by Steve Goble
In a short time, which seemed longer because Spider averted his eyes anytime he encountered someone looking in his direction, he came within view of Redemption, sitting at anchor in water shining in the bright sun. If Spider was to know freedom, Redemption was the key. He hoped Odin’s concerns would not be an obstacle. Perhaps someone aboard suspected Odin’s pirate past? That could end with Odin, Hob, and Spider in manacles. So he was eager to learn what worried the one-eyed rigger.
But first, he had to cross a harbor of ghosts.
Spider stepped from the wharf and into a tender, flipping a coin from his sack to one of the two oarsmen. “Redemption,” he said, pointing toward the triple-masted, Dutch-built beauty some two hundred yards away. Pointing probably had been unnecessary, since harbor men always knew every ship by name, perhaps better than they knew their own children, but Spider liked calling attention to the fluyt. She was the finest ship he’d ever served, tall and straight with woodwork that only impressed more the closer one got. She was a floating work of art. As the men slipped the lines and dipped their oars, Spider tried to concentrate on the ship that was their destination and to keep his mind off the dead in the waters below.
“You worried about the ghosts, sir?” The bald oarsman nodded toward the water.
“No.”
“You seem worried.”
“Just row.”
It had been about thirty years since an earthquake and the resulting tidal wave had laid waste to Port Royal. The quake—hailed by many as a justly deserved divine retribution for the people’s wickedness—had leveled two-thirds of the town, and the wall of water had reduced the hard-packed sand beneath Port Royal to sludge. Buildings and people slid into the harbor, to be buried beneath the stirred mud.
At least three thousand people had died, if the tales were true. Spider doubted every one of those people deserved God’s wrath, but he was no expert in such things.
The storm had assaulted the dead, too. Hundreds of graves had been ripped asunder and dashed into Kingston Harbour. Henry Morgan, famed privateer and once governor of Jamaica, had been among them, and his spirit was now said to haunt these waters. They’d talked of it over beer and rum at the Phoenix, Hob wide-eyed, Odin nodding, and Spider trying to convince himself that ghost talk was just talk. He realized now he had not quite succeeded.
Spider kept his hands away from the gunwale, because he had seen men lose fingers and hands to sharks in this very harbor. Local harbor men insisted the ever-present sharks hardly ever bit a man, but Spider wouldn’t trust a fucking shark any more than he trusted a naval purser, or those hovering gulls.
Spider fixed his gaze on Redemption. She towered there, and because her bow was aimed at them, her shape was evident. Narrow above and wider below, the Dutch fluyt had been built to haul cargo efficiently. She would never be swift in any sea, but she was steady and sturdy and could be handled by as few as eighty men. She had no guns mounted, but she would be part of a convoy of East Indiamen escorted by the naval frigate HMS Southampton. The frigate would pack guns aplenty, by God, and would be a nimble ship. Spider could see her beyond the harbor, riding the wind smartly under full canvas, brilliantly white, and no doubt her captain was drilling the crew with disciplined efficiency. Spider could envision Southampton’s men running out guns, firing broadsides, loading and running and firing the guns again and again, until it could be done to the captain’s satisfaction. He’d never been in the navy, but he’d been on the opposing side in such battles and had a deep respect for navy skill. He and his pirate mates had escaped capture or death mostly by luck, and by racing their sloops into waters too shallow for the king’s ships. But vessels like Southampton had rid the seas of most pirates.
Redemption should be safe enough, Spider thought, before spitting overboard for luck.
Most of the heavy stores—barrels of water, salt pork and salt fish as provisions, cordage, and the several tons of molasses and rum to be sold in Boston—were stowed in Redemption’s large holds already, but three boats crowded the ship to starboard to load trunks, cages of squawking chickens, additional canvas that Odin had insisted upon, and more.
Other tenders plied the waters, too, and so the shortest path to the ship was not available. The tender gave Redemption plenty of leeway and took Spider around the ship’s stern. The captain’s cabin doors were open onto the stern gallery, perhaps Spider’s favorite feature of the ship. That stern gallery, akin to a back porch on a home, allowed the captain to step directly from the confines of his cabin and into the open air, where he could take his tea, gaze upon Redemption’s wake, and ponder whatever plans and dreams crossed the minds of captains.
