by Steve Goble
These condemned men had thought themselves beyond the law’s reach, too, but events had proven otherwise. Spider hoped Hob realized that now. Sometimes you learned the most by staring reality in the goddamned face.
The minister closed his Bible with a stern “amen.” Spider, lost in his own thoughts and silent prayers, had not heard a word the man had said. Less than average in height, Spider tiptoed forward to get a better look. Wind-borne sand lashed at his face and neck, and he snatched with long, thin fingers at his broad-brimmed hat before the wind could carry it away. He congratulated himself on remembering to keep his maimed left hand in his pocket.
Spider tried to catch Dobbin’s eyes. He wanted him to know that he was there. Dobbin, however, kept his eyelids clamped shut and continued mouthing his invocation. One of the other doomed men sobbed uncontrollably. Another spat and then stared into the sky with eyes that seemed already dead. The fourth, unable to pace under the clutch of his guards, let his eyes do it for him. He scanned the throng as though trying to decide whom to kill first.
The lieutenant in command was reading the charges, and Spider started paying more attention.
“On this day, Tuesday, January 12, in the year of our Lord 1723 . . .” Spider missed a few words as he tried to peer between taller men. “First, that these men piratically, feloniously, and in hostile manner did attack, engage, and take seven certain fishing boats and merchant vessels belonging to the kingdoms of England, France, and Spain . . .”
Movement in the crowd nearby caught Spider’s attention. He looked and cursed. That familiar face he’d spotted earlier was peering straight back at him—and then the goddamned son of a bitch pointed at Spider and Hob.
“Hey!” The man shoved his way through the crowd, straight toward Spider. “Pirate!”
“Damn it!” Spider grabbed Hob’s arm. “Run, boy!”
Quick as Spider was, Hob passed him, and the boy shouldered aside a fellow who was pulling a gun from his belt. Behind them, gasps and alarms rose.
Several horses were tied just beyond the crowd. Spider freed one. “Hop up with me, Hob!”
“No, Spider John! I will ride on my own!” The boy was clambering atop a roan mare and wielding a pistol he must have stolen from the fellow he’d bowled over.
“Goddamn, Hob, we’ll be split up!” There was no time for further argument, though, because Hob’s horse was spinning like a dervish and the lad fired a shot that Spider prayed had not killed anyone. Then Hob’s horse dashed down the road toward the city, and Spider somehow managed to make the beast he rode follow suit. Mounting a horse was easy enough. He’d done that before. Riding at full gallop, however, was a new and frightening experience.
“Full onward! Ho!” Hob whipped the pistol back and forth above his head. Spider, meanwhile, crouched low on his horse as the sound of muskets erupted behind them.
Spider caught up to Hob, who grinned like a fool. “They cannot catch us now!”
“Lead balls might catch us!” Spider slapped his mare’s flank. The horse raced ahead, and Spider hoped it would just follow the damned road, for he had no idea how to control such a beast. After a few seconds at a gallop, he wondered if his ass would survive the pounding. But the horse, at least, seemed to know its way.
The thundering hooves could not quite hide the sound of drum-rolls and cheers from the gallows. Spider listened for the creaking hinges, thrumming ropes, and snapping necks that would tell him his friend was dead. He heard none of those, but he did hear the crowd’s collective gasp, followed by a loud cheer.
I am sorry, Dobbin. I wanted to see you off. God damn this pirate life.
Spider, a veteran of many scrapes, shoved the guilt pangs aside and concentrated on staying alive. He could hear the pounding of hooves behind him and was willing to bet his pursuers were better riders. The road bent, trees lined both sides, and Spider decided to seize an opportunity, desperate though it was.
“You know how to stop a horse, Hob?”
“No!”
“Well, then, jump!”
It would likely mean injury, but that was better than hanging. Spider leapt from the saddle, and Hob did likewise, both of them tumbling into underbrush. Branches and thorns scraped at Spider’s face and arms. The excited horses galloped onward.
“Are you hurt, Hob?”
“Just bruises and scrapes, Spider.”
“Then follow me!” Spider grabbed his hat from the ground and plunged deeper into the underbrush, shoving aside branches. Hob followed.
