Captain in Calico. George Fraser MacDonald

blow in the face would have surprised him less. His bewilderment sought confirmation, and the Governor supplied it.

      ‘My future wife, you dog,’ he said, and for once losing control, he struck Rackham across the mouth.

      Involuntarily, as he stumbled back, Rackham’s hand dropped to his belt, and in a second the gentlemen about the Governor had caught him and held his wrists. But these things were purely physical, and he was still mentally reeling under the first blow that Rogers had dealt him.

      Hoarsely, he appealed to Kate. ‘Is this true?’ She did not answer. Her cheeks were burning, and her eyes were turned away, ignoring him. Her father spoke for her, his face contorted with anger.

      ‘D’ye doubt your ears, you scoundrel?’ He was so incensed that it appeared he would follow the Governor’s example and strike Rackham, but Rogers intervened. He had recovered his composure, though his eyes still gleamed dangerously.

      ‘That is needless.’ It almost suggested that he was ashamed of his own action. ‘Major Penner, I’ll be obliged if you will remove your companion from this gathering. And I shall have a word to say to you later.’

      Dazed and sick, Rackham felt the Major’s hand on his arm, and allowed himself to be led away. There was dead silence on the roof, and the Major made haste to get beyond the reach of the company’s scandalised regard. But he was not speedy enough to be out of earshot when they caught the Governor’s voice attempting, apparently, to resume his conversation with Jonah Sampson.

      It was the sound of that voice, level and distinct against the silence, that brought Rackham to a halt. For the moment shock and misery had expelled all other thoughts from his mind; only now, as his numbed brain was beginning to work again, did he realise the full meaning of all that had gone before. It came to him with a staggering impact, and brought him wheeling round, rage and blind hatred in his heart.

      Rogers had cheated him – cheated him coldly and deliberately and beyond all chance of retribution. He had known, two nights ago, when he and Rackham had spoken in the Governor’s study, that Rackham’s only interest in the pardon sprang from his hopes of marrying Kate Sampson. And Rogers had played on that, using Rackham as a pawn to bring him the Kingston’s silver. He had placed the pardon temptingly within Rackham’s reach on conditions which had not existed, since Rogers himself already possessed the only prize that Rackham hoped to win from the game.

      Oh, he had been admirably fooled, made to dance to the puppet-master’s bidding and now, like a puppet indeed, unable to stir a finger to avenge himself. To proclaim Rogers a cheat and a liar would have been to assure his own destruction: the whole tale would be round New Providence in an hour and those men whom Rackham had betrayed would ensure that he never saw another sun rise. No, the Governor was safe and snug, his pretty plot concluded to his complete satisfaction, and Rackham was left to swallow the bitter draught of frustrated defeat.

      As he swung round now, his face livid, Major Penner thrust out a hand to stop him. ‘Why, John, are ye mad? Come away, man—’ But Rackham was half-way back from the head of the steps already. The Major saw him stride forward, suddenly stop, hesitate, and then stand, legs apart and arms akimbo, facing the company, who stared at him in disbelief.

      ‘Woodes Rogers.’ He had mastered the rage inside him sufficiently to guard his tongue against any slip which might betray the secret which lay between him and the Governor, but there was enough venom in his voice to freeze the company where it sat.

      ‘You played the cheat on me,’ he said slowly. ‘And I do not forget. We understand each other as pirates, you and I.’

      And with that he was gone, leaving them thunderstruck. Only Woodes Rogers retained complete composure. While those around him expressed themselves in exclamations and oaths, the Governor shrugged his shoulders.

      ‘A fantastic fellow,’ he remarked. He was hiding his feelings well. ‘But we trouble ourselves about very little. It is no matter.’ And by exercising the great powers of persuasion and charm at his command, he steered the conversation into less perturbing channels.

       5. SWORDS BEHIND THE TAVERN

      Major Penner, having witnessed the strange scene played on the Fort roof, was quick to appreciate that the reasons which had prevented Rackham from accepting an offer to turn privateer did not now exist, for since the lady whom he had hoped to marry was the Governor’s property, there could no longer be any ties to hold him ashore. It remained, therefore, for Major Penner to bide patiently until his companion’s emotions were less disturbed, and then to repeat his proposal, with every confidence that it would be accepted.

      He followed Rackham from the Fort, waiting until his fury should have spent itself somewhat, and then, taking him by the arm, guided him to the nearest tavern, the Cinque Ports.

      Plainly Rackham was in no mood for talk. He sat with Penner in a corner of the tap-room, his face set in ugly lines, drinking what was set before him, and staring down at the table in silence. He was not thinking of Kate, as the Major supposed, but of Rogers. He had been hoodwinked, cheated, and there was no hope of redress. Yet the Governor would be made to pay; by God, he would pay.

      Half an hour’s steady drinking brought him to that stage where his first fury had subsided. He was still silent, but his eyes were bright, and he had begun to whistle a little through his teeth. This disconcerted the Major, who preferred his drunkards to look less lively, and he decided to broach the subject uppermost in his mind.

      ‘Ye’ll have wondered, perhaps, why I brought ye here,’ he began. Rackham stopped whistling.

      ‘I don’t wonder at all. Ye want to remind me that there’s a place for me as quartermaster aboard your sloop. I’ll take it, never fear. So hold your tongue and let me be.’

      So much he had decided. Kate was lost to him, and vengeance on Rogers would have to wait. In the meantime he would be best at sea, away from the temptation of putting a knife in the Governor’s stomach some dark night, and away also perhaps from that ill-luck which Providence seemed to hold for him.

      But that ill-luck was pursuing him even now, and it came in the shape of a tall, rakish Frenchman named La Bouche who, finding the noon heat oppressive, had turned from the street in search of refreshment.

      Apart from the negro waiters and a few idlers Rackham and Penner had the long common-room of the Cinque Ports to themselves until Captain La Bouche and his friends announced their arrival with much boisterous laughter. This La Bouche was one of those adventurers who, two years before, had sailed out of New Providence in defiance of Rogers and the royal proclamation. He had continued sea-roving for a short season but poor fortune had finally driven him to accept the amnesty. Since then, like Penner, he had turned privateer under Government protection, with moderate success.

      He hailed Penner effusively and it was evident that he was already a trifle drunk. The Major responded with a curt nod; he had little regard for Captain La Bouche, whom he considered a French fribble. Rackham, looking round and seeing the Frenchman bearing down on them, made no effort to conceal his annoyance; he, too, had no liking for La Bouche, and he was still in the dangerous temper which requires solitude.

      La Bouche let out a crow of laughter as he recognised the former pirate.

      ‘Tonerre Dieu!’ he exclaimed. ‘What have we here? M’sieur le Capitan Rackham! O ho!’ He turned to his companions, confiding in a whisper which was plainly audible: ‘Once it was the Quartermaster Rackham, then the Capitan, and now it is – eh, what is it? – oui, it is the ci-devant Captain.’ Laughing again, he came to stand over the table. ‘Oh, my big Jean. An’ you have come the way of the rest of us, hein? Well, well. You are wise, Jean. An’ I bid you welcome – me, La Bouche.’ And in token of that welcome he held out a hand.

      Rackham considered it, and the soiled lace at its wrist. La Bouche was as raffish as always, gaudily attired in a taffeta suit which set off his spare figure admirably, and with a plumed