The Pirates and the Nightmaker (19 page)

They must have been hot in their uniforms: white trousers, sash and hose and blue jackets trimmed with scarlet. Mr Wicker could almost have been one of them except his
jacket was a darker blue and more narrowly trimmed with gold. As the boat approached, though, it would have been perfectly clear to the soldiers that an English naval officer was on board.

To one side their own commanding officer stood patiently waiting. Each of the soldiers was in possession of a long rifle, but the officer had not ordered his men to take aim and the rifles remained standing loosely by the soldiers’ sides.

Soon we were close enough for Don Scapino to raise his long arm and flutter a handkerchief. It looked almost as though he were signalling surrender, but I think he was really just hoping to preface his shouted greetings.

There was no reply, nor was there any comment when the jolly-boat was manoeuvred right alongside the steps, and the sailors shipped their oars, one of them awkwardly clutching at a rusty ring attached to the sea wall to steady the boat enough to allow his passengers to land.

Don Scapino led the way, and Mr Wicker followed. I found the silent reception a little unnerving but Don Scapino was quite unfazed. He climbed the steps agilely, and at once engaged the officer, explaining I guessed with much gesticulation who he was and, more significantly, who Mr Wicker was.

I presumed these explanations were sufficiently convincing, for neither he nor Mr Wicker was seized. Instead, with great courtesy, the officer gestured them towards the street which led to a great gate in the town’s wall. I suppose you could say there was an armed escort but, despite the rifles and the soldiers, it did not seem to be, so relaxed was the guard. It
was rather more like a gentle stroll on a sunny morning. Even at the gatehouse where papers were checked and where there was a slightly longer explanation offered, all seemed friendly and uncomplicated. I did note that at no stage did Mr Wicker say anything, although I knew he was perfectly capable of understanding what was going on. He and Don Scapino must have agreed that ‘Captain Lightower’ could not speak Spanish or was not especially adept at it. From time to time, Don Scapino would turn to Mr Wicker and explain to him things in English and Mr Wicker would nod and reply in English as well.

And then the two men stood beside the main thoroughfare of Cartagena, their presence accepted and free to move about.

It soon became apparent that Don Scapino knew his way around the town. He led Mr Wicker through streets, narrow lanes and small plazas until he eventually stopped before a two-storeyed plastered dwelling with shuttered upstairs windows and a large double door heavily studded with iron knobs, apparently his destination.

He rang a bell and sometime later the doors were opened by a manservant who, recognising the don, ushered the two men in. I followed in on their coat-tails and was surprised to find myself in such a house as I had never seen before. The rooms and chambers were all built around and opened onto a large cloistered space which opened in turn to the sky. The entrance hall we were standing in also led directly to this space, which was planted lushly in tropical plants and vines with blooms of many colours. There was
surely nothing like this in Portsmouth Town.

We were led along a cloistered section and then into a long gallery which appeared to be a sitting room although it was sparsely furnished. A table at each end, chairs mainly against the walls which were decorated with dark oil paintings of Spanish gentlemen of times gone by, long olive faces with aquiline noses, trimmed mustachios and pointed beards. There were small tapestries, too, and crossed swords mounted on the walls at intervals. The floor was wooden and dark but brightened by thin colourful mats. There were two or three suits of armour from the days of the great galleons standing in corners as if still occupied.

The light was restfully subdued, and came mainly from the tall windows which opened onto the cloistered walk.

Shortly after we had entered this room an elderly gentleman opened a door at the other end and came in. He might have stepped from one of the portraits, he looked so elegant and aristocratic.

At the sight of his visitors he stopped, then started forward when he recognised Don Scapino.

He greeted him and was introduced to Mr Wicker, who bowed with military courtesy.

The old Spaniard, picking up from Don Scapino’s translating, slipped immediately and easily into English.

‘You are very welcome to Cartagena, Captain, although your naval
compañeros
were not so welcome a few short months ago.’

‘I do take your point, Don Esquivar. Had I brought the
Firefly
to Cartagena with the admiral my welcome would
have been a hail of cannon balls, I dare say.’

The old Spaniard smiled. ‘But, now,’ he said, ‘I can offer you hospitality.’

‘The captain,’ said Don Scapino, ‘has long been hospitable to Spain, señor. We owe him much.’

Don Esquivar raised a cultivated eyebrow and said dryly, ‘And perhaps he has been rewarded?’

