The night came cloudy, moonless, moody, the sullen sea flat as a billiard table.
For reasons known only to itself, an albatross rode air currents higher than the ship’s masts and, like a gray ghost, kept pace with the drifting Lila.
After an hour, a sailor appeared on deck with a rifle and shot the bird, then watched it spiral into the sea.
Battles, who stood in the shadow of the starboard shrouds, heard Mad Dog’s voice rise in an outraged scream.
“Damn you, Lem Samuels! By thunder, there’s bad luck for all hands, an’ no mistake.” He wrenched the rifle from the seaman’s hands. “Why did you shoot the bird?”
Samuels gave the slack-jawed grin of the mentally impaired.
“Fer sport, Cap’n,” he said. “I wanted to make the bird to drop.”
“It was an albatross, you idiot, a spirit bird,” Donovan said. “You’ve brung us ill luck in full measure, by God.”
“If our affair goes bad this night—” a seaman began, but Mad Dog hushed him with a foul oath.
“No more o’ that, Bill,” said he. “Our affair—I won’t put a name to it—is not to be mentioned by you or me or anyone else until the business is over and done. Are ye catching my drift, Bill?”
“Aye, Cap’n, I am,” the man called Bill said.
Mad Dog turned on Samuels again. “As for you, as now looks me atween the eyes as bold as brass like you reckon you’re a gentleman in a cocked hat, I’ll tickle your back with the cat come morning.”
He grabbed the unfortunate Samuels by his shirtfront and pulled him close to his snarling face. “We’ll see if thirty of the best cuts the sporting instincts out of ye, lay to that.”
Battles heard a thud as Donovan pushed Samuels to the deck, and then there was silence.
At fifteen minutes before six bells, all the gunmen were up on their feet, though several of them were still queasy.
As a fiddler on the deck above scraped out “Paddy Doyle’s Boots,” then “Yankee Whaler-men,” Battles again pleaded with the gunmen to spare as many of the sailors as they could.
“Then tell them to spare us, if they could,” Dee O’Day said. And the men laughed.
But Battles didn’t join in the merriment. Stuart had been right. On the close confines of the deck, the enemy crowded together, a score of skilled gunfighters could, in a few seconds, do horrendous execution.
Somehow he had to keep the casualties among the seamen low.
And that meant killing their ringleader.
“Come on, you lads below, we’re a-waiting for ye.”
Mad Dog stood at the top of the ladder that led to the crew’s quarters.
“We’ll be right there,” Battles said, lifting his Colt from Durango’s waistband.
“Come friendly, like, ye understand?” Donovan said. “Just as though you was visiting kinfolk, which ye are, since we’re all shipmates here an’ mean you no harm.”
Battles made no answer, and Mad Dog said: “Hurry now, mates, afore all the grog is drunk.”
The man’s feet thudded on the deck as he walked away.
“Everybody know what to do?” Battles said.
“Since Warful ain’t here, you’re the general, lawman,” Stuart said. “Just don’t mess it up.”
“I’ll do my best not to,” Battles said. He looked around him in the guttering lamplight. “Lane, Anderson, I want you on deck first to secure the swivel guns.”
Anderson, a hulking, menacing figure, spat and said: “You know how many times you’ve told me that?”
“Just making sure you don’t forget.”
“Well, now, that ain’t likely, is it?”
“Right, then up on deck, you and Lane,” Battles said.
He waited until the two gunmen mounted the ladder and disappeared into the darkness before saying to the others: “Let’s go, and for pity’s sake keep it quiet.”
Chapter 28
The Fuse Is Lit
The gunmen immediately swarmed onto the quarterdeck and lined the rail, every man’s gun up and ready. Anderson and Lane had already manned the swivel guns that were now pointed forward where the sailors were assembled.
Matt Battles had insisted on the lamps staying lit, so Mad Dog could see the force he faced and perhaps have second thoughts about taking over the ship. To his relief, Judah Rawlings, his face stiff as he looked straight ahead, was at the wheel.
The scramble onto the quarterdeck had been carried out so quickly, Donovan had no time to react.
