The Pirates and the Nightmaker (14 page)

The light was sharper now and shadows longer. It would not be long before the sun set into the ocean beyond the harbour. There were fewer people seeking refuge from the heat and more walking about perhaps in search of an inn or a vendor to provide their supper. I had almost begun to think I had only imagined I had seen the inventor, when I caught sight of him again, his short, stocky figure unmistakeable among the passers-by below.

I was determined this time that he should not become aware of my presence. I dropped lightly into a tree and sat there hidden by the foliage high above the street to follow his progress.

He peered into a number of doorways as if looking for somebody or something. I worked out that he was probably after food and that he seemed to be looking for a particular place, for he made a point of studying the inns’ hanging signs.

When he reached the sign that had a clumsy painting of a scaffold with an unnaturally fat noose hanging from it, he nodded to himself and pushed his way inside.

It was the Rope and Gibbet, the same tavern where Mr Wicker had met the Spaniard I had discovered was known as
El Serpiente.

When after some minutes Mr Flynn had not re-emerged I
dropped to the street and hurried to the entrance. I peered into the gloom and, after my eyes had adjusted to the light, I found him. He had chosen the very same long table we had sat at earlier when Mr Wicker was negotiating with Don Scapino. In fact, I half-expected to see the bony Spaniard still hunched in his corner, but thankfully he was nowhere to be seen.

I made my way carefully to the rear of the room and my quarry, keeping myself hidden behind other customers as much as possible. As before, there were no other patrons sitting at Mr Flynn’s bench so I was able to slip down beside him before he was even aware of my presence.

‘Hello,’ I said.

He turned around, startled to see me.

‘Loblolly Boy!’ he said. ‘You gave me such a turn.’

‘You did not know I was at the Cove?’

He peered at me through his round spectacles. ‘Did I? I hardly think I would. Would I?’

‘I thought you did see me earlier this morning, when you stepped out of your lodging.’

‘Did I? I hardly know what I saw then, my mind is full of so many things.’ He stared at me urgently, ‘Buzzing things!’

‘I thought you saw me because you stepped back inside as if you didn’t want me to see you,’ I persisted.

‘Did I? I really don’t think so. I must have mistaken you for somebody else.’

This seemed to me so ridiculous I nearly burst out laughing. Who or what could he have mistaken me for? Some tall familiar chicken with bright green wings?

‘Mr Flynn,’ I asked him. ‘Why
are
you at the Cove?’

I also wanted to ask him how he managed to get to the Cove, given that the last time I’d seen him he was on the spectre barque, the
Astrolabe,
being tossed about in an impossible sea.

He gave me an apprehensive look. ‘It is very difficult my being here, Loblolly Boy,’ he said. ‘You see, there is somebody here I very much need to see, and equally there is somebody here I very much do
not
wish to see.’

‘Mr Wicker?’

‘You have named the man,’ whispered Mr Flynn. ‘I hope to avoid him. I very much hope to avoid him.’

It suddenly occurred to me, given that we were in the Rope and Gibbet and sitting at this bench in a dark corner of the tavern, just who the man Mr Flynn very much
wanted
to see was.

‘And the man you want to see …’ I began.

‘Don Scapino,’ cried Mr Flynn, rising to his feet, and staring past me. ‘It is very good to see you, very good indeed, and my compliments, sir. Won’t you sit down?’

I glanced up. Standing directly beside me was the shadowy figure of Don Scapino, his head cocked in that bird-like way peculiar to one-eyed people, although in Don Scapino’s case the bird was probably a vulture or carrion crow.

‘My very good Señor Flynn!’

He reached and took Mr Flynn’s hand and then slithered to the other side of the bench and sat himself down.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘as I approached you, you looked for all the world to be engaged in deep conversation, but now that I am with you, I see that you are truly all alone.’

Mr Flynn flushed and looked a little embarrassed. ‘I do sometimes talk to myself,’ he said. ‘It is a bad habit.’

‘Do not be ashamed,’ said the Spaniard easily. ‘You are always in good company when you talk to yourself, are you not?’

‘I suppose I am,’ said Mr Flynn.

