by Steve Goble
She had said it all very quietly and had not stopped smiling for even a moment. Anyone looking at them from a distance might have supposed they were discussing the wind or the gulls.
She is deadly as a copperhead, Spider decided.
He was still looking for a graceful way to end the conversation when her eyes looked past him and narrowed, and the smile vanished behind tightly drawn lips. The thick scent of tobacco drifted between Spider and the woman, and he did not need to turn around to discern that Sam Smoke had approached. Spider spun slowly, eyes fixed on the man’s leering gaze.
“Ma’am,” Smoke said, doffing the wide-brimmed hat and allowing a cloud of smoke to rise from the pipe tightly clenched in his teeth.
“I have told you, I have no interest in speaking with you,” she said.
“But I have interest in speaking with you.” Smoke returned the hat to his head and bowed slightly.
Spider stepped between them. “It would be best, I think, if you fouled the air on some other part of the ship.”
Sam Smoke stared at Spider as though he had just noticed his presence. “I do not believe I sought your opinion, carpenter. I am a paying passenger aboard this ship, I’ll remind you.”
“Passengers, crew, they all bleed the same,” Spider said. Whiskey essence rose in his head, and his fingers rested on the hilt of the knife in his belt. Truth was, he was so angry that life with Em had been snatched away that he was spoiling for a fight. Draw a blade, he thought. Show me a gun. I will gut you like a fucking tuna.
“We should spill some blood and compare.” Smoke pushed his shirt aside to show that he, too, had a knife. Then he leaned forward, grinning. “You have spent some time on the account,” he whispered. “Pirating. I see it in your eyes. The way you look about you. The way you always seem to know exactly where your knife is.”
Behind Smoke, with a belaying pin in his hand, Odin waited for a signal. Spider grinned and pointed. “One advantage of being in a crew. I don’t fight alone.”
Smoke turned slowly, saw Odin, then faced Spider again. “It might take more than the two of you.”
“The three of us,” Anne McCormac said. “And you bloody well know that.”
Behind Smoke, Odin laughed quietly, no doubt relieved that even at close quarters, Smoke did not recognize the hideously scarred face as that of a former shipmate.
“Find somewhere else to be,” Spider said. “Or swim.”
Smoke sucked hard at the pipe, removed it from his jaws, and blew a foul cloud. Saying nothing, but fixing each of them with an icy stare, he departed, humming along with the fiddler’s tune.
“God, I hate him,” Anne said.
Spider looked at her. “How do you know him?”
She smiled. “I don’t think I want to tell you. Good evening, gentlemen.”
She departed with a swirl of her skirt and a jasmine scent that filled the wind.
“I want her,” Odin said. “Ha!”
“You may have to fight Hob,” Spider said, whipping out his flask and taking a fast swig, then handing it to Odin. In his mind, though, he added a sentence: We may have to fight everyone.
16
“Mister Coombs,” the lilting voice said. “I did not have an opportunity to thank you.”
Night had fallen, and a low moon and diamond stars provided but dim light at the bowsprit. Spider could not make out the pale blue of Abigail Brentwood’s eyes. He could imagine them, though. Spider stifled a laugh and was proud of himself; despite the whiskey, he had remembered he was known aboard Redemption as John Coombs, not Spider John Rush.
Spider sucked at his pipe, then climbed down from the bowsprit to join the girl. Rufus Fox was with her, following at a respectable distance, and Hadley watched from the top of the ladder leading up atop the forecastle. The young man seemed unconcerned that Spider had noticed him. Spider watched him intently, thinking of the key Odin had found.
Spider exhaled a cloud of smoke into the ocean breeze. “What have you to thank me for, Miss Brentwood?”
“You brought my father’s killer to justice,” she said, pushing a bit of wind-swept hair away from her face. “And now I know my father did not . . . did not . . .”
She began sobbing into a kerchief, and Fox stepped forward to put a protective arm around her shoulder. “Now then, Abby, dear. Be still. Be assured your father is beyond the pain of his loss.”
“But why should that miserable little man kill him?” At least, that was what Spider thought she said. It was difficult to discern amid the nose-blowing and deep inhalations. Hadley climbed up onto the deck and paced, his gaze glued on Abigail.
“The Lord’s ways are not ours,” Fox said quietly. “And it is the Lord’s place to judge, not ours. Your father’s sense of loss was great, child, and he was weary of this world. Perhaps, even so meager and mean a man as Bob Higgins served the Lord’s purpose, giving your father the peace he could not, dared not, give himself.”
The slap cracked like lightning in the darkness, and Fox’s gasp was almost as sharp. “I will not hear this!” Abigail said, staring at her hand as though it had decided to smack Rufus Fox all on its own. “I will not hear of forgiving that mongrel bastard! And I will not hear of how it is somehow the Lord’s mercy that my father is dead!”
“Child, I . . .”
“Please be so good as to leave,” she said, turning her back to Fox. The man stood silently for a few seconds, and Abigail, apparently sensing him there, continued. “You have been good to us. I know you were my father’s friend.”
She turned to face him. “And I know you are trying to help me cope. In time, I shall appreciate it. But tonight . . .”
Fox bowed. “I understand. I shall always . . . always . . . be available for you. You must know that.”
“I do.”
Fox glanced up at Spider, nodded his farewell, and turned to go. Hadley stepped aside to allow Fox passage, and the man descended and strode aft, toward the sounds of a fiddler scratching out a bouncy Sligo tune and the clomping of dancing feet.
“He is a good man, that Fox,” Spider said. Hadley winced slightly.
“I know,” Abigail replied. “But for all his desire to help me, you actually have given me more comfort.” She turned to face him. “You have given me justice. Thanks to you, I know my father did not . . . put the gun to his head. I mean, I always knew it, or . . . wanted to believe it, I suppose. But now I know it, for certain. That is a comfort. A great comfort, and I mean to thank you for it. Hob was correct. You are quite clever at such puzzles. I . . .”
Spider could not help but smile; the girl had made a real effort to say all that without choking up and had damned near done it. If Hob had any goddamned sense, he’d be chasing this lass, not that red-haired she-devil.
“Well,” Spider said, “I don’t suppose the world will miss Little Bob much when he swings.” He decided not to mention that perhaps Abigail’s friend, Anne McCormac, had done the deed. Or Sam Smoke. Or some other bloody bastard. Abigail needed to get on with her life, and if swinging for the captain’s murder was the only real good Bob did in this life, so be it. He wondered what Rufus Fox would say about that?
Abigail turned her pretty eyes to starboard and peered across the dark sea. “Are there really pirates out there? One hears that so many have been hanged and that the navy has so purged their ranks that there is little to fear. But I can feel the fear on this ship growing, like weeds.”
“Aye,” Spider said. “All the great bloody bastards . . . pardon, miss . . . all the most famous pirates are hanged or fled. Bart Roberts, Ed Teach—your Blackbeard, you know—Calico Jack, all gone. But . . .”
He was not certain what to say. He had no wish to cause her fright, but she was a brave lass and he had no wish to coddle her either.
“Please, Mister Coombs, continue.”
He smiled at her and made up his mind. “Well, then, all the great and famed pirates are gone, I am certain. But the sea is wide and the ranks of pirates qui
te vast. I have no doubt that there be some still who think reaving upon the sea is the way to independence, and preying upon the wealthy is no more than justice, as it were, restoring a balance, if you will.”
She grinned. “You make no sense, sir. You almost sound as though you are excusing their deeds.”
“Blame the whiskey,” he answered. God, she is beautiful. “Do not tell Mister Wright about the drink, please.”
“He and I are not speaking,” she told him, tilting her head downward for just a moment before fixing her eyes on Spider once again. “I think him a fool for leaving the escort behind.”
“Aye,” Spider said. “It was not the wisest thing he might have done.”
“For certain.”
“I think he did it out of love, though,” Spider said. “I hope you know that.”