But now, as six bells rang and the fiddler played “Poor Sally Sits A-Weeping,” he left his assembled men and strode toward the quarterdeck, his face black with rage.
He turned his head as he walked and yelled: “You, Tom Clancy, belay that racket. It seems there are them here as don’t want to hear it.”
Mad Dog stopped and looked up at Battles.
“Now, what’s the meaning of this?” he said. “Are ye refusing of my ’ospitality that you come at my poor sailormen, who never meant you no harm, with murderous revolvers in hand?”
“Tell your men to lay down their weapons, Donovan,” Battles said. “Nobody need die here tonight.”
“Ah, so that’s the way of it,” Mad Dog said. “No Cap’n if you please, just plain Donovan.”
To prevent the decks running with the blood of skilled seamen, the fight had to come down to just him and Mad Dog, and Battles pushed hard.
“You’re no captain, Donovan, just a half-hung rogue,” he said. “And before we’re done tonight I plan to finish the job the Dutch started.”
“Damn your eyes, but that’s harsh talk,” Mad Dog said. “Have ye been a-turnin’ your ear to sea stories?”
“Only one—the one that says you planned to cut the throats of these men here, turn the Lila about, and sell the gold in Mexico.”
Mad Dog moved his head slowly, like a reptile, and his eyes moved to the man at the wheel.
“Judah Rawlings,” he said, “you’ve been a-telling stories.”
“Rawlings told me nothing that’s not common knowledge on this ship,” Battles said. He didn’t want the helmsman to take any part of the blame for what was about to happen.
“You up there,” Mad Dog said, “I’ll go have what ye might call a consultation with my poor sailormen, and tell them how you’ve been listening to stories and are steering a course toward shooting and the bashing of heads.”
“Then be quick about it, Donovan,” Battles said. “I want this thing settled.”
Stuart, his eyes like ice, heightened his sense of urgency.
“The hell with all this talk,” the Texan said. “I’ll gun the son of a bitch and be done.”
“No, not yet,” Battles said. “If you kill him now, we’ll have a war on our hands.”
“That’s what we want, isn’t it?” Stuart said.
Battles’s irritation flared. “Damn it, for the hundredth time, we can’t kill the sailors.”
Stuart glanced at the silent rigging and listless sails.
“Hell, how hard can it be?” he said. “We can sail this tub.”
Battles smiled. “Yeah, right onto the nearest rock.”
Mad Dog, his head bent, had been in deep discussion with the crew.
He straightened and stepped toward the quarterdeck. This time the seamen, most armed with rifles, fanned out behind him.
Anderson and Lane tensed at the swivel guns.
The cannons were loaded with canister and could sweep the deck like a hailstorm. Few would still be standing when the smoke cleared.
“I’ve been a-talking to my lads, and here it is,” Mad Dog said. “We want the gold, and we’ll take it, but we’ve something to offer. And what might that be? says you. Well, says I, I’ll say it plain, the only way this poor sailorman knows how.”
“Let’s hear it, Donovan,” Battles said.
On either side of him the gunmen were ready, the sight of the seamen’s rifles making them uneasy.
“I’ll find a pleasant cove an
d drop all of ye off, safe and sound on a friendly shore, like,” Donovan said. “Along o’ that, you’ll have one, no, two, kegs of gold. On that you have my affy-davy, my word of honor.”
Mad Dog raised his arms in an attitude of supplication. “There it is, all laid out for you. Why, the cap’n can’t say handsomer than that, says you. And it’s right you’d be on that score, mates.”
Battles took time to build and light a cigarette, the flaring match highlighting the flat planes of his face.
“Are you finished?” he said finally.
“Aye, and what’s said to you is said to all. Refuse my offer and this deck will run red with blood.”
Talking through a haze of blue smoke, Battles said: “And here are my terms—order your seamen to lay down their arms and return to their duties. Later you can discuss with Warful how the gold should be shared.”
“Is that your last word?” Mad Dog said.
“Donovan, my talking is done.”