‘Service is my only reward,’ said Mr Wicker, and this response drew appreciative but knowing laughter from both Spaniards.

‘You will of course dine with us this evening, gentlemen, and, of course, you will allow me to be your host during your visit to Cartagena.’

Both proposals Don Scapino and Mr Wicker accepted readily, and then Don Scapino said, ‘We do have some business to conclude with the
commandante
at some point, señor. He may know of this visit already, but not its purpose. Could I crave the use of one of your men to convey to the
commandante
our compliments and to let him know we would call upon him at his convenience?’

‘Of course you may, Don Scapino,’ said the old man, ‘and while he is about it, I will arrange for some refreshments and you must give me news of your father, for it is long since I have had word of him.’

I glanced at Mr Wicker, surprised at how perfectly at ease he looked and every bit the English captain. He caught my glance and gave me a faint smile. I mimed leaving the room for I wished to explore and he nodded his permission.

I slipped back through the door we had entered and onto
the cloistered path and its worn flagstones. I pushed into the bright inner courtyard and gazed up at the pocket of sky. I thought I could safely leave the gentlemen to their sweetmeats and wine for a time and so leapt into the air and rose above the town. The red tiles of the roofs gleamed in the sun and I saw how many of the larger houses were built around open courtyards like those of the house of Don Esquivar. The whole town crouched inside the vast protecting walls, although the only possible invader at this moment was the great Caribbean Sea to the north.

Beside the town, and claiming my interest, squatted the great Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas. Even as I flew towards the castle, a manservant of Don Esquivar’s was hurrying towards it as well, bearing the compliments of Don Scapino and Captain Lightower, the English agent.

Like the outer walls of the city, the castle walls were sloped to deflect cannon-fire, but these walls were dotted with slits and battlements to return any cannon attack with interest. There were a number of turrets and watch-towers and I visited some of these, perching on high to watch the soldiers on duty parading about the many courtyards and platforms. It was a truly huge place, and so heavily guarded I was once again at a loss to see how Mr Wicker’s mad enterprise could possibly succeed.

Mr Wicker’s plan required one more detail, as I was soon to find out.

After dinner, as the light was fading, Mr Wicker indicated that I should meet him in the cloister surrounding the courtyard. While Don Scapino and his host enjoyed a glass of wine, I followed Mr Wicker outside.

‘You have visited the castle?’

‘This afternoon, sir.’

‘You remember our discussion on the
Firefly
pertaining to the darkness?’

I nodded, repeating what he had told me. ‘You will summon the darkness with the astrolabe and at that point you will give the astrolabe to me. I will fly away with it, point it to Sirius, and return the sunlight.’

‘You are correct as far as it goes, but you are forgetting one crucial element of my scheme.’

I stared at him, trying to remember.

‘You pointed it out yourself, little Loblolly Boy. Unless in the darkness we exchange the astrolabes, I would be left empty-handed like a thief in the night.’

I remembered now how he had reached for the astrolabe after he had shown me how to line up Sirius. He had told me then there would be two of the instruments.

‘This means,’ said Mr Wicker, ‘you must fly presently to the
Firefly
and retrieve the other astrolabe and hide it in a safe and handy place on the castle roof. Then when darkness comes, tomorrow, you will bring it to me quickly and I will give you the
commandante
’s astrolabe. Did you find a place where it would be possible to hide it?’

I thought about the various places where I had perched earlier. Any one of them would do.

‘I have, sir, several, and quite inaccessible except, as you say, to gulls.’

His plan was a little more careful than I had imagined. Mad still, yes, but a little less mad. I began to see that it could work.

Mr Wicker smiled. If he had been a cat, I suspect he might have purred.

Shortly thereafter, I took to the sky and flew directly to the
Firefly.
The astrolabe was housed in its wooden box where Mr Wicker had stowed it away. I unclipped the box and lifted it out, sagging a little under its weight.

I was about to leave the captain’s cabin when I remembered Sophie’s final plea to me to provide the proof that Captain Lightower was a traitor. Such proof, she implied, could redeem her mother, perhaps save her from the rope. I realised, all at once, that there was a good chance that the letter Don Scapino had given Mr Wicker would be somewhere in the cabin.

