Dewey Lambdin - THE GUN KETCH
"Mistah Par'um ta fetch he gun, Mistah Mayhew ta aim he gun at dot schooner wit' roun'-shot, sah. Aye, aye, I tell'm, sah!"
"Good man! Mister Warwick?"
"Aye, sir," the burly ship's corporal grunted. "Four men with you to search the luggers. I don't want any surprises at our backs. Then row out to the schooner and take her. Find papers if you can, to see who she belonged to." "Aye, aye, sir," Warwick nodded, then trotted off. Lewrie wiped his blade clean of gore and sheathed it, then took out his pocket watch. Amazingly, everything had happened in a brutal seven minutes! He turned to look down the beach. It was a horrible litter he beheld; the dead spilled like so many isolated heaps of old clothes; some wounded gasping and choking on blood, writhing or twisting in pain and clawing at their hurts. Thankfully, damned few of 'em were Navy. He recognized only three Royal Navy men he considered dead, and perhaps eight being tended by the luggers.
Parham and his gun crew came lumbering along the hard-packed sand where the going was easier for the small but heavy two-pounder on its small-wheeled carriage. They were half dragging it, with help from Cony and his country-lad marksmen, now that they had run out of targets to snipe at.
"Sir! Sir!" a sailor called from the firing line behind the crates of looted goods. "White flag, sir. Think they're strikin'!"
A tall man in gaudy but bedraggled finery appeared in the cave mouth, waving a white rag spitted upon his smallsword.
"Cease fire!" Lewrie ordered. He walked forward, up past the crates into plain view, and trudged perhaps ten more yards through the deep sands. "Do you surrender?" he asked.
"Wanna talk, Navy," the filthy rogue in stolen silks and satins rejoined with a maddening calm. "An' who might ye be, I'm askin'?"
"Lieutenant Alan Lewrie, Royal Navy. Captain of His Britannic Majesty's Sloop Alacrity," he snapped.
"Compliments t'ye on a neat bit o' business this fine mornin', from meself, Billy Doyle," he said, taking off his egret-plumed hat and performing a mocking bow. "Billy 'Bones,' they names me. Capt'n Billy Bones, o' the Ancient Brotherhood, like. Aye, y'er a hellish crafty sprat, ye are, Capt'n Lewrie. Pulled it off sweet as a…"
"Damn your blood, Doyle," Lewrie fumed. "Surrender or die."
"Ah, that's the way ye be, hey?" Doyle simpered. "Bloody high-handed as a Protestant squire. Squire's son, are ye? Thought so, I did. Lookee here, now, squire's son. I wanna deal with ye. Ye got buckos o' mine I want back, an' the wimmen yer boys ain't knackered. Ye got me boats. Ye kin keep the bloody schooner, an' the loot, an' bad cess may it bring ye. Lots o' loot yonder, squire's son. Gold an' silver… plate an' jools. Lashin's o' wine an' brandy. I do 'spect yer lads're thirsty, hey? They kin use some 'blunt' in the pocket, 'cause they ain't no prize money to share out over pirates, an' damn' little head money per foe, neither. You let me an' me lads go, take our boats an' steal off, an' it be all yer'n, ev'ry shillin'. An' ye sail back t'yer admiral full o' glory. An' wealth. Now, wot ye say t'that, squire's son Lewrie? Ain't that a handsome trade?"
"Doyle, I have two boat-guns with me," Lewrie said, insulted beyond all measure but keeping a sober face. "Have you a timepiece? And just who owned it first, I'm wondering? I give you five minutes to throw down your arms and come out of that cave. Or I open fire upon you with canister and grape. I do not treat with murderers and rapists. I will not let cut-throat scum free for any price."
"Might change yer mind," Doyle snickered. "Niver kin tell, eh? I got somethin' else ye might like better, Navy. Lookit this, now."
He gestured to someone deeper in the cave, and two more of his henchmen came forward, each holding a white woman in his arms, wrists cruelly bound before them. And daggers at their throats!
