Chapter 297: A Most Singular Impertinence

Beads of sweat dripped down James face, dropped from his chin, and crashed on the stone.

The marine on the left breathed heavily, the one in the middle was white around the knuckles holding his musket, while the youngest had bitten through his lip, a thin thread of blood twisting with his sweat. All three watched the grey man’s shoulders, waiting for him to speak.

Beside them, the aide held his lantern aloft with a fist that wouldn’t stop shaking.

The grey man stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his pale eyes steady and his weight easily on his heels. He regarded the firearm pointed at his chest with about as much concern as a minor inconvenience.

James inspected the room.

All the light came from one lantern and torch, illuminating thin sheets of water that covered the stones and crept slowly to the right, where it passed through a hole in the floor and poured away without making a splash he could hear.

His eyes met Anne’s, moved to the lantern, then to the drifting water, and returned to her. She followed the same route and came to the same conclusion, and then her thumb eased against the hammer, and the muzzle shifted half an inch from the aide to the lantern.

The grey man rocked forward onto his toes and drew a deep breath.

His voice thundered over the chamber, unhurried and immense, every wall throwing his words back a heartbeat later. "Mister Calloway! The Scourge of the Antilles, in the flesh. Permit me to felicitate you upon the title, ’twas the Dons that coined it, naturally, as cowards ever do such things, to give a name to whatever lurks beneath the bed so that they may leave off screaming at it and get back to their rosaries."

While so, his gaze slid across Anne and moved on, sparing her no interest. "I am Commodore Nathaniel Falcombe, His Majesty’s officer upon this station, the King’s right hand upon this isles and the King’s left boot upon the neck of every verminous wretch that sails without a commission."

The commodore’s smile was small and fond. "Why, that is impertinence of the most singular order, ’pon my soul, the most exquisite! I had looked for you to come calling, Mister Calloway, I never doubted it, only merely fancied you would knock at a different door, and a damned sight later."

James’s grin widened while he gave the pistol a fond little waggle. "Och, Commodore, you flatter a poor sailor. Calloway, aye, since we’re swappin’ names like bastards at a fair."

He jerked his chin at the stairway behind him, idly. "Pleasantries aside, here’s a thing that’s had me scratchin’ me head, Commodore. Why you’ve a whole camp of iron chests up your stairs, don’t tell me the King’s taken to diggin’ for gold."

The word struck the commodore’s face like a slap and a compliment delivered together, delight and outrage chasing each other across the weathered features.

"Gold! Egad, sirrah, egad! You aim your guesses no higher than your trade will carry you!"

He continued with an imponent tone. "His Majesty has gold enough to gild the Thames from Westminster to the sea, and a gentleman spends his coin upon his tailor, not upon holes in the ground. I would not stoop to gather gold in this place, no, not if it lay about my boots in heaps."

James held the grin steady and turned that last sentence over, once on each side.

The commodore’s voice dropped, silken. "Since modesty forbids you to ask, Mister Calloway, I shall tell you freely what the King has lost. His Majesty’s ships went to the bottom, and in their cabins sat a strongbox, and within that strongbox lay a letter and a trinket. A trifle! A bauble! And I am reliably informed that the Scourge of the Antilles has a most particular fondness for curios."

"Curios? Och, Commodore, you’ve the wrong man. My fondness is for rum, and rum alone."

His pale brow twitched, then came a dry little hum of appreciation. "Diverting! Capital, sirrah, capital. Very well, then, let us speak of mud. There is a certain swamp in the Bahamas, which I need not name, that has lately been persuaded to surrender her secrets, a most obliging creature, the mud, Mister Calloway, once one has learned the proper manner of asking her."

The grin held a beat more, then vanished.

The play vanished from James voice, and what was left underneath was calmer and a good deal less friendly.

"And what sent you, Falcombe?"

Falcombe swelled, certain and impossible to argue with. "Sent? Sent! I am not sent, sirrah. My graves grow by the dozen upon that beach, and I walk among them every dawn. I would walk twice as many, thrice, for the prize I mean to collect, for the Crown spends men as you spend rum, Mister Calloway, freely. Now. When an officer of my station disposes of vermin such as yourself, he must weigh, with all due gravity, the several..."

"Och, away with you, man! Hold your shite a wee minute!"

The commodore let the echo of James’s outburst die on the stone, then took up his sentence exactly where it had been dropped. "... several courses open to the Crown, of which, I am pleased to report, the rope is by far the most efficient."

A half-smile touched the weathered face, then vanished.

Far overhead, the murmur of movement grew more distinct, but James watched the commodore’s eyes and let the noise pass without comment.

Then it became a steady tramp, and James heard it a beat too late. Redcoats came down the stairs behind him in perfect step, while more boots emerged from the aisles on three sides.

He turned his head just enough to see steel at the edge of the light. Then came more steel, and redcoats began stepping out of the darkness, rank after rank, six, seven, eight, with more behind them.

Their faces were gaunt and grey with the flux, their lips cracked white and their hands shaking on their muskets, yet their bayonets remained steady.

So the conversation had been a net all along, and the old devil had let him swim straight into it.

The commodore’s hands remained clasped behind his back. "The Crown’s patience is an ocean, Mister Calloway, deep and dark and without a shore, and your neck is but a pebble upon its floor. Take what comfort you may in that, sir... and strike."

James’s grin split wide enough to show his back teeth. His hand opened, and the torch fell down.

"An ocean, is it? Och, I’ve been drowned in a bigger one than yours, Falcombe, and I came up grinnin’! ANNE!"

The torch struck the flooded stones and went out with a hiss. At the same instant, Anne’s pistol cracked beside James’s ear and the aide’s lantern burst in his raised fist, sending burning oil down the man’s sleeve and spattering it across the darkness.

He screamed and flung the broken lantern away.

For one heartbeat, the oil caught fire on the stone, lighting every gaunt face in the ranks, then the flames vanished, as darkness slammed down the chambers.

James jumped to the side as three muskets fired together, their white flashes freezing the chamber, the ranks, and the marines’ bared teeth into view.

He fired [Counterargument] at the place where the commodore had stood, but in the flash of the muzzle, the man was two paces to the left. The shot struck stone behind him, finding nothing else to do.

So the old devil had noticed that glance after all.

James let the pistol drop against its strap, caught Anne by the wrist, and ran. They went right across the pillars, their boots splashing through the water as the current tugged at their ankles.

Behind them, the ranks shouted and fired into the darkness, while ahead, the edge of the hole emerged from the black, bringing with it a breath of cold and the noise of falling water.

"Hold on, lass!" James whooped, and they jumped.

The commodore’s voice washed after them, still vast and unhurried. "Go down, Mister Calloway! Go down, and gladly! Every hole has a bottom, every last one, and I shall be standing upon it to welcome you!"

The water fell beside them.