The footsteps were all but in the saloon. Again without a conscious thought, he dropped to a knee and spun both the pistol and the sword around to offer the less deadly ends to Scatter Wilkins. The Captain quickly snatched both weapons as they were offered and put the barrel of the pistol to Packer’s forehead. His finger was against the trigger as Packer spoke.
“I have come to help you find the Firefish.” His voice was soft, his eyes hard and purposeful.
Scat did not fire. First mate Jonas Deal burst into the storeroom. Packer lowered his head.
Had he looked at the first mate, he’d have seen a rabid vision of a man. Deal’s brown and black teeth were bared, his eyes almost invisible under a thick brow pinched downward in a brutal scowl. The stubble on his head did not hide a lumpy skull. In his grip was the largest pistol ever manufactured in Nearing Vast, weighing almost eight pounds, with a barrel almost an inch across. It was known as the “Hand Cannon.” But as he saw the relative posture of the intruder and his Captain, his murderous look turned into one of glee.
Jonas Deal laughed from deep within. “You see this, gents? Here’s yet one more tale they’ll tell of Scatter Wilkins!”
Scat lowered his pistol, still staring at the boy. The grizzled sailor took this cue, tucked his enormous weapon into his belt, grabbed Packer by the collar and hauled him to his feet. “That’ll teach you to cross Captain Wilkins and the Trophy Chase!” Deal shook Packer violently, as easily as he would shake out a rag, and grinned at his Captain. “What’ll we do with this weasel, Cap’n? The yardarm or the plank? Or do you want his blood shed where he stands?” Jonas looked at Packer hungrily, clearly pleased with any of these options.
The sailors who’d followed the first mate into the saloon whooped their approval. Not one of them noticed the uneasiness in their Captain, nor did they hear the faint hesitation in his reply. “Keelhaul him.”
“Aye, aye!” This was a highly satisfactory order.
Packer now took his first good look at Jonas Deal, and was appropriately shocked by the man’s appearance. But even more unnerving was the unabashed joy on his face. He relished this order. It was not only certain death for Packer, it was a brutal death. Deal jerked Packer toward the saloon door.
“Jonas!”
The first mate turned, surprised by the Captain’s urgent tone. “Aye, sir?”
“Give him a fighting chance.”
Jonas looked quizzical. “But Cap’n—”
Scat glared back, not to be questioned. “Let him swim.” Jonas grumbled obediently and turned a disdainful look at Packer. Scat Wilkins turned away as the first mate angrily shoved his prisoner ahead of him. A long string of invective trailed down the alleyway, leaving the Captain to his thoughts. Then he turned his gaze to Packer Throme’s sword, holding it, staring at it. That worried Deeter Pimm.
“You want that taken to the master-at-arms, sir?” Deeter asked.
Scat was focused on the craftsmanship of the weapon. “What? Oh, no. Jimmy Legs won’t know what to do with the likes of this.”
The steward nodded and turned to leave.
“Pimm!” Scat’s blood was returning to him, and the steward already regretted being alone to experience it. “When the first mate finishes with his fun, you tell him I want to talk to him.”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” The steward hurried to leave. But Wilkins had another thought, and turned on him again. “And find that witch, Talon. I want to know how she managed to let a swordsman onto this ship in a barrel.”
“Aye, aye.” Deeter was afraid to turn again to leave.
“Well, get out of my sight!”
The steward nodded dutifully, and happily obeyed.
Alone, Captain Scat Wilkins swung the sword a few times, listening to the pristine hiss of its blade. An elegant rapier, perfectly balanced. And handed over to him by a man who knew how to use it. He relived the previous moments in his mind. The boy could have killed him, three or four ways.
The force of the events weighed on him heavily. The Trophy Chase had been boarded. Scat Wilkins had been tried and found wanting, and by a mere lad at that. It was only by the miscreant’s own choice that the ship and its Captain now sailed on as if nothing had changed. He cursed aloud, and threw the sword across the saloon. It clattered to a stop in the corner. Such an event did not bode well for a good voyage. It was a bad omen for a superstitious captain.
