. Me-thinks, Kit, you'd do well to go along with these gentlemen. This is a small world, which can only grow bigger. Be sure that every man who takes his place at the beginning of the process must also, by the very nature of things, grow to a similar size.' He burst out laughing again at the confusion on Kit's face. 'I tell you what I shall do to help you settle your mind, old friend. I will sail upon your first venture. As supernumerary. For I was never yet involved in a business which did not yield a handsome profit.'

'By God.' Daniel Parke levelled his telescope. 'Are there houses, too?'

It was an hour past dawn, and the sun still hung low in the eastern sky, promising a day of invariable brilliance. They had left Antigua the previous night, making north with the trade wind on the beam, under cover of darkness to avoid any chance encounter with the revenue frigate from St Kitts. At midnight Kit had altered course to run down on the little island of St Eustatius, and there it was, three miles to port, hardly more than a rock sticking up out of the Saba bank, but containing a town as large as St John's, and one which as Daniel had just commented, seemed to contain nothing more than an endless bank of enormous warehouses, crowding the waterfront. Which was itself crowded, with shipping, flying the French and English flags, as well as the Dutch.

'A free port,' Parke murmured, sliding down to the deck. 'Why, 'tis a fabulous conception, Kit. What right has any government to tax a man's necessities?' He gave a peal of that winning laughter. 'Or his luxuries, by God.'

Kit was preoccupied with conning the entrance to the harbour. 'We'll have that mainsail down, Agrippa,' he shouted. 'And bring up under jib alone. Smartly, now.'

Because it was exhilarating, there could be no doubt about that. It had been exhilarating just to step on board, and know that the Bonaventure was his to command. A smuggler. But a trim, fast craft. Well, she had to be, to be successful at her trade. And she had teeth: four cannon. He prayed they would never be fired in anger.

And now they had arrived. Under foresail alone, and under the blanket of a single hill which made the tiny island, the sloop slipped gently up to a gap in the line of moored vessels, and the anchor plunged into the clear green water.

'Nicely done, Captain,' Parke cried, and slapped him on the shoulder. 'I'm for the shore. Look there, man, do I not know that vessel?'

Kit followed his gaze through the forest of masts. 'None I recognize.'

'A Jamestown schooner, by God. I'll across and pass the time of day. And maybe take a glass of this killdevil which clouds a man's brain. You'll accompany me?'

'I think I had best be about my duties,' Kit said. 'We are to sail at dusk again, and I suspect this is our bondman now.'

A lugger approached under shortened sail; her decks were crowded with bales and boxes, and with people as well.

'Then I'll leave you to it,' Parke said. 'If you will permit me the use of your jolly boat.'

'Gladly,' Kit said. 'But be sure you are back by five of the clock.' He went to the rail, hailed the boat which was bringing up alongside. 'Do you speak English?'

'But of course, Captain,' said the man on the tiller, a large, fair, red-faced fellow. 'You are new to us.'

'I master the Bonaventure, sir,' Kit said. 'And I have the necessary papers in my cabin.'

'I never doubted that.' The Dutchman swung himself up the shrouds. 'Pieter Lenzing, at your service, Captain.'

'Christopher Hilton.'

'Hilton,' Lenzing mused. 'Hilton. I have heard the name.' 'My grandfather was Governor of Tortuga.' 'And before that I have a notion he sailed with Piet Heyn.'

Lenzing squeezed Kit's hand. 'I had not supposed that such a privilege could ever be mine, Captain Hilton. We'll to your cabin, if I may. But I can give the order to start loading now.' 'Then do so,' Kit agreed.

'And may Meinheer Christianssen come on board?' Kit frowned. 'You have the advantage of me, Meinheer.' 'Dag Christianssen,' Lenzing explained. 'He has spent a week here, purchasing goods, and now wishes to return home.' 'To St John's?'

'That is his home, certainly. But of course, you are new to Antigua. Dag owns the central warehouse there.' Lenzing laid his finger alongside his nose. 'A Quaker, you understand, Captain, like so many of the Danes who come to these islands. But there are advantages ...'

Kit returned to the rail, looked down at the man and the woman. Dag Christianssen could have passed for a Dutchman, a burly man with a florid face and a mass of golden hair, which he apparently seldom cut and never shaved, for it flowed from his chin and around his ears like a waterfall. He might even have been a boucanier but for the cleanliness and severity of his dress, for despite the heat he wore a long black coat, and black stockings, while his cravat, if white, was not more than a glimmer at his throat, entirely lacking in lace. His hat was a plain black beaver, such as had been popular in England under the Commonwealth.

But the woman. Surely she was his daughter, for she could not be more than a third of his age, although she possessed his height and colouring, a tall stem of golden beauty. Perhaps. Her face was long, and too serious. Nose and chin were straight and well-shaped, and separated by a mouth wide enough for generosity, and flat enough for determination, as well. As she also wore a wide hat, in grey, Kit could not see her eyes, nor was it easy to decide on her figure, for she was totally concealed beneath a shapeless grey gown, high-necked with a wide white collar, and only slightly pulled in at her waist by a belt. But her height and obvious slenderness promised well, and she moved well, too, with an easy grace.

'Quickly,' he bellowed at Agrippa. 'Assist the lady.'

The big man grinned, and swung his leg over the gunwale to give her his hand.

Her father came up unaided. 'I have not had the pleasure of your acquaintance, Captain, but it is glad I am to see you. The previous master of this vessel was an unmitigated scoundrel, and no seaman into the bargain.'

'So any change must be for the better,' Lenzing smiled.

'Aye,' Kit said. 'It is to be hoped so. But I make no claims to virtue, Mr Christianssen. My name is Christopher Hilton.'

'Hilton?' The merchant frowned. 'A familiar name.'

'Indeed it is,' Lenzing agreed. 'His father and grandfather were buccaneers, men of action, Mr Christianssen. As is this young man, I'll be bound. Come below, Captain, and we'll take a glass and itemize the manifest.'