by Steve Goble
The reverend’s face reddened a bit, and his jaw worked in search of a rejoinder, but he remained silent. Both men turned their attention to trying to spy the island Captain Wright had mentioned.
Wright rose from his crouch, pointed theatrically toward the lowering sun, and smiled. “The captain’s island, Eden, he called it, and by God there he shall rest in blessed peace.”
Miss Brentwood placed Fox’s keyboard contraption on the deck and rose from the chest she sat on. Her gaze followed Wright’s pointing finger.
Spider looked, too. It was just a smudge on the horizon, waiting for the sun to drop behind it. As Redemption climbed the swells, the island seemed to grow, stretching like a fin whale just breaking the surface. As the ship settled into the troughs, the isle almost vanished.
Abigail Brentwood stepped toward Wright. “Is it really so different from the other islands we’ve seen?”
The captain, taken aback only a heartbeat by her willingness to talk to him, smiled.
“Assuredly,” he said. “Green and lush as Ireland, your father called it. On the far side of it, there’s a cove, nice and deep, and the hills rise all around it. We’ll set him there, in the cove, exactly where he would want to be.” The man’s chin quaked with emotion, and even in the dimming light Spider could see tears welling in his eyes.
“It is a dangerous path you’ve led us on, Nicholas,” Abigail said, her head bent. “I am not so certain my father would have approved. He’d have had you remain with the convoy to keep his passengers and crew safe. I am certain of that.”
“He is your father, girl,” Wright said, choking. “I would do right by him, for his sake and for yours.”
She looked up at him. “I know.”
For a moment, Spider thought Wright might wrap her in his arms, but he did not.
The two of them stared at each other for several heartbeats.
“You are a fool, Nicholas Wright,” she said. “But I understand why you’ve done this, and I do appreciate it.”
“Abby,” Wright said, reaching for her hands.
“No.” She stepped back. “Please.”
“Aye,” Wright said, then headed aft, calling orders. “We’ll reduce sail, lads, and sail in by morning light. Luff and touch her, if you please.”
Abigail’s gaze followed Wright.
Spider suddenly felt as though he was intruding on a private moment, even though he was across the deck by the port rail. He crossed the deck, nodded at Abigail while avoiding a meeting of eyes—he still felt the sting of her earlier rebuke—and turned his attention to the distant island. He narrowed his eyelids and looked for a speck of bright fire, or a plume of telltale smoke, or a bit of sail on the horizon. He scanned the low hills, looking for a reflection of sunlight on a spyglass. He saw none of those things and sighed in relief.
With any luck, they would work their way into the cove in the morning, bid Captain Brentwood a final farewell, and then head north. Redemption was well provisioned, and there should be no need to stay at the island longer than it took to say a few prayers and relinquish the captain’s body to the sea. No one, thus far, had mentioned going ashore and digging a grave, and Spider had mentally rehearsed a long and windy speech in the event someone did suggest such a fool thing. Captain Brentwood was a seaman, Spider would say. He should be buried at sea, not in the damned sand, not on a damned hill. And, by the way, he would add with a wagging finger, these are pirate waters. We’d best be off as soon as may be. Unless you want your throats slit, by thunder.
It had taken longer to arrive here than the new captain had anticipated, but that was because Wright had heeded Spider’s warning and held to a more southerly course, and for that, Spider was grateful. He realized, too, that trying to duck into the cove by night would be a fool’s mission, no matter how much of a hurry they might be in to perform their task and be on their way. By night, they might run aground on a reef or even on a shipwreck. Plenty of vessels had met their doom in these waters. Captain Wright had made the correct decision in this instance.
Spider pulled the heart pendant from beneath his dingy shirt. Sweat and salt air had stiffened the leather cord, and it was frayed in spots. He would have to replace it soon.
He began a prayer in his mind, but it turned into a message to his beloved. Soon, Em, dear. Soon. We have to lay a good man to rest first. Then we’ll turn for Boston. We’ll leave these waters behind us, and I’ll get back to you soon as may be. And I won’t go wayfaring again.
He tucked the charm back out of sight and realized he could no longer feel the rum working in his head. That wouldn’t do, he thought. It was going to be a long night. He was going to need more rum.
He headed toward the galley. His thoughts, once again turned toward the captain’s murder, raged like a storm. Someone aboard this ship had murdered the man, and the mystery of it nagged Spider’s mind like a splinter you could feel but not quite find. He had missed something. He was sure of it. And he felt he owed it to the daughter to figure out what the bloody hell that was. He closed his eyes and saw her face in his mind, imploring him to bring her father’s killer to justice. A man couldn’t ignore that.
Spider opened his eyes to find Odin suddenly at his side. “I know what you are thinking, Spider.”
“Do you, now?”
“More rum. Ha!” Odin clapped his hands together. “Do you suppose . . . ?” he said, then tucked at Spider’s sleeve and stopped him short. “Do you suppose, perhaps, you have been drinking a might too much too often?”
“I suppose no such bloody damned thing.” Spider resumed his march toward the galley.
“These may be bad waters, Spider,” Odin urged in a tense whisper almost in Spider’s ear. “We’ve had a murder. We have Sam Smoke aboard. We may be fetching up into the same waters as goddamned Ned Low and Wicked Pete Reese. Maybe soaking your brains in rum isn’t the best thing to do right now.”
Spider glared at Odin’s ungodly ugly face. “You know, Odin, I smell a wee bit of rum on your breath, I do.”
“Aye.” Odin chortled a moment and even danced something that vaguely resembled a jig for a couple of heartbeats. “No one is looking to me to lead nothing! I’ll just cut down any man who stands before me, whether that be the sensible thing or no. But you, that boy Hob looks up to you, and I’ve known you to use your brains a time or two. We kind of rely on you to do the thinking. So maybe . . .”
Spider leaned into Odin’s face. “This ship is supposed to carry me to my lass and my boy, and it is carrying me everywhere else instead. Hob is supposed to listen to my advice, and he’s gawking at that gun-toting bitch Anne instead. You are supposed to be my devil-may-care boon companion, and you are lecturing me instead. By God, man, I need a drink and I mean to have one. Maybe two. Maybe three!”
Odin spat on the deck and turned his lone eye on Spider. “Well, hell, I’ve lived longer than I had any goddamned right to already. And so have you! So no loss, I guess, if we get drunk and die in a fight. I feel right damned bad for young Hob, though.”
Odin headed toward the forecastle, cackling and dancing that damned almost-jig every third or fourth step.
Spider headed to the galley. Now I really need a drink, he thought. And one after that.
21
“Son of a bitch.”
It was just a glint of light, tiny, there on the northernmost of the two green hills that rose to either side of a sweet little cove on Eden Isle. It was morning, and the ship had slipped around to the island’s west side in search of Captain Brentwood’s beloved cove. The low hills blocked the sunlight, but something on top of one of them had caught a sunbeam and flashed—just one, brief flash.
In Spider’s mind, however, that small glimmer was the spark that could blow his future into splinters and smoke.
It had to be a signal. It just had to be.
Redemption was slowly heading into the cove, after making slow loops in the deeper waters to the south overnight. Spider had climbed the mainmast, despit
e his throbbing head, and endured the swaying that even a gentle sea imparted to the heights of a tall ship. He had perched there on a topgallant beam for more than an hour now, his pipe extinguished and his eyes watery from staring. He’d spied for sails, or smoke, or a boat on the beach—or a glint of light such as the one he’d just seen. The waters around Redemption seemed empty, and there was no sign of habitation ashore, nor was there any vessel in the cove. But that light up above meant someone was on that damned island.
If that someone had signaled a ship somewhere, to the north or east, hiding beyond those hills and the two slender arms of land that embraced the cove, Redemption could be sailing right into a trap. Once in the cove, a vessel with guns could easily bar the way out. Redemption would be caught tight, like a seal in a shark’s maw. And if that pouncing ship were commanded by the likes of Ned Low . . .
Spider cursed again and swung himself onto a ratline. He looked below for Captain Wright. He had thought to find him at the bow, looking ahead of the ship as it entered the cove and perhaps discussing Captain Brentwood’s funeral ceremony with Rufus Fox and the Reverend Down. The theologians hunkered atop the forecastle, peering into a Bible and, for once, nodding together in seeming agreement. Captain Wright, however, was not with them, nor was he anywhere to be seen forward.
Spider climbed a bit lower and searched aft. Redemption had reduced sail as she eased her way into the cove, so there were fewer obstructions to vision than would have been the case were the ship plying the sea at full speed. It took only a moment to spot the captain, pacing rapidly and gazing over the rail to port, then starboard, and back.
Spider descended swiftly, like his namesake, and that was not good for his rum-soaked head. Odin’s words rang in his mind, and once he reached the deck Spider took two uncertain steps before he felt in command of his own body again.
“Hob!” Spider turned slowly, looking for the boy. “Hob!”
“Here I am, John.” Spider rushed to him. The boy was wearing the closest thing he had to a clean shirt; they were planning to lay Captain Brentwood to rest this day, and many of the crewmen were stitching holes in shirts or drying clothes on lines stretched amidships.
Spider pulled Hob aside to a spot by the ship’s boat and took a quick look about him to make sure no one was paying attention. “I think we are headed for trouble, boy.”
“If you mean a bit of bright light on the hill, I dare say you are right.”
“You saw it, too?”
“Aye.”
“Good lad.” Spider ran a hand across his face, wiping away the sweat dripping from his brow. “I am going to try to get Cap’n Wright to turn this bloody vessel around, but he is sotted with love for that girl and may not listen to me, so . . .”
The gravity of the situation seized Spider’s mind, and the pause irritated Hob. “So, Spider?”
“So if he won’t turn about,” Spider whispered now, “we are going to take the bloody goddamned ship and turn it about ourselves!”
“Mutineers!” Hob sounded as though it would be a dream fulfilled.
“Yes, by God, but be bloody quiet about it! Go fetch us guns and ammo, fast, but quiet. And find Odin and tell him what we are about. You and Odin and me are likely the only ones aboard this damned ship that have ever been in a fight.”
“Sam Smoke has, you know,” Hob reminded him.
“Aye,” Spider said, “but if lead flies I may damn well shoot him first. Can’t trust him, son.”
“Indeed.” Hob nodded.
“I’m headed to the cap’n. Go!”
“Aye!” Hob ran off.
Spider worked his way aft, toward the quarterdeck. His search was brief, for Captain Wright was descending the port-side ladder. “Cap’n, sir, a word, please?”
The captain nodded.
Spider rushed to Wright’s side. “We’ve got to come about, sir, get away from this island,” Spider said in a hushed, but urgent, tone. “I saw a light atop the hill, sir. I think it was someone signaling.”
“Signaling? Signaling us?”
“No, sir, signaling pirates. Maybe a ship in hiding beyond that isle, waiting for us to draw too near so they can pounce like an eel.”
Wright turned to look at the hilltop. “I see nothing.”
“They won’t risk more signals than they need, sir. I saw it because I was watching for it, and I watched a long time. And I am not alone in seeing it. At least one other did, too.”
“Is that so? Then we must be quick, perform our duty to the late captain, and be off.”
“No, sir,” Spider urged. “We must dispatch the cap’n’s remains here, in sight of his isle but no closer, and do it while we veer off. It may be too late already, sir, and we’ve women aboard. Think of them.”
“Abigail,” Wright whispered.
Spider nodded. His relief wilted an instant later, though, when he noticed Redemption already was slipping into the deep cove’s entrance. And hope died when he saw the dirty sails of a schooner emerge from behind the island, to the north.
The interloper was a crowded vessel, and Spider could make out guns and swords waving above her crew. He could see at least four guns mounted on her deck. Those would fire four-pound balls, probably, or perhaps loads of devastating grapeshot that would scatter and rip the hell out of sails and bodies. Spider had no doubt those guns were already loaded, waiting for the spark.
“Fuck and bugger,” Spider muttered. “Cap’n Wright, look!”
“Panic is unbecoming in a sailor.” The mocking words rode an odorous cloud. Sam Smoke had joined the conversation.