Captain Josiah Brentwood was not out on the gallery now, but Spider could hear the man’s gentle voice emanate from the cabin, intoning, “. . . nearly forty yards in length, and ten abeam, and as sturdy a ship as I’ve ever sailed. Beautiful. You’ll find her quite accommodating, and we’ve worked below to see to every comfort.”
The ship would be any captain’s pride and joy, Spider thought, and he was glad to realize Captain Brentwood, a recent widower and much distracted by the loss of his wife, had noticed. Spider hoped this journey would give the captain some spark, and this was certainly a ship to inspire a seafaring man.
The fluyt had once been used as a pirate’s flagship and had been captured by the Royal Navy and sold off. Brentwood now owned it and had personally overseen the work done to erase what he called the “stamp of thievery and debauchery” left by her previous crew. Spider’s key task in recent weeks, aside from all the ordinary carpentry jobs involved with getting a ship ready to sail, had been to make certain the cramped passenger quarters below were as comfortable and attractive as possible, and to sequester one section for the captain’s daughter, Abigail. Captain Brentwood had been quite clear that his daughter should be as comfortable as possible, and Spider had gone so far as to build a rolltop desk for her, with copious drawers for papers and such and deep wells for ink jars, where she could write in her journal. Spider also had gutted an adjacent passenger cabin and turned it into a sitting room of sorts. Captain Brentwood had smiled and deemed it all acceptable.
Spider couldn’t help but feel proud. Redemption wasn’t his ship, but he’d earned many blisters and small cuts in making her as beautiful and solid as he could. He’d learned a few things, too. The Dutch built fine ships.
The tender sidled up to the ship, and Spider clambered up the larboard rope ladder, sack over his shoulder.
“Ho, John!” The sailing master, Nicholas Wright, peered down at Spider. “Care to toss a dirk? I would like to win my money back.” Even the simple motion of freeing a kerchief from his belt to wipe his brow prompted muscles to ripple in Wright’s arms. The man’s chest swelled beneath a gray shirt stained with dots of tar. Spider, not a large man, envied Wright’s physique.
“Best not to do it today, sir,” Spider answered. “I have been practicing, and I swear I can’t miss. You might as well just give me your coins now if you insist on more bets.”
“Very well,” Wright said, beaming a wide, bright smile. “We shall have a go tomorrow, though. I will never believe a man can hit the mark so often as you think you can.”
“I would think you’ve seen me throw enough times by now to keep your money safe,” Spider answered. “I mean it, sir. I am very damned good at it.”
“Indeed.” Wright laughed. He was about Spider’s age, somewhere in his twenties, but even though he was second-in-command, he wore authority easily, like a cloak he could doff or don as needed. As sailing master, Nicholas Wright had charge of most day-to-day matters aboard, and he’d commanded other vessels for Captain Brentwood. Others aboard Redemption who had sailed with him before spoke well of him. He got on well with the men, because he worked as hard as any of them and treated them as equals, even though they were not.
Wright smiled. “But tomorrow, aye? I feel lucky.”
“Aye, sir.” Spider hopped nimbly over the rail and headed to the forecastle. Once h
e’d stowed his belongings in his chest, he looked aloft to find Odin.
The man was perched on the foremast, straddling the topsail yardarm, inspecting lines and blowing great clouds of pipe smoke into the Jamaican breeze. Spider, an able climber, clutched his hat brim in his teeth and ascended the ratlines. Soon, he was perched on the yardarm next to his friend.
“Hob tells me you have misgivings,” Spider said, returning the hat to his head as a guard against the bright sun.
“Aye,” Odin said quietly while looking around. That alone made Spider nervous, for Odin seldom cared who overheard him. Ordinarily, caution was alien to the old codger, something for lesser mortals to worry about.
“Well,” Spider said, smelling Odin’s pipe and wishing he’d taken a moment to light his own. “Are you going to tell me your worries, or am I going to have to cut it out of you?”
“Some new folk came aboard,” Odin said. “And one of them, a paid passenger, is the very goddamned devil. The very goddamned fucking devil.”
The old man brushed his long ash-colored hair away from his face and gazed toward the bowsprit, almost directly below. Then he pointed. “There.”