"Ain't they a handsome pair o' young pieces, squire's son?" thepirate leader scoffed. "Pretty'z yer sister, I wager. Milky-skinned, they are. Soft young quim, a right set o' squire's daughters! An' I just might have 'nother brace back in the cave, mightn't I? Ye touch off yer cannon an' these're dead, an' so're the others. All that canister an' grape-shot a'splangin' an' whirrin' about in here… oh, 'tis a terror wot ye'd inflict on these poor lasses!"
"Goddamn you!" Lewrie gasped. The women were muffled with filthy handkerchiefs over their mouths so they could not contradict Doyle's words. All they could do was implorevwith their eyes.
"Take yer men back o' that ledge where ye come from s' clever, Navy," Doyle insisted. "Pile yer muskets this side. Leave yer cannon! Ye turn me lads loose yonder an' let 'em aboard the luggers. Then we come out an' sail away. Ye tell that cutter over there not t'fire on us as we go down-channel. I give ye me Bible-oath, no harm'11 come t'these young tits, an' I'll leave 'em safe an' sound on French Cay'r West Caicos. Mebbe West Sand Spit, 'ccordin' t'me whim o' the moment, so's ye gotta rescue them 'fore ye can hunt me. An' ye still keep the loot. Now how's that for a bargain? Lookee here, I'll give ye five minute t'make up yer mind, squire's son."
Lewrie turned on his heel and stalked back to the line of men at the crates. He looked for Cony and locked eyes with him, jerked his chin to draw him over, then turned to the aghast Parham.
"Load with canister and grape, Mister Parham," he muttered in an outraged snarl. "Aim high for the roof of the cave, just inside the entrance, and stand ready."
"But, sir…!"
"I gave you an order, Midshipman Parham!"
"Aye, aye, sir," Parham replied meekly, ready to spew.
"Goddamme, sir," Cony whispered, looking ready to be sick as well. "Wot're we t'do, Mister Lewrie?"
"How good a shot are you and Norton, Cony? A head shot such as took those iguanas t'other day?" Lewrie inquired.
"Well, sir, Norton's Georgia-Loyalist. Use'ta shoot squirrel with a Pennsylvania rifle, 'e did. An' it's thirty, forty yards fer me an' the Ferguson, if we hunker down behind a crate yonder."
"When I signal, shoot the men who hold the women. Can you?"
"Lord, sir!" Cony shivered. "Them a'hidin' b'hint 'em an' all. Small target at forty yards, even with…" He patted the Ferguson.
"Their throats are slit, else, Cony, Norton," Lewrie warned.
"We kin try, sir," Norton promised, shifting uneasily.
"We saw three captive women last night, these two and one older. We have to risk losing the third if she's still in that cave," Lewrie almost choked. "Or we let these scum go to maybe save all three!"
"Norton's right, sir, we'll give 'er a try," Cony vowed.
"Good! Damn' good, men, and thankee," Lewrie nodded grimly in gratitude. "Mister Odrado? Fetch me a hale prisoner up here. Bound."
"Si, capitan," Odrado replied, puzzled. "Aye, aye."
Lewrie strode back up the beach, farther than before, and just a bit off to one side of the mouth of the cave. He drew one of his dragoon pistols, checked the priming, and pulled it to half-cock.
" 'Hoy, Doyle!" he shouted. "Ahoy, the cave!"
"Ah, ye'z made up yer mind, ye have, squire's son?" Doyle japed as he appeared with his lying flag of truce on his sword once more.
"Aye, I have," Lewrie rasped. "Doyle… I think you're bluffing. I don't think you have any more hostages in there. And I don't think you're stupid enough to kill them, when they're the only things keeping you and your bully-bucks alive."
"Don't ye, now?" Doyle postured gaily. "Oh, but ye're a hard'un, squire's son. Worse'n a Dublin publican t'deal with. Lookee this, hey?"