‘And less likely to be lied to, or deceived?’ suggested Don Scapino.

‘I hope so,’ said Mr Flynn, ‘although not necessarily. We are capable of deceiving ourselves.’

‘Sadly true, señor,’ said Don Scapino, ‘sadly true.’

Mr Flynn stared hopelessly at the Spaniard who regarded him, I thought, with mild amusement.

‘Don Scapino …’

‘Señor Flynn?’

‘It is about the astrolabe.’

‘The astrolabe, Señor Flynn?’

‘You know … the one … the one …’

‘You sold me in Portobelo?’

‘Yes, that one.’

‘Well?’

‘I would like, if possible, to buy it back.’

Don Scapino stared at Mr Flynn speculatively. Then he said, ‘I am glad you used the word
possible
Mr Flynn for it makes it easier for me to tell you that what you ask is
im
possible.’

‘I feared as much,’ said Mr Flynn miserably. ‘There is no way, then?’

‘You are quite correct, Señor Flynn. There is absolutely no way.’

There was a silence thereafter. Finally, Mr Flynn looked up and said, ‘I have heard that the astrolabe is in Cartagena?’

Don Scapino looked at him with mild surprise. ‘I do not know how you discovered this, señor, but yes it is.’

‘Do you know where?’

‘I do know where,’ said Don Scapino. ‘It is in the possession of
el commandante
himself and I know this because I presented it to him with these hands.’

As if to prove the point, Don Scapino proffered his hands, fingers outstretched like centipedes.

‘Then it is safe?’

‘Señor, have you seen the fortifications at Cartagena?’

Mr Flynn shook his head.

‘At least you know that Admiral Vernon and the entire English fleet could not as much as dent them! Of course your astrolabe, forgive me,
el commandante
’s astrolabe, is utterly secure.’

Mr Flynn should have looked relieved, but didn’t. ‘It is just that we — I mean I — do not want it to fall into the wrong hands.’

‘Please be assured, Señor Flynn, there is absolutely no chance of that whatsoever.’

Mr Flynn nodded, but remained miserable.

Seeing his misery, Don Scapino smiled wolfishly and added, ‘Of course, Señor Flynn, should you wish to go to Cartagena to negotiate with
el commandante
yourself, I understand a vessel may be travelling that way in the next few days …’

I stared at the Spaniard, admiring his gall.

Mr Flynn appeared to be considering the proposal.

‘Thank you, Don Scapino,’ he said. ‘I will think on this and may pursue the matter further.’

‘Then, señor,’ said Don Scapino, ‘I believe there is little more to discuss, so as your ever faithful servant, I will take my leave.’

He rose to his feet and leaned over Mr Flynn, extending his hand once more. ‘Good day to you, señor.’

‘Good day to you, sir,’ said Daniel Flynn. ‘Your servant …’

But Don Scapino had not waited upon these pleasantries. He was already striding through the more crowded section of the tavern towards the door.

‘I wonder,’ murmured Mr Flynn.

‘You wonder?’ I said.

‘I wonder whether I should take up his offer of a passage to Cartagena?’

‘He wasn’t offering you a passage to Cartagena, sir,’ I said dryly. ‘He was only informing you that a ship might be leaving for the port in a few days.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said Mr Flynn, ‘but nevertheless …’

‘And you do know who’s chartering that vessel, don’t you?’ I asked.

‘Do I? Do I? I don’t think I do,’ said Daniel Flynn.

‘Why, Mr Wicker,’ I said, ‘the very man you did not want to meet.’

‘He has? He is?’ said Mr Flynn. ‘Oh, dear.’

‘And I must with him,’ I added.

He stared at me. ‘You must?’

It would not have been difficult to become exasperated
with Mr Flynn, as clever as I understood him to be.

‘You do remember?’ I asked him. ‘That I was bound to Mr Wicker and that Captain Bass wishes me somehow to steal the astrolabe after Mr Wicker retrieves it …’

I had to admit that the way Don Scapino had described the stronghold, I no longer shared Mr Wicker’s confidence that retrieving the astrolabe would be easy, or even possible.

‘That is right, that is quite right,’ said Mr Flynn, apparently remembering.

