The Devil's Wind

by Steve Goble

  “If not a ghost, and not himself, then who shot him?” Odin noticed the shark, too, but merely grinned. “Those things taste good. Let’s kill one for dinner tonight. Anyway, we were all on deck when he was killed.”

  “Aye,” Spider said. “Or so we thought. But maybe not.”

  Odin’s grin vanished. “What now?”

  “I still need to sort it in my head, now that it ain’t all soaked with rum. I had drunk too much the night before, and I missed a couple of things, things that I realized when you shot Sam Smoke,” Spider admitted. “You keep lecturing me when we are in tight spots, friend. You are right. Booze fogged my head when I needed it most.”

  “Ha!”

  Spider glanced toward the boat. “Did we . . . ?”

  “Yes, by God, we grabbed some rum. And wine. And ale.”

  “Did we bring water?”

  “Don’t know. Ha!”

  Soon they were drawing up on a wet beach. Beyond the water’s reach the sand was pristine, blinding white. Spider and Odin joined Hob at the boat, helped pull it up on the sand, and began gathering their clothes and weapons from within it. Abigail averted her eyes, blushing. Thomas leapt off and vanished into the woods that surrounded the clear blue cove.

  “Spider’s got it all figured out, who killed the cap’n,” Odin whispered, tugging on his britches.

  “Truly?” Hob turned wide eyes on Spider John. “It was Sam Smoke, right?”

  “No,” Spider said. He held his knife again in his hand and found that comforting. He tucked a pistol into his belt and thanked Hob with a nod. “I think I know how it was done, but I need to keep thinking to reckon out who did it. But one damned thing I do know. It was not Sam Smoke, damn him.”

  “Not Sam Smoke?”

  “No,” Spider said emphatically.

  Odin pitched in. “Hob’s pretty girl, Anne?”

  “Perhaps,” Spider said.

  “I hope it wasn’t her,” Hob muttered. “I truly, truly do.”

  Spider took a peek toward Redemption, where Anne Bonny waited to murder someone. How goddamned convenient was it that the fluyt had carried her here, where she apparently wanted to be? Spider was not a big believer in coincidences. “It might have been her, Hob. Maybe. There is a good chance. I need to think, and for that, I need you two to stop pestering me.”

  “Aye,” Hob said with an echo and a laugh from Odin.

  “Drag the boat into the woods, gents,” Spider said to the company at large, “and get Miss Brentwood hid. We don’t want them to see her. Don’t want them to see barrels or crates or kegs or anything they might decide is worth coming to get, and we want them to wonder if we’re aiming guns at them if they try to come ashore. Anything that makes them think it might be worth the risk is bad; anything that makes them pause or guess is good. Lively, now! Odin, Hob, fetch those powder kegs and my tools.”

  Odin grinned at Spider. “When the hell did you decide to take command?”

  “I am thinking I took command a few days too late.”

  “Ha!”

  Spider watched men carry goods toward the woods. It gave him no small sense of satisfaction to see the crew put his orders into action. They were frightened and nervous, and because of that, they were grateful that someone was taking charge. Spider muttered a brief prayer: Dear Lord, help me figure out what the hell to do.

  Rufus Fox and the Reverend Down carried Captain Wright between them, each with one of the man’s arms draped behind his neck. Abigail Brentwood followed. Hadley stayed within arm’s length of her, knife in hand.

  Odin and Hob returned, each rolling a powder keg and Hob bearing a small toolbox. Spider pointed out two spots on the beach, told them what he wanted done, and started pulling nails from the box.

  Once that operation was complete, the three followed the crew into the woods, moving along a small stream that ran between the hills. Sometimes the terrain forced them to wade, and the stream and the shade combined kept them mercifully cool.

  “Look for a spot we can defend,” Spider called ahead to Odin, who had taken the lead. The one-eyed man answered with a laugh. Spider hoped Abigail and the others were too far ahead to hear the sarcasm in that laugh.

  As they trudged onward, with the cove vanishing from view behind them, Spider ran the suspects in the captain’s murder through his mind.

  He had already dismissed Sam Smoke as a suspect. So who then? Little Bob?

  “Jesus,” Spider exclaimed, halting abruptly. “Did anyone free Little Bob and his friends from the hold?”

  He got nothing in reply but blank stares and a snort from Odin.

  “Son of a bitch,” Spider said.

  “Pirates will find him,” Hob assured him, “and he’ll join up. Or they will kill him. Either way, no need for us to care. Little Bob is shit. And the bastards that helped him are shit, too, I say.”

  Spider rubbed sweat from his beard and wondered if he’d done Bob a favor in saving his life. A tumble overboard might have been better than whatever destiny awaited him at the hands of Ned Low. “Little Bob will have to see to his own fate. So, too, will Ames and Chambers. We have to see to ours.”

  Once he’d settled his mind on that, Spider ruled Bob out as a suspect in the captain’s death. Bob had a motive, sure, because the captain had dismissed him from the ship. But Bob was not the clever sort, and this killing had been done by a clever person. A very clever person.

  Spider looked at Rufus Fox. There was a clever man. A tinkerer, a builder. He’d made that clock, and Abigail’s keyboard. He might well have plotted this crime, and Fox had been absent at the crucial moment—the real crucial moment, not the damned Bible reading—if Spider had parsed things correctly.

  Time. Timing was crucial in committing this murder. Timing was key.

  But did Fox have a motive? The captain was his friend. But the captain was suffering, mourning, and Fox was a spiritual, philosophical man. Perhaps he’d killed the captain and seen it as an act of mercy. Did he have that kind of grit?

  Or did Fox have, perhaps, some other motive? Had the captain been an obstacle to courtship? Fox denied romantic feelings for Abigail, but his actions, and his expression when he looked at the girl, told another tale.

  Spider shook his head. He wanted a drink, then remembered how drink had fogged his mind earlier. Somehow, that realization made him want a drink even more.

  “Goddamn it,” he muttered and determined to focus.

  How about Nicholas Wright? Was he clever enough to have pulled off the crime? Spider did not think so. The man seemed unable to think of anything but Abigail Brentwood. He seemed more confused than anything since the murder, and although he had gained command with Captain Brentwood’s death, he seemed concerned only with impressing the captain’s daughter. A besotted fool, perhaps, but not likely a killer, in Spider’s estimation.

  Then there was Anne Bonny. She might be capable of anything. Could she have manipulated things to send Redemption toward her target? Had she led Nicholas Wright by the pecker and compelled him to do her bidding? She had known Sam Smoke, and that, perhaps, was crucial in committing this crime, too.

  What about the Reverend Down? Could the man have been so incensed over the captain’s preference for the theology of Rufus Fox that he would kill? That dour bastard would kill anyone if he could convince himself Jesus wanted it done. Spider was certain of that. Still, he doubted the reverend had the skills to have pulled off this crime.

  Spider launched spittle into the air and cursed himself. He had an idea in his head, one that nagged at him, but he did not like it. He did not like it at all. And he was twisting things in his mind, tacking one way, then the other, trying to find a course that led anywhere except the conclusion he wanted to avoid.

  His gaze fell on Abigail Brentwood and Rufus Fox, followed closely by Hadley, and he cursed softly.

  A hand on his shoulder halted Spider’s thoughts. “Good climbing tree here, Spider,” Hob said. “I will go up and have a look, see what our p
irates are about.”

  “Fine thinking, lad. Go!”

  Hob was aloft swiftly. “They have anchored. Blocking the cove. They are sending a boat over to Redemption. A half dozen men.”

  “No more?”

  “No more.”

  “Do you have a good view of the cove?”

  “Aye.”

  “Stay up there. Raise an alarm if they look to come ashore.”

  Hob acknowledged the order and pulled a gun from his belt.

  “You might better use both hands to stay in the tree, Hob.”

  “I know what I am about, Spider John.”

  Spider whistled low. “Everyone, hold up.” He sighed and drew his gun and knife. There were trees and boulders here for cover and low, thick woods to either side of them. This was as good a spot as any to make a stand, even a futile one.

  “If they come ashore looking for us, they most likely will follow our path. Too tough to walk through all that thorny stuff,” he said, pointing to the banks as men put down their burdens. “Keep an eye; get your guns loaded if they aren’t already. Odin, you are with me. We are going to take care of whoever is up on that hill. The rest of you, watch out, in case the bastards on the hill decide to take care of us. Listen for Hob; he’s a good man and knows his way in a fight.”

  “Thankee, Spider!”

  “You can thank me, Hob, by not doing anything rash.”

  Odin checked his guns, checked the knife and sword in his belt, and took a dirk from another fellow. A crewman brought Spider two more guns, but Spider gave one to Abigail Brentwood. “Aim for their chest or belly,” he said. “Let them get close, because you’ve just got the one shot, and these things are no more reliable than a king’s promise. Stick it right in his guts. It’s your best bet.”

  She nodded and eyed the gun. Her jaw was set, and she inhaled sharply. “I know what to do with this,” she said after a moment’s contemplation. “Anne and I have talked.”

  Spider pointed to Captain Wright, who had been propped against a tree. “He will wake soon, I think. Wake him if he does not. We will need him if it comes to a fight. Don’t let him do anything stupid.”

  She nodded again.

  “His head will likely pound like a heavy surf in a thunder hole.”

  “I do not know what that means.”

  “Shores get undercut, tide comes in fills a hole, too much water and not enough hole, sounds like thunder when water gets forced out.”

  She shook her head.

  “No matter. Cap’n’s head will hurt, is all. But he is a tough man. He will work through it. And he’ll see to your safety.” He glanced at Hadley. “And so will that one.”

  “I know,” Miss Brentwood said, nodding.

  Spider turned to the one-eyed sailor. “Let’s go, Odin.”

  They departed from the stream’s path and climbed the northernmost hill, where Spider had seen the glinting light. They moved as quietly as they could, and Spider once again marveled at how strong and nimble Odin was, despite his age.

  “What is your plan?”

  Spider shrugged at the question. “Don’t know. Might be one man up there, might be a few. Might be headed back to Ned’s ship, might be staying on lookout. But I don’t want whoever it is finding us before we find them, and I don’t want them to spot a woman in our midst and go tell Ned about it.”

  “So, we kill them.” Odin said it calmly, as though he was discussing the furling of a sail or the tying of a proper halyard hitch.

  “Aye,” Spider answered, though the thought made him sick. He’d dearly hoped that he’d never have to slit a throat again. “We do. I do not see another way. We can’t spare a fighting hand to keep guard over a prisoner, if it comes to a tussle. This is war, when you think of it.”

  They ascended farther, careful to use the numerous gum trees for cover. The slope was gentle, and the summit not even a couple of hundred feet above sea level, but thick underbrush and the need for silence slowed them. They could not move silently, of course, in such a jungle. But Spider felt as though they kept the noise down to not more than a small animal might make. The constant din of birds provided some cover, too, or so he hoped. At least, he told himself that. Part of him wondered if the birds might pounce on them. Fucking birds.

  Frequent stops to listen for an ambush or free a shirt from clutching thorns slowed them further. They both crouched low and drew guns when something rattled the low tree canopy, only to relax once they realized they had merely flushed a small flock of little yellow-and-black bananaquits. The whole damned island was thick with the birds, which chattered and squawked.

  “I’d like to kill some of these fuckers and eat them,” Odin whispered tersely.

  “I thought you wanted to eat shark.”

  “I am hungry.”

  Spider took a deep breath. The flock’s interruption had snapped the tension building within him.

  “Quiet,” he whispered. “We’ve got bloody work ahead.”

  26

  Moments later, Spider saw Odin freeze. The man’s lone eye was fixed on something up the slope, and he crouched behind the cover of a gum tree.

  Spider took cover himself before risking a glance through the fronds of a bright green fern. Above them, less than a hundred feet away, a dark-haired man slowly worked his own way down the hill. His hair was long and black, flowing from beneath a dingy white tricorn hat, and his complexion was that of bronze. He carried a blunderbuss in his left hand and used it to slowly push aside leaves and branches. A pair of pistols rode in a holster on his chest. From his belt hung a savagely long knife in a leather sheath, and in his right hand was a small axe, its blade painted in garish red and yellow.

