The Devil's Fire: A Pirate Adventure Novel

by Matt Tomerlin

  There were several elite cliques aboard Harbinger, often marked by their various talents. The aptly named 'Musketmen' were five Englishmen who carried muskets. Of them, none was a finer marksman than young Louis Robertson.

  The Americans were a class all their own. Presently, Griffith found four of them enjoying a tobacco break at the gunwale. Nathan Adams, the youngest of Harbinger's crew, leapt from his seat and took Griffith's hand in his, shaking it vigorously. He had a sandy-colored mop of thick hair that made many balding pirates jealous, apart from those who proudly sported hairless scalps, and his attractive young face was enhanced by a week's worth of blonde stubble. He was a good-natured boy, and even the more hardened pirates had taken a liking to him.

  "Oy there, Captain," he said nervously.

  "Nathan," Griffith smiled. "What's on your mind, lad?"

  "Me and me boys was wondering if this dreadful cold will never end?"

  Griffith glanced over Nathan's shoulder and saw the young man's companions leaning forward in eager anticipation of the answer. Of course, the cold was just beginning, and Nathan, having lived on the East Coast for most of his life, certainly knew this.

  "I can hardly stand it myself," replied Griffith. "Tomorrow we alter course, and, if the vote calls fair, we set for warmer waters."

  A massive grin lit Nathan's boyish face. "Certain it will, Captain. Certain it will."

  When the sun had dipped to the horizon through a breach in the clouds, Griffith found himself standing before his cabin door. He was no more confident how to proceed than before. He turned away and looked toward the bow. The fiery rays of the setting sun reddened the circumference of the gap in the clouds, and looking at it made him think of her hair.

  "Katherine," he whispered, testing the name on his tongue; the name he’d guessed without even being told.

  And then, as if struck by lightning, he realized what he had been missing all along: Thomas Lindsay had inadvertently given his wife away. If the girl thought that her husband had revealed her hiding place in order to save his own skin, she would curse his memory! The lie would be fortified by Griffith's inexplicable knowledge of her name, and he doubted she would come to the conclusion that he had guessed it on his own. Of course, it was a risky plan, especially if he had been wrong about her name all along, but it was all he had going for him.

  He felt silly for having doubted himself. There was something about Katherine Lindsay that sent his mind reeling, as though he were blindly feeling around in the dark.

  "Any problem can be fixed into a plan," echoed his father’s voice, clear in his mind, despite the many years removed. There was strength in plans, and every plan required deliberation. He had deliberated long enough.

  He faced the door and checked himself, smoothing his clothes and pushing hair out of his face. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped into the cabin.

  The blade blinded him as a flash of sunset reflected off of it. He felt a sharp pain in his left arm and a sudden pressure that knocked him off of his feet. The girl's slender silhouette stepped in front of the door.

  Instinctively, he kicked out a heel and felt it make contact with her shin. She screamed and fell backwards. The blade crashed to the floor with the clang of steel against wood, and he was on top of her before she could retrieve it. He scooped up the cutlass and grinned, victorious.

  Her knee caught his groin. He gagged for breath as the hollow pain reverberated into his stomach. She clawed at the hand that held the cutlass, trying to pry open his fingers and wrench the blade free. He smashed his forehead into her cheek. Her head snapped away and rebounded against the floor. She groaned and tried to roll over.

  His mistake was thinking she was done. He took the briefest of moments to relax his muscles, which is what she must have been waiting for. Her mouth opened and she rose up to enclose it around his right ear. She bit down with the brawn of a steel trap, her teeth ripping through the fabric of his ear. The tremendous pain spiked throughout his skull like a flower that blossomed needles instead of pedals. When he pulled away, he saw that she had a chunk of his earlobe in her mouth with blood cascading down her chin. Before he could comprehend the horror of the moment, she spit the lobe into his face.

  He fell away from her, wiping blood from his eyes. The pain in his groin no longer mattered as the intense throbbing from his severed ear resonated through his head and splintered into the muscles of his neck.