News traveled even faster aboard ship than it did in a small village like Hangman’s Cliffs. By the time Packer reached the deck, shoved along roughly by Mr. Deal, the sailors were already gathering at the forecastle deck near the prow of the ship. Ratlines were descended as those in the rigging made their way down for a better view. Buckets, mops, and holystones were abandoned by those swabbing and scrubbing down the decks. Sailors not on duty were pouring up from their berths like a steady stream of insects. The buzz of their chatter grew like the approach of locusts.
Packer watched with amazement, forgetting for a moment that all this was about him, as he took in the color and the spectacle of this mass kaleidoscopic motion. He had seen many ships come ashore and put out to sea, merchant ships and Royal Navy vessels, but he had never seen a crew like this, where the shipmates were quite so energized, so full of motion and high spirits.
They were a colorful bunch. Not one of their outfits was actually identical to that of any other, but somehow on the whole they still seemed matched, as though, given perfect freedom to dress and outfit and adorn themselves however they saw fit, these sailors nonetheless managed to stay within a few basic themes that gave them a very particular look.
The men wore short sleeves, no sleeves, or long sleeves rolled up; all had sun-darkened skin, some black, some almost black, most emblazoned with tattoos. Some of the artwork was fresh and colorful. Many had their ears pierced and wore gold or brass rings; many wore tight leather necklaces with stone and bone and lumps of metal. They were bald-headed, bareheaded, long-haired, ponytailed, wearing kerchiefs or soft cloth hats. All wore loose-fitting breeches, most all coming to at least below the knee, with pant legs frayed or hard-cut or poorly hemmed at virtually any point after that, occasionally with the right leg actually matching the length of the left. All were barefooted.
As different as these outfits were, they had marked similarities. Earrings were small hoops, tight against the lobe. Bone, ivory, and other materials were reserved for the leather necklaces, which were universally taut enough to keep from being caught accidentally in clothing or rigging. There were no bracelets, no armbands, no anklets, no finger rings of any sort with the exception of the gold band worn by married men. Hats or kerchiefs were all pulled close against heads so they could not be blown off. And while the color of their wide array of clothing was varied, it hovered around a central theme, a fundamental shade of bleached gray-green. This was apparently the color of destiny for any material worn in the sun for work and then to bed at night for sleep, constantly drenched with sweat and washed in seawater, bathed in salt and algae along with its owner, sun-bleached, sea-drenched, and washed again, day in and day out.
As the buzz grew around him, Packer could overhear quite a few of the mutterings and whispers. Who was he, what did he do, why did he risk it, what was his goal, where did he come from, who found him, how did he get on board, who did he kill, why wasn’t he killed on capture?
Soon enough, Jonas Deal had Packer Throme at the foredeck, just behind the prow. Deal stood at the rail, speaking to the crowd gathered.
“Here’s a stowaway needs a lesson!” he sang out.
The sailors called back full-throated, “Yea!” “Teach him!” and other like phrases.
“Watch what we do with such as this on the great Trophy Chase!”
“Let’s see!”
“Hang him!”
“Feed him to the sharks!”
Then Jonas sang out, “Gather up now for the keelhauling of a sneak and renegade!”
“Keelhaul him!”
“Shove him over!”
Packer’s amazement quickly turned to dismay. Without a hearing, without a clue as to his actual identity or intent, they would all, to a man, gleefully kill him off. The bright eyes, the grins, their evident joy was unnerving.
“Spies and stowaways get a bellyful of seawater for their trouble here!”
“Aye, aye!”
“Keelhaul him!”
Deal’s voice fell, and he looked down at his feet. “Now, mates, the Captain has ordered that we give him a fighting chance.”
“No!”
“Boo!”
“Scrape him! Scrape him!”
And then the chant took hold. “Scrape him! Scrape him!”
Jonas quieted them down with a motion of his hands. “Cap’n’s orders, cap’n’s orders! He’s won a bit o’ luck, and we’ll grant him his fighting chance. We won’t be scrapin’ him across the barnacles today.”
