Besides, the news of the Gatemen’s challenge had drawn other captains from nearer ports, including Skeel Barris, Braid Delacrew, and Shipwreck Morrow. Conch had arrived to find that Skeel had already sailed in pursuit, but he found Braid and Shipwreck loaded and ready. Each assured the Conch that they would happily clean up whatever little was left of the Gatemen after Tranquility had had her turn. There seemed no need for the Shalamon to set sail as well.
But now, against all odds, like something out of a bad dream, they stood on the docks and watched that fat freighter pull in. She seemed unscathed, and sat high in the water, having emptied her cargo at her appointed port. None of Conch’s three ships had yet returned. None were visible all the way to the horizon behind her. There could be but one conclusion, and the two men drew it correctly. She’d bested the pirates.
“I shoulda gone myself,” Conch Imbry repeated. “Ain’t that right, Mr. Mazeley?”
The unimpressive man knew he needed to answer carefully. In plain fact, the return of the Gatemen only proved that Mazeley had judged aright. Somehow Damrick Fellows and company had survived attacks by three ships sent to take her prize, or scuttle her. Had Conch pursued them himself, as he had planned, the end would very likely have been the same. Factual as that may be, it was still not a truth he would like to claim as his own.
“Clearly,” he said after much thought, “it takes more than what those captains had to defeat the Gatemen.”
“The Gatemen.” Conch said it with disdain. But he said it. He could no longer deny that they existed. “Maybe I’ll just stand here till he disembarks that sea cow he’s sailin’. Introduce myself by way a’ slittin’ him ear to ear and chin to navel. Be done wif it.”
“Let’s think about this,” Mazeley offered. “If he’s met even one of our three ships, he’s not likely to come to port unprepared for a scuffle.”
Conch contemplated, twirled a moustache end.
“Which means, it will be the two of us against a ship of Gatemen, fresh from the kill.”
Conch sighed. “I hate ’im.”
“Yes. As do I. But I recommend an ambush.”
“Ambush, eh?” The more Conch contemplated, the more that seemed like reasonable advice.
Mr. Mazeley watched carefully but discreetly as the Calliope docked and the sailors made her fast. He was just another unimpressive Vast citizen watching the ships at harbor. True to his prediction, the merchant marines with their leather armbands and red feathers stood with pistols and muskets in hand, watchful, fully prepared for an attack from either sea or shore. None seemed anxious to disembark, either. When they did, they came in packs, guarding the valuable cargo acquired in their merchant voyage: Two biers carried up from the hold and then down the gangway, each pall managed by four men who were surrounded by seven others, all under watchful eyes of sharpshooters stationed above, at the gunwales of the Calliope. Even before the prizes were loaded into a one-horse dray, the gangway was pulled. More than thirty men followed the wagon to the sheriff’s office, where the Gatemen would collect their reward for the capture of two wanted outlaws: Skeel Barris and Shipwreck Morrow.
“Hold on, now, Ham,” a sailor sang out. “Three went after the Calliope. Barris, Morrow, and Braid Delacrew. Ain’t that what ye said?”
“I did.”
“But only two came back dead. What happened to Delacrew?”
Ham puffed his pipe.
“The Gatemen kilt ’im,” another pirate offered. “Ham got it wrong. Ain’t that so, Cap’n?”
Belisar the Whale had been silent. “Braid Delacrew was never heard from again,” he intoned. “The subject of much speculation, as Mr. Drumbone well knows.”
All eyes turned back to their reclining storyteller. “True enough, Captain. What is known for sure is that Damrick Fellows claimed reward only for two of the three, and the fate of Captain Delacrew was never resolved. Some say Damrick sunk him like the others, but his body was not recovered. This seems most likely, though Damrick swore he never saw a trace of the Yellowbone. But others say Braid fled to the Warm Climes and gave up pirating, like Fishbait McGee and Skewer Uttley. But unlike those two, he could not be found playing cards and drinking in any known spot down south. Yet others say it was the dark magic of Damrick Fellows, that drew pirates to their deaths like a flame draws a moth, and that he sails the ocean still in a ghost ship. Still others tell it as the hand of God Himself, who sunk the Yellowbone without a shot fired. A few have made it out to be just a storm, a sudden squall that rose up and swallowed her. And while that seems an easy explanation to us after all this time, those on the seas that day know that no such weather was in play. Then of course, there’s those who say it was the Firefish.”
