by Steve Goble
“I shall remain with my command,” Wright said.
“No, you will not,” Spider said, clubbing the man with the belaying pin. Wright collapsed upon the deck like a dropped sack of grain.
“Get him in the boat,” Spider ordered.
Abigail, horrified, stared at Spider.
“He is not dead,” Spider told her, reading her expression. “I have just given him a nap. It’s a trick I learned, never mind how.”
She shook. “I thought you’d killed him, but you . . . This will save his life. We will take him ashore,” she said. “He won’t have to turn pirate.”
“Not if they leave us be,” Spider said. “But there is no guarantee of that. We shall have to be swift. See your father into the afterlife, quickly, then fetch your journal and quill.” He looked toward the schooner, measuring its progress. “We should have time. I want to leave a message for these bloody bastards. I will need you to write it.”
“A message?”
“Aye,” he answered. “I hope to convince them they are better off taking the ship we are leaving them and not coming after us on the island. Go now.”
“Yes,” she answered, running off.
“Anne,” Spider said. “Will you go below and fetch any frilly or pretty things you and our lass here have stored there? Sink them. We can’t have these lads notice there were women aboard.”
“When they discover me, it will be to their very great regret,” she said, sounding more Irish than ever. “Some of them, anyway.” She vanished.
Men brought forth Captain Brentwood’s corpse on a plank and covered with the flag of England. Holystones, normally used for scrubbing the deck, and some spare metal weighted his sailcloth shroud so his body would be carried below. Spider had no doubt Captain Brentwood’s soul had already risen above.
Fox and Down prayed as the small group walked to starboard. Abigail Brentwood gasped, ran to her father, kissed the flag draped over him, and wept as his body slid off the plank over the starboard rail. Men folded the flag, sloppily, for their attention was on the pirate vessels.
“We should dump him overboard, too,” Odin said, pointing at Sam Smoke.
“No,” Spider replied. “I think those bastards on the schooner will be expecting to find Sam, and I don’t want to leave them wondering. Leave him where he is.”
“Aye,” Odin answered. “I like looking at him like this, anyway!”
Spider turned to address the crew. “We can’t all go in the boat,” he said. “If you can swim, do it. Some of you may even prefer to stay and throw in your lot with pirates. I do not recommend it. I think we will be a short time on the island. We will have food and water. The navy will come looking for us when we do not arrive in Boston, but we can send the boat and fetch help if we do not want to wait for that. But if you prefer piracy, so be it.”
“I will stay,” Anne said. “I have bloody work to do on that schooner.” She led a trio of men carrying a trunk, presumably full of dresses and shawls and pretty hats. That went overboard with a great, heavy splash and sank readily. More holystones for weight, Spider figured.
Spider stared at Anne Bonny. Her eyes were harder than any stone. She was certainly bold. “It is a treacherous way to go, miss, staying aboard.”
“I am a hard woman,” she said. “There is a man over there, if the word ‘man’ fits him at all. I will kill him.” She smiled. “I will kill him twice if I can.”
Her calm certainty chilled Spider. “Is Ned Low really on that ship?”
“Probably,” she said. “He is not the one I am after, though. Wicked Pete Reese is going to die by my hand. The others can live if they leave me be.”
Spider wondered if Captain Brentwood had died by her hand. Had she killed him and then manipulated things so as to reach her prey? Could she have done that? Anne Bonny was something of a legend on the Spanish Main, known for fierceness and fighting ability. But was she a schemer?
“Did you kill Captain Brentwood?” Spider hoped to shock her with the blunt question and gauge her reaction. She did not seem surprised at all.
“I kill when I must,” she said. “And I had no reason to kill him. Nor can I walk through walls nor cast spells upon men to compel them to do my bidding, despite what you may have heard. Do you think I bewitched him? Made him shoot himself ?”
“No,” Spider answered while wondering if he was being bewitched right now. Sam Smoke obviously had intended to turn the ship over to Ned Low. Hob’s notion that something special was hidden aboard seemed to fit well with that. Anne Bonny was a pirate, as was Sam Smoke. The two of them could have conspired to kill the captain and manipulate matters to lead Redemption into Ned Low’s hands.
It was the best theory Spider had, but he needed to ask a couple of questions to confirm it.
“You and Smoke had a past, obviously,” he said. “Did you ever sail on this ship before? Redemption used to be a pirate’s vessel, I hear.”
Anne sneered. “I am no part of whatever conspiracy you have concocted. I bought passage on this ship because I was following Sam Smoke, and he had already arranged his own passage. I knew him of old, but I never liked him and never trusted him. He is one of Ned’s dogs, as is Wicked Pete, and I knew Sam would lead me to my revenge if I stayed on his heels, and I would have trailed him as long as it took. That is all. I had nothing to do with Brentwood’s end.”
Spider explored her face. She could be lying. She could be telling him the truth. Nothing in her expression indicated she cared at all what Spider thought.
“You should not stay aboard,” he said, more in hopes of keeping his suspect close at hand than in any concern for her safety.
“I do as I please, and I will kill Wicked Pete Reese even if it means dying myself.” Something brightened in her eyes. “I might have time for some fun before, though. You are not a bad-looking fellow, John.”
Spider gulped. Was she trying to distract him or was she serious? That was his brain, though; another part of him was growing interested and did not care if this was a trap. “A bit scruffy, I’d say,” he mumbled. “Missing a finger, you know.” He raised his hand.
“It is not your finger I want,” she said, winking.
Jesus, he thought. I don’t know whether to fuck her or shoot her.
Spider nodded and turned to find Odin and Hob approaching. The latter was staring at Anne with adoring eyes. That tightened the growing knot in Spider’s belly. He’d hoped his dealings with pirates were behind him, but here he was, riding the devil’s wind again, looking for ways to avoid a fight, and doubting that was possible. Meanwhile, Hob was making puppy eyes at Anne Bonny.
“What is she laughing about?” Hob pointed toward Anne.
“Nothing,” Spider answered. “She is just playing with me. I think.” He pondered whether he could somehow contrive a means of knocking her unconscious and dragging her to the island. He could not rule her out as a suspect in the captain’s murder. But she was on edge, keen to fight, and armed to the teeth. She probably could kick his arse too, if the legends were worth anything.
Hob waved at Anne and smiled.
Spider ran a hand through his sweaty beard. There was no way he could keep Anne Bonny nearby, he decided. If she turned out to be Captain Brentwood’s killer, that crime would simply have to be added to her ledger one day when the law eventually caught up to her again, as it almost certainly would. Spider would have Abigail Brentwood write down his recollections and those of everyone else on board, and he would find a means of providing that testimony to the Admiralty without landing his own neck in a noose. Perhaps, one day, she’d pay.
He glanced at the spot by the rail where Captain Brentwood had been consigned to the waters and where Rufus Fox, the Reverend Down, and Abigail Brentwood still prayed.
Spider sighed deeply and looked at his friends. “Keep working, lads. I think I have something figured out and need to have another look.”
Spider ran through the captain’s cabin and stepped out onto the ster
n gallery. He ignored the doors this time and instead inspected the deck below his feet. He found what he expected, a black smudge, rather quickly. A sniff at the stained planks confirmed his suspicion.
“Damn me,” he muttered. “Now that was clever. Clever, indeed.”
24
“‘Dear whore-pipe-licking spawn of a shit pile . . .’ Fuck.
No. Don’t write that.”
Abigail stared at Spider with wide eyes and high brows. “No. I most certainly will not write that.”
Spider’s gaze followed the schooner. “Sorry, miss. We might see action, and that always makes me a bit testy.”
“Always? You’ve faced down pirates before?”
“Aye.”
She blinked and assessed him as though seeing him for the first time. “Well, I suppose nervousness means we can make some allowances, but I really don’t . . .”