There was grumbling. Someone sang out, “He’s soft as cheese! Let’s grate him!” There was laughter.
“Aye,” Mr. Deal acknowledged. “Too soft to swim the depth of this ship…or its length!”
A great howl of laughter and applause greeted this revelation. They would let him try to swim under the ship if he could, but not from port to starboard, as was customary, but rather from prow to stern. It was a death sentence, and they knew it.
“On with it, then!” Mr. Deal sang out, to a joyous, guttural response.
Deal turned Packer around so he was facing the open sea ahead, speckled white from its blue horizon back toward them. Packer’s heart beat loudly in his chest, and he could feel his pulse in his neck, hear it in his ears. The foam and green-blue water rushed under the ship thirty-odd feet below him. Even if he survived, how could he ever join this crew?
He shook his head, feeling sorrowful again about the choices he had made, wondering what Panna was thinking even now, wondering if perhaps she was praying for him. He hoped she was. He asked God to comfort her. How long before she knew he was dead? Would she ever know for sure? That thought shot through his heart, and almost crumpled his legs under him. The crew laughed, seeing him wobble.
Packer’s arms were jerked out to his sides and held there as silent crewmen put a loop of rope from a coiled mooring line around each wrist and pulled it tight. He looked into the eyes of Jonas Deal, who relished the moment, reveling in Packer’s anguish. The first mate smiled, shaking his head. His blackened teeth were unveiled in the grin.
“You’ve got an iceberg’s chance in hell, sonny boy. I’ve never seen a man survive this.” And he laughed again. “Not once!”
Jonas checked the knots. The mooring line tied to Packer’s left hand ran under the bowsprit and was then held by a crewman on deck. The line tied to Packer’s right was held by another crewman, standing to his right. Coils from these ropes were made ready by others. Once Packer was overboard, they would let the lines play out, and then walk them back toward the stern of the great ship.
When Jonas was content with the knots, he stepped up to Packer and pushed him back against the rail, just starboard of the bow, and turned him back to face the crew. Packer now stood with the back of his thighs pressed against the rail, the only thing between him and the cold blue sea. In a loud voice, Deal bellowed the command “Last words!” and looked down at his feet.
Packer was surprised by this protocol, which Deal obviously didn’t like but followed obediently nonetheless. Packer looked at the men, who looked earnestly up at him. There were dozens of them. He had never spoken to so large an audience. And they were deathly quiet, waiting. He could hear seagulls, and the chop of the bow plowing the waves beneath him. The light breeze was cool, salty. He had not noticed before what a perfect spring day it was. His fears turned to sadness.
“Last words!” Deal demanded.
“Yes,” Packer said, clearing his throat, but with no idea what he might say. “I just want to tell you…” He looked around him, up at the sails, billowing full. He spoke clearly, gently, loud enough to be heard but soft enough that the men almost in unison leaned forward to hear. “You have a beautiful ship.” The men waited. “I know that I came aboard in a way that makes me seem like an enemy. But I’m not. I have wanted to stand on board this ship for a very long time. Though this is not exactly how I imagined it.”
There was laughter. Packer smiled, relieved in spite of himself.
“Finish it!” Deal hissed.
“If I survive, somehow, by the grace of God, then I hope my debt will be paid. And I hope your Captain, and you, will think of me differently. And then maybe I can join you.”
The sailors seemed frozen where they stood. Mouths were open. No gulls squawked. The wooden ship creaked and the canvas flapped. Packer wondered if he’d said something wrong.
Then anger moved Jonas Deal. “Join this!” he said, and he planted an open hand on Packer’s throat, pushing him backward with a great heave.
Packer toppled over the short railing. He heard the roar of the men, and then smacked into the water on his back, thirty feet below. The sudden impact of cold water dazed him, and then he was overtaken by the speed of the ship, overrun by the vessel.
The lines played out through the hands of the sailors, who let them uncoil from the deck as Packer’s downward and sternward momentum took him.