A few grunts of agreement floated around the deck.
“Sea monsters,” Belisar snorted. “A handy explanation for anything odd that happens at sea. But I’m interested in knowing what you believe, Mr. Drumbone.”
Now the forecastle went silent, waiting. “Well, sir, I must admit that I don’t have any special knowledge of it. But were I to guess, I’d say Damrick took that ship down with his hot-shot musketeers, too. And likely, the end was too bloody and gruesome to be reported.”
The crewmen’s heads swiveled in their hammocks, back to their captain. He nodded. “A likely scenario, I would agree. You tell a good tale, Mr. Drumbone. Tell on.” And with that, he left them.
Taking a deep and relieved breath, Ham continued.
“Quite a feat,” an old man standing at the docks beside Mazeley offered out of the blue.
“Really? What feat is that?”
“Why, what the Gatemen done. They took down three pirate ships in nothin’ but that tub, and her all full a’ ale, sloshin’ around in her hold.”
“The Gatemen?” Mazeley said, feigning ignorance. “Oh, yes, I heard about them. A man named…what…Fellows?”
“Oh yes. Damrick Fellows. He’s from right here. I know his daddy. I run a saloon just around the corner.”
“So which one is Damrick?” Mazeley asked, as though suddenly curious.
“None of them boys,” responded the old innkeeper. “The short one near the back is Lye Mogene, I believe. He served with Fellows. He was the second man when Damrick boarded Savage Grace and kilt that crazy priest they called Sharkbit.”
“Doesn’t look like much, does he?”
“Nope. He was never much account before, what I hear.”
“So you know Damrick, do you?”
“Sure. He was always a quiet lad. Serious boy. He wasn’t ever a fighter. More studious, y’know. Brainy sort. Funny how he turned out.”
Mazeley looked at the man’s apron, the food stains on it. There was a faint odor of ale about him. “Which one’s your tavern?”
“Slow Slim’s Pub.” He put out a hand. “I’m Slim Dubbin.” Mazeley shook it. “Pub is just around the corner.”
“I suspect there’ll be some celebrating at Slow Slim’s tonight.”
Dubbin beamed, leaned in, spoke softly. “Damrick and his men are comin’ around later. He wants it a secret, so don’t tell. But stop by. I’ll introduce ye.”
“Thank you. I may just do that. But did Damrick get off the ship? Or is he still aboard?”
“Oh, he got off first, dressed as a plain sailor, helped tie her off.” Slow Slim tapped his head. “He’s a smart one, that boy. Pirates around, they say, and he’s not makin’ many friends with that bunch. Can’t be too careful.”
“I guess that’s right.”
“Hey, you be careful now yourself. And don’t tell anyone what I told you. You never know who’s listenin’.”
“No, you don’t. But you can count on me. Thanks for the invitation.”
“You’re welcome.”
And he wandered off before Slow Slim thought to ask his name.
That evening, Slow Slim’s was anything but. Everyone in the city knew by now that the Calliope had returned victorious, and even without knowing their whereabouts, people came
to the docks to celebrate with the now-fabled Gatemen. Many found their way to Slow Slim’s by accident. Many more had heard rumors.
Damrick and his men entered the pub from the back alley, in secret, and by nine o’clock braided leather armbands and red feathers filled the back room. Toasts were made and drunk in private, and it was meant to end that way. But by ten Slim’s place was jammed with chanting, hollering patrons who banged on the doors to the back room, wanting to offer their congratulations. Alarmed, Damrick ordered his men to take off their armbands and remove their feathers, and head back to the ship a few at a time. He led the way, disappearing into the night. But fewer than half the Gatemen followed.
“Them’s all friendlies, Damrick. What’re ye worried about?” Lye asked, looking back longingly over his shoulder.
“I gave my orders.”
“Aw, don’t be too hard on ’em. They ain’t used to bein’ praised to kingdom come. And this ain’t exactly a regular military outfit.”
“They have their orders,” he repeated. He looked to Hale Starpus, lumbering along with the pair. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Starpus?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“Well they ain’t gonna be happy with ye, not lettin’ ’em celebrate what they done.”
“Their happiness is not my concern. I’d like to keep them alive.”