Spider found he could not handle her gaze and looked away. “Very well, we shall discuss pirates. There is a man, perhaps out there somewhere”—he pointed out to sea—“named Ned Low. He is aptly named, as low as a man can get. A goddamned serpent, by reputation, and I have heard tell of some of his bloody work from a man I’ve come to trust and who was there to see it himself. I do not mean to frighten you, but you should know. He is rumored to be close by, perhaps in these very waters. There was much gossip before we left Port Royal.”
She swallowed hard. “I see.”
“It would not do for him to take you,” Spider said. “He would . . . would . . .”
She lowered her head. “I understand.”
No, he thought, you do not. You would be passed around, as men might pass around a jug of beer. And the moment you fought too hard, drew blood with your nails, or broke skin with your teeth, you would be killed.
“Have you any weapon?”
She suddenly stood at attention. “No. Do I need one?”
“If Ned Low should cross our path, yes.” He stared at her hard. “You and Mrs. McCormac, you have become friends?”
“Why, yes, I should like to think so. She has been most consoling.”
Spider nodded. “Talk to her. She is a strong woman, and I think she might just be able to provide you means to protect yourself and some advice as to how you can do so.”
Abigail’s smile erupted. “Are you joking?”
“No, miss,” Spider said. “I cannot vouch for her purity and goodness, but I am quite certain that if she deems you a friend, she will fight to protect you, and I am also certain she can, by God, tell you how to kill a man. Should the need arise.”
Miss Brentwood’s eyebrows arched, and her eyes widened. She stared at him for a few moments, and then her gaze went from starboard to port and back again. “I do not know what to make of you, Mister Coombs.”
“John,” he said. “Spider John, actually.” Well, then, he immediately thought, that was a bloody goddamned whiskey-soaked mistake.
She actually laughed. “What an atrocious and horrid name!”
He thought for a second about telling her the usual lie, that he was so named because of his prowess at climbing the ratlines and not because of any tendency to eat spiders just to horrify his sister when he was a boy. In the end, he decided not to explain. “I suppose it is.”
Spider’s eyes caught a mean look from Hadley.
“You are quite worried, are you not?” She whispered it.
“It could be very, very bad, yes,” Spider said, lowering his voice. “If it does turn for the worse, stay close to Anne, or me, or even Hob. He can fight, trust me. So can Odin.”
“Oh, my, the frightening fellow with one eye? I am quite certain that he truly is a pirate!”
Spider let that remark pass. “He is crazy, but he is pure bloody hell in a fight.”
Spider then leaned close and whispered, “And Hadley, there by the ladder, would fight off all the spawns of hell for you. I am certain of that.”
She nodded slightly and seemed lost in thought. Then she said, “You seem well acquainted with violence, John. And with pirates.”
“The sea can be a rough place, miss, and I have been on it a long time now.”
“Surely you are not so much older than I am.” She lowered her eyes.
“Some years age you more than others, I think.”
She looked up at him. They stared at each other for a few heartbeats, and he struggled for a moment to remember Em’s sweet face. Then Abigail curtsied. “Thank you, Spider John.”
“Most welcome, Miss Brentwood. And just John, if you please. Not everyone knows Spider. Now get a gun. Anne will show you how to use it.”
She saluted. “Aye, sir.” Then she turned, perfume swirling in her wake. Hadley moved to follow, as though he were on a towline.
Spider stared out to sea and hoped to God he would see no pirates.
17
Abigail Brentwood had not yet descended the ladder leading down from the forecastle deck before a ruckus erupted amidships. The fiddler halted his rendition of “Blackbird” abruptly, the dancers all stopped at once, and cries of alarm rose into the moonlight.
“Damn and blast! Damn and blast, I say!”
Spider recognized the goddamned voice instantly and dropped the pipe he was filling. Racing past Abigail, he whispered, “Go forward, now, and be alert. Hadley, you stay with her.”
Hadley nodded.
Abigail ignored Spider’s instructions and instead moved away from the ladder to a spot near the foremast. From there, she peered below and chewed on a knuckle. Hadley, his gaze on the ruckus on the weather deck, drew his work knife.