‘And your wands have removed the bonds tying me to Mr Wicker?’

‘Have they?’

I looked at him in alarm. So much depended on Mr Flynn’s lightning blades.

He looked at me again, still doleful.

‘Captain Bass must not know of this,’ he whispered, looking about him nervously.

‘Know of what?’

‘My meeting with Don Scapino.’

‘Why not?’

‘He would be most unhappy. He believes I lost the astrolabe in Portobelo. I had almost persuaded myself.’

‘But you didn’t lose it.’

‘I did not, Loblolly Boy. I sold it to that dastardly man and I can never forgive myself.’

‘But why?’

‘I hinted at its powers and he told me how it could be used to stop this mad fighting. Admiral Vernon had attacked Portobelo, you know, and it was a famous victory but it
had encouraged him and the English to carry on, attacking, fighting …’

‘But Captain Bass said only special people could use the astrolabe.’ I tried to remember what he had said … That was it, those who lived in the netherworld. Whatever that was.

‘I know,’ said Mr Flynn unhappily, ‘but Don Scapino was so eloquent, so persuasive that I was carried away and I all but pressed it on him. I was a fool!’

I looked at his miserable face, his sad eyes magnified by his round glasses, and I could not disagree.

Before darkness fell, the storm arrived. Without warning, there was rain such as no other rain I’d ever known. It seemed to come down in a single crashing sheet as if all the buckets of heaven were being emptied simultaneously. Accompanying the rain were great peals of thunder like the laughter of the gods, laughter preceded by bolts of lightning that forked through the blackness in angry yellow gashes.

The main thoroughfare of the Cove changed instantly from a dusty rutted street into a braided stream, muddy and frothy with dirty water tumbling down towards the harbour. Of course, all the people vanished: hawkers, the colourful vendors, the idle hangers-about, all scurried like rats to whatever dry bolthole they could find.

Me? I had no bolthole. But then, I had no need of one. I was a loblolly boy newly minted and I had no fear of the elements. Cold could not touch me, or driving rain. But even if the wind could not see me, it could buffet me and blow me thither and yon. Some reckless part of me embraced this and I leapt to the wind and was swept up with it. I rode the storm, submitting to its madness. I was thrown back and
forth like a leaf, but I exulted in this. I had been so crushed by circumstances, by being unable to make any decision. Now I was able to exchange masters for a time, to forget Mr Wicker and to give myself to the ever more powerful overlord: the storm.

I climbed higher into the darkness, tossed this way and that and utterly careless. I heard myself crying in abandonment as the thunder roared and growled like a demented bear and the lightning streaked and sizzled all about me. Far below, the island was now only a darker shadow on a dark sea. Here and there were faint glimmerings of lamplight but these mere flickers simply underscored how puny humanity was in the face of the elements when they decided to misbehave.

As I was flung about in the delirium of it all, I hardly cared any more how it would end. Mr Wicker’s need for the astrolabe and Captain Bass’s equally strong desire to prevent him, even my own longing to be restored to what I had once been, all these things were rendered inconsequential in the churning here and now that was this maelstrom. Should somehow I be brought again to calm, should somehow I survive this unbelievable turbulence with body, mind and wings intact, then, I thought wildly, I could accept anything, even the never-ending existence of loblolly boy-dom that had begun to oppress me so sorely.

And then it seemed I should survive. The wind all at once was somewhat less angry, the rain less driving and the sky lightened a little. I realised, looking down, that I was now far out to sea, so far I half expected to see below me the spectre barque, it being ideal conditions for that tattered vessel.

And then to the west, the sun sinking steadily below the sea painted the sky a brilliant orange dimming to scarlet and the rain ceased.

All at once, too, flying was easier, I became aware that my wings were undamaged by the thrashing and pounding of a wind that now, thinking better of itself, gradually eased to a brisk breeze.

Accordingly I descended, wheeled about and flew far more leisurely back towards the Cove. The storm had agitated the sea and, grey now, it was speckled with whitecaps. When I reached the sheltered harbour the vessels at anchor were still rocking and bucking in the aftermath, but ever more gently.