“No, no. I’ll find better words. Let me think. Very well. Let us try this. ‘Dear Cap’n. A few of us have gone ashore, where we will never see your faces nor hear you called by any names.’”
“We know their names, I thought,” Abigail said. “Wicked Pete something and Ned Low.”
“Aye, but they do not need to know we know that. Keep writing and let us pray some fucker over there can read.” Abigail scowled at his language again.
“Wicked Pete can read.” That was Anne Bonny. “Do not use large words, though. Keep it simple.”
Spider pressed onward. “Write this. ‘We hope that going ashore demonstrates we have no desire to ever testify in an Admiralty court, or to any other court body, and we have took only enough supplies with us to help us survive until we be found by a friendly vessel, and when you look below you will find ample goods to reward your crew, and you have a fine ship to take with you as well.’”
Abigail sighed. “Slow down, please. I am not accustomed to doing this on a rolling ship.” She was using the keyboard Rufus Fox built for her as a lap desk while she sat on a coil of rope. Spider had suggested using the desk in her father’s cabin and then instantly regretted the thought when he saw the clouds in her eyes. So here they were now, swaying on anchors in the cove as Redemption’s men loaded the boat and the schooner zigged and zagged among reefs to cut off all escape. Beyond the schooner, the other two vessels drifted. The pirates were deploying their small fleet well.
“I do not mean to rush, but we might want to be off the ship when the bastards over there come. . . .”
“I know that!” Abigail waved the enormous goose-feather quill at him in admonition, then dipped it into the ink jar. She held the bottle with her left hand and used it to guard one corner of the parchment from the wind while writing with her right hand and securing a bottom corner of the parchment with her forearm—all this while writing words with great loops and whorls that reminded Spider of leaves and petals. It was an awkward task, and Spider could not blame her if she was a bit growly.
Nearby, Hadley paced nervously, weapons still in hand. Tension was everywhere.
“Got your best tools, Spider John.” Hob rushed by. Spider noted a pistol tucked into his belt at the small of his back.
“Good, Hob. We’ll need sailcloth, too.”
“Aye.”
Abigail blew across the parchment. “There. I am caught up. Pray continue.”
“Aye,” Spider said. “Well, then . . .”
“And that last was something of a lengthy sentence, sir. I divided it up, considerably, into separate sentences. It flows much better.”
“It ain’t a goddamned poem,” Spider grumbled, smacking his forehead. “I do not care if it flows, for the love of God.” He laughed. “Just write what I say and chop it up and make it pretty as you think best as long as my words get in there.”
“Yes,” she said, glancing toward the pirate ship. “Continue.”
Spider took a deep breath. “‘As for this dead man here, he died after a bit of a disagreement with one of our hands over dice. He seemed to know you gents because he said he recognized the flag, so we leave him here to carry our peace message. . . .’”
“How will a dead man carry . . . ?”
“I am going to shove it in his mouth. They will find it. Write. ‘So we leave him here to carry our peace message and so you may see to his passing into the next world as you might deem as proper. We wish no confrontation, and . . . and . . . I do not want to say beg. . . .’”
“Implore?”
“Aye, implore. ‘We implore you do not come ashore. We will defend ourselves if we must, but trust you will see the wisdom in not taking up arms against us.’”
He paused. And waited as patiently as he could. She scratched out four or five words, dipped the quill in the black walnut ink, then dipped it again. It was like waiting for a goddamned sermon to end.
Finally, after what seemed an eon of scribbling, she looked up. “I have it all.”
“Aye, that’s good. Hand it here.”
“The ink must dry.”
“No time. It will have to do.”
“No, wait.” She corked the ink bottle and reached into the small sack beside her that held her writing tools. After a moment of fishing about, during which Spider was convinced the pirates would try a blast of grapeshot across Redemption’s deck even at a distance, she removed another jar. She bit off the cork and sprinkled the jar’s contents across the note.
“Are you pouring a beach on it?”
She glared. “A tiny beach, perhaps. The sand blots up where the ink is too thick, keeps it from running all over the letter.”
“It does not need to be beautiful.”