  The woman was starting to get to her feet when Griffith felt something hard in his grip and realized that he was still holding the cutlass. He summoned all of the energy left to him and swung the weapon in a great arc. The blade smashed into her scalp with a satisfying spray of blood that was warm on his face.

  LIVINGSTON

  When Edward Livingston opened the door, the waning sunlight fell upon what looked like a slaughterhouse. The girl was face-down, with blood oozing out of her head. In the dingy light he wasn’t sure where the blood ended and her hair began, but he was certain she was dead.

  Next he saw Captain Griffith's legs; the rest of him was blanketed in darkness. Livingston stepped over the girl and dropped to his knees beside Griffith. A large chunk of the captain's right earlobe was resting on his collar, and a lengthy gash had been carved into his left arm, bleeding profusely.

  "What in Hell?" Livingston exclaimed.

  "That fire-haired whore," Griffith responded with a wry smile. "She very nearly killed me."

  Livingston gritted his teeth. He’d known the girl was trouble from the moment he’d laid eyes on her. He stood and returned to her body. "Are you dead, bitch?" he demanded. When she didn't respond, he emphasized the question by digging the tip of his boot into her ribs. She didn't budge. He kneeled beside her and put two fingers to her neck. Happily, he found a pulse. He would take great pleasure in torturing her for what she had done to his friend. He recalled that one of the crew had suggested putting her on a stove. He rather liked that idea.

  "Patch her up," Griffith croaked. "And fix her to the mainmast. If it's death she desires, she'll find it there."

  Livingston cocked his head. Had Griffith lost his mind? The girl had plainly tried to kill him. She'd taken a good portion of his ear, sliced his arm, and surely would've done worse if not overpowered, and the most creative anguish he could think of was a few measly days in the sun?

  "Captain," Livingston started to protest.

  "She'll be lucky if she lives out the night," Griffith interjected. "The fight she put up. . . you should've seen it." Livingston noted a disturbingly proud glint in Griffith's eyes. "She deserves a chance, don't you agree?"

  "No," Livingston growled. "She's had it with chances."

  "Five days," Griffith said, cutting him off. "If she lasts that long, she'll have earned her life."

  Livingston’s teeth gnawed at the inside of his cheek. He knew better than anyone that a dispute was best settled between the two people it involved and no one else. Technically, he could have overridden the captain's request and hurled the girl to the sea before she regained consciousness, but he did not wish to sully their friendship.

  "Five days," Griffith persisted.

  Livingston sighed. He was suddenly aware that the room had grown dark, and he turned to find several of the crew shadowing the door, struggling to see over one another and get a glimpse of their captain's condition.

  "Bring Thatcher," Livingston told them. "Captain’s injured." The crowd dispersed swiftly, scattering in different directions.

  A minute later, Thatcher shuffled in, ushered along by two of the crew, and attended first to Griffith. Livingston did not know the surgeon's age, but he was certain the man was at least a score older than any of them. He was also the fattest, though he had lost much of his girth since they’d recruited him. He was a bald man with a massive cranium that was perpetually sunburned. No matter how long Thatcher remained in the sun, his pale skin never seemed to tan properly. He was always sweating, even on cold days, and he smelled awful. He was con
stantly complaining of illness, embellishing his woes with a guttural cough that that made people wince.

  Livingston often found himself secretly yearning for Thatcher's passing, so he wouldn’t have to put up with that awful stench and endless bleating. However, he knew that Harbinger was badly in need of a surgeon. Accidents of a wide variety were common to a ship and crew of this size, and Livingston was thankful, now more than ever, that Thatcher had persevered, against all odds.

  The slice in Griffith's arm was not as bad as it looked. The cut was long, but not very deep. Livingston offered the captain a bottle of brandy to get him through the operation as Thatcher stitched the wound with a curved needle from his weathered canvas case.

  Livingston watched nervously. He habitually stroked his head, sliding his palm over the thin bristles of hair, from front to back, then back to front. His hand encountered less resistance than he remembered.

  Thatcher was finished with the arm in a few minutes, but the earlobe was another matter entirely.

