Chapter 4
Hawke fumed as he walked through the streets of St. Giles.
What had started as a pleasant morning in the stocks had ended with Tim taken as hostage and himself bound to a journey with a madwoman that would most likely end in death for all involved.
And it was all the fault of Lady Annabelle Bradford.
Just thinking her name was enough to cause an angry eruption of heat that burned through his chest and out to his extremities.
He scowled at a street merchant and turned down a dark alleyway.
If nothing else in his life was consistent, he could always count on the London streets.
They were loud, dangerous, crammed with people, wagons, and livestock.
Not to mention running with sewage, garbage, and very often animal carcasses.
He stepped over a particularly odorous pile left by a horse and wove his way deeper into the warren.
Unbidden, the memories of that ill-fated voyage came to mind.
Seeing so many of his shipmates seized with spasms, unable to breathe, and eventually succumbing to a painful death had been the subject of nightmares for years.
Men he’d respected had become weak and confused, wandering the decks raging against invisible demons.
Hawke himself had fallen ill, but by some providence experienced only a fraction of the symptoms that had consumed the adults.
And now, he was returning. And not only that, he was bringing Tim, exposing his weakened body to the curse.
Hawke didn’t believe his friend would survive.
It was very likely none of them would. His scowl deepened as he searched for a word to describe Lady Annabelle—horrible, overbearing, haughty.
He hadn’t felt such animosity toward anyone.
Not even Robert Wilkes, and that man had stolen his ship, commandeered his crew, and landed him in jail.
But as despicable as Wilkes was, even he wouldn’t have taken a defenseless man hostage to force Hawke to comply.
Hawke paused. Actually, Wilkes would have done exactly that, if given the chance.
They were, both of them, reprehensible. He nodded to himself, pleased that he’d hit on the right word.
Hawke crossed a busy street, stepping carefully, and thought over what he’d learned. Blackham had taken Courtney, forcing him by some means to direct him to the island. Perhaps Blackham had found some weakness to exploit as his crew had done with Tim.
Blackham’s galleon Leviathan had a week’s advantage, but Hawke was confident Calypso’s Quest would make up a few of the days.
She was smaller and swifter. A six cannon, two-mast frigate.
Hawke couldn’t help the smile that pulled at his mouth.
In spite of it all, the knowledge that tomorrow he would be at the helm of that glorious ship filled him with a joy that bordered on euphoria.
If only the voyage wasn’t destined for certain doom, it would be perfect.
Hawke entered the Stag and Spoon and blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim.
Looking at the scrubbed wooden tables and thick chairs, he saw that nothing had changed.
The stag’s antlers still hung above the hearth, a group of elderly veterans from the Monmouth Uprising still drank at a table in the corner, and the air still smelled of woodsmoke, mutton stew, and freshly baked bread.
Even though he’d eaten only an hour earlier, Hawke’s stomach rumbled.
As if he’d heard the sound, Jack Skipton, the innkeeper, came from the kitchen, his face beaming.
“Well, bless me, if it isn’t my old friend!
” Jack wiped his hands on the rag that hung from the apron that stretched across his ample waist. He pulled Hawke into a crushing embrace, setting fire to every bruise, welt, and wound on his back, and then he held him by the shoulders, concern creasing his jolly face as he looked him over.
Jack’s eyes widened at what Hawke assumed was a bruise on his cheek.
“Naught but skin and bones, ye are. And yer skin’s as pale as m’lady’s fingers. Where’ve ye been all this time, Hawke?”
“Prison,” Hawke said in a low voice, glancing toward the men. He wished Jack hadn’t said his name aloud. The authorities would be after him, and soon enough they’d think to search the Stag and Spoon.
Jack frowned, but Hawke knew he would not pry unless Hawke was willing to explain.
“Sit down, let’s get some vittles in ye, then,” Jack said.
“Thank you. But I’ve actually come for—”
“I know what ye’ve come for.” Jack winked, and a bit of his jolly manner returned. He took out a key from beneath his tunic’s collar and lifted its leather strap over his head.
Hawke reached for the key, but Jack pulled it away. “But ye’ll eat first.” He shook his head and wagged his finger. “If my Molly saw ye lookin’ like this, she’d have my hide.”
Hawke dropped his hand. He couldn’t argue once Jack brought his late wife into the conversation. He nodded as emotion welled up, making his eyes itch. “It smells delicious, Jack. Let me help you.”
Hawke stepped toward the kitchen, but Jack pulled out a chair and motioned for him to sit.
“Come on, then. Ye’ve endured enough. Rest yerself.” Once he was satisfied that Hawke was comfortably situated, he hurried toward the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, “’Twill be but a moment.”
Sitting only reminded Hawke how exhausted he truly was. He leaned back and allowed himself to relax into the chair. He felt safe here. He always had.
He closed his eyes, inhaling the aroma of memories.
He thought of wiping tables and carrying barrels of ale from the storeroom.