Once they were well away from the road, Spider grabbed Hob’s sleeve and they stopped. Crouching together, they heard the pursuit thunder past and continue down the road, hooves pounding like drums. Spider exhaled the breath he’d been holding.
“May God damn a world that won’t let a couple of gentlemen see their old friend off to hell, Hob. It ain’t just.”
“Aye.” The boy wiped at a scrape on his cheek. “It ain’t just.”
“Come, Hobgoblin, let us sneak our way back to the Phoenix. We’ve got other business ahead of us.”
“Aye.”
“Legitimate business,” Spider added, and he was damned proud to say it. “Not more of this pirate business. We are done with that. Honest men, by thunder! But rum first. God, yes, rum first. A toast to old Dobbin.”
2
“Spider, Odin seems worried about something. Truly worried.”
Hob, breathing hard and wiping disheveled blond locks from his face, stood in the doorway of the cramped room they shared above the Phoenix Tavern. They would leave this safe harbor for good today. Tonight, they were to sleep aboard Redemption. In the morning, they would sail with the tide as part of a convoy bound for Boston. Spider, finally, would sail away from a life of piracy and toward Emma and his son. And he prayed he would never see Port Royal again.
Spider closed his eyes, and he could see her—the long hair, brown or blond depending on the light and the season, the broad smile that brightened his heart every time he saw it, the nose that crinkled when she flashed that smile. He could not envision the boy; little Johnny had been bald and wrinkled and pink in Em’s arms the last time Spider had seen him, before walking away to board a whaler. He was supposed to have been gone only a couple of years. Pirates had intervened, and two years became something more like eight, although he had lost track. By now, little Johnny was dreaming of the sea, most likely.
Spider opened his eyes, and Em was gone. He gulped. Dear Lord, whatever it is that troubles Odin, don’t let it keep me from home.
If Odin was worried about something, that was a bad omen. Odin had shown no concern when Red Viper headed into battle with another pirate vessel, and none when the king’s frigate Austen Castle had come swooping down on them, and none even when he was in chains aboard that very same naval ship. Odin, who had sailed with the notorious Blackbeard and made sure everyone he met knew it, worried?
That worried Spider John.
Spider, sitting on one of two cots set up in the upstairs room and leaning against the wall, sucked on his pipe and let the fumes fill his head. In his right hand, he held a French throwing knife, a gift from Odin. The old man had stolen it and presented it to Spider with a wink. Spider had always been good at throwing knives, and this balanced beauty was the best he had ever owned. He’d been practicing with it this morning to help him stop thinking about Dobbin, two days dead. He shifted his gaze to the water spot on the wall ahead of him, then casually flipped the knife right into the very heart of that stain. The tip sank into the wood with a satisfying thunk.
“Damn,” Hob said.
“Ten in a row,” Spider replied. “Fetch the blade for me. Now what is it that concerns Odin?”
“I do not know,” Hob answered, scurrying over to the wall and pulling Spider’s knife free. The boy ran a finger across the tight grouping of slots left by the blade. “Jesus, Spider, you could cover all these with a shilling.” The boy examined the weapon for a few seconds, eyebrows arched in admiration, then
handed it to its owner. “Wish I could throw like that.”
“I shall teach you. It’ll be easier than teaching you to saw a plank, because you’ll actually pay attention. Which reminds me . . .”
Spider reached into the sack by his cot and fished out a walnut-handled knife. “This is for you.” He handed it over to Hob.
“This is very nice,” the lad said. “It has my name on it!”
“Aye,” Spider acknowledged. He’d carved the letters into the handle himself, after getting the tavern keeper to write the letters for him to use as a guide. Hob could not read much beyond his own name, but in this case, it was enough.
Hob tucked the knife into his belt. “Thank you, Spider John.”
“Now, tell me of Odin, lad.”
“We were up on the mizzenmast, making sure all was snug, and Odin was showing me some knots, and some new fellows came aboard. Odin went white as a ghost, I swear, and he turned away so the new men could not see his face.”
“Nobody wants to see Odin’s face,” Spider said.