On some impulse, I decided to explore the
Firefly,
now the
Perseus,
the ship that had brought me across the Atlantic Ocean and introduced me to seafaring as the assistant to the unreliable Dr Hatch and the allegedly even more unreliable Captain Lightower.

I was unsurprised to find not a soul on deck. Whatever skeleton crew had been left on watch were no doubt sheltering below from the violence of the storm. I found the cabin I had shared with Dr Hatch and slipped inside. As it was much darker now I had to feel my way about, but even so it did not take me long to locate the little bundle of clothes I had brought with me on board. They were still rolled together in their jute bag and housed on top of my little straw mattress beneath Dr Hatch’s hammock. Wearing them seemed a long way away now and I felt a small lump rise unbidden to my throat.

I knew, somehow, I would never wear these clothes again,
paltry as they were, mended and re-mended by my mother’s needle. They were part of a past that I sensed had gone forever.

These realisations made me all at once miserable, made me want to get out of the dark cabin and into the open air again.

I did so, immediately leaping into the air and flying as high as the topmast and the crow’s nest. It seemed worth acquainting myself with this perch as I guessed, if Mr Wicker did get his way, I would soon be travelling south on the
Perseus
to Cartagena and would find the crow’s nest as congenial a place to stay out of harm’s way as it had been on the
Medusa
.

The storm had ended as suddenly as it began; the sky was now cobalt blue and studded with stars, a white moon quartered in the east. Across the dark water and beneath the shadowy trees the town of the Cove gleamed and glittered, much cleaner-looking from this distance than it was up close.

I gazed around the harbour, my attention caught by a brighter glitter, a greater flicker. There, at the head of the harbour, the northern side. A sudden lurch of realisation seized me.

It was Jenny Blade’s house.

I saw at once that it must have been hit by lightning, lightning which had set fire to the thatch on the roof. I leapt from the mast and flew directly towards the dwelling. Even before I reached the bluff, I could see the first fingers of flame reaching into the darkness.

By the time I’d landed close by the house, the roof was already well ablaze and shadowy figures were running back and forth crying and shouting. I could hear Jenny Blade’s voice issuing instructions although to little avail it seemed. One of the servants was racing about with an empty bucket, empty because, despite the recent inundation, there was no place to fill it. When he discarded it, I plucked the bucket from the ground and then plunged over the cliff and down to the water where I scooped up a bucket-load and flew back to upend it over the crackling thatch.

After three or four trips I realised that my efforts were useless and that hovering over the spark-filled smoke and flames was too risky.

Frustrated, I landed near the small crowd of people who had now gathered in a horrified semi-circle, helpless as the fire took hold completely. I hurried about the crowd seeking Sophie, but in the dark and with people constantly changing positions I could not find her.

When I heard the anxious cry, ‘Sophia! Sophia! Where are you?’ and I realised it was Jenny Blade’s voice, I began to feel seriously concerned.

In seconds the cry was taken up by others and the crowd separated to search the darkness, while all the while the conflagration increased and a red tinge began to halo the site. Now the crackling and groaning of the house became ever louder and every so often came the crash of a falling beam.

‘Sophia! Sophia!’

The cries became ever more desperate, ever more hopeless.

I felt sick at heart, numb.

I withdrew to the furthest shadows and collapsed into a heap, unable to look any longer at the blazing inferno that was the house on the bluff.

Was it only this afternoon I had stood in the living room listening to Sophie play her clavier as Jenny Blade sat proudly listening?

That clavier was now no doubt little more than a pile of glowing embers.

Hopelessly, I climbed to my feet once more and kicked into the air. I circled slowly around the pyre that had been a house, but could see nothing and knew nothing could have survived that furnace.

Despondently, I flew back to the little town. The quay and the wharf were now crowded with townspeople and sailors who had seen the flames and were there to watch the drama unfold. I dropped down to join them.

Among the people, right at the very end of the wharf, stood two tall figures somewhat apart from the press. Even in the dark these were unmistakably Mr Wicker and Don Scapino.

I landed nearby; close enough for my master to notice me although he did not acknowledge my arrival.

‘Lightning, you think?’ asked Mr Wicker.