“Being wary and being panicked ain’t the same thing,” Spider said, but he noted his clenched jaw and a slight shake of his knees. He knew how to fight, and fight well, but he didn’t want to do it.
Sam Smoke approached and stood next to Spider. “I know that ship, Captain Wright. Know her captain, rather well. We’ve nothing to fear from them. Indeed, I think it a lucky meeting. It will be a joyous reunion for me, and I shall introduce the rest of Redemption’s company to new friends.” A heavy undercurrent of menace chilled any warmth his actual words might otherwise have conveyed.
“I am not so confident,” Wright said. He rubbed his chin roughly with his right hand while his left made a fist low by his hip. “I think the carpenter might be wise. I was a fool to try this. A fool. We will have to make a run for it.”
Spider clapped his hands together in a loud smack. “Aye, Cap’n, and prepare some pistols in case we are chased.”
Sam Smoke’s pipe flared violently as the foul man stepped backward, and a second later Spider felt a small, metal cylinder poked behind his right ear. “Now, then,” Smoke said. “Let us all be silent, like a grave, or you will find out just how silent a grave truly is. I swear it.”
“Nicholas?” That came from Abigail, who had ducked under a boom and shoved aside someone’s hanging wet shirt. She was approaching in haste, clutching at her long black skirt. She was attired in a white blouse and wearing her hair long and tied back, prepared to bid her father farewell. Beautiful as she was, the sight froze Spider’s blood. If the spy on the hill saw a woman aboard . . .
“Stay away, girl,” Spider said. He reached for the knife on his belt but stopped when Smoke increased the pressure on the gun. Spider held his hands out to either side where Smoke could see them.
Spider noted Hadley, lurking near Abigail as always. “Hadley, lad, get her away from here. Now.”
Hadley took her arm, but Abigail shrugged him off. “I need to know what is happening here.” Hadley, seeming torn between desire to protect the girl and heed her wishes, stepped back, confused.
“You had best heed the carpenter’s words, pretty girl,” Smoke said. The man was behind him, so Spider could not see the leer, but he could certainly hear it. “Your lover captain has some important decisions to make, and unless he does exactly as I say, lead balls are likely to fly through pretty little heads.”
“You will not hurt her,” Wr
ight growled.
“I will do anything I please,” Smoke said, “and neither you nor God nor the devil is going to stop me.”
Abigail froze.
Hadley drew his dirk.
Wright seethed.
Spider’s gaze cast about, looking for some means of turning things to his advantage. What he saw was more trouble.
The schooner was flying a flag now. A black flag, with a blood-red skeleton upon it.
Spider had never seen that flag, but he’d heard of it. Everyone who sailed these bloody waters had heard of it.
It was Ned Low’s flag.
22
A half dozen calculations swirled in Spider John’s mind.
First, could he shake off last night’s rum quickly enough to be of any bloody use to anyone in this dire situation? Aye. A pistol pressed to his head seemed to have sobered him up pretty goddamned fast.
Second, could he knock aside that gun and slam a fist into Sam Smoke’s leering face fast enough to avoid being shot dead? No. That was not going to happen. Sam Smoke was not some virgin to violence; Spider could not see him, but he was certain the man had either another gun or a knife in his other hand by now. Any sudden move on Spider’s part was going to get him killed.
Third, how much time did Redemption have before the pirate schooner could set up its blockade? None, Spider decided. Ned Low’s vessel was still some distance away and was as much dependent on the wind as any other ship. That wind was light now and out of the southwest. The schooner was beating against that wind, and white water breaking on reefs told Spider there was yet much maneuvering to do on the pirates’ part before the schooner would come about to close off any escape from the cove.
But none of that mattered. Redemption was already in the cove and would have to beat its way out against that same wind, which, for her, was partially blocked by land now. Redemption was sturdy as a boulder but slow as a pig running in deep tar. And her crewmen were not thinking of sails and lines. They were watching the drama, and freeing work knives, and wondering who the hell here might die. Even if Wright commanded them to bring the bloody ship about right now, they would respond slowly, their minds as much on the danger aboard as on the peril across the waters.