Chapter 24 #2
The food renewed the men’s energy and spirits. They started back along the now well-worn path toward the camp. A glance at the sun told Hawke it was midafternoon. There were still at least four hours before dark.
The party emerged from the jungle cautiously, not knowing what they would find on the beach. But they shouldn’t have worried. Mr. Stanley and Murray called out and hurried over to them.
“Captain! And Captain.” Mr. Stanley nodded to both men. “We’ve sent search parties for you.” He smirked when he saw Blackham’s hands bound, but his face paled when his gaze landed on Belle.
“Belle, lass, what’s happened to ye?” Murray’s eyes were wide, and his brows drawn with concern.
“I am fine,” she said, looking embarrassed at the attention. “How is the crew? Is everyone . . . ?”
“All are well,” Murray said. His worried expression remained, but he did not ask further about her condition.
“Tim and Beattie?” Hawke asked.
“They’ve come ashore,” Mr. Stanley said. “And are entirely unharmed.”
“My Leviathan!” Blackham’s voice startled them. He and Shadbolt had just stepped from beneath the trees onto the beach. “Where is my ship?”
They all turned toward the bay. Only two ships floated there. Hawke took a closer look at the camp, feeling heaviness in the air and smelling blood.
“Something nefarious has happened here,” Shadbolt said, apparently noting the same things.
“My ship!” Blackham cried again. He ran ahead, falling onto his knees in the sand and digging his fingers into his hair. “She is gone, and the treasure with her.”
“All those chests,” Murray said. “De Silva’s silver?”
Hawke nodded.
Murray let out a low whistle.
“The ship sailed at high tide this morning,” Mr. Stanley told them, glancing toward Blackham. “Took all night to row the chests out in jolly boats.”
“Once they finished,” Murray said, “the two leaders killed most o’ the men who’d accompanied them—and others who were attempting to join them. Pushed them off the boats. Slaughtered them right there on the beach.” He pointed.
Belle gasped.
Hawke grimaced at what was unfortunately a much too familiar sight. Blood soaking into the white sand. Fortunately, the bodies had been carried off, presumably to be buried by their crewmates or conveyed out to sea. He was grateful Belle hadn’t seen them.
“They only took enough men to crew the ship,” Mr. Stanley said.
“Greedy curs,” Courtney muttered.
“Aye,” Murray said. “Took most o’ the food supplies with ’em too.” His bearded face broke into a grin. “Includin’ an entire barrel o’ cherries.”
“Between that”—Mr. Stanley nodded to the bloody ground—“and the sickness, there weren’t men enough to guard prisoners.
Nor did the remainder care to.” He looked back toward the camp.
“Many of these men are still loyal to you, Hawke. We’ve been waiting on your orders, but Beattie has brought the remainder of the tonic ashore. Should we administer it?”
Hawke deferred to Courtney. He knew the enemy best of all.
“Aye,” Courtney said. “Most of these men are good buccaneers. They don’t deserve this plague.”
“I will assist,” Belle said. She and Murray started toward the camp.
“Killed their own men rather than share the treasure,” Mr. Stanley muttered, shaking his head. “Violating the Code like that, stealing an ally’s ship . . .”
“Merits the pair of them the black spot,” Hawke said.
“Aye, and every buccaneer bears the responsibility to enforce the sentence.”
Hawke gazed at the patch of bloodied sand as he considered the implications of the quartermaster’s words.
He was startled from his reverie by Belle’s scream.
In a move, Hawke unsheathed his weapon and spun.
Belle and Murray were on the ground, and Blackham was running toward Courtney, cutting the ropes from his wrists in a swift move, then raising Belle’s sword to strike. “There are too many captains on this island.” The man spoke through gritted teeth. “And not enough ships for all of us.”
As Courtney put up an arm to protect himself, Hawke darted forward, blocking the attack with a parry.
Their swords crossed; Blackham’s eyes narrowed at his own weapon in Hawke’s hand.
“First a woman, and now an unarmed man.” Hawke made a tutting sound. “Who will you go after next, Blackham? A street urchin? A puppy? The stories of your courage really have been exaggerated.”
Blackham spun his sword around, disengaging the weapons with a hiss of metal. “You have ruined everything.” He spat the words as he lunged. “Years of planning, and effort . . . all of it wasted.”
The next attack was aimed at his head. Hawke blocked it. Blackham swung again and again, his strikes powerful and movements lighting quick. Here was a man accustomed to fighting. And even more terrifying, at this point, Blackham had nothing to lose.