Jack’s cheerful whistling. Molly’s kind eyes.
It was Jack who’d discovered him at the docks, delirious and fevered after The Good Will’s fateful voyage.
Molly had nursed him back to health, and the two had taken him in, treating him like a son.
He never understood why. In a city filled with ill and dying children, somehow Hawke had been the one they’d saved.
What had they seen in him? He’d asked but never gotten a satisfactory answer.
Whatever the reasoning, whether it was chance or fate or something more, whenever Hawke was in port, Jack and Molly were his family.
A tinge of guilt tugged at him as he thought of his mother, but she had died so long ago that he had only a few memories.
Jack sat beside Hawke as he ate, urging him on when he set down his spoon. When Jack was at last satisfied, and Hawke was certain he would need to be rolled from the table, the innkeeper gave him the key.
“Yer leavin’ again, are ye?” Jack asked.
Hawke nodded. “I wish I could stay.”
“I know the sea calls to you.” Jack closed Hawke’s hand tightly around the key. “Ye’ll always have a place here when ye do return.”
Hawke swallowed at the lump of emotion that was growing in his throat.
He hated that Jack ran the inn alone. He was far too old for such work.
If only he would accept the money Hawke offered him, he could be happily sitting on the porch of a home in the country, smelling fresh air and feeding chickens, or whatever old men did when they retired.
But Jack’s memories of Molly were at the Stag and Spoon, and he feared leaving the place behind would mean leaving her as well.
Jack released Hawke’s hand, giving it a pat, then he scrunched his nose as the twinkle returned to his eye. “Hope ye’ve time for a bath and a change o’ clothes before ye go.” He waved his hand in front of his face.
Once Hawke was washed and shaved, he climbed the wooden staircase, bypassing the guests’ rooms, and coming to the family’s quarters.
He stepped inside, hearing the familiar creak of the door, and crossed to a small alcove where his cot still stood beneath a window.
He ran his hand over the quilt, then knelt at the chest beside it.
Inside was everything he owned in the world.
He opened the lid, smiling at the fresh grease on the hinges.
Of course Jack had properly maintained it.
He took out his leather tricorn hat, pleased to see it had kept its shape.
Then he removed the black oilskin coat, shaking out the wrinkles.
He pushed his arms into the sleeves, feeling the familiar heaviness of the garment on his shoulders.
The coat came nearly to his knees, and Hawke was particularly proud of the brass buttons that ran from the high collar down one side and the embroidered buttonholes on the other. It was a splendid coat.
He stepped into his boots, stomping his feet until they felt just right.
He pulled out a long leather case, unrolling it to reveal the weapons inside. In only a moment, he’d donned a sword belt, the baldric across his shoulder holding a cutlass, a bandolier with bullet cartridges, two pistols in his belt, a dirk in each boot, and a dagger sheathed at his hip.
He put a few extra shirts and trousers, all in his signature black, into a satchel with his grooming kit, and a hunk of soap. He tossed in some extra knives and one more pistol, for peace of mind.
Hawke returned to the chest. He crouched down and withdrew a small felt pouch. He tightened his hand around it, then slipped it into an inside pocket of his coat, following it with a purse of silver coins.
When he returned to the inn’s dining room, Hawke felt like a new man. No longer the filthy, flea-bitten prisoner, but Captain Hawke of Calypso’s Quest. And from the glances of the other patrons, he knew he looked the part.
Jack came from the kitchen, grinning when he saw Hawke. “There ye are. Lookin’ like yerself again.” The older man wove through the tables to join him. He nodded in approval, then patted Hawke on the cheek. “Though yer still a bit thin for my liking.”
“Jack, I’d ask a favor of you.”
The man’s face turned solemn, though his smile still shone through. “Anything at all. Just ask it.”
Hawke pressed some coins into the man’s hand. “There is a family in Marshalsea—Mr. and Mrs. John Foster and their children. This is enough to pay their debt and secure lodgings and food while John finds employment.”
“I shall see that they get it,” Jack said.
Hawke gave him some more coins. “Secure a solicitor to ensure it happens. And you must see them free with your own eyes.” He didn’t have any confidence in the prison’s integrity. Especially when it came to money.
Jack pocketed the coins beneath his apron. “I will do it.”
Hawke had no doubt the man would keep his word. He let out a relieved breath. “Thank you.”
He put his hands on Jack’s shoulders, just as the older man had done to him only a few hours earlier.
He feared this may be their last meeting, and he searched his mind for something to say.
Something significant that told the old man how grateful he was to him and Molly for their care, how happy he always was at the Stag and Spoon.
Jack and Molly had provided him a good life, a home.
But for all his thoughts, he could not come up with the right words.
Jack’s eyes were damp as he watched Hawke’s face. The innkeeper pulled him into an embrace.
And in spite of the extreme discomfort of his small arsenal crushing various parts of his battered body, Hawke embraced him in return.
Sometimes, the right words weren’t words at all.