Hawke

“Done,” Brian said. “And your usual suite at the Hay-Adams overlooking the White House?”

“Not necessary, thanks. I spoke with Pelham. Apparently the new house is ready for occupants.”

Brian saluted and headed aft to make the arrangements.

Hawke noticed that the fat Russian, still looking down over the rail, appeared to have been eavesdropping on his conversation with young Drummond. Nosy, he decided, very nosy.

“Ambrose, do you have a second?” Hawke asked, and he and Congreve walked to the top of the steps leading down from the bridge deck, moving out of earshot of the Russian.

“Well done,” Congreve said softly. “He wants his money.”

“He’s bloody lucky he’s got his life,” Hawke said. “Tell that socialist disease that anyone who lines his pockets putting nuclear weapons in the hands of terrorists takes his chances with me. He’s already used up one. And one is about all he gets. Bagged his bloody limit.”

“We’ll get them off the boat, Alex. But I would definitely increase the security on and around the yacht, starting tonight. Round the clock. These chaps are beyond unsavory.”

“I agree. I’ll have a word with Tommy Quick. Double the watch. This Telaraсa. I seem to have heard the name. Spanish, isn’t it? Something to do with spiders?”

“The spider’s web, actually.”

“I’ve always been petrified of spiders,” Hawke said, shuddering. “Strange, isn’t it? Ever since I was a boy. No idea why, of course. Spiders. Horrid little buggers.”

“Let’s have a nightcap up on deck, shall we?” Ambrose said. “And you can finish the gripping saga of that scourge of the Spanish Main, the blackguard Blackhawke.”

“Pirates’ lore. Most appropriate after a splendid evening of saber-rattling and plank-walking,” Hawke said. Motioning his friend up the stairs, he said, “After you, Constable.”

17

Once Hawke and Ambrose had made themselves comfortable up on deck, Hawke continued the story of his illustrious ancestor.

The old pirate, upon hearing that the king’s men were in the courtyard, now knew he was not to be spared the hangman’s noose. Collapsing back upon his tattered cot, he uttered one word, “Lost.”

The parson knelt on the cold stone beside him and put his hand out to the man. “Repent with me now, and make your final journey with peace in your soul. I beg of you to—”

“I

“Alas, ’tis true.”

“My friends at court, my crew, one and all betray me to save their own skins! It’s these foul traitors must repent their treachery, not Captain Blackhawke!”

“Alas, ’tis true twice over,” the parson said. “Let us go now, and speak with the Lord.”

On their way to the courtyard, the parson took the hapless pirate into the prison chapel for one last chance at redemption. They sat for a moment in the gloom on a long hard pew facing a single coffin draped in black. As was tradition, the doomed prisoners had been forced to sit before the symbolic coffin, quite empty, for hours each day, supposedly doing their penance.

Thick incense floated to the high, vaulted ceilings, but it couldn’t mask the pervasive stench of urine rising in every dark corner; nor could the chants and mournful prayers of the condemned hide the sounds of those wretched souls fornicating on the back benches.

Blackhawke stared silently at the draped coffin, quietly sipping his grog.

“It’s no use, Parson,” he said finally. “It ain’t in me, repentance. Nary a bit of it. I’ll step off into the next world and take me chances as I am.” He pulled the spyglass in which he’d hidden the map from his cloak and slipped it into the parson’s hands.

“This glass is all that’s left to me in this world,” Blackhawke rasped. “ ’Twas a gift from my wife when first I went to sea. Now I want her to have it as a poor remembrance of her husband. I beg you to see that it makes it safely into her hands. I’ve four gold doubloons sewn into me coat here that are yours, if you’ll give me no more than your sacred word. It’s my last wish.”

“Consider it done, Captain,” the parson said. And Blackhawke ripped open the seam in his coat, withdrew the doubloons, and slipped them to the fellow.

The parson and the pirate emerged into the courtyard.

“I warn you, Parson,” Blackhawke said, angrily eyeing the crewmen who’d betrayed him, some of whom were already in the cart. “I warn you this. An unarmed man full of vengeance is the most dangerous of men. I warrant I’ll rip their treacherous hearts out!”

But in the event, riding in the king’s cart, Blackhawke merely drank grog all the way to the dock. He was simply too tired and too weak and too full of rum to wreak his vengeance. He was thus oblivious to the merry shouts and taunts of the crowds lining the streets leading to the River Thames. By the time he and the other condemned arrived at the place of execution, the parson had to help the old man stagger up the steps to where the hangman waited. The notorious pirate captain would be the first to go.

He stood, with the noose finally around his neck, and looked out over the noisome crowd. He had arranged for some few remaining friends to stand below the gallows and witness his departure. Theirs was a mission of mercy. Since the drop itself seldom did the job, his mates were there to leap up, grab his heels, and yank down to end Blackhawke’s agony quickly.

As it happened, the rope parted, and Blackhawke tumbled to the ground with little more than a bad rope burn round his neck. The dazed man had to be carried once more up the steps to repeat his agonizing departure.

By now, however, the rum fog had dissipated a bit, and it was a much-sobered Blackhawke who had one final revelation. Standing once more upon the precipice, he felt suddenly alive, breathing, conscious. Even the sting of the rope burning around his neck was something to be cherished, and, oddly, the crowd ranged below him now seemed to be cheering. A joyous sendoff for one last epic and uncharted voyage! Yes!

His mind allowed him to stand once more on his quarterdeck, shouting orders fore and aft. Lines cast off, sheets loosed, sails filled with an evening breeze. Bound for the far horizon. Men scrambling like monkeys in the rigging, all color and glory. Bound for that fat yellow moon floating just over that far, far horizon.

Farewell.

Well. This is it then. Torches burning along the riverbanks. The dusky glow of London Town shimmering across the water. Lovely night. Been a good life, hasn’t it, after all? Strongly lived. Well fought and well rewarded. Left the treacherous Caribee and tedious humdrum of the New World’s pe

Been a young man then, still, when he’d taken up the pirate’s adventuresome ways. Loved the endless roll of the boundless blue sea, he had, really. Loved every league and fathom of her, for all his life.

A small sigh escaped his lips and his mates below drew forward, hushed now. All the crowd below quiet now. He would go into the next world unarmed. But he was unafraid and had no doubt he’d conquer the next as he’d done the present.

He’d given some serious thought to his parting shot, looking for a defiant farewell, and he uttered those words now, raw and raspy, but still strong.

“The man without sword is oft the deadliest enemy,” Blackhawke bellowed. “Hear me, Death, and lay on!”

There was a resounding huzzah from below.

He brought the curtain down on this world, squeezing his eyes shut and remembering just as hard as he could: