by Steve Goble
Spider stepped outside onto the gallery. Such a fine place to be, he thought, once it is bloody free of gulls. It was built for a captain’s pleasure. He could sit upon one of the built-in oak benches, glass of wine or a burning pipe in hand, or both, and look out over the sea, watching Redemption’s wake trail off into the distance.
Spider looked upward, toward the poop deck. Could a man dangle on a rope from there to reach this spot? Yes. And the housing that contained the rudder’s workings, which ran down the stern of the ship and partially divided the stern gallery, would have made the task easier.
It was not difficult at all to imagine a man in good condition climbing down from above, although how such a thing could escape the helmsman’s notice Spider could not fathom. Ames might have been paid off, of course, in return for silence. A killer might have explained it all away as a lark, or even a bit of theft. Perhaps he had claimed to be raiding the captain’s liquor. Ames might have been willing to share in that.
But Redemption’s men were not pirates, and it seemed unlikely a man would remain quiet about such an escapade once the captain died. Perhaps the helmsman was part of a conspiracy? Spider did not know Ames well but thought him too plump for a sailor and too slow-witted for a companion. And he certainly had seemed genuinely shocked at the suggestion of murder.
The killer need not have used the poop deck to gain access, though. With clever use of rope, a man might have traversed the bowed hull and reached the gallery that way. It would have required some sneaky advance work, but it could have been done. Little Bob had been thought to be back in Port Royal, and so no one aboard expected him to be attending duties anywhere or anytime. He might have found time to rig a hand line from a porthole to the gallery.
Spider had easily convinced himself Little Bob was hiding below, somewhere, so as to reach New England. His pleas to the captain had seemed desperate, and the cook’s missing food and booze most likely were sustaining the stowaway. Little Bob was a layabout and a complainer, but he was accustomed to working in the trees and could make his way along shrouds or ratlines as well as any other sailor. With everyone’s attention on the Bible reading, Bob could have kept quiet, scrambled out through a porthole, made it to the stern gallery, and avenged himself on the captain who had ordered him off the ship.
The scheme fit together rather well, Spider thought, if he could only work out how the little bugger had escaped the captain’s quarters afterward.
Spider looked around in the fading light but saw nothing that explained that mystery. He could swear the gulls were laughing at him.
He closed the gallery doors while remaining outside and tried to figure out how someone could have latched them while standing out here in the salt-tinged air. He tried it himself, using his throwing knife as a tool, but the blade was too thick to slip between the doors. He considered whether he could do it with a nail or some other tool. Redemption had as fine a kit of tools as Spider had ever worked with. His mind ran through the tools he had aboard, trying to think of one that might suffice to slip between the doors and bend toward the latch.
He could think of nothing that would do the job. If he wanted such a tool, he would have to create it himself. And the person performing this miracle, even if he had a proper tool, would have done so blindly, unable to see the arrangement of hook and bolt inside the chamber. There simply was no way to see adequately through the doors, even with the slats opened as they were now. The essential bits and pieces were out of sight.
If the goddamned thing could be latched from out here, Spider was not clever enough to think of a way to do it. Who could—damn, he thought. Rufus Fox might be the very man to devise such a tool. He had built that keyboard contraption for Miss Brentwood, full of tricky moving parts. And he did small work, too, with clocks and watches. Perhaps Fox had a small tool that could slip between doors and bend around and lift a latch. Or perhaps he had created such a device.
But why would Rufus Fox kill the captain? They were friends, or so said Fox and the captain’s daughter. Spider could think of no motive. And Fox had been right there, peering down from the quarterdeck, when the fatal shot was fired. He could not have done the deed.
Spider’s original notion still held up. He was sure Little Bob had done this bloody thing, even if he could not determine precisely how the slaying and escape were accomplished.
“Fuck and bugger.” Spider growled his frustration at the seabirds, then went back into the cabin.
He nodded briefly at the captain’s wrapped form, then held his nose against the unpleasant odor. “I will figure this all out, sir,” he whispered. “You deserve a measure of justice. I’ll just find the tiny son of a bitch and thrash the truth out of him.”