Quickly, I laid the astrolabe down on the table and opened the desk drawers. Nothing. I opened the wardrobe and saw Mr Wicker’s civilian clothes. I tried to remember what he had done with the letter when the don had handed it to him. He had tucked it into his shirt. That was right. I considered then that he may have transferred the letter to his coat.

Hoping against hope, I felt in the pockets of his coat and to my delight found what I was looking for: the paper folded and sealed with red wax and addressed to Captain Edward Lightower, Royal Navy.

How cynical that appellation Royal Navy was!

Feeling like purring myself, I tucked the letter into my shirt, picked up the astrolabe, and after departing the cabin, flew off now in darkness for the roofs of the Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas.

The next morning, Mr Wicker and Don Scapino set out for the Castillo de San Felipe de Barajas. Don Esquivar’s man had returned the previous day with the message that the
commandante
would be pleased to receive the visitors for he was sure there would be much to discuss.

From ground level the castle was even more imposing than it looked from on high. There was a gatehouse guarding the steep zigzag pathway to the summit. Here, yet again, Don Scapino presented papers and explanations and eventually he and Mr Wicker were waved through, although not without a two-man guard to accompany them on their climb.

The path led to an expansive bricked plateau guarded by battlements, each protected by a monstrous cannon far bigger than any I had seen on board a ship. Surely many of these had been responsible for sinking Admiral Vernon’s vessels. Here and there were bastions and turrets serving as watch-towers. Don Scapino and Mr Wicker were led towards a cluster of stone buildings which looked as if they had been assembled on top of one another and surmounted by the tallest watch-tower of all. They were then handed
over to another small detachment and led into the first building, which appeared to be an anteroom. Here they were told to remain while one of the guards left to report their arrival.

Sometime later the guard reappeared and curtly signalled for them to follow him. He led them into yet another chamber and then knocked on a door. It was only after this that they were admitted into the quarters of the
commandante.

I had thought that Don Scapino was perhaps the most frightening man I’d encountered given his reptilian, black-clad body and his prune eye. But the man sitting behind a black mahogany table in this chamber made Don Scapino look almost normal.

He stood unsteadily and lurched towards us. As he emerged from the behind the table it was readily apparent that not only was his left leg missing, but so was his right arm, and when I looked at his face I saw that like Don Scapino he was missing his left eye, and just like Don Scapino he did not bother to wear an eye-patch. He wore white trousers and hose and a richly embroidered jacket flashed with the scarlet of the Spanish navy. He also wore a long and elaborate white wig appropriate to his authority.

I gasped. I was in no doubt as to who this man was. It could only be Blas de Lezo, the admiral who had brought the fleet of Admiral Vernon to its knees and who had withstood the troops of General Wentworth for so many weeks until the mosquitoes finished them off.

I had never been in the presence of a greater man, and
invisible as I was, I quailed. Suddenly Mr Wicker’s enterprise was worse than mad — it was ludicrous.

The chamber was larger but even more sparsely furnished than Don Esquivar’s gallery. There was the admiral’s large black table and a few squat wooden chairs. The walls were bare for the most part, too, merely plastered and free of ornament save a couple of charts and the object that had driven Mr Wicker so powerfully.

Between the charts and hanging by its ring on a single wooden peg was the astrolabe. It was plain and unadorned, without jewels or decoration, and giving no hint whatsoever of its dreadful potential.

The courtesies of greeting and welcome were elaborate and at a signal one of the two guards who stood on either side of the door hurried to a plain wooden cabinet and poured three small glasses with what looked to be ruby-coloured wine.

Even though much of the conversation was in Spanish and Mr Wicker’s replies were briefly polite, I could sense that Blas de Lezo regarded his English visitor with a measure of distaste. I could understand why. Captain Lightower’s services to his Spanish masters were no doubt valuable — perhaps at times crucial — but a man of such undoubted heroism, and such sacrificial patriotism, as Blas de Lezo could never admire a man who was a traitor to his own country.

I was sure Mr Wicker would have been aware of this but he did not show it, and nor did he allow it to interfere with his suave courtesy and gentlemanly charm. I was reminded yet again that I should not underestimate this man.

Eventually, the conversation, as I knew it must, turned to
the astrolabe hanging on the wall. Much of this talk was led by Don Scapino. He knew, of course, of Mr Wicker’s intentions but whether he was aware of how Mr Wicker could unleash the astrolabe’s astonishing powers, I knew not. I guessed Don Scapino did not even know of the astrolabe’s powers.

