Free The Only Victor by Alexander Kent Page B

an ocean, to the Indies or the Spanish Main.
    Jay muttered, “That’s why they only takes the fit ones. T’others would never last the passage.” He spat. “Lyin’ in their own filth for weeks on end. Don’t bear thinkin’ about.” He shrugged. “Still, I suppose it’s a livin’, like everythin’ else.”
    Segrave wanted to be sick, but he controlled it and asked timidly, “That deserter—will he really be pardoned?”
    Jay paused and glanced at him. “Yes, if he’s any use to us. Pardoned the rope anyway. He’ll likely get two hundred strokes of the cat, just to remind him of ’is loyalties in the future!”
    The young seaman named Dwyer said softly, “What’s abaft this lot, Mr Jay?”
    Jay forgot Segrave and turned swiftly. “Th’ cabins. Why?”
    â€œI heard something, or someone more like.”
    â€œGod’s teeth!” Jay drew his pistol and cocked it. “Might be some bastard with a slow-match ready to blow us all to hell! Use yer shoulder, Dwyer!”
    The young seaman hurled himself against one of the doors and it burst open, smashed from its hinges by the blow.
    The hutchlike cabin was in darkness but for a patch of sunshine which could barely penetrate the filthy glass of a skylight.
    On a littered and stained bunk was a young black woman. She was sitting half-upright, propped on her elbows, her lower limbs covered by a soiled sheet. She was otherwise quite naked. There was no fear, not even surprise, but when she tried to move a chain around her ankle restricted her.
    Jay said quietly, “Well, well. Does himself very nicely, does the master!”
    He led the way on deck again and shaded his eyes in the glare as Miranda changed tack and drew closer to the drifting vessel, which was apparently named Albacora.
    Tyacke’s voice, unreal in a speaking-trumpet, reached them easily. “What is she?”
    Jay cupped his hands, “Slaver, sir. No cargo but for one. We’ve a deserter on board as well.”
    Segrave saw the man bobbing and smiling wretchedly in the background as if Tyacke could see him. But he kept thinking of the black girl. Chained there like a wild animal for the slaver’s pleasure. She had a lovely body, despite . . .
    Tyacke called over, “Where bound?”
    Jay held up the chart. “Madagascar, sir.”
    A seaman near Segrave murmured, “We’ll have to let ’er go.” He glared around the filthy deck. “She hain’t much but she’d fetch a few shillin’s in the prize court!” His mate nodded in agreement.
    Tyacke’s voice betrayed no emotion. “Very well, Mr Jay. Return on board and bring the deserter with you.”
    The man in question shouted, “No! No!” The boatswain cuffed him around the ear and sent him sprawling, but he crawled across the deck and clawed at Jay’s shoes like a crippled beggar.
    He shouted again, “He took the chart below when you was sighted, sir! I seen him do it afore. He puts a different one for all to see.”
    Jay kicked his hands away. “Now, why didn’t I think of that?” He touched Segrave’s arm. “Come with me.”
    They returned to the cabin where the girl still lay propped on her elbows, as if she had not moved.
    They searched through the litter of books and charts, discarded clothing and weapons, Jay becoming clumsier by the moment, well aware of Tyacke’s impatience to get under way again.
    Jay said desperately, “ ’S no use. I can’t find it, an’ that bugger don’t speak English.” He sounded angry. “I’ll lay odds that the deserter is lyin’ to save ’is own skin. He’ll ’ave no skin left when I’ve done with ’im!”
    There was a looking-glass leaning against a case of paired pistols. Jay picked it up and searched behind it as a last hope.
    â€œNot a god-damned