  "Just sew it back on," Livingston suggested.

  Thatcher responded with a withering look.

  "What?" Livingston shrugged. "The skin won't know no different, will it?"

  Thatcher sighed. "Her teeth made a bloody mess of it. It's mutilated. I’d have better luck fastening a pig’s ear in its place."

  "Give it here, then," Livingston said, holding out his hand. Thatcher slapped the lobe into his palm.

  "I think I can make do without it," Griffith said, averting his eyes from the severed ear. "Patch up the hole and have done with it. And get that cursed thing out of here before I lose my supper."

  "He won't hear from it!" Livingston protested, gesturing with the lobe and flinging trickles of blood across the room.

  "Unfortunately, I hear you just fine," Griffith drawled.

  Thatcher poured some of the brandy on Griffith's wound. Griffith wrinkled his brow and hissed through clenched teeth. Thatcher wrapped a bandage around the ear and then sat back to admire his work, as though he'd just accomplished the Mona Lisa. Then he took a hefty swig of the brandy, wiped his lips, and burped.

  "See to the girl," Griffith instructed.

  "The whuh?" Thatcher said, genuinely perplexed.

  Griffith indicated the body just beside the Thatcher.

  "Oh," the surgeon said. He sighed exasperatedly.

  Livingston saw his opportunity to chime in. "Griff’s lost too much blood. Makes no sense to bother with that wench."

  "I agree," Thatcher replied with an excessively sympathetic expression. He arched his neck for another swallow of brandy.

  Griffith snatched the bottle away and seized the surgeon by his fat throat. "Patch up her skull before her brains come out all over the floor."

  Thatcher nodded timidly. "Don't need to yell. I heard you." He moved to the girl and began cleaning her scalp. "Won't make promises, though."

  "Patch her up," Griffith snarled, "or find yourself pitched over the fucking side."

  Livingston enjoyed that thought, but would have suggested throwing the girl over instead. Thatcher, as reprehensible as he was, had pulled his considerable weight.

  A half an hour later, Livingston found Griffith resting his arms on the gunwale, staring pensively out to sea. The sun was no more and the sky had darkened prematurely due to the storm clouds that enveloped it.

  The captain looked smaller than normal, with his arms tucked close and shoulders hunched, a bandage around his arm and another wrapped around his head, concealing his ravaged ear. Here was a man who, as far as Livingston had known, was incapable of bleeding. He had served with Griffith for most of his piratical career, and in all that time he had never seen the man injured. However, the first woman brought aboard Harbinger had spilled more of Griffith's blood in a matter of seconds than he had probably shed in a lifetime.

  Livingston never much liked women; a disposition which had originated with his own mother. She used to shriek so loudly that his father would slap her until she stopped. Violence always seemed to shut her up eventually. As Edward entered his teenage years, his mother turned her vile shrieking on him, bemoaning his budding resemblance his father. His father gave him permission to "smart the bitch" when he so desired, instructing him with a broad grin and a wink, "If she thinks you're so much like me, show her just how much you are." It took Edward a while to get used to hitting his mother, but soon he grew to like it, and it wasn't long before he exercised his newfound power with reckless abandon.

  One day, shortly after Edward had turned fifteen, he struck her so hard that she fell against a table and cracked the back of her skull. Her eyes went dull, as though what little intelligence she possessed had drizzled out of the wound. After that day, she had a terrible time stringing proper sentences together, mixing the words in strange ways. She never shrieked at Edward again, and that suited him just fine. His father congratulated him in succeeding where he had failed, and they shared many laughs as they watched her stumble about, trying to make sense of simple things.

  As for his love life, Livingston had enjoyed the pleasures of countless whores, and had promptly forgotten each of them, save the most recent. So the cycle would continue until the day he died. Women were endlessly complicated creatures, and he had no desire to demystify them. So long as he found them in whorehouses, he would be content with their station in life.

  Whatever madness had possessed Griffith to bring the girl aboard was beyond Livingston’s comprehension. If Griffith needed a whore so badly, he could have found one in the taverns of New Providence. Was Livingston the only one who had seen the inherent danger?