Spider looked and saw four men leaning against the starboard rail. “Which one?”
“Fellow with the pipe and the brimstone vapors swirling about his head.”
One of the four, indeed, seemed enveloped in dark clouds emanating from his pipe, nostrils, and mouth. Gray beard and long hair framed a craggy, cruel face.
Spider spat out toward the sea, and watched the spittle fly on the breeze. He snatched the hat from his head, so as not to lose it. “Why does he worry you?”
“I’d rather see headless, dead Blackbeard crawl up from the ocean than to see that son of a whore.” Odin sucked on his pipe hard, and the bowl flamed like a volcano.
“Who is he?”
“Passenger. Named Samuel Lawrence,” Odin said, “but we called him Sam Smoke.”
“You sailed with him?”
“Aye,” Odin said softly. “With him, and with Wicked Pete Reese, and with one worse.”
“Worse than Blackbeard?” Spider shuddered.
“Ned Low.” Odin inhaled deeply and held pipe smoke in his lungs a moment, then blew out a monstrous fog. “We all sailed with Ned Low.”
“Jesus,” Spider said.
3
Ned Low had been the subject of many a bloody tale by the Phoenix hearth during Spider’s weeks in Port Royal. Men spoke of cruel tortures and pointless killings, and surmised that although Blackbeard, Bartholomew Roberts, and Calico Jack might all be gone, Ned Low would prowl and infest the seas forever. No one would ever bring goddamned Ned Low to justice. He was the devil’s son.
Spider remembered one such story vividly. “We found a jolly boat, adrift, full of sliced men,” one old French gent with haunted eyes had sworn. “Ned Low’s flag rolled up, tucked between the thwarts, with heads in it. Heads. Five heads.”
Much of the common-room discussion had revolved around the killer’s current whereabouts, whether he was on the Spanish Main or had run up toward Charleston, or off to the Azores. No one really knew, of course. But Ned Low had the Admiralty’s attention these days, and the pirate had been playing the mouse. The sea was a wide expanse, an endless sheet of water. Ned Low could be anywhere.
Or he could be right out there somewhere. Spider gulped and stared at the harbor mouth. If one of Ned Low’s henchmen was on this very ship, then Ned could be very close, indeed.
“Seen any signs of pirate vessels in the harbor here, Odin?” Spider blocked the sun from his eyes and scanned the ships around him. Most were cargo ships; some were clearly cut out for little more than fishing. He did see one sloop, built for the kind of speed and maneuverability that made pirates love them, but this one had no apparent guns and had obviously seen much tender care. It was an unlikely pirate ship.
A crescendo of feminine laughter from below interrupted Spider’s thoughts. A small group of people wandered along the starboard rail, and the laughs rose from the lone woman in the group. She had to be Brentwood’s daughter, Abigail. She was dressed like a man in britches and a simple shirt, probably a practical decision to make moving easier aboard a crowded ship, but her long blond hair and slender figure deserved a fine skirt and a lacy blouse. She battled the wind for possession of a flowery hat, briefly, before tucking the thing under her arm. Her laughter was music, incongruous with the cursing of sailors and the screeching of gulls. Yet here she was, aboard Redemption, with the likes of Sam Smoke, whose mere presence chilled the soul of Odin.
“Pretty, is she not?”
Odin spat. “I guess we’re a goddamned hen frigate. I do not see a single goddamned thing good about having a girl aboard.”
Spider gave Odin a hard look. As usual, he found it difficult to assess the man. He could not know what Odin was thinking or even guess how old the codger really was. In repose, Odin was a nightmare figure, an ancient warlock with a horribly scarred and sun-leathered face. But his long fingers could handle knife and knot as easily as anyone, and he could scramble up a mast like a monkey. Odin made light of things that made other men shiver deep inside.
But he did not make light of Sam Smoke.
“Jesus,” Spider muttered again. “Lend me your pipe, and tell me about this bastard Smoke.”
“Christ,” Odin growled, handing his pipe over to Spider. “Give me bloody Blackbeard before Ned Low or any of his right-hand men. Blackbeard was a monster, but he killed for reasons. He had reasons, by God! Kill some, viciously, get known for that, and people knew they’d best just kneel and give him what he wanted. A man could maybe deal with Ed Teach, maybe even predict him. He was human enough for that. You didn’t have to wonder if he was going to kill a man for no goddamned reason at all. But Ned. That is another thing. Ned is another thing.”
