Birds of Prey - Smith Wilbur (версия книг TXT) 📗

Slowly the man lifted his head and stared at the Buzzard. "I saw young Mister Winterton slaughtered and the captain shot down in cold blood on the beach. I'll not sail with any murdering pirate."

"Pirate!" the Buzzard screamed. "You dare to call me pirate, you lump of stinking offal? You were born to feed the seagulls, and that's what you shall do!" The great claymore rasped from its scabbard, and he swung it down to cleave Davey Morgan's head, through the teeth as far as his shoulders. With the bloody sword in his hand he strode down the line of prisoners.

"Is there another among you who would dare to call me pirate to my face?" No man spoke out, and at last Cumbrae rounded on Sam Bowles. "Lock them all in the Golden Bough's hold. Feed them on half a pint of water and a biscuit a day. Let them think about my offer more seriously. In a few days" time I'll speak to these lovelies again, and we shall see if they have better manners then."

He took Sam aside and spoke in a quieter tone. "There is still some storm damage that needs repair." He pointed up at the rigging. "She's your ship now, to sail and command. Make all good at once. I want to leave this godforsaken anchorage as soon as I can. Do you hear me, Captain Bowles?"

Sam Bowles's face lit with pleasure at the title. "You can rely on me, your grace."

Cumbrae strode to the entry port and slid down into one of the longboats. "Take me back to the beach, varlets." He jumped over the side before they touched the sand and waded knee-deep to the shore where Colonel Schreuder was waiting for him.

"My lord, I must speak to you, he said, and the Buzzard smiled at him engagingly.

"Your discourse always gives me pleasure, sit. Come with me. We can talk while I go about my affairs." He led the way across the beach, and into the grove.

"Captain Llewellyn was-" Schreuder began, but the Buzzard cut him off.

"Llewellyn was a bloody pirate. I was defending myself from his treachery." He stopped abruptly and faced Schreuder, hauling up his sleeve to display the ridged purple scar that disfigured his shoulder. "Do you see that? That's what I got for trusting Llewellyn once before. If I had not forestalled him, his desperadoes would have fallen on us and slaughteied us where we stood. I am sure that you understand and that you are grateful for my intervention. It could have been you going that way."

He pointed at the group of his men who were staggering up from the beach, dragging the corpses of Llewellyn and Vincent Winterton by their legs. Llewellyn's shattered head left a red drag mark through the sand.

Schreuder stared aghast at the burial party. He recognized in Cumbrae's words both a warning and a threat. Beyond the first line of trees was a series of deep trenches that had been freshly dug all over the area where once Sir Francis Courtney's encampment had stood. His hut was gone but in its place was a pit twenty feet deep, its bottom filled with seepage of brackish lagoon water. There was another extensive excavation on the site of the old spice go down It looked as though an army of miners had been at work among the trees. The Buzzard's men dragged the corpses to the nearest of these pits and dumped them unceremoniously into it. The bodies slid down the steep side and splashed into the puddle at the bottom.

Schreuder looked troubled and uncertain. "I find it difficult to believe that Llewellyn was such a person." But Cumbrae would not let him finish.

"By God, Schreuder, do you doubt my word? What of your assurance that you wanted to throw in your lot with me? If my actions offend you then it's better that we part now. I will give you one of the pirmaces from the Golden Bough, and a crew of Llewellyn's pirates to help you make your own way back to Good Hope. You can explain your fine scruples to Governor van de Velde. Is that more to your liking?"

"No, sir, it is not," said Schreuder hurriedly. "You know I cannot return to Good Hope."

"Well, then, Colonel, are you still with me?"

Schreuder hesitated, watching the grisly labours of the burial teams. He knew that if he crossed Cumbrae he would probably end up in the pit with Llewellyn and the sailors from the Golden Bough. He was trapped.

"I am still with you," he said at last.

The Buzzard nodded. "Here's my hand on it, then." He thrust out his huge freckled fist covered with wiry ginger hair. Slowly Schreuder reached out and took it. Cumbrae could see in his eyes the realization dawning that from now onwards he would be beyond the pale and was content that he could trust Schreuder at last. By accepting and condoning the massacre of the officers and crew of the Golden Bough he had made himself a pirate and an outlaw. He was, in every sense, the Buzzard's man.

"Come along with me, sir. Let me show you what we have done here." Cumbrae changed the subject easily, and led Schreuder past the mass grave without another glance at the pile of corpses. "You see, I knew Francis Courtney well we were like brothers. I am still certain that his fortune is hidden hereabouts. He has what he took from the Standvastigheid and that from the Heerlycke Nacht. By the blood of all the saints, there must be twenty thousand pounds buried somewhere under these sands."

At that they came to the long, deep trench where forty of Cumbrae's men were already back at work with spades. Among them were the three black seamen he had bought on the slave block at Good Hope.

"Jiri!" the Buzzard bellowed. "Matesi! Kimatti!" The slaves jumped, threw down their spades and scrambled out of the ditch in trepidation to face their master.

"Look at these great beauties, sir. I paid five hundred florins for each. It was the worst bargain I ever struck. Here before your eyes you have living proof that there are only three things a blackamoor can do well. He can prevaricate, thieve and swive." The Buzzard let fly a guffaw. "Isn't that the truth, Jiri?"

"Yes, Lardy." Jiri grinned and agreed. "It's God's own truth."