“And don’t forget,” Hawke said, goading. “You lost the largest treasure to be discovered in the last two hundred years.” He winced dramatically, wrinkling his nose. “That must sting.”
Hawke’s plan to enflame his opponent’s anger worked perhaps too well.
Blackham’s face was unrecognizable, entirely twisted by hatred and fury.
The swords continued to clash as they attacked, parried, and blocked, moving across the beach in a violent dance.
Blackham’s footwork was exceptional. If Hawke hadn’t been at the other end of his sword, he would have enjoyed watching the man fight.
“It is lost because of you.” Blackham’s words came out with a spray of spittle.
He feinted, but Hawke didn’t take the bait. Instead, he rotated the hilt of his sword until he gripped it backward and spun, slashing in a backhanded arc that whished through the air. He spun the sword around again with a flourish, facing Blackham with a smirk and a lifted brow.
There was a smattering of applause.
“The problem, I would say,” Hawke said conversationally, “is your choice of friends.” He lunged, then deflected Blackham’s slash. “I could have told you Wilkes would betray you. Falco, however . . . that was a surprise. He really did seem to be a chum.”
Blackham slashed horizontally.
Hawke jumped back, thrown off balance. He planted his feet in the sand, raising his sword.
“I will kill you and every person who has stood in my way,” Blackham growled. He flicked his gaze toward Belle. “Starting with her. And I won’t do it quickly.”
Hawke recognized Blackham was using his own tactic against him in an effort to provoke a reaction. He tamped down the anger and panic threatening his thoughts. Emotions would cost him. And he needed to remain coolheaded if he was going to stay in this fight.
“Didn’t you learn your lesson?” Hawke asked.
He moved to attack, slashing hard. Swords rang as they clashed together.
“Her ladyship is not easily defeated.” He deflected a strike, pushing Blackham back.
“I imagine you still feel the effects of your last attempt.” He dropped his eyes downward, smirking.
Blackham’s growl turned into a roar. He rushed forward.
Hawke met him head-on, matching him strike for strike.
“She won’t be so lucky again,” Blackham said. “When I get my hands on her—”
Hawke parried, and then twisted Blackham’s blade with his own, making the man stumble.
Blackham stepped back and slipped, crashing to the ground.
Hawke glanced down, seeing it was a piece of Belle’s broken spyglass that had caused the man to lose his footing. The beauty of the moment coming full circle was truly moving.
Hawke stepped down on the wrist of Blackham’s sword hand, driving it into the sand. He ignored Blackham’s curses and raised his weapon to deliver the killing blow. A gasp stopped his hand.
Belle watched him, wide-eyed, hands over her mouth. She looked as if she were about to break into tears.
Hawke saw himself through her eyes: disheveled, breathing heavy, teeth bared, ready to strike a man dead. He must look to her like a brute, a monster. And in that moment, he was. He lowered his weapon, then tossed it aside. He kicked the sword away from Blackham’s hand.
“Clamp him in irons,” he ordered. “And put him where I will not have to see his face again.”
He stalked away over the sand, needing to put space between himself and . . . and everyone.
“Hawke!” Belle called out, but he didn’t turn.
“Leave him,” Shadbolt told her. “Allow his blood to cool.”
His blood to cool indeed. If anything, Hawke’s blood was growing more heated.
He saw Belle in his mind, bloody, bruised, and terrified. This was what life with pirates had done to her. The mental image only reaffirmed his need to get himself far away. For both their sakes. She didn’t deserve this.
Hours later, Hawke sat on the beach as the sun set behind him. He was away from the fires of camp, preferring to be alone as he watched the last rays of day glimmering on the water.
Captain Courtney joined him, easing himself down onto the sand with a grunt.
“Leviathan will be riding low, moving slowly with the extra weight,” Courtney said. “She will be following the current.” He spoke in an easy tone, as if he were simply making a casual observation. “With a minimal crew, she could be easily taken.”
Hawke didn’t respond. He’d been pondering what Mr. Stanley had said.
Wilkes and Falco had broken the Code. They had betrayed their crews.
It was entirely within any of the Brethren’s right to deal justice and claim the treasure.
He tugged at a piece of grass, pulling on it until the root came out of the sand, then tossed it aside.
“That treasure would change a man’s fortune in every way imaginable,” Courtney said. He rose, patting Hawke on the shoulder and leaving him to his thoughts.
Hawke looked toward the camp. He knew his course. Had known it since the moment he realized Leviathan had sailed. He sighed, thinking of what he must do. Setting a course was easy, but in this case, following it would hurt. And not only himself.