“Then it’s war atween us, matey,” Mad Dog said. “An’ many a lively lad a-standin’ on yon quarterdeck will curse this day.”
The fuse was lit....
Appalled, Battles saw that both sides were ready to shoot it out.
He had to do something—fast!
Then Judah Rawlings left the wheel and whispered into Battles’s ear... and showed him the way.
Chapter 29
A Clash of Steel
“Wait!” Matt Battles yelled.
He vaulted the quarterdeck rail and landed on his feet, a jarring leap for a man with thirty-six-year-old knees.
Biting back a painful reminder of his maturity, he held up a hand and yelled to Mad Dog: “Donovan, you run this ship by the Pirate Code. Under the code, I demand the right to challenge you for the captaincy of this vessel, as laid down by Edward Teach and ... and . . .”
“Henry Morgan,” Mad Dog said. “Damn your soul to the deepest sloughs of hell, I know the law.”
“Then it’s between you and me,” Battles said. “Winner takes all.”
“I’m a one-handed man, but I won’t turn and show my stern to any man,” Mad Dog said. “But I’m no fancy Texas draw fighter with a Colt’s gun in my pants.”
“Cap’n,” a seaman said, “since you’re the challenged party, the code says the choice of weapons is your’n.”
“Says I, you’re dead right, Sam, and so it does, wrote down in blood by old Blackbeard’s own hand.” Mad Dog looked across the deck at Battles. “Do you give me the choice of weapons?”
“Choose any weapon you want, Donovan,” Battles said, a sinking feeling in his gut.
Damn it, that was a really, really bad move.
And so it turned out.
Mad Dog’s eyes glittered. “Bring me the cutlass bequeathed to me by my own sweet pa, as was hung in an iron cage from the Plymouth town gallows and left to dry in the sun. And, hear you, a pot o’ grog as well.”
A seaman offered Donovan the rum, but he said: “Set it on the port rail there, me lad.” He grinned at Battles. “Afore that pot is emptied, I’ll see the color of your guts.”
A sailor gave the marshal a cutlass, a broad-bladed, heavy weapon with a curved iron hand guard.
But Mad Dog’s sword looked as though it were crafted by a demon blacksmith in the Devil’s forge.
The entire hand guard was covered by a grinning yellow skull, a silver coin set in the middle of its forehead.
Donovan raised the cutlass high and strutted around the deck like a gladiator in an arena.
“Lookee, lads,” he said, “the skull of me own sweet pa that I paid ten silver shillings for in Plymouth Town after he died bad, and he’s never let me down in a fight.”
“He were a rum go, your pa, and afeard of no man,” an older seaman said.
Donovan said: “Truer words was never spoke, Dan’l Clancy. I have the only piece of him that ain’t roasting in hell and it’s always guided my steel.”
Lon Stuart stepped beside Battles.
“You ever used one of them swords before?” he said, nodding to the cutlass in Battles’s hand.
The marshal, his eyes on the boasting, posturing Mad Dog, shook his head.
“Well, if he guts you like a hog, I’ll gun the son of a bitch,” Stuart said.
“Thanks,” Battles said. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”
“Don’t mention it,” Stuart said.
Mad Dog took a swig of rum, stepped out of his shoes, then walked into the middle of the deck, swinging his cutlass, grinning.
Immediately a sailor ran out with a bucket and sprinkled sand between him and Battles.
“When his blood starts a-gushin’, I don’t want ye to slip on the deck, Cap’n,” he said.
Mad Dog nodded, but said nothing. All his attention was now focused on Battles.
The marshal stepped toward him, holding his cutlass low, the tip pointed upward.
Mad Dog feinted a thrust that Battles tried to defend, but, like the flickering tongue of a snake, the man’s blade withdrew and then swung in an arc, the razor-sharp blade slicing into the right side of Battles’s face.
Donovan stepped back, threw his sword point into the deck, where the blade stood swaying, and reached out his hand. A sailor gave him the grog pot and he drank deeply.
He looked across at Battles. “Ol’ Cap’n Silas Higgs teached me that move,” he said. “Did you enjoy it?”