Spider passed the pipe back to Odin.
Odin’s jaw clenched on it, and he talked through his tombstone teeth. “Not human, by God! Not Ned, nor his bloody helpers Wicked Pete and Sam Smoke. That’s what bonded them, those three. Not being human.”
“And you are certain he’s one of Ned’s men?”
“Aye. You do not forget a bastard like Sam Smoke.”
Odin took a deep draw and then handed the pipe to Spider. His gray eye stared out to sea, as if that was where the memories hid. “It was before I signed on with Barlow on Plymouth Dream,” Odin began.
“Ned, Sam, Wicked Pete, and me, we were all crew under George Lowther, plundering where we could and making our own laws. Bloody pirates, aye? We were well off the colonies, near some damned island, and Lowther sent a sloop to take some men ashore to cut some wood. Ned Low commanded that sloop, and me and Sam and a few other gents went with him.”
Spider inhaled deeply from the pipe, then handed it back to Odin.
“We got the wood cut, loaded it on the sloop,” Odin continued, “but Ned thought one fellow, named Ed Pigeon, hadn’t hauled his fair share of lumber. Probably true. Ed was lazy. But he got going pretty good when Ned smacked him. He barked back, said something about guns or swords on the beach, take your pick. Ned punched Pigeon in the jaw and knocked him on his arse. Should have known it was all fucking going to hell from there.”
Spider had questions, but decided to let Odin ramble on.
Odin exhaled a stream of smoke and watched it fly on the breeze. The vessel swayed slightly, and ropes hummed in the wind. “Ned hauled the man up, gave him a look that chased all the fight right out of him, and ordered Pigeon’s wrists bound. Pete and Sam, they drew guns and stood guard. Ned, he twisted a slow fuse between Ed Pigeon’s fingers, weaving-like. Ned forced the man to his knees, then asked Sam Smoke for his pipe. Always smoking, Sam was. Sam Smoke laughed, because he knew what was coming.
“Ned lit that rope with Sam’s pipe and watched it burn between Ed Pigeon’s fingers while Pigeon screamed, guns to his head. The poor bastard tried to fall on his hands, smother the fire with his own body, but Ned kicked
him in the face. ‘No, no, no,’ Ned says. Then Ned knelt in front of the poor son of a bitch, so he could smell the man’s hands cooking. He fucking smiled, he did. Breathing deep, burning flesh, and he smiled. Any of us that thought we might help, we thought twice, because Sam Smoke and Wicked Pete were standing guard, guns in hand. You could see it in their eyes; they could hardly wait for an excuse to shoot somebody. They fucking hoped we would help Pigeon. It wasn’t really a gunshot we feared, of course. It was being the next mouse those cats played with. That was the fright that stayed our hands. Unmanned us.”
“Damn,” Spider said. He looked below—and saw Sam Smoke staring right back at him.
“Odin . . .” Spider counted silently to five. Smoke’s hard gaze remained locked on him the whole time.
“Bugger,” Spider exclaimed. “He’s spied us! He might have recognized you.”
Odin freed his work knife. “Son of a bitch comes up here, I’ll gut him.”
“Shove him,” Spider suggested. “A knife wound would be tough to explain, but a slip . . .”
“Aye.”
Spider freed his own knife and looked below. Sam Smoke was gone.
“Fuck,” he said. “Smoke is not there.”
“Is he coming up?” Odin sounded nervous. Spider had never heard Odin sound nervous.
“I do not know.” Spider grabbed the mast and leaned forward, straining to look below. “I do not see him climbing up, but . . .”
“He might be aiming a pistol at us,” Odin said.
Odin went higher, and Spider remained where he was. With the knife in his hand, poised for a throw, Spider fought to control his breath. He’d fought as a pirate many times, of course, but he’d never found himself wondering how to kill a man without anyone else aboard noticing. A pitched battle was one thing, but this was new.
He watched the mast below, twisted his neck to eye ratlines and peer around spars, looked across empty air to see if Sam Smoke perched on a yardarm, gun in hand.
There was no sign of the bastard.