Page 76 of Rogue’s Holiday

“Both, I ’spect.” said Tiller, grinning. “The first mate’s doin’ a fine job as cap’n but they likes the one they had. And then there was the cockfight, it bein’ Sunday.”

“They may soon have their captain back,” he said. He hoped Chastity Reynolds would delay his plans to return to sea. She might accompany him as some captain’s wives did. As soon as he returned to Brighton, his first priority would be to convince her to accept his suit.

“Have you alerted the proprietor to our purpose?” he asked Tiller.

“Aye, Cap’n. He understands ’tis the Crown’s business ye’re about and that ye’ll pay for any damage.”

As they entered The Prospect, Robbie scanned the men at the tables between the windows and the bar, spotting his gunner and bosun. They briefly raised their chins telling him he had been recognized. He hoped Ings could not so easily find him among the crowd.

“Shall we venture toward the ring?” he said to Jack in a low whisper.

“I was hoping you’d ask. I can’t say I’ve ever attended a cockfight. They have them in Calais but I’ve yet to witness one.”

They headed toward the back of the long tavern to a large area cordoned off for the birds where the cocks were posturing before each other. Surrounding them a crowd of men stared intensely in anticipation.

“It’s not very different than a fight among pirates,” said Robbie. “Only instead of knives, the gamecocks use their spurs, sometimes enhanced with metal. Not to my taste.”

Gathered around the ring, Robbie counted twenty-five men, all focused intently on the squawking birds, now furiously going at each other.

A few men glanced up at the newcomers, then back to the birds. Two were members of Robbie’s crew, the sailmaker and the carpenter. The others might be dockworkers or sailors from other ships, save for one whose dark eyes reminded him of Chastity’s description of Ings. The man briefly considered Robbie and Jack before returning his attention to the fighting cocks. His expression spoke of disinterest in the fight whereas every other man seemed fixated on the outcome. Both the man’s hair and eyes were very dark. His face sported a mustache, a narrow goatee and chin whiskers framing his jaw, unusual for London gentry. Was the facial hair his own? His clothing was black, the cut of his coat speaking of fine tailoring. Robbie couldn’t see his boots from where he stood but he suspected they, too, were black.

The short cockfight ended when one bird was pinned to the dirt, bleeding. Robbie wanted to leave. Instead, he fixed his steady gaze on the crowd.

“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked Jack.

“I see your point. Répugnant. Once was enough for me.”

The man in black rose, as did one other man, passing Robbie and Jack on their way into the bar area. It was clear they were looking for someone and were disappointed not to find him. Robbie supposed his disguise worked better than he’d anticipated.

With a nod at his uncle, Robbie followed, all the while staring at the boots of the man in black. He and his companion claimed a small table, their backs to the paned glass windows lining the wall facing the Thames. As the man slid into his chair, Robbie caught sight of the stylized “R” on the shaft.

Robbie boldly confronted the man. “Waiting for someone, Ings?”

The man looked up, startled. “Why, yes, but you are not—” He peered closely at Robbie and a flicker of recognition appeared in his dark eyes.

“You are a thief, a despoiler of innocents and a dastardly reprobate, Ings.” Withdrawing his pistol, Robbie aimed it at the man’s heart. “On behalf of the king, I charge you with assault and kidnapping. You are under arrest.” Robbie’s speech, finer than his apparel, must have confirmed his identity.

“Powell!” Ings spit out as he got to his feet.

The crowd at the bar went silent.

“You are a traitor to all good Englishmen!”

“Not so the view of His Majesty.”

Ings slipped his hand into the pocket of his overcoat.

“Take up that pistol at your peril,” said Robbie. “If you don’t hit me, you may hit one behind me, adding murder to the charges. Besides, half the men in the tavern are mine.”

Ings looked around and snarled, “So be it! Striking them will strike at you!”

Just then, Ings’ companion drew a knife from his waist and, reaching across the table, tried to stab Robbie. But Robbie was quick and knocked the blade from his hand with his pistol.

Jack grabbed the man by his jacket, holding a knife to his throat. “Give me a chance to draw blood and I will. My knife is thirsty.” Jack thrust him into the chair. “Sit!”

“I, too, have men with me,” said Ings. With a snake’s smile, he drew his pistol. “You may have this one,” he said, darting a glance at his companion, “but there are many others here.”

Robbie sensed men at his back, but he couldn’t turn to be certain if they were his. With dueling pistols ready to fire and Jack’s blade at the neck of Ings’ companion, his options were limited.