‘It is possible,’ said Don Scapino, sounding not entirely convinced.

‘I would not have thought Mistress Blade would have many enemies in the Cove,’ remarked Mr Wicker, lifting his hand to his brow and peering through the night.

‘Everybody has enemies,’ Don Scapino replied.

‘There was a lot of lightning,’ said Mr Wicker.

The Spaniard did not reply.

Until now, the idea that something other than lightning had caused the fire had not occurred to me. The Spaniard’s doubts, if he really had any, were probably prompted by his own cynicism, but then I suddenly realised that the two terrible events — the fire and Sophie’s disappearance — could be connected in another much more sinister way.

Troubled now, I gave Mr Wicker a little farewell wave and leapt into the air once more to return to the burning house, although there did not seem to be much more of it left to burn. This time I wanted to check out those shadowy figures scattered about the house, and to discover whether any of them were scurrying back towards the Cove. With this in mind, instead of flying directly across the harbour, I took a route that followed the path along the northern shore. This hugged the waterline for some distance and then climbed the low hill that ended in the bluff where Jenny Blade had built her house.

Although I flew only a few dangerous feet above the pathway, I saw no shadowy figures below. In fact I saw no figures at all until I reached the bluff and then they were huddled together forlornly, some holding on to one another, about the bed of burning ashes that was all that was left.

Nobody cried out ‘Sophia!’ any more.

Feeling I was chasing shadows in every sense, and finding the scene too upsetting to stay, I flew back along the route I had taken and returned to the Cove. To put my mind at ease, I found the house where Captain Lightower was
lodging and entered. The lobby was lit with a single lamp, but the corridor was unlit. I hurried along it and listened outside the captain’s door. There was silence within and no chink of light from under the door. Carefully, I turned the handle and pushed, but the door was locked.

I had proven nothing except that the captain was either out or asleep abed. Probably the entire population was out given the excitement of the fire on the bluff and the fact that it could be seen from almost any point on the shore. I had seen neither the captain nor the doctor on the quay, but then I had not been looking for them.

I returned to the street and looked about me. People were returning from the quay now that the great display was over. There was a hubble-bubble of excited talk, however, and it was apparent that news of Sophie Blade’s disappearance and probable loss had reached the town. My own agitated excitement had given way to a deep despair and I could not bear to contemplate what might have happened to Sophie.

Before long, Mr Wicker and his thin companion came along the street and I obediently fell in behind them.

‘This missing girl …’ said Mr Wicker.

‘Yes?’

‘I met her on board the
Medusa
.’

‘I imagine you would have.’

‘She did not strike me as the sort of girl who would remain in a burning house long after all the others had escaped.’

‘You are suggesting, señor?’

‘There may be more to this than meets the eye,’ said Mr Wicker.

‘Which eye?’ asked the Spaniard, with a grim laugh.

‘You have spies here in this town?’

The Spaniard opened out his long arms. ‘Of course, señor … naturally I have sources.’

‘I would like to know what there is to be known,’ said Mr Wicker.

‘We would all like that commodity,
mi amigo
.’

‘It may be very useful in my negotiations with Mistress Blade.’

This conversation intrigued me. Clearly, like me, Mr Wicker was wondering whether there could have been some underhand business involved in the fire and Sophie’s subsequent disappearance. Of course, Mr Wicker’s concern was not for Sophie, merely for any benefit he might accrue for himself. I wondered how he would view the situation were he to know of Captain Lightower’s veiled and not so veiled threats to Sophie to exert pressure on her mother.

These thoughts hardened my resolve to observe the captain more closely. Accordingly, I allowed the Spaniard and Mr Wicker to continue their stroll while I stationed myself in the tree outside the door to the captain’s lodgings.

The minutes and then the hours crept by. Eventually, long after I had given up hope that the captain was actually out and about and not tucked up in his bed, I succumbed to sleep myself and did not wake until the dawn. I remained at my station, however, waiting as the first people appeared
on the street, the first vendors arrived with their trays balanced on their heads, the first hawkers pushing their carts or leading their donkeys. Later, doors and casements opened and the now much brighter sun splashed into the dark interiors.