already, that was not impressed with the new arrivals, that knew to mind their own business and run before any new gale that blew through the island.
They had no reaction to Press, and Press had no reaction to them as they tramped uphill. Rather, his attention was focused entirely on the house, alert for any possible trap. He looked sharp for movement of any kind-the glint of sun off steel, smoke, anything. But there was absolutely no indication that the house was occupied.
Up and through the gate to the stockade, which hung open. Up the path to the house, and never a challenge, never a word, save for a hungry-looking dog that barked and barked at the new arrivals until someone shot it.
Press pushed open the front door, stepped inside alone, looked around. The house was lovely, or had been once. It was in disrepair now. It had the look of a place that was patched up rather than cared for.
There was none of the musty smell of disuse. Press’s keen nose caught the scents of men and food and smoke and excrement. The bitter smell of charred wood hung in the air. But for all that, there did not seem to be a person there.
“Tasker!” The lieutenant was at his side. “Divide the men up under the other lieutenants. Clayford’s men with him. Spread out, search every inch of this place. Keep a care for traps. Lieutenants report to me.”
“Aye, sir.”
Press stepped farther into the house. Tasker was capable of organizing the search, so he did not even listen as the first officer gave his orders to his juniors, assigning each a division of men and a section of house.
There was a big staircase that led up to a second floor. Press ran his hand over the richly carved banister and looked up. It was an odd feeling, like walking around Atlantis perhaps, after one had spent a lifetime searching for it. Baldridge must have been an extraordinary man. It was revolting to think of Yancy in that place, a pretender to such glory. He, Press, was the natural heir to the island.
He headed up the stairs, taking each slowly, listening to the sounds of his men searching the house, waiting for the sound of a fight, taking in everything that he could see.
Up to the second floor, and he could see where the hall came out on a landing that opened onto a wide veranda. He walked through the doors, which hung open, and across the flagstones to the low wall that edged the space. From there he could look down on the harbor, on his ships floating placidly, on all of his new kingdom. Magnificent.
He stood there for some time, and one by one the junior lieutenants came to report that they had found nothing, save for half a dozen drunk pirates, who were paraded before Press, and two dozen servants and native girls. The pirates he ordered flung from the house. He had a good idea of the capacity in which the natives, men and women, had served Yancy, and Dinwiddie, he supposed. He and his men could make use of them in the same capacity. They were told to stay.
Along with the occupants, the searchers found the kitchen and the larder and the liquor stores, and soon Tasker was seeing to food and drink and the men were finding their place in their fine new home.
Press and Clayford sat on the big veranda, drinking rum, saying nothing. From that vantage point Press could see the hundred men he had detached as they stormed buildings and tents in the town below, pushing people into the street, searching for Elephiant Yancy. He could hear screams and the occasional gunshot.
He had instructed them that they were not to be polite or gentle. Weakness would not locate Yancy; courtesy would not reinforce the truth that he, Roger Press, was now in charge.
Press pulled his eyes from the town and considered the flat stones that paved the veranda. There were great swaths of dried blood on the stones that had been imperfectly washed away, and Press was wondering about those. Was this the result of something Dinwiddie had done? He could not imagine.
The thought of Dinwiddie conjured up the fat face in his mind, and he found something tugging at him. That face, there was something about it that he recognized, but vaguely, one of those memories that might have been a dream or might have been real.
Stupid fat bastards, they all look alike, Press thought, but he found he could not dismiss it that easily.
“Pass the word for Tasker,” he said to the man who stood sentry near the veranda door, and he heard the name echoing around the house. A minute later Tasker was there.
“Lieutenant.” Press looked up at him from the chair in which he sat, his spindly legs thrust out before him, already at home. “That imbecile, Dinwiddie, was he brought ashore with us?”
“Aye, Captain. Lieutenant Block, he found some prison cells, down at the western foundations to the house, and we locked him up there.”
“Good, good. Bring him to me.”
Ten minutes later Dinwiddie was kneeling in front of him. Press looked hard at the man’s face, but he had beaten him so badly there was little recognizable about it now. He tried to picture the face as he had seen it when first Dinwiddie came aboard. Cursed himself for making such a mess out of the bastard.
He pulled the toothpick from his mouth, used it as a pointer. “Tell me your name again,” Press demanded.
“Peleg Dinwiddie…”
“How did you get here?”
“First officer on a privateer, sailing the Round…” His voice cracked as he spoke. His tongue moved over parched, battered lips.
“Who was the captain?”
Dinwiddie paused and spit blood on the veranda. He looked up at Press with one eye. The other was swollen shut. “Thomas Marlowe.”
Press felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. He jerked upright.
Now he remembered! He had seen Dinwiddie’s fat, stupid face peering down from the side of Marlowe’s ship a second before that topsail yard had plunged through the bottom of the boat. It was no wonder that his memory of Dinwiddie had a dreamlike quality. That whole affair still resonated like a nightmare.
Press settled back into a more relaxed posture. He stretched his legs, assumed the proper degree of cool, put the toothpick back in his mouth, and rolled it with his tongue.
“Would you like a drink of water, Dinwiddie?” he asked, his tone pleasant.
Dinwiddie nodded, so hard it looked painful. “Dear God, yes, water, please…”
“Very well. But first, please tell me about Thomas Marlowe? Why he is here, where he has gone? Tell me all. I insist.”
Chapter 19
FOR TWO days the high mountains of Madagascar lingered on the southern horizon, visible from the deck of the Elizabeth Galley, a threatening presence, as if the horrors of that place were somehow trailing behind the ship. And then dawn of the third day broke, and the sea was empty on every quarter, and the Galleys felt a sense of relief that none of them vocalized, but of which each was aware.
They made their course north by east, following a slant of wind that would take them far out into the Indian Ocean. There they would wear around and make a long board for the Gulf of Aden and then on to the narrow straits of Bab el Mandeb, that bottleneck into the Red Sea through which much of the wealth of the Moorish nations passed.
The Elizabeth Galley was a happy ship, perhaps happier even than she had been before. Marlowe had not realized how Peleg Dinwiddie’s gloomy discontent had cast a pall over the vessel.
Nor had he realized the extent to which Dinwiddie had become dissatisfied, and so he was surprised at what he considered Dinwiddie’s betrayal.
“You cannot honestly think the man betrayed you?” asked Bicker-staff, his incredulity genuine. It was the morning they found that Madagascar was lost from their view and themselves on the quarterdeck, discussing the events of the past week. They had not talked about it before then.
“I certainly do. The man deserted, abandoned his responsibility.”
“But sure you can see how he felt abandoned himself. Honeyman had more real authority than he did, even though Peleg had agreed to ship as second in command.”
“That is the way of the Roundsmen. I could do nothing about it. Dinwiddie wanted to sail the Pirate Round, and that is a part of it. Ship’s articles, vote of the men, all of it. I do not love it any more than he did, but I accept
