“No!” shrieked Mrs. Hacklett.
Her voice was piercingly loud, but neither man appeared to have heard her. They stared drunkenly at each other.
“Faith,” Scott said, “I’m not sure ’tis wise.”
“Nonsense,” Hacklett said. “You are a gentleman of reputation and you must uphold that reputation. After all, this is a consort worthy of a king - well, at least once worthy of a king. Go to it, man.”
“Damn me,” Commander Scott said, getting unsteadily to his feet. “Damn me, I shall do, sir. What’s good enough for a king is good enough for me. I shall do.” And he began to unbuckle his breeches.
Commander Scott was exceedingly drunk, and his buckles proved difficult. Mrs. Hacklett began to scream and her husband crossed the library and struck her in the face, cutting her lip. A trickle of blood ran down her chin.
“A pirate’s whore - or a king’s - can have no airs. Commander Scott, take your pleasure.”
And Scott advanced upon the woman.
…
“ MOVE ME,” WHISPERED Governor Almont to his niece.
“But Uncle, how?”
“Kill the guard,” he said, and handed her a pistol.
Lady Sarah Almont took the pistol in her hands, feeling the unfamiliar shape of the weapon.
“You cock it thus,” said Almont, showing her. “Now careful! Go to the door, ask to go out, and fire-”
“Fire how?”
“Directly into his face. Make no mistake here, my dear.”
“But Uncle…”
He glared at her. “I am a sick man,” he said. “Now help me.”
She stepped a few paces toward the door.
“Right down his throat,” Almont said, with a certain satisfaction. “He’s earned it, the traitorous dog.”
She knocked on the door.
“What is it, miss?” said the guard.
“Open up,” she said. “I wish to leave.”
There was a scraping, and a metallic click, as the lock was turned. The door opened. She had a glimpse of the guard, a young man of nineteen, fresh-faced and innocent, his expression bemused. “Whatever Your Ladyship desires…”
She fired at his lips. The explosion rocked her arm, and blew him backward. He twisted and slid to the ground, then rolled onto his back. She saw, with horror, that he had no face left, just a bloody pulp mounted on his shoulders. The body writhed on the ground for a few moments. Urine leaked down the leg of his trousers, and she smelled defecation. Then the body was still.
“Help me move,” croaked her uncle, the Governor of Jamaica, sitting up painfully in his bed.
…
HUNTER ASSEMBLED HIS men at the north end of Port Royal, near the mainland. His immediate problem was wholly political, to reverse a judgment against him. As a practical matter, once he escaped, the townspeople would rally around him, and he would not again be jailed.
But equally practical was the question of his response to unjust treatment, for Hunter’s reputation within the town was at stake.
He reviewed the eight names in his mind:
Hacklett
Scott
Lewisham, the judge of the Admiralty
Foster and Poorman, the merchants
Lieutenant Dodson
James Phips, merchant captain
And last, but not least, Sanson
Each of these men had acted with full knowledge of the injustice. Each stood to profit from the confiscation of his prize.
The laws of the privateers were solid enough; such chicanery inevitably meant death and confiscation of the share. But at the same time, he would be obliged to kill several highly placed members of the town. That would be easy enough, but he might have a bad time of it later, if Sir James did not survive unscathed.
If Sir James were worth his salt, he would have long since escaped to safety. Hunter would have to trust to that, he decided. And in the meantime, he would have to kill those who had crossed him.
Shortly before dawn, he ordered all his men into the Blue Hills north of Jamaica, telling them to remain there for two days.
Then, alone, he returned to the town.
Chapter 36
FOSTER, A PROSPEROUS silk merchant, owned a large house on Pembroke Street, northeast of the dockyards. Hunter slipped in through the back, passing the separate kitchen block. He made his way upstairs to the master bedroom on the second floor.
He found Foster asleep in bed with his wife. Hunter awoke him by pressing a pistol lightly against his nostrils.
Foster, a fattish man of fifty, snorted and sniffed and rolled away. Hunter jammed the pistol barrel up one nostril.
Foster blinked and opened his eyes. He sat up in bed, not saying a word.
“Be still,” his wife muttered sleepily. “You toss so.” Yet she did not wake up. Hunter and Foster stared at each other. Foster looked from the pistol to Hunter, and back again.
Finally, Foster raised a finger in the air, and gently eased out of bed. His wife still slept. In his nightgown, Foster padded across the room to a chest.
“I shall pay you well,” he whispered. “See here, look.” He opened a false compartment and withdrew a sack of gold, very heavy. “There is more, Hunter. I shall pay you whatever you want.”
Hunter said nothing. Foster, in his nightshirt, extended his arm with the sack of gold. His arm trembled.
“Please,” he whispered. “Please, please…”
He got down on his knees.
“Please, Hunter, I pray you, please…”
Hunter shot him in the face. The body was knocked back, the legs thrown up in the air, the bare feet kicking space. In the bed nearby, the wife never awoke, but turned sleepily and groaned.
Hunter picked up the sack of gold and left as silently as he had come.
…
POORMAN, BELYING HIS name, was a rich trader in silver and pewter. His house was on High Street. Hunter found him asleep at a table in the kitchen, a half-empty bottle of wine before him.
Hunter took a kitchen knife and slashed both Poorman’s wrists. Poorman awoke groggily, saw Hunter, and then saw the blood pouring over the table. He raised his bleeding hands, but could not move them; the tendons had all been cut, and the hands flopped lifelessly, rag-doll fingers, already turning grayish-white.
He let his arms drop again to the table. He watched the blood pool on the wood and drip through the cracks to the floor. He looked back at Hunter. His face was curious, his expression confused.
“I would have paid,” he said hoarsely. “I would have done what you… what you…”
He stood up from the table, weaving dizzily, holding his injured arms bent at the elbows. In the silence of the room, the blood spattered with an odd loudness on the ground.
“I would have…” Poorman began, and then rocked back and fell flat on the floor.
“Ye, ye, ye, ye,” he said, fainter and fainter. Hunter turned away, not waiting for the man to die. He went
