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

"So what news did she have?" Sir Francis interrupted impatiently.

"None good, as the Lord is my witness. They say that all of England was struck by the plague, and that men, women and children died in their thousands and tens of thousands, so they could not bury them fast enough and the bodies lay rotting and stinking in the streets."

"The plague!" Sir Francis crossed himself in horror. "The wrath of God."

"Then while the plague still raged through every town and village, London was destroyed by a mighty fire. They say that the flames left hardly a house standing."

Sir Francis stared at him in dismay. "London burned? It cannot be! The King is he safe? Was it the Dutch that put the torch to London? Tell me more, man, tell me more."

"Yes, the Black Boy is safe. But no, this time it was not the Dutch to blame. The fire was started by a baker's oven in Pudding Lane and it burned for three days without check. St. Paul's Cathedral is burned to the ground and the Guildhall, the Royal Exchange, one hundred parish churches and God alone knows what else besides. They say that the damage will exceed ten million pounds."

"Ten millions!" Sir Francis stared at him aghast. "Not even the richest monarch in the world could rise to such an amount. Why, Richard, the total Crown revenues for a year are less than one million!

It must beggar the King and the nation."

Richard Lister shook his head with gloomy relish. "There's more bad news besides. The Dutch have given us a mighty pounding. That devil, de Ruyter, sailed right into the Medway and the Thames. We lost sixteen ships of the line to him, and he captured the Royal Charles at her moorings in Greenwich docks and towed her away to Amsterdam."

"The flagship, the flower and pride of our fleet. Can England survive such a defeat, coming as it does so close upon the heels of the plague and the fire?"

Lister shook his head again. "They say the King is suing for peace with the Dutch. The war might be over at this very moment. It may have ended months ago, for all we know."

"Let us pray most fervently that is not so." Sir Francis looked across at the Resolution. "I took that prize barely three weeks past. If the war was over then, my commission from the Crown would have expired. My capture might be construed as an act of piracy."

"The fortunes of war, Franky. You had no knowledge of the peace. There is none but the Dutch will blame you for that." Richard Lister pointed with his inflamed trumpet of a nose across the channel at the Gull of Moray. "It seems that my lord Cumbrae feels slighted at being excluded from this reunion. See, he comes to join us."

The Buzzard had just launched a boat. It was being rowed down the channel now towards them, Cumbrae himself standing in the stern. The boat bumped against the Goddess's side and the Buzzard came scrambling up the rope ladder onto her deck.

"Franky!" he greeted Sir Francis. "Since we parted, I have not let a single day go past without a prayer for you." He came striding across the deck, his plaid swinging. "And my prayers were heard. That's a bonny wee galleon we have there, and filled to the gunwales with spice and silver, so I hear."

"You should have waited a day or two longer, before you deserted your station. You might have had a share of her." The Buzzard spread his hands in amazement. "But, my dear Franky, what's this you're telling me? I never left my station. I took a short swing into the east, to make certain the Dutchies weren't trying to give us the slip by standing further out to sea. I hurried back to you just as soon as I could. By then you were gone."

"Let me remind you of your own words, sir. "I am completely out of patience. Sixty-five days are enough for me and my brave fellows?" "My words, Franky?" The Buzzard shook his head, "Your ears must have played you false. The wind tricked you, you did not hear me fairly."

Sir Francis laughed lightly. "You waste your talent as Scotland's greatest liar. There is no one here for you to amaze. Both Richard and I know you too well."

"Franky, I hope this does not mean you would try to cheat me out of my fair share of the spoils?" He contrived to look both sorrowful and incredulous. "I agree that I was not in sight of the capture, and I would not expect a full half share. Give me a third and I will not quibble."

"Take a deep breath, sir." Sir Francis laid his hand casually on the hilt of his sword. "That whiff of spice is all the share you'll get from me."

The Buzzard cheered up miraculously and gave a huge, booming laugh. "Franky, my old and dear comrade in arms. Come and dine on board my ship this evening, and we can discuss your lad's initiation into the Order over a dram of good Highland whisky."

"So it's Hal's initiation that brings you back to see me, is it? Not the silver and spice?"

"I know how much the lad means to you, Franky to us all. He's a great credit to you. We all want him to become a Knight of the Order. You have spoken of it often. Isn't that the truth?"

Sir Francis glanced at his son, and nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Well, then, you'll not get a chance like this again in many a year. Here we are, three Nautonnier Knights together. That's the least number it takes to admit an acolyte to the first degree. When will you find another three Knights to make up a Lodge, out here beyond the Line?"

"How thoughtful of you, sir." And, of course, this has no bearing on a share of my booty that you were claiming but a minute ago? "Sir Francis's tone dripped with irony.

"We'll not speak about that again. You're an honest man, Franky. Hard but fair. You'd never cheat a brother Knight, would you?"