Chapter 6

It was slow going, rowing or poling in the darkness. First to run through the boisterous shoals two miles above Highas Cay, safely hidden by the night. Then to grope about close under the foreshore of the low islet that screened Bottle Creek from the sea. Inshore, the Caicos were rife with mosquitoes and biting flies, and once out of the Trades and into the marshy-smelling mangroves along the beach, they were almost eaten alive.

Aemilia followed, sounding her way through a two-fathom pass. She threaded her way into Bottle Creek, behind that inner, second isle to screen her from view, and Alan found an anchorage for her, sounding with a short lead line and counting the marks in it by feel, until he had her a spot where the bottom was ten feet, or would be at high tide. The cutter's light four-pounders would not make much real impression on the pirate camp from that range, but it might put the fear of God in them.

Then they completed their voyage, snaking out of Bottle Creek south along the shore of North Caicos, staying to the western side of the possible escape channel to avoid detection, and went a mile below the suspected position before turning to cross the narrow strait.

"I kin smell 'em, sir," Cony said, his poacher's senses alert. "Wood smoke. An' cookin'. Goat, more'n like. Mayhap fish stew on the boil, too, sir. Right savory, iff n ya don't mind my sayin'."

"There, sir!" one of the hands poling up forrud whispered. "I think I see fires. Like they wuz usin' one o' them caves t'cook in."

Once on the eastern shore, they poled back north in water just a bit deeper than their shallow-draught keels, about four feet, until the coast bent back nor'west past the mouth of a tiny inlet.

Half a mile, little more to go, Lewrie decided. And hard sand all the way to the point. We're on foot the rest of the way."Put into the inlet, men," Lewrie ordered in a harsh mutter. "Leave the boats. No one is to show a light, no one is to load his musket or pistol until I return and tell you to. Not a sound, now. Mister Parham, Mister Mayhew. You and the bosun's mate are in charge until Cony and I return."

Taking only edged weapons, Lewrie and Cony set out up the hard sand of the beach for a ways, then moved into the deeper, softer sand above the tideline toward the sheltering sea grapes and stunted low bushes. A ledge of rock began to rise at their right hand as they progressed, and climbed higher and higher in irregular slabs as they neared the suspect camp. Soon, they were creeping along its base for concealment as it rose above their heads.

"This'll climb all the way to the sea bluffs," Lewrie muttered. "I don't think there's a way up it."

"Too crumbly, sir," Cony agreed in a whisper. "Limestone an' ole coral. Cut ya t'ribbons iff n ya tried it in the dark, it would."

"Listen!" Lewrie cautioned, kneeling down lower.

There were sounds of shouting, of laughter. And of music that came to them under the rush of the night winds and the continual sound of foliage stirring. And then there was a womanly scream.

"Wimmen!" Cony hissed close to Lewrie's ear. "Might be a party they's 'avin'. Might they be fishermen after all, sir?"

Lewrie laid a finger to his lips and took a deep breath to make his limbs obey him. He half stood, and placed one tentative foot in front of the other, his grasp sweaty on the hilt of his hanger. With tremulous caution, they gained another long musket-shot, about sixty yards, to an outthrust of rocky ledge. To go around it would mean exposing themselves to the camp. They found a narrow crevice that took them up top, then crawled on their bellies through sharp-edged grasses and coarse bushes until they could see.

It wasn't a fish camp, Lewrie thought, feeling a flush of relief fill him. There were the two luggers that had escaped him, along with another pair, larger and two-masted, anchored very close inshore to the beach. And on the beach below him were a brace of longboats with their bows jammed snug on the land. The longboats were royal barges compared to the scrofulous condition of the luggers, obviously taken from some earlier prize of theirs; perhaps from two different prizes, since their paint-schemes did not match.

There was cooking smoke coming from the mouth of the nearest cave under the bluff, several more smaller fires burning in a circle beyond the boats. There were crates and chests scattered about for rude furniture, several more piled up and covered with scrap canvas near the mouth of the cave, more still piled on the lower beach.

And just offshore, anchored fore-and-aft parallel to shore was a two-masted schooner of about sixty feet overall, on which lanterns burned at helm and forecastle.

The people on the beach got Alan's attention next. They were a gaudy crew, dressed "Beau-Nasty" in checked shirts, opulent satin waistcoats, sashes around the waists Spanish hidalgo-style, in either breeches without stockings, or slop-trousers. They wore neckerchiefs bound about their heads like gunners would to protect their hearing, or in tricornes or straw hats; each affecting a highly individualistic and rakehell sense of fashion.

And they went armed.

Swaggering, they were, under the weight of pistols stuck into their waistbands or sashes; cutlasses or swords at their hips. Some muskets stood propped against crates of loot, and there were enough weapons in sight to equip a half-battalion of light troops.

"There's the wimmen, sir," Cony pointed out.

Spanish-looking in the firelights' flickering glows, or black and sheened with sweat. They were swilling rum, wine or brandy with as much gusto as the men, their finery obviously looted goods, too.

They lay there and watched the piratical band roister for half an hour, carefully counting heads, trying to pick out leaders who sat apart more quiet than the others. They watched fights and brawling, among both the men and the women. They watched men take women off to the cave, or up the beach beyond the light.

"Prisoners, sir," Cony mouthed almost silent, tugging at Alan's shirt sleeve. "Them wimmen yonder. Back by them covered crates."

Lewrie pulled out his telescope and brought it forward inch at a time, careful that the lens did not reflect firelight. He studied the party of women by the pile of loot. Slaves, some of them, and some white-skinned and bedraggled—free women and their maids, he speculated? As he lay in the hide, watching, one of the men he thought of as a leader went to the women, staggering drunk, and reached down to pull one to him. She began to scream and plead, only her loudest and most inarticulate cries reaching them. Brutally, he backhanded her into silence, then dragged her back down the beach to the circle of fires to throw her down, peel off his breeches, and fall atop her, to the exultant cheering of his band. And once he had slaked his lust with her, three more sprang forward like inferior wolves to savage her."They'll kill them wimmen oncet they're done with 'em, Mister Lewrie!" Cony whispered, mortified by the sights he had seen without being able to lift a finger to help. "Jesus, God a'mercy!"

"Might have been saving 'em for tonight," Lewrie nodded. "If they sail on the morrow, they'll want no witnesses left alive. See, those goods piled close to the beach? So they may begin loading the schooner and the biggest luggers. If we'd waited, we'd have lost them. Let's get back to the boats. It lacks two hours 'til dawn."

Cony went, unwillingly. And it was only once they were back on the beach, with the horrifying sights and sounds of pitiless rape put behind them, that he trusted himself to speak.

"Wisht there was ought we could do for 'em, sir, tonight, that is," he whispered plaintively. "Dawn might be too late t'save 'em."

"I want you on that ledge at dawn, Cony," Lewrie told him. "I want you and my fusil, and the Ferguson rifle up there, in good hands. Pick your likely country lads. And gut-shoot anyone that lays a hand on 'em, or even glares in their direction. That suit you, Cony?"

"Aye, sir, it sure t'God does!"