  This grim-looking fellow was far more successful in moving quietly through the underbrush than Spider and Odin had been.

  If this man isn’t an Iroquois, Spider thought, I am not a carpenter.

  With agonizingly slow motions, Spider tucked away his gun and drew his throwing knife. A glance at Odin assured him his friend had reckoned the same thing, that this was work for blades, not gunpowder. They did not yet know how many men might be on this island, and there was no need to alert any of this stalker’s friends that fighting had commenced. Gunplay would be foolish.

  Odin held the cutlass low and behind him, lest any stray sunbeam sneak through the tree canopy and flash on the naked steel. His grin was that of a man who loved fighting too goddamned much.

  As nearly as Spider could tell, the approaching man had not sensed their presence. If the Iroquois descended in a direct line, he would stumble right upon them. Spider used a few hand signals to convey his plan to Odin, and for once he was grateful for the lessons a pirate life had taught him. Odin crawled slowly to the right while Spider inched his way to the left. They would let the Iroquois move between them, and then they would pounce.

  The Iroquois was not in any bloody hurry to die, though. He moved one foot at a time, stepping over downed branches and pausing after setting his foot down. His eyes pivoted back and forth and seemed dreamlike, focused on something beyond this world. The man was close enough now that Spider could see dark streaks smeared on his face, and the man had blackened his lips as well. When he turned his head, always crouching low to avoid inadvertently disturbing a branch, he revealed long bright feathers cascading from the back of his hat. It was like a waterfall made of a rainbow.

  He must have a feather from every damned bird on the island, Spider thought. His mind suddenly filled with stories of his youth, about red men and their weird magic, and he hoped the bastard had not acquired the feathers as a means of controlling the damned birds.

  At that very moment, every bananaquit on the island went silent.

  Spider shut his eyes and fought off the sudden image of swirling feathers and scraping claws and piercing beaks. Don’t unman yourself, Spider John!

  A dozen feet away, the man held his pause longer than usual. He sniffed the air, and his eyes lost their dreamy quality. He propped the butt
of his blunderbuss against his thigh and took aim at a target.

  Odin.

  Spider rose and threw his knife. The blade skewered a streak of black paint across the man’s face, an inch or so below the eye Spider had aimed at, just as the gun belched its flame and smoke. Lead balls tore through the underbrush, and birds scattered in a mind-numbing chorus of screeches and screams.

  Spider ducked involuntarily.

  Odin, however, rushed forward, growling, on course for his target despite the gun’s hazy smoke and the obscuring leaves. Spider forced himself to rise and saw the flash of Odin’s blade—and an ugly streak of red on the one-eyed man’s shirt.

  The Iroquois uttered a hideous cry and swung his axe, but it got caught up in a low branch. He clubbed Odin with his gun; whether the blow had landed on Odin’s head or shoulder, Spider could not tell. Odin tumbled aside but left his cutlass planted deep in his foe’s thigh.

  Spider was upon the man a heartbeat later, ducking as the painted axe arced at his neck. His shoulder met the Iroquois in the gut, and he propelled the man backward against a large stone. Wind left the Iroquois in a rush, showering Spider in blood from the man’s bleeding cheek. The hilt of Spider’s knife stuck out like a yardarm beneath the man’s cheekbone. Spider thought to grab it, but Odin’s cutlass was a better weapon. Spider snatched it free with a twist that made the Iroquois gasp.

  Two quick slashes later, the Iroquois was dead.

  “That was all a might louder than we planned,” Odin said. “Ha!”

  “I thought you were dead.” Spider dropped the sword and pulled his knife out of the dead man’s face.

  “I sailed with Blackbeard, swam with sharks, busted heads in a whorehouse in Tortuga run by a witch,” Odin said. “A little hot lead cutting my arm is nothing to worry about.” Crimson stains lined a rip in his left sleeve, but his arm was steady, and the blood was not flowing. He had merely been grazed.

  Spider breathed hard but managed a grin of sorts. “Is this how you survived all those years as a pirate, Odin? Blind luck?”