Hob scowled. As someone who had sailed with the notorious Blackbeard and lived on the Spanish Main longer than Hob had been alive, Odin was a bright star in Hob’s universe. “Odin told me the lesson was done, real sudden, though we’d scarcely got started, and he said to go away. He seemed very, very concerned. Scared, I should say. Britches-shitting scared.”
Spider took another deep inhalation of tobacco smoke, then let it stream from his nostrils. “I do not like the sound of that,” he said, “not at all. Odin would laugh at the devil himself if ever they met. Hell, the devil might run from Odin.”
“I know,” Hob said. “That’s why I am here, instead of waiting for you on board. What the hell shall we do?”
Spider stood and tucked the dagger into his belt. “I suppose we’d best get to Redemption, and see what it is that has Odin fretting. Perhaps one of the new fellows knows him of old, and he worries he’ll be found out as a pirate.”
Hob gulped. “Will we be revealed as well?”
Spider stared into the boy’s blue eyes and put a hand on his shoulder. “I do not believe Odin would tattle on his shipmates, if that is what concerns you, not if burning bamboo shoots were thrust under his fingernails, not if a flaming brand was rammed hard against his balls. You may rely on that, Hobgoblin.”
The boy smiled. “He is a tough son of a bitch.”
“Toughest I ever knew. Sailed with Blackbeard, he did. Ha!” It was a fairly good imitation of Odin’s raspy voice, and they both laughed. “Let us go to the ship. We’ll see what has Odin fretting, and if we can do anything about it, by thunder, we will.”
Spider grabbed his hat, which smelled of sea and salt, and the small leather sack that held his few belongings. He checked to make sure the heart pendant he’d carved for his Em was still hanging from his neck, then headed through the door behind Hob.
Spider’s chest felt tight as he descended the stairs. He did not look forward to the walk through Port Royal. In his reckoning, every alley hid a thief, and every pair of eyes belonged to a spy. But he had to traverse those streets one more time to reach the ship, and Em, and so he would.
They stepped into the taproom. Hob headed for the swinging doors that led outside, but Spider stopped as Duncan proffered a bottle of rum. “Fair winds, my friend. It was good seeing you, Spider John.” He placed the bottle on the bar and reached for a pair of wooden cups.
“Thanks for the port in a hell of a storm,” Spider said as Duncan poured. “And thanks for easing my way with Cap’n Brentwood.”
“Just promise you won’t squander it,” Duncan said. They both drank.
“I will not,” Spider whispered. “No more pirate life for me. I go by the name of John Coombs now, honest ship’s carpenter.”
“So you will be paying for the rum this time?”
“I will, by thunder.” Spider poked around in the sack and pulled out some coins. He plunked them down on the bar. “Heh, feels strange to do that.”
“Well, now. Never thought I would see this.” Duncan scooped up the coins quickly, as though they might vanish if he didn’t.
Spider followed Hob out the door and into the overwhelming Jamaican sun. He tilted the hat until its wide brim shielded his eyes. A few steps later he emptied his spent pipe and tucked it into the band of his hat, and together he and Hob strode toward the wharfs. Spider’s good mood of a few moments ago was gone now, dashed on the rocks like a ship in a storm. This was a city of spies and thieves, with many people willing to cut a throat or turn a pirate over to the authorities for a few coins or to gain favor, as if the favor of those in power ever really meant a goddamned thing.
The town, once known as a pirate haven and decried as a wicked rebirth of the biblical Sodom, was arranged rather haphazardly, with taverns propped against brothels next to churches in narrow alleys and winding streets. People of every hue between white-burned-to-red and darkest ebony moved quickly between the shady areas. They fanned themselves, or huddled beneath parasols, and drank steadily from flasks and wineskins. Sutlers rolled carts, setting up to sell everything from hats to nuts, fruit to gunpowder, plantains to cockatiels. Spider growled when one of the birds squawked at him.
Hob laughed. “Why do you jump from birds so?”
“They move too goddamned fast, and have too many sharp parts, and I think the devil created them to shred men. And have you looked in their eyes? No more soul than a shark.”
Hob just shook his head.