Lye went quiet. Finally, he muttered, “Well, ye’ll have to patch things up in the morning with ’em, that’s all.”
But by morning there would be little left to patch up.
Slow Slim flung wide the doors to the back room well before eleven, and well-wishers flowed in to toast the Gatemen. Among them were friends and relatives, delighted citizens, the curious, and a quiet handful that fit into none of those categories. Rum and ale flowed. Gatemen tied their armbands back on, or had them tied on by admirers, and they replaced their red feathers, many with the single goal of assuring they could drink for free.
The quiet few grew into a dozen. And then a score. And suddenly, with no warning, the gunfire began. It lasted less than a minute, a sudden storm of black powder roaring red, yellow fire belching from under coats, under tables, gray smoke in sudden clouds, choking the room. Men cried out, swore. Bodies crashed through tables, chairs, windows. Women screamed, ran, fell to their knees with their hands over their ears. When the echoes died away and the bystanders had evaporated into the night, a haze that smelled of sulfur drifted across the bodies of twenty-two Gatemen lying in pools of their own blood. Slow Slim lay dead on the floor, musket at his side—the price paid for attempting to stop the onslaught. A dozen of Conch’s men looked for signs of life among their enemies, and extinguished it wherever they found it.
“Come quick!” a voice shouted up from the dock beside the Calliope. “There’s shooting! The Gatemen are under fire. Come help! Quick!”
Fifteen Gatemen grabbed their pistols and headed toward the gangway. Damrick stood in their path. “Your orders are to stay aboard,” he told them. His eyes were dull and lifeless.
“You gonna sit up here and let your own men die?” one of them asked, incredulous.
“Slow Slim’s was a trap. And so is this.”
“Trap or not, we gotta help.”
The others called out agreement.
Damrick looked from face to angry face. “Your orders are to stay here,” he said quietly. “This ship needs protecting.” And then he walked back to his cabin.
Lye Mogene and Hale Starpus followed Damrick, trying to talk sense into him. The rest clattered down the gangway, headed back to the pub.
Inside Damrick’s cabin, the two men spoke as their leader checked his loaded pistols. “This is wrong, Damrick.” Hale was angry. “They stood by you, you gotta stand by them. You’re the leader a’ this outfit. You got a reputation.”
“And you’ve got two minutes,” he told them. “Put the cannon overboard. We’re leaving the ship.”
“Yer runnin’?” Lye asked, blinking widely.
“It was a mistake to gather the men together.” He looked up at them, sadness deep in his eyes. “We outfoxed the pirates at sea, but they’ve beaten us badly here in port. It won’t happen again.” He stood. “Conch and his men will be here in force in less than five minutes.” He tucked his pistols into his belt; one in the front, one in the back. “After they’ve murdered all the men who just took their bait, they’ll come here.”
“Bait?” asked Starpus. “What bait?”
“Who do you think that was shouting up from the docks? One of ours? Ours were already dead.”
“How do you know that?”
“Get your things, gentlemen. Throw the cannon overboard. Then get to the ship’s boat, seaward side. We’ve got maybe four minutes. And those are orders I suggest you obey.” He walked out the door, his duffel over his shoulder.
It was more than five minutes later, but not much more, when a sailor climbed the mooring lines of the Calliope and lowered the gangway so that Conch Imbry and his pirates could pour up, searching for Damrick Fellows.
“He ran, then,” Conch said. “He din’t fight. He ran.”
“It would appear so.” Mart Mazeley was looking at the vacant metal plates where the cannon were. His eyes moved to the iron furnace. A plate of beans sat atop it. Then he scanned the empty davit arms that had lowered the ship’s boat into the sea. He scanned the darkness of the harbor, but could see nothing.
Suddenly Conch had Mazeley by the throat. He slammed the smaller man into the bulkhead. “Ye said he’d come. Ye said he’d fight.”
“I was wrong about him,” Mazeley managed, his throat gurgling.
“Now he’s got away!”
Mazeley watched Conch’s angry pupils work back and forth under the slits of his eyelids. But the unimpressive man said nothing more.
Finally Conch released him. “He ran. Like a coward. He let his men be slaughtered.”
“And that’s where I misjudged him.” Mazeley rubbed his neck. “I took him for a man of vanity. The sort who couldn’t bear the idea of losing a bar fight. But he’s more dangerous than that.”