He peered out of the cabin entrance and saw that he had an easy escape if he hurried. He stepped out quickly and headed toward the foremast, where Hob and Odin were waiting.
“Well?” Odin handed Spider a jack of grog, their daily ration.
“I was wrong,” Spider answered after draining the drink. “I thought he had to be in there, somewhere, but he is not. He must have gotten out, but only God and the devil know how.”
“You are sure Bob is aboard, though.”
“Yes, Hob. Did you get us some guns?”
“Did you think I was going to wait?” The boy grinned. “I have already loaded them.”
“Fetch them. And grab some lanterns. We are going below to find the fucking little bastard.”
11
The three hunters had decided to take separate areas of the ship, for Redemption had plenty of places in her spacious holds where a man could hide, especially a man as small as Little Bob Higgins.
Spider had taken the main cargo hold, on the theory that a wretch such as Bob could not resist the temptation to pop the bung from one of the many rum casks stowed away there. Odin was somewhere in the damp bowels of the orlop, having quipped, “Best place to find a rat, ha!” Hob was exploring the passenger deck, thinking perhaps Bob had occupied an empty berth. Spider had argued that Little Bob was not likely so stupid as to hide so close to other people, but Hob had persisted, insisting that “he is that bloody goddamned stupid, Spider John.” In the end, Spider had agreed that if anyone was so stupid, surely it was that “shit-licking lobcock Bob.”
After that, the hunters had gone their separate ways. Spider moved slowly now in the darkness, one hand holding a lantern, and the other a flintlock. Holding the pistol and recalling Hob’s joy in handing it over, Spider couldn’t help but reflect on how eager the young man was to see some action. Wish I could keep him out of this, Spider thought before wondering if he was trying to be a father to Hob because he couldn’t be a parent to his own son. Not a fun thought, that.
Spider eyed a hogshead of rum and put his nose almost upon it. The liquor seeped into the wood, and after a time the aroma fought its way out, filling the hold with an enticing, boozy scent. Spider took a deep whiff. But this was no time to drink, he reminded himself. He was looking for a killer. But damn, did he want a drink.
Spider inspected the gun in his hand one more time. It was ready. He hoped he was, too, and uttered a brief, barely audible prayer.
Redemption listed toward port and rocked a good deal on the swells, so Spider proceeded slowly. He held the lantern, nearly shut so as to emit only a thin beam, as far from himself as he could. The light made him a target in the dark, and for all he knew Little Bob had a gun, too, so Spider kept the light off to the side, away from his head, chest, and belly. If Bob aimed at the lantern, he would miss Spider. That was, he would miss if the damned ball went where Bob aimed. No guarantee of that on solid ground, let alone on a moving vessel. Pistols were so unreliable. Spider’s gun hand went toward his belt, and a thumb knuckle tapped the throwing knife tucked there. Reassured, Spider pressed onward.
Sweat trickled down Spider’s brow. He had his hair bound in a kerchief, but tension had soaked the damned thing and now the salty fluid stung at his eyes. He brushed it away with a
sleeve, using the gun hand, so as not to wave the lantern in front of his face.
Spider paused, leaning against a stack of barrels lashed to the bulkhead, trying to adjust his vision to the blackness around him. The smell of wet wood predominated, but plenty of rum scent oozed through oak barrels, for rum was Redemption’s principal cargo. Spider inhaled deeply and slowly and wondered if the fumes alone might relax him a bit.
As near as he could tell, the answer to that question was no.
He took another step forward, peering into the nooks and crannies between barrels and crates, scanning the dust and mouse shit on the deck to see if any had been swept aside by human steps. He hunted with his ears, too, listening for the sound of breathing or snoring or eating. He heard a rat scuffling about somewhere.
Spider tried to ignore the rum’s siren song, to filter it out in his mind so he might detect any stench of piss or sweat. He thought he could just make out the latter, but that might be his own foul smell. He was sweaty and tired and miserable, but he had work to do.
Spider crept forward cautiously and immediately halted. A thump, followed by a twittering mousy sound, echoed in the hold. He could not make out the direction from which it came. It could have originated anywhere. Spider spun quickly, then looked up.
That last decision probably saved his life.