Astonishingly, Mr Wicker’s scheme seemed to be going to plan. The admiral had apparently been told that ‘Captain Lightower’ knew how to work the astrolabe. The device was removed from the wall and handed to Mr Wicker. He held it up by the ring and adjusted the alidade. He tried to explain to the admiral in English what he was doing while Don Scapino translated. Then Mr Wicker had a quiet word to Don Scapino, who in turn made a suggestion to the admiral.

This was the critical moment.

The admiral gave a tight, bleak smile, nodded and gestured towards the door. Clearly there was to be a demonstration outside on the bricked plateau.

The guards waited until the admiral and his guests departed the chamber. I followed the gentlemen and presently we were once again standing on the bricked platform in the bright sunshine of the early afternoon.

Mr Wicker glanced at me and, taking his meaning, I leapt up and glided towards the area of the roof where I had left the astrolabe from the
Firefly
. It was so close to the courtyard I could lean over the eave to see Mr Wicker, Don Scapino and the
commandante
almost directly below me.

Then, Mr Wicker lifted the astrolabe up and dangled it from the ring; he directed it towards the sun and crouching slightly adjusted the alidade.

All at once, the daylight vanished.

For a few seconds there was utter blackness. Before eyes could adjust to the darkness there was total confusion and an instant buzz of alarm and consternation. Below me I heard cries of astonishment, amazement, and from some of the guards an instant keening of despair.

Even as I leapt off the roof parapet clutching the
Firefly
’s astrolabe, my eyes were adjusting and the great bowl of stars began gleaming and flickering above me. I landed just beside Mr Wicker and we quickly exchanged astrolabes and almost in one movement I leapt to the air again and regained the roof.

I prayed the alidade on the
commandante
’s astrolabe was not as stiff as on the one Mr Wicker had shown me, otherwise perpetual darkness might prevail. Luckily, Mr Flynn had constructed his device beautifully and the alidade, while firm, moved easily. I stood upon the roof and looked about the black velvet sky and quickly located Sirius shining like a bright pointer. I held up the astrolabe, as Mr Wicker had, and then angled the alidade so that it was aimed directly at Sirius.

The brightness returned as instantly as the darkness had fallen. Gasping with relief, I dropped down and placed the astrolabe carefully on the red tiles so that even if it did slide it would be caught before the edge.

Then I leapt once more into the air and dropped back to the platform.

There was almost as much consternation with the sudden return of daylight as there had been with its disappearance.

Mr Wicker stood there clutching the astrolabe, and
feigning perplexity so well he almost convinced me.

Blas de Lezo stomped about shouting and gesticulating to his panicked guards who quickly gathered themselves and awkwardly resumed their stations. Clearly they were more frightened of their commander than they were of day turning to night and back to day again.

Don Scapino had backed away from Mr Wicker, his eyes wild and his wig in disarray. Obviously Mr Wicker had not prepared him for what had been about to happen and he was having difficulty accommodating it.

Mr Wicker turned to him and said, ‘Good heavens, señor. What on earth happened? I can scarcely believe it!’

Don Scapino stared at Mr Wicker, struggling to regain his composure. It took some seconds, but when he did, his expression had changed. His surprise turned to realisation as he suddenly comprehended just what a powerful instrument the astrolabe really was. With this comprehension, a look of great cunning, even greed, crossed his face.

He quickly moved to Mr Wicker and his eyes darted rapidly between him and the astrolabe still clutched in his hand.

‘It was the astrolabe, wasn’t it?’ he whispered urgently.

Mr Wicker stared at him mildly and shrugged.

‘I see now why you wanted this thing so desperately,’ said Don Scapino almost bitterly. ‘You tricked me into believing this was a mere foolish fancy, a whim.’

‘How could I fool anybody?’ whispered Mr Wicker. ‘We are not fooled by others. We only ever fool ourselves.’

Don Scapino backed away from him once more, and
turned to the
commandante,
who had moved some way down the platform still marshalling his troops. The don shouted something to the
commandante,
something shrill and urgent, and he pointed repeatedly at Mr Wicker and the astrolabe.

‘Oh dear,’ murmured Mr Wicker, ‘I was right not to trust him.’

‘What is he saying?’ I asked.