“How?”
“He’s righteous.”
“What, ye mean he prays?”
“I mean he won’t come to the aid of the unrighteous. Even if they’re his own men. It means he has no loyalty, except to his vision of who he is, and what he’s supposed to do.”
“No loyalty? He can’t lead men, then. He’s disgraced himself.”
“I don’t think so.”
Conch’s ire was rising again. “What is it yer thinkin’ now?”
Mazeley continued to massage his own throat. Red fingerprints were now visible under one ear, a red thumbprint under the other.
“Speak away, I ain’t gonna kill ye fer bein’ wrong, or ye’d a been dead long ago.”
“I believe Damrick Fellows will rebuild the Gatemen. He’ll find men who’ll obey him. Men who’ll share this righteous mission. Hell’s Gatemen will be back, I’m afraid. And next time they won’t be so easy to trap.”
“Ye shoulda shot ’im when ye had the chance.”
Mazeley looked surprised. “As far as I know, I have never seen him.”
Damrick watched the fire from across the harbor. All three men sat still in the ship’s boat; none made a move to leave even though they’d already tied up to a pier in front of a darkened cottage.
“Looks like a ship,” Lye pointed out. “Don’t it.”
“It’s the Calliope,” Damrick affirmed.
“There goes yer daddy’s ship, then,” Hale added. Then he looked to Damrick. “Where’s yer daddy?”
“I sent him away.”
“When?”
“Soon as we moored. I figured he’d be an easier target than the Gatemen.”
“Where’d you send him?”
“Somewhere safe.”
All three were silent a moment.
“Is there such a place now?” Lye asked.
Damrick just shook his head.
; “I got a question, Mr. Drumbone.” It was Dallis Trum.
“Just one?”
He spoke very slowly, as if reaching for something just out of his grasp. “If it’s three men sittin’ in a boat, talkin’ to each other, how do you know what it is they’re sayin’?”
“Now there’s an odd question. You just listen to them, like anywhere else.”
“No, I mean, who listened?”
“They listened to one another.”
“Aye, but…how did you know to tell us what they said?”
Ham laughed low. It was a rolling, rumbling, pleasant sound, like thunder when the crops need rain. “Ah, now you’re sneaking in on the storyteller’s art. Let me ask you a question. Do you know which of them three men I’ve ever met?”
“No.”
“Do you know who it was told me the story, so I’d know to tell it to you?”
There was a pause. “No.”
“Then are you saying you can’t believe that one of those men would say such a thing as he said, to any of the other two?”
“No.”
“Then all I have to say to you, Mr. Trum, is if you want to hear the tale, then lie your head back and hear the tale, and quit your worrying about where it comes from. That’s my worry, and mine alone.”
“Aye, sir.” He seemed happy to oblige.
Delaney tugged at his wrinkled shirt. He didn’t know where Ham had gotten all his particulars from, either, but he didn’t give it much thought. He’d sat in boats, or at least on ships, and watched ships burn. He’d seen too often the remnants of a battle, where all the anger and sweat and energy of a fight and a plunder gave way to drying blood and corpses and smoldering ruins. Those were hollow, ugly times, and if a man didn’t get a little bit thoughtful, why, he likely had no head with which to think. Death always caused Delaney to do at least a bit of pondering. Much like he was doing now.
He had seen men get themselves killed a lot of different ways. But unless they didn’t see it coming, which was a mercy, they all died alike in one way. They died scared. Delaney had never really thought about it, but now his mind went there, and he followed right along after. He couldn’t help but know the panic in the eyes of the Gatemen, there in the pub, as they realized too slowly they were under attack, as they tried to pull their pistols, time slowing to a crawl, reactions slowed by alcohol and surprise, knowing as curses left their lips and gun barrels filled their vision that they couldn’t save themselves. It was that same terror that took the pirates on the Tranquility. The terror he’d seen before, with men weeping, crying, even calling out for their mamas in the most piteous way. Strong men, hard men. He’d seen some go crazy with rage, which wasn’t anything at all but a whole lot of panic and a whole lot of pain all mixed together. Pirates were supposed to be rough men who laughed in the face of death like Skeel Barris did. But they were just men, at the bottom. And men were just boys who grew up some.
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