“Good Lord, this is bad,” Spider muttered.
Spider could scarcely believe what was happening.
The sailors had gathered in two groups between the ship’s boat, mounted in its berth, and the port rail. Between those two groups stood Little Bob Higgins, a primed flintlock in his right hand and a lantern in his left. “Think I will swing?” Bob bellowed in a voice powerful for so small a man. “Think I will swing on the gallows? Damn and blast the lot of ye!”
Bob swung the gun menacingly back and forth between the two sets of sailors who blocked his way, and though he was vastly outnumbered, no one wanted to take a ball at close range. A few had drawn their work knives and clutched them at the ready, and a couple of fellows had snatched up belaying pins, but no one made a move.
How the bloody hell did he escape? Spider inhaled deeply, looking for a chance to act.
Redemption rocked on the ocean swells as everyone waited for the drama to unfold.
“I did not kill your precious fucking captain!” Bob wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his gun hand, and a couple of intrepid fellows stepped toward him, but the gun was back on the level in an eye blink. “I can’t believe you would think that. I can’t believe all this trouble because I swatted a goddamned cat.”
A sailor took a short step toward Bob, hands raised. “Now, Bob, let us . . .”
Bob aimed at the man’s head. “I will shoot you, Joe; don’t think I won’t.”
Everyone froze. The swaying, bobbing ship and the fluttering of sails and flags were the only things in motion. Time seemed halted.
Bob was the first to end the strange interlude. He pivoted, arms wide, gun and lantern at a level. The moving lantern tossed shadows up onto the sails and filled them with orange glow at odds with the frosty moonlight. The ever-changing nature of the light made a knife throw impossible, and Spider cursed. He eyed a foremast backstay, thought he could reach it, saw a good spot below, and leapt from the forecastle. He snatched at the rope and made a nimble swing. Mid-plunge, he saw Bob’s gun arm take aim at him, but the shot never came.
Spider landed in a crouch on the deck with the others and drew his knife.
“What are you waiting for, lads?” Bob growled. “I need some assistance.”
In answer, Ames stepped forth and drew a pistol that had been hidden behind his back. Chambers did likewise. They drew closer to Bob and menaced the surrounding sailors.
Good Lord Almighty, Spider thought, Li
ttle Bob has friends. No wonder those fellows didn’t like my questions. They probably had been stealing food for the little muckworm.
“Here is how it will be,” Bob said, drooling and sweating, rotating slowly while trying to keep his gaze on all hands. Ames and Chambers mimicked him, taking up stations to either side of Bob. “I will not go to the gallows. I will not. I would rather die here now killing a few of you bastards than submit to that.”
“Fucking stupid fool,” Spider muttered. He shouldered his way through the crowd and gulped. He stared into Bob’s mad eyes and recognized the fear blazing there. Spider knew exactly how Bob felt; fear of the hangman had haunted Spider most of his adult life. A man that afraid might do anything.
“What the hell goes on here?” The voice, loud and strong, came from aft, and men made way for Captain Wright. The former master strode forth like a general. “You shall stop this at once and await a fair hearing from the Admiralty, Bob. And Ames, Chambers, drop your guns now.”
“A fair hearing from the bloody Admiralty?” Bob aimed the gun at Wright’s face, and the officer wisely halted. “Me? When did the Admiralty ever care for the likes of me?”
“You have numbers against you, Bob, and you cannot shoot more than one of us.” Wright drew himself up like a statue. “Fire at me, and you had best hope it kills me of a sudden, because if it does not I will snap your puny neck before I bleed to death.”
Spider raised his throwing knife.
“Better a quick death in a fight than waiting and waiting and waiting for the hangman,” Bob said. “But there is another way, and no one has to die.”
“Heed the Lord, sinners!” The Reverend Down had climbed atop the ship’s boat and now peered down upon the crowd with wide eyes. Heads in the crowd swiveled back and forth between this interruption and the drama on the deck. The Reverend Down raised his Bible high. “Think of the perdition that awaits! Think of the salvation that might be yours instead!”