The men on deck rushed to the rails to get a look, but they were subdued now, their task emptied of some of its fun by the earnestness of the young man they had sent deep into the murky waters below them. Several of them hoped aloud he’d make it. The sailors walked the lines backward, hand-over-hand past the ratlines and rigging, over the cannon and cannonballs, toward the stern of the ship, where they would fish Packer, or his body, from the brine.
Packer’s youth had been spent fishing, in almost every form of that endeavor. He’d spent many hours on board his father’s boat, casting and trawling, hauling the big tuna and powerful blackfish aboard in carefully woven nets. He’d spent countless more hours on the docks with his homemade rod, catching seacat and flounder. And he’d spent many more hours yet diving from docks and boats and sandbars, gliding along the shallow, sunlit ocean floor looking for clams and swiggets and mussels. These shallow dives had helped expand his lung capacity considerably, until he could hold his breath for more than three minutes; more than enough time to make the voyage under the Trophy Chase.
But it had been years since he’d swum like that. And Jonas Deal had dealt him a foul blow, choking him just when he should have been filling his lungs. And just as he started to take air in, he had crashed into the water, losing more air on impact, a second blow that almost stunned him to unconsciousness. So as the great ship cast its dark shadow over him, turning the bright blue warmth of the sky and the shimmering yellow ball of the sun into cold darkness, Packer already felt the pangs. He needed to breathe.
Talon didn’t wait to be summoned. She took one look at the stowaway as he was being led to the deck and then wound her way astern to the Captain’s quarters. She passed Deeter, who saw the blood in her eye and flattened himself against the alleyway wall as she passed.
She burst in on the Captain, who was lying back on his bunk, hands laced behind his head. As the hatch banged open he greeted her with his pistol, unholstered in an instant from where it hung beside him, and aimed at her heart.
“Why is it you’re the only one on this ship who considers it an indignity to announce yourself to the Captain?” he asked her, holstering the pistol again.
“Not the only one today,” she answered evenly.
He stared at her a moment. He sat up, drank the last dregs of a pint of ale he’d been contemplating, then walked her to the saloon. He opened the storeroom hatch and showed her the barrel in silence. Her eyes flashed.
“I want someone’s head on a platter, Talon.”
She nodded.
“Who sold you the ale?”
Her mind grew dark as the lies of Cap Hillis were replayed in her ears. “An innkeeper at the Hangman’s Cliffs,” she said
in her cold accent. “A tavern under the sign of the Firefish.”
Scat paused, as though there were meaning in it. “You couldn’t tell he was lying?” There was a trace of suspicion in his voice.
She nodded. “I knew he was lying. But I was deceived as to why.”
Scat Wilkins eyed her again. He had rarely seen her deceived so thoroughly.
She glared at the barrel. “Within three days from the moment we dock again, I’ll find out who sent the assassin, and he will send no more.”
“This was no assassin.”
Her look said she doubted him.
“Sure as I’m standing here,” he told her, “that boy did not come aboard to kill me.” He stared at her until she understood. And the understanding enraged her. It was Talon’s responsibility to keep the ship secure; that was the reason she personally escorted the supply carts. She had failed.
She pulled the long knife from its sheath on her belt and held it out to him. “Take my head. I have failed you.”
Scat considered the offer. The razor-edged blade she proffered would easily do the job. He wasn’t about to lose her, but even so…he wondered if he could. Would she really let him? Yes, he decided. She would let him.
He suppressed a smile. He’d seen more blood and had been in more fights than most men could imagine, but if he could pick just one of all the fighters he’d ever known to fight beside him, he’d choose Talon. He’d seen her use this knife she offered, and her sword, and her pistol in battle, and had yet to see a man her equal for quickness, for action and reaction, for sheer cold-blooded focus. She wasn’t the strongest, and didn’t have the most stamina. But ice water ran in her veins. The choices she made, the chances she took without blinking—and always they paid off.
He had come to believe she knew death intimately, understood it somehow in ways others couldn’t, as though death were on her side, or she on its. She might die of her own will, but not anyone else’s. He couldn’t imagine someone taking her life. “Put that away,” Scat said, almost gently. “I want to know who sent him. And why.”
The Trophy Chase Saga Page 6