Doyle had the women fetched out again, all three of them this time. He seized one of the younger women and put the tip of his blade to her throat, making her huge brown eyes widen in terror.
"Ain't she a handsome wench, Navy?" he tittered, clawing at her gown to rip it away and expose her full young breasts, tear it down to her waist halfway to her bound wrists. Those shapely breasts were now clotted with scabbed cuts, purpling with bruises. "This'n here, she wuz right good sport, once she got me ideer. Pity she had t'learn the hard way. Might be sportin' agin, soon's ye scrub her up, an' put some rum in 'er. Bit dowdy, now, d'ye think?" he teased, turning her from side to side, like a man appraising a used coat. "D'ye think I'm joshin' ye, now, laddy? Wot say I cut this sweet little dug off, jus' t'prove t'ye 'tis that seryus I am."
The blade descended to lift one breast on its razor-sharp edge. "Still, I got me five more t'offer ye, so this 'un won't be missed."
"Bring that prisoner up, Mister Odrado," Lewrie called over his shoulder. "So help me, Doyle, you harm the girl in the slightest, and you hang before the sun is down. You show one sign you mean any harm to any of them, and I will open fire, devil take the hindmost, and God protect the innocent!"Squire's son don't crave ye, girl," Doyle frowned, and spoke in her ear, making her wail with redoubled panic. But in Spanish!
Now I have you, you bastard, Lewrie thought, wolfish with glee!
"That Spanish I heard, Doyle?" Lewrie forced himself to laugh, "Christ, all this hanging back for fear of harm to Spanish bitches?"
"Now, lookee here, squire's son…" Doyle began to splutter.
"This scum a friend of yours?" Lewrie asked as Odrado forced a prisoner to kneel in front of him. "Would you be upset if I shot him right here and now? What if I started in shooting all your men I hold, like the curs they are?"
"She dies, damn ye!" Doyle threatened, bringing the sword-tip up below the girl's jaw, and leveling his arm at full-bent extent for a thrust. "Just t'prove I'm not bluffin'!"
"And then you're one hostage less, Doyle. One dago bitch less! No one I'd sport charity for. I dislike dagos more than cold, boiled mutton, don't ya know! Fought too many of 'em in the war, hey?" Alan guffawed, putting an icy edge to his sarcastic laughter. He drew out the dragoon pistol and pulled the dog's-jaw back to full cock, then laid it against the kneeling scoundrel's ear.
"I ain't foolin', squire's son!" the pirate leader snarled at him, pressing the sword's point deeper, drawing a trickle of blood, and a muffled, wheedling scream from the tormented girl.
"Neither am I," Lewrie told him. And pulled the trigger on the pistol and shot the kneeling pirate's head apart like a melon!
"Nombre de Dio!" Odrado croaked, crossing himself.
"Fetch up another prisoner, Mister Odrado," Lewrie instructed, trying to keep his bile down as he turned to blow the remaining powder embers from the priming pan. "And reload that for me."
"Jesus and Mary, ye…!" Doyle blanched, then recovered his bluster. "I swear t'Christ, this bitch is dead!" He began to stab her through the throat. She fainted dead away.
"Trade lives with me, will you?" Lewrie scoffed. "I kill one, you kill one, and then you run out of dago bitches a lot faster than I run out of pirates, who don't deserve better, anyway, Doyle. Now would you call that a handsome bargain, you son of a bitch?"
"Christ, yer lunatick!" Doyle goggled, trying to hold the girl up, then letting her sag unconscious to the ground. "Ah, d' ye think I care 'bout them yonder? Keep 'em, then! Do wot ye please!"
"I'll keep shooting them down until I run across one of your cut-throats you do give a damn about, Doyle. You do what you please with your captives. They don't signify to me!" Lewrie taunted. "You get no boats, you don't go free, and if you don't give up the women, throw down your arms and come out of there, you're dead! Now, damn your eyes!"