Piles of shingles and busted timbers lined the streets; those and a number of boarded windows and cracked walls testified to what must have been a hell of a recent storm, although the weather had been fair since Spider arrived. Even cobblestones had been ripped up in places.
Mules pulled a creaky wagon laden with crates and barrels toward the harbor. Children threw stones at rats, and women emptied chamber pots from upper windows in brothels while men tried to drag the ladies back to bed. The breeze, although cool on Spider’s skin, carried a disturbing mix of scents—urine, fish, sweaty animals, and perfume. His stomach reeled a bit, and he momentarily regretted the rum.
“Once we sort out Odin’s concerns, Hob, you can show me if you’ve learned to fashion a proper dovetail joint.”
“Jesus, Spider, do I really have to learn all that?”
Spider stopped dead in his tracks. “Do you know why I am not a dead man right now, Hob?”
“Because you are too stringy for sharks?”
Spider slapped the back of Hob’s head, but laughed. “Because I have a skill. When Jed Carter’s bloodsucker crew came pouring over Lily’s rail—I was not much older than you when I was mate to Lily’s carpenter, you know, and then carpenter myself after Herman got sick and died—Jed didn’t take on many of our crew. He already had plenty of men who could fight, plenty of men who could sail. But he needed a carpenter, by thunder. That saved my life. Jed sent most of Lily’s crew overboard to fight against the sea for their lives, but he kept me aboard. I would be dead and deep, boy, but I knew how to wield a saw and a hammer. That, and that alone, saved my life.”
“You know how to wield a gun and sword, too.” Hob nodded hard, as though he had scored a point. “That has saved your life more than once, and I was a witness.”
“When I met Jed Carter, I didn’t know any fighting ways.” Spider drew a deep breath. “I learned all that after. Because I had to, not because I wanted to.”
They continued walking, but Spider’s mind was turned inward now. The dark memories made him wince. Spider had hoped to mind his own business, work hard as a carpenter, and avoid the bloodshed until he could find means to escape. But he had quickly learned that every man aboard a pirate vessel was expected to fight, and he had just as quickly learned that in the thick of things he’d rather fight than die. Spider had gotten blood on his hands right away, and it would never all wash off. Never.
Hob whistled softly. A winking trollop crossing the narrow street in front of them left a s
weet scent in her wake, and Spider punched the boy in the arm. “No time for that, and no money.”
“I have money. I have been saving,” Hob said. “I have enough, anyway. And Cap’n Brentwood gave me liberty, told me to enjoy my last day in Port Royal.”
“And what of Odin’s worries?”
“Thinking they might be the kind of worries that might get me hung or shot, I would as soon take my leave for a bit and follow her. Might be my last opportunity.” The woman, gazing back, turned away with a smile, a flash of green eyes, and a swirl of blond curls that were wilting in the morning heat.
Spider relented. “Very well, then. Go enjoy life. It can be goddamned short enough, I guess. I will try to have all our problems settled by the time she has emptied your purse and your balls.”
“Thank you.” Hob scurried off, and Spider headed toward the wharf.
Spider turned to watch the boy go. He understood Hob’s eagerness. He had been younger than Hob when he had first become enthralled with Em’s charms. He had been unable to think of anything besides bedding her. He remembered those times now, the long looks, the sneaking away, the frantic lovemaking. Hob’s dalliance was not the same, of course. It would not likely result in a wedding. But Spider certainly understood the lad’s urges.
Like an apple at the end of a branch, Port Royal sat on the tip of a long spit called the Palisadoes. The spit divided the harbor from the Caribbean; as Spider proceeded westward, the busy harbor lay to his right beneath a bright, cloudless sky and swirling gulls. Farther above, a majestic black-and-white frigate bird tilted toward the open ocean. Spider’s distaste for birds did not apply to this fork-tailed wonder. He assumed it had dagger claws and a sharp beak just like every other bird he’d seen, and perhaps even the same evil eyes, but he’d never seen a frigate bird up close. Indeed, he’d never seen a frigate bird do anything but soar aloft, and he longed to know that kind of freedom. So long as frigate birds kept their distance, Spider could get along with them.
He kept his eyes on the damned gulls, though.