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Kinlan perceived him through the smoke, eyes widening in disbelief. He tugged at a pistol stashed in his waistband, and Turnbull let him have both barrels of the flintlock full in the chest. He backpedaled with an agonized shriek, one arm thrown wide as he fell. Turnbull dropped the pistol when Hogarth emerged, hacking and spitting in fury. He stood, hands on knees, panting like a great wolf and staring at Turnbull with sparks of malice dancing in his eyes. A small grin transfixed his lips. "Ah, if it isn't the mother hen," he said, drawing a coat-sleeve across his mouth. "I should've keelhauled ye and given ye a millstone necklace." He drew his saber, eyes darting. He absorbed the fallen Kinlan in his glare. "Where's Tut?" "Giving the flies indigestion." "Heh. We beached The Black Hand for a good careening and lightened her of our bounty. But ye knew that already, eh?" Turnbull looked on, saying nothing. "Even if ye best me, the lads'll have your head on a pike, come the morrow." "Perhaps." Turnbull nodded. "But not before I have done with ye." Hogarth chuckled. "I somehow knew ye'd return for me spoils. Old habits die a thousand deaths." "I came to wipe that foul smirk off your face, ye son of a flea-bitten cur!" Turnbull advanced and made a fierce jab at Hogarth's face. The pirate captain jerked his head aside and slashed at him, making Turnbull retreat a step.
They circled, and steel rang on steel as they came together, the
wind rushing the cacophony away. Hogarth launched a dizzying assault,
forcing him into a defensive posture. Turnbull found an opening,
spearing the pirate's leg with his sword tip. Hogarth howled and
fell just shy of decapitating him with a crushing blow. Turnbull drew his dirk and rammed it home in the pirate's armpit. "Luck!" Hogarth protested, and spat a pink stream in his face. Turnbull withdrew and watched Hogarth topple like a stricken tree, unmoving. He wiped his cheek and hunkered down, rifling through the dead man's pockets, spilling his effects on the ground. Bits of parchment, a folding knife, and three crowns freed themselves from his clothing. Last in the contents was the Northumbria's manifest, folded in a leather wallet. He placed this inside his shirt and stood. Handfuls of dirt smothered the smoldering ashes at the cave entrance. He held a tattered handkerchief over his face and gauged its depths. Ten paces in, a brass lantern cast wan illumination over the scene. He saw benches, a rough-hewn table, and even a makeshift cupboard. He sidestepped wooden crates and barrels, heading for the point farthest from the door. Though this was the first time he'd stepped foot in the lair, he knew the approximate resting place of the valuables--thanks to scuttlebutt aboard ship. He discovered trunks of loot along the back wall, overstuffed and waiting for the next bout of landside debauchery. He scooped up an empty sack and began filling it with gold rings and other worthwhile baubles, precious jewels, and sundry currencies of the realm. As he crammed the bag to overflowing, he brought his foot down upon a square rug covering a small section of the floor. Nothingness met his step, and the rug punched through a hidden aperture. A dunce trap! He collapsed up to his thigh in the hole, dropping the sack. In a flurry of movement, he extricated himself from the down-slanting air shaft, thankful that he had neglected placing both feet on the rug. He squinted into the pitch-black hole, wondering how far down it ended. Stale, damp air exhaled out of the earth's maw. He shuddered and resumed his efforts. In time, he left the cave, shouldering his load. He reclaimed his boat with little hindrance, and an hour's passage found him rowing away from Finch Island. He drifted on the swells for a time, until his hired crew made themselves known to the east. "We saw a ship approaching due west," said the master. "So we made sail the opposite direction. After three hours, we changed course and returned." "She was The Black Hand, " Turnbull said. # Clifton Turnbull approached the chapel with trepidation, anxious about events that had transpired in his absence. He remembered lying in a hammock on the return voyage to Jamaica. There, he had opened the Northumbria's manifest and spread it before him. He'd waded through mundane cargo inventory and read the passenger list. Three names had captured his eye at once: Eldon Green Adult Manchester, Eng. Megan Green Adult Manchester, Eng. Melisande Green Infant Manchester, Eng. As the ship's timbers had creaked and he'd lain buoyed between sea and sky in the hold, he'd recollected a crib dangling from a ceiling by ropes. "Melisande," he had said, liking the way it resonated in his ears. He knocked on the chapel door and waited. Pastor Jacobsen answered and pumped his hand with a smile. "Here's the debt I owe ye," Turnbull said, plunking two Guineas in the man's hand. "Many a man would've written ye off when ye vanished over that bridge, days agone," the minister said. "But not this old salt. I knew I had the measure of ye." Turnbull followed Jacobsen's directions and found the kind matron and her young daughter who had nurtured the child at the pastor's request. He paid them and thanked them profusely, then spirited the child away. In England, his persistence bore fruit, ferreting out the residence of Mr. Green's brother in a well-to-do Manchester quarter. An explanatory note pinned to her gown, he placed Melisande on the doorstep in a baker's basket, kissed her little head, and hid himself judiciously. When he espied her taken inside, he hunched in his coat and walked away, unashamed of the tears misting his eyes. # Every year at Christmastide, the house servants happened upon a package of assorted monies and gold on the portico. Each time, a simple attached tag declared:
The gifts came throughout her childhood years, and on into adulthood. Often she speculated about her mysterious benefactor, fancying him a love-lorn suitor or a great prince.
What a dashing figure he would make--this man who treasured her
even more than gold.
*** END ***
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