A seaman laughed. “He was a devil, was ol’ Silas.”
“That he was,” Mad Dog said. “An’ right now him and my own sweet pa are watching us from hell, lay to that.”
Battles tasted the blood in his mouth, and when he touched his cheek, his hand came away scarlet and wet.
Anger flared in him and he charged Donovan, his cutlass raised for a killing, downward slash.
Without seeming to hurry, Mad Dog passed his mug to a seaman, plucked up his sword, and parried Battles’s blow, steel clashing against steel.
Again, Donovan recovered expertly and swung his cutlass in a flashing arc, the blade slamming into Battles’s left side, cutting deep.
Gasping from shock and pain, Battles staggered a step back and dropped his guard.
This time Mad Dog went after him.
The man was a master swordsman. In his hand the cutlass’s slow, clumsy blade was as quick and nimble as a rapier.
He pranced around on his bare feet like a dancer, and methodically cut Matt Battles to pieces. Donovan took his time, drawing out Battles’s death, but the marshal soon looked like a man who’d fallen into a vat of crimson dye, blood streaming from cuts to his head, face, and upper body.
Finally Mad Dog stepped back, drained his grog to the last drop, and tossed the pewter pot away.
His sword grasped under his armpit, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Now I’ll end it and put you out of your misery, matey,” he said. “Says you, that’s real civil of the cap’n, because I’m all cut to collops. Says I, well, I’ve had my fun and after I kill you I’ll have another pot o’ grog and drink it while you’re feeding the sharks.”
Mad Dog came at Battles again, crouched low, his lips drawn back in a feral snarl, the cutlass skull gleaming yellow in the lantern light.
Battles, down on one knee, had lost blood and he felt weak and nauseated. The cutlass in his hand was suddenly as heavy as an anvil and he staggered when he rose to again face a skilled enemy.
Mad Dog, sensing the kill, came at him slowly, and Battles heard the soft swish... swish . . . of his feet on the sand and the sound of the man’s steady breathing.
Summoning all the strength that was left to him, Battles stepped forward and thrust for Donovan’s throat. The man parried easily, contemptuously, then feinted a cut at Battles’s left side. The marshal took a step to his right to avoid the blow—but fell into Mad Dog’s trap.
The seaman swung his left arm, and the ivory-covered stump slammed like a club into Battles’s head.
Battles took the terrific blow just above
his right temple and, momentarily stunned, staggered back an ungainly step or two, then crashed onto his back.
Lon Stuart had to jump to the side to avoid Battles’s falling body.
He looked down at the marshal and said: “You’re done.”
“The hell I am,” Battles croaked, his ears ringing, the deck cartwheeling around him.
Mad Dog loomed into his line of vision and screamed in triumph. He drew back his sword, ready for the kill.
When Matt Battles was a boy, he and his friends had spent hours throwing their Barlow knives at trees. But unlike most of the others, he could never get his blade to stick. Usually it bounced off the trunk, to the jeers of his more skilled companions.
Therefore it was desperation and fear that forced him to throw the cutlass.
His right arm was down by his side, the sword in his hand. He swung fast and hard at Mad Dog, but instead of following through, he released the handle of the cutlass.
He was destined to miss, and the blade should’ve harmlessly crossed Donovan’s body and clattered to the deck behind him.
But, as the cutlass left his hand, Battles’s little finger snagged on the bottom of the iron guard, deflecting the blade just enough.
Such was the minuscule difference between life and death.
The cutlass flew straight with terrific velocity and buried itself to the hilt in Mad Dog’s belly.
The man looked down at the sword sticking out of him, his face a mix of disbelief and horror. He took a step back, still staring at the sword, then another. Finally he fell on his back, his own weapon clanging onto the deck.
Battles was beyond rage, beyond reason, possessed by something primitive and mindlessly violent.
He staggered to his feet, stepped to Mad Dog, and pulled the sword from his belly.
He lurched toward the sailors, who drew back from him, their wide eyes registering shock and fear.
“Damn you, damn you all,” Battles screamed. “Are there any of you wants to challenge me?”
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