  "Dunno why I'm worried," he said, alerting Griffith to his presence. "With the old coat seeing to her, she’s good as dead."

  "I want you to take a vote on the morrow," Griffith said. "We're returning to the Caribbean."

  Livingston was assailed by visions of blue skies, crystal waters, and the soft, plump breasts of whores. He instantly suppressed the rush of joy, for he meant to uphold his solemnity. "Glad to know we still call votes," he muttered.

  Griffith turned and regarded him with narrow, probing eyes. His raven hair tossed gently in the wind. "You're unhappy."

  "You figured that, eh?" he said. The faintest hint of a smile betrayed him.

  "These damned clouds," Griffith said, aiming a finger at the sky. He was never very subtle at changing the subject, nor did he attempt to be. "Can't see any bloody stars."

  "There’s much you don’t see," Livingston replied, not about to let his friend drift from the topic.

  "What does that mean?" Griffith balked, caught off guard.

  "That sorry excuse for a bachelor's wife," Livingston answered, shaking his head.

  Griffith returned his eyes to the sea. "What about her?"

  "Damn your daftness, man, have you had a glimpse at your ear lately?"

  "I tried," Griffith grinned, "but my eyes stubbornly refuse to bend in that direction."

  "Not the time for jests."

  "I don't want a lecture."

  "Neither did you want half an ear!" Livingston shot back.

  "I was careless," Griffith admitted with an innocent shrug.

  "Finally, you talk sense!"

  "She won't live. You said it yourself. Why worry?"

  Livingston lingered a moment, watching his captain gaze across the ocean, seemingly without a care in the world. The bandage around his ear said otherwise.

  Thatcher had mended the girl’s wound with sewing so crude that Livingston thought her lucky for having so much hair to obscure it. No one would know the scar was there unless they went digging through that wild shroud of tresses; not that she would live long enough for a scar to form.

  Thatcher stood and faced Livingston, revealing blood-soaked hands. The surgeon wiped sweat from his brow, leaving a streak of red across his forehead, mottled with sweat. He looked positively appalling.

  Livingston stared in awe at the wobbling fat of Thatcher's cheeks. He was dimly aware that the
surgeon was talking to him, but, for the life of him, he couldn't hear words. He was entranced with each ripple of the man's drooping skin. Livingston wanted desperately to prod the man with his cutlass, as he had done to pigs when he was a boy. Thatcher’s squeal would probably bring back memories.

  The only three words that Livingston heard of the surgeon's analysis were, "She might live."

  Livingston allowed himself a smile. "We'll see."

  "Well," Thatcher suggested, "there's always a chance of infection." The surgeon's gaze drifted to the girl's limp form, and for an instant Livingston thought he glimpsed a hint of compunction in that fat face. It passed quickly.

  "Amongst other things," Livingston noted. "It's a big ship for such a little girl."

  He pointed to the door, indicating that Thatcher should take his leave. The fat man lumbered out hastily, closing the door behind him.

  Livingston dropped to the floor beside the girl and examined her pale face. She was prettier than any whore he'd ever bedded, but far too skinny for his taste. Her hair was by far her defining feature, scattered about her head in a spidery tangle. Livingston couldn't help but touch one of the strands, twirling it between thumb and forefinger.

  He glimpsed her cleavage through the plunge in her dress’s neckline. He placed a hand on her chest and slid it beneath her bodice, cupping one of her breasts. He squeezed sharply, causing her to stir. Her lips parted, but her eyes remained closed.

  "Don't worry, girlie," he hissed. "Not near enough meat on you for my liking. Not where it counts, anyhow. I've seen more on a chicken, and I'd wager it tasted fairer." He retracted his hand. "Do yourself a favor and die fast. Your life is through, one way or another. Quicker you catch on to that notion, the better."

  THATCHER

  No matter the weather, Douglas Thatcher was always hot. The pirates constantly complained of the chill of the Atlantic, but he knew nothing of it. All he knew was that they were sailing for the Caribbean, and that it would be very hot.