She blew sand off of the document. “It needs to be legible. Here. Gently.”
Spider took it, holding it by the top corners.
“Do not fold it or roll it,” Abigail said. “It should dry quickly in this weather, I should think, but best to be cautious.”
“Very well,” Spider replied. He took the note, knelt by Sam Smoke’s bleeding head, and held the letter with one hand while the other propped open the man’s jaws.
“Horrid,” Abigail muttered.
Spider placed the top edge of the letter into Smoke’s mouth, then tipped his lower jaw up until the paper was clenched in his teeth. The jaw, partially broken from the man’s fall, fell slack again, and the letter nearly blew away on a breeze.
“Shove it in his arse,” Odin suggested.
Abigail sighed. “Such language.”
“Honestly,” Spider answered, “we have tried to speak more civilized than usual, considering polite company.”
She lowered her head, and Spider could not tell if she was concealing a scowl or a laugh.
Odin chuckled. “All the stuff is loaded, by and by.”
“Good,” Spider said. “Powder?”
“Two small kegs. Not a lot.”
“It will work. Now if I can just get this bastard’s teeth to clamp properly . . .”
“Here,” Odin said, pulling free one of the whalebone comb pins that kept his lanky hair from flopping in front of his one good eye. “Pin it with this.”
“Thanks.” Spider pinned the note to Sam’s shirt, once he found a spot relatively free of blood. “There, then. Let us get off this bloody ship.”
25
Even drifting naked in the cove, wondering if it harbored sharks and dreading the thought that pirates might decide to start pelting them with cannon fire, Spider had to laugh.
Thomas, the chubby ship’s cat, sat perched upon the goods loaded into the boat. I reckon you’re going to follow me around forever, hey, cat? And I should have paid you more attention in my rum-soaked haze, I suppose. Another clue I missed.
Odin swam nearby. Some of Redemption’s men, a half dozen, were in the water with them; another dozen, including Hadley, the cook Lazare, and the two theologians, rode in the heavily laden boat with Abigail Brentwood. The rest had stayed aboard Redemption, and Spider was not surprised. A sailor’s life was a hard one, with little reward, and the promise of
supposed freedom lured many into life on the account. It was a false promise, Spider knew, but the fools would have to learn it themselves.
Abigail’s disguise was good. Anyone looking at her from a distance would judge her to be just another sailor. That was Spider’s hope, anyway. If the spy on the hill had seen the girl on Redemption earlier, however, the disguise was for naught.
Next to Abigail was the keyboard, which she had insisted on bringing despite Spider’s objections. In her lap was the head of Captain Wright, still sleeping off the knock Spider had given him. Hob swam near the boat, speaking reassurances to Abigail and drawing an unhappy stare from Hadley.
Spider turned around to tread water every ten strokes or so to see the progress made by the pirates. They had not yet started the traditional hazing—the mad howling designed to instill horror in their victims—but they had twice fired a long gun. The balls had fallen far off from Redemption and were obviously not meant as an attack. The shots probably had been a signal to whoever was on the hill, or to Ned Low’s other ships.
If the shots had been intended to inspire fear, the tactic had worked.
Spider cursed. He had too many things to think about. He forced himself to concentrate on the murder, for he felt he was finally on the right course on that score.
“I think I know how the captain was murdered,” Spider said, drawing near to Odin, who was equally naked and drifting near him.
“Do you, now? Sam Smoke, I say.”
“No.”
“Was it a ghost? Ha!”
“No.”
“Suicide, then.”
“No.”
A shark fin cut the water several dozen yards away and well behind them. It was a small fin, with a black tip, but where there was one shark, there were more. Spider wasn’t worried about the sharks he could see. It was the ones he couldn’t see that made his spine chill despite the heat.
Spider reminded himself he had never known a blacktip to attack a man, and there wasn’t a bloody goddamned thing he could do about it anyway if they decided to feast. He decided to keep his mouth shut about sharks, figuring a commotion would cause more trouble than quietly going ashore.