Little Bob plunged from the top of a barrel stack, and the reflection from a dirk exploded in the lantern’s beam. Spider stepped back just soon enough to keep the arcing knife from cutting anything. Little Bob hit the deck awkwardly, with a thud and a stumble and a “damn and blast!”
The wildly swinging lantern beam was inconveniently aimed, so Spider kicked in the direction of that voice and smiled after his boot heel connected solidly with what he surmised to be Bob’s jaw. Little Bob fell with a heavy thud, followed by a soft, sharp clatter that Spider hoped was the sound of the bastard’s teeth rolling on the deck, but it could have been just a scurrying rat.
A swing of the lantern revealed Little Bob, crouching and bleeding profusely from the mouth. Spider stomped, driving his heel into Bob’s ribs. Certain now where his quarry was despite the veering lantern beam, Spider kicked thrice until Little Bob huffed a wet, weak gasp. Then Spider stepped back. “I’ve a gun, Bob, and I shall use it if need be. And hell, maybe even if I do not need to.”
Bob’s only answer was a dejected groan.
Spider tucked the gun into his belt, next to the French throwing knife, then opened the lantern wider. Each move was that of a man who had fought many times, and the gun was back in Spider’s hand before Bob could even think of an attack.
“I am going to kill you, slow,” Bob muttered.
“Not today.” Spider wiggled the gun. “And not any day if you make me nervous. I do not need much of an excuse to paint the bulkheads with your blood, Bob. I truly do not.”
Bob wiped blood from his lips and chin, and a couple of fresh gaps told Spider he’d kicked out at least a pair of teeth. An ugly gash creased the man’s forehead, and he struggled to breathe. He stank, too, as would any man hidden below for several days.
Little Bob’s knife seemed to have vanished somewhere in the darkness.
“Will you come above peacefully and answer for your crimes, Bob?” Spider backed away a step. “Or should I just shoot you in your ugly face now and save everyone a lot of bother?”
“I will surrender,” Bob said softly. “I will implore for mercy.”
“You will find none of that,” Spider said. “Rope for you, I wager. You might later wish you had taken a quick ball in the brain. Come.”
Bob rose, shaking and unsteady, but he complied. As Bob climbed the ladder, Spider poked the gun at Bob’s rear end. “Try a surprise jump again, Bob, and I will put a ball right up your arse. This close, you’ll get powder burnt, too, I reckon.”
“I hate you, you fucking bugger.” But Bob pulled no tricks, and soon they were on the weather deck, where a fresh Caribbean breeze cooled their skin and carried away the worst of Bob’s stench.
It was almost as dark here as it had been below, for thick clouds veiled the moon.
“Rouse Cap’n Wright,” Spider said loudly after forcing Bob to kneel. A few hands blinked, and there were several refrains of “I’ll be buggered” and “It’s fucking Little Bob,” but a couple of fellows went forward in search of Wright.
“Wait,” Bob said, his eyebrows arched and his wide eyes trying to project an apology. “I do not . . .”
“Quiet,” Spider said, aiming the gun at Bob’s head. “I do not like you, Bob, never did, and I might just shoot you to watch your head burst like a fucking pumpkin.”
Bob actually growled, like a frightened dog, but he said no more.
“What is this?” Wright asked upon his arrival a few moments later. His shirt was untucked, and he rubbed his eyes hard. He clearly needed sleep, and Spider hoped bringing the killer to justice would ease the man’s mind. “Little Bob Higgins? Son of a bitch. Little Bob, what the bloody hell do you do here on my ship?”
Bob seemed confused but managed to answer. “Sir, please, I stowed away. I need to get to Boston, I say, in any way possible. My sister, sir, she is bad ill. Damn and blast, sir, I love her, and I have got to see her before she’s gone.” His words whistled a bit through the gaps in his teeth left by Spider’s boot, and he spoke in awkward gasps. Spider grinned savagely, proud of his work.
“Feel no pity, sir,” Spider said. “He killed the cap’n.”
“What?” Wright’s eyes went wide, and he inhaled sharply. He noticed the gun in Spider’s hand, and Spider tucked the weapon into his belt.
