Birds of Prey - Smith Wilbur (полная версия книги .TXT) 📗

With a last groan the patient sagged back limply into silence, killed by Ned's kindness. Sir Francis's expression was grun as he lifted his Hal to Katinka. "Mevrouw, you cannot doubt our consideration for your sensibilities. It seems that the rude fellow prefers to die rather than offend you further." His expression was hard and unkind as he went on, "Instead of caterwauling and indulging in the vapours, perhaps you might like to assist Master Ned with his work of tending the wounded?"

Van de Velde drew himself to his full height at the suggestion and glared at him. "Mijnheer, you insult my wife. How dare you suggest that she might act as a servant to these coarse peasants?"

"I apologize to your lady, but I suggest that if she is to serve no other purpose here other than beautifying the landscape you take her back to her hut and keep her there. There will almost certainly be further unpleasant sights and sounds to test her forbearance." Sir Francis nodded at Hal to follow him, and turned his back on the Governor. Side by side, he and his son strode towards the beach, past where the sail makers were stitching the dead into their canvas shrouds and a gang was already digging their graves. In such heat they must be buried the same day. Hal counted the canvas-covered bundles.

"Only twelve are ours," his father told him. "The other seven are from the Gull, washed up on the beach. We have taken eight prisoners too. I'm going to deal with them now."

The captives were under guard on the beach, sitting in a line with their hands clasped behind their heads. As they came up to them Sir Francis said, loudly enough for all to hear, "Mister Courtney, have your men set eight nooses from that tree." He pointed to the outspreading branches of a huge wild fig. "We will hang some new fruit from them." He gave a chuckle so macabre that Hal was startled.

The eight sent up a wail of protest. "Don't hang us, sir. It were his lordship's orders. We only did as we was bade."

Sir Francis ignored them. "Get those ropes hung up, Mister Courtney."

For a moment longer Hal hesitated. He was appalled at the prospect of having to carry out such a cold-blooded execution, but then he saw his father's expression and hurried to obey.

In short order ropes were thrown over the stout branches and the nooses were knotted at the hanging ends. A team of the Resolution's sailors stood ready to heave their victims aloft.

One at a time the eight prisoners from the Gull were dragged to a rope's end, their hands bound behind their backs, their heads thrust through the waiting nooses. At his father's orders Hal went down the line and adjusted the knots under each victim's ears. Then he turned back to face his father, pale-faced and sick to the stomach. He touched his forehead. "Ready to proceed with the execution, sir."

Sir Francis's face was turned away from the condemned men and he spoke softly from the corner of his mouth. "Plead for their lives."

"Sir?" Hal looked bewildered.

"Damn you." Sir Francis's voice cracked. "Beg me to spare them."

"Beg your pardon, sir, but will you not spare these men?" Hal said loudly.

"The blackguards deserve nothing but the rope's end," Sir Francis snarled. "I want to see them dance a jig to the devil."

"They were only carrying out the orders of their captain." Hal warmed to the role of advocate. "Will you not give them a chance?"

The noosed heads of the eight men swung back and forth as they followed the argument. Their expressions were abject, but their eyes held a faint glimmer of hope.

Sir Francis fingered his chin. "I don't know." His face was still ferocious. "What would we do with them? Turn them loose into the wilderness to serve as fodder for wild beasts and cannibals? It would be more merciful to string them up."

"You could swear them in as crew to replace the men we have lost," Hal pleaded.

Sir Francis looked still more dubious. "They would not take an oath of allegiance, would they?" He glared at the condemned men who, had not the nooses restrained them, might have fallen to their knees.

"We will serve you truly, sir. The young gentleman is right. You'll not find better men nor more loyal than US."

"Bring my Bible from my hut," Sir Francis growled, and the eight seamen took their oath of service with the nooses round their necks.

Big Daniel freed them and led them away, and Sir Francis watched them go with satisfaction. "Eight prime specimens to replace some of our losses," he murmured. "We'll need every hand we can find if we are to have the Resolution ready for sea before the end of this month." He glanced across the lagoon at the entrance between the headlands. "Only the good Lord knows who our next visitors might be if we linger here."

He turned back to Hal. "That leaves only the drunken sots who lapped up the Buzzard's rum. Do you fancy another flogging, Hal?"

"Is this the time to render half our crew useless with the cat, Father? If the Buzzard returns before we are fit for sea, then they'll fight no better with half the meat stripped off their backs."

"So you say let them go scot free?" Sir Francis asked coldly, his face close to Hal's.

"Why not fine them their share of the spoils from the Standvastigheid and divide it among the others who fought sober?"

Sir Francis stared at him a moment longer, then smiled grimly. "The judgement of Solomon! Their purses will give them more pain than their backs, and it will add a guilder or three to our own share of the prize."

Angus Cochran, Earl of Cumbrae, stepped out on the saddle of the mountain pass at least a thousand feet above the beach where he had come ashore from the Gull. His boatswain and two seamen followed him. They all carried muskets and cutlasses. One of the men balanced a small keg of drinking water on his shoulder, for the African sun speedily sucks the moisture from a man's body.