‘He is a fair-weather friend, I’m afraid,’ said Mr Wicker. ‘He is telling the
commandante
that I am an impostor, that I’m not Captain Lightower, and that I’m trying to steal the astrolabe because it has magic powers, powers so immense it could rewrite the map of the world!’

I stared at him. Of course the charges were all quite true, but Mr Wicker seemed not at all concerned. If anything he seemed amused.

Perhaps, at that point, I should have remembered Jacob Stone.

‘Don Scapino!’ said Mr Wicker sharply, so sharply that the Spaniard stopped his crying and gesticulating and turned to his erstwhile friend.

‘Look at me!’

Again, Don Scapino, as if struck physically by the urgent tone in Mr Wicker’s voice, obeyed.

For some moments they locked eyes. Like Jacob Stone, it seemed Don Scapino could not pull himself away.

And then, horribly, unaccountably, the pointing and the accusations started again.

But this time, everything was multiplied, speeded up.
Don Scapino’s arms waved about in the air as if caught in a tempest. Faster, faster. His voice rose in pitch until his shouts became squeals, berserk squeals like those of a flayed pig.

Blas de Lezo came lurching up. He looked at Mr Wicker, his good eye wide with amazement.

He asked something of Mr Wicker, who replied, and they stood together staring at Don Scapino.

Meanwhile, the deranged Spaniard had given up his wild squealing and began clucking instead —
buck-buck-buck-buck-buck
— like a crazed chicken, and like a crazed chicken too he began leaping up and down higgledy-piggledy all over the platform, simultaneously flapping his arms up and down as if trying to lift himself into the sky.

Blas de Lezo left Mr Wicker and hurried after Don Scapino, who was now bouncing his way down the platform towards the very edge. The admiral shouted orders to the guards who had been jaw-dropped and frozen in astonishment at the mad progress of the Spaniard.

I did not need to know Spanish to understand his order.

‘Stop him!’

Suddenly galvanised into action the men rushed at Don Scapino. Two held his shoulders and one held his legs firmly as they dragged the struggling and still wildly clucking figure back. It had not been a moment too soon. As the
commandante
had clearly seen, the maddened don had been about to launch himself from the platform and leap into the air.

He would have plunged the height of the castle and almost certainly dashed himself to death on the brick pathway below.

‘What did you say to the
commandante
?’ I whispered to Mr Wicker.

‘I told him,’ murmured Mr Wicker, ‘that the unfortunate man was given to fits and delusions, and imagining himself a chicken, but that I had never seen anything as severe as this before.’

I watched as Don Scapino was led away, no doubt to some secure place where he would be of no danger to himself or others. The soldiers took him through an entrance that stepped down into the very bowels of the castle.

Don Scapino’s dramatic eruption of madness it seemed had all but erased the wonder of the sudden eclipse that had occasioned it. Blas de Lezo once again approached Mr Wicker who, full of courtesy and charm, although with an appropriate expression of concern about the behaviour of his friend, handed back the astrolabe.

I stood back and watched with astonishment.

He’s going to get away with it,
I thought.

Some more pleasantries and courtesies followed and moments later Blas de Lezo turned on his heel and returned to his chamber, no doubt ruminating on an incredible morning.

I was left with Mr Wicker.

He turned to me and gave me a satisfied smile.

‘You have done very well, little one,’ he said.

Clearly he was very pleased with me.

How pleased?
I wondered.

‘Have I done well enough for you to change me back again?’ I ventured.

He looked at me and laughed. ‘Well enough?’ he said.
‘Too well, little one, too well. You are far too valuable to me now to ever consider changing you back!’

It was all I had feared.

I had not really expected anything else.

‘I believe,’ said Mr Wicker, considering the matter both closed and of little importance, ‘that our time in this pleasant town will shortly be at an end and that we should set sail once more, albeit without our late passenger.’

I waited for my instructions.

‘Accordingly, I will ask you to return the astrolabe you have so safely deposited on the roof to the
Firefly
. However, it would not be wise to do so until after dark. I charge you to do this while I will repair to my kind host Don Esquivar to tell him the unfortunate news of his friend.’

I did not dare speak in case he heard the disappointment in my voice and I did not want to give him that pleasure. Instead I nodded and left him on the instant. Only when I was high above the castle did I glance back to the platform to see the incongruous figure of Mr Wicker in the uniform of an English sea captain striding towards the zigzag pathway that led to the town below.