“What?” Bob’s jaw, still dripping blood, quaked. “I did not fucking kill anyone!”
“He killed the cap’n,” Spider repeated.
Wright shook his head slowly, as if stunned. Hadley emerged from the men crowding around and placed his hand on the hilt of his work knife. Spider gave him a hard look, and Hadley halted. But the young man’s eyes burned. He nodded at Spider, then aimed his eyes at Bob.
“I reckoned Little Bob was on board, sir, because Lazare’s food got stolen. Made me think we had a stowaway, and Bob seemed desperate before, so I figured the stowaway might be him. And Bob hated the cap’n, right? Here’s how he done it. Little bastard climbed in through the stern gallery, shot the cap’n in the head, hid in the goddamned case clock, and then climbed out again when he could. I think that’s how it happened, anyway, but I don’t have it all reckoned out yet. It had to be something like that, though. Had to be.”
Spider stared at Bob. “Maybe we can beat the details out of Bob. I reckon we’ll have plenty of volunteers for that.”
“If the cap’n is dead, that is right well with me,” Bob spat. “Good! Damn and blast the bugger! But I did not kill him. Tell me who did and I will shake the man’s hand. But I did not kill him!”
“You cur,” Wright growled through clenched teeth. Then he slapped Bob backhanded. Another tooth sailed off to rattle across the deck, a thick gob of blood and spit splattering in its wake.
“I did not kill him!” Bob tried to rise, only to be knocked down by another vicious blow from Wright. This one would leave a black eye, no doubt. But Bob, frantic, tried to rise again. He fell, weakened by Wright’s blows. “I stowed away! I stole food! But I did not kill the bugger!”
“You hated him,” Spider said.
“You swore revenge,” Wright said.
Bob shook his head. “I never . . .”
“Everyone else aboard is accounted for,” Spider said. “We were all waiting to get a Bible lesson, right? We were all gathered for the reading, except a few men aloft and Ames on the tiller. But no one missed you at the Bible reading, Bob, because no one thought you were on the damned ship. And you, you tiny fuck, are the only person aboard who could have hidden in that clock.”
Wright looked at Spider with a new respect. “Very clever,” the master said. “Very well done, John.”
“Cap’n wasn’t a man t
o kill himself,” Spider continued. “Bob scribbled that damned note and placed the gun in the cap’n’s dead hand.”
“Undoubtedly,” Wright said, shaking his head slowly. “Goddamn.”
Whispers rushed among the assembled hands, and Spider saw many men nodding. No one aboard liked Little Bob Higgins, and they were ready to believe the worst of him.
“Williams. Johnston. You men take this wretch, bind him up, stow him in the orlop, and stand guard over him until relieved,” Wright ordered. “I want him bound so tight that breathing hurts. And if he resists, put a goddamned knife deep in his throat.”
“Aye, sir.”
As those hands dragged Bob away to his fate and Wright went to the rail to stare off into space across the dark ocean, Hob appeared and tugged at Spider’s sleeve. “Spider, I don’t think Little Bob killed him.”
Spider, still caught up in the drama and rather proud of himself, had not even noticed the boy’s approach. “Of course he did.” Spider admonished Hob with a finger. “Little Bob is the only one who’d have been able to pull it off. No one else could have hidden in there.”
“Well, I heard someone else all but confess,” Hob said.
“What?”
“Little Bob didn’t kill Cap’n Brentwood,” Hob said. “Anne McCormac did.”
“Ha!” Odin stepped forward and continued in a harsh whisper. “No. I do not think so. I found something very interesting, and by God, I can tell you it wasn’t the red-haired woman, nor was it your fucking Little Bob, that killed the cap’n.”
12
“Fuck and bugger, boy, what in bloody hell do you know?”
They had moved to the main cargo hold, Spider practically dragging Hob, and they all stood now not far from where Spider had fought with Little Bob. Spider had wanted to get away from the gossip and speculations that reigned upon the main deck and in the crew quarters. No one was sleeping, and there had been no chance to hear Hob’s tale up top, not with men asking Spider again and again how Bob had pulled off his crime and how the ship’s carpenter had sorted it all out.