by Eris Adderly
The first thing she needed to do was keep the cabin from filling with smoke. There would be no putting it out if she choked to death on the air in the room first.
The length of her chain wouldn’t let her reach the stateroom doors, so venting the room from there was out of the question. Hannah looked around the cabin for other possibilities and felt one seize her when she saw the sleeping berth.
Windows.
She lunged for the bed, clambering up to louver open all but two of the movable panes, which seemed stuck shut, and hoped this would be enough to draw the smoke out of the stateroom while she searched for a way to deal with the fire.
The flames had begun to feast on the papers now scattered over the floor, and were spreading with eager orange and yellow tongues.
An oil fire, she knew, could not be put out in the normal way. She needed to wet some sort of cloth or blanket and smother the flames. The bed had linens, so that half of the solution was at hand, but to wet them?
Again, her eyes scoured the room, searching for answers. On the slim sideboard, against the far wall, she found one. Possibly.
The pitcher of water. She’d drunk some already. Would there still be enough?
Time to find out.
Hannah ripped the topmost sheet from the mattress and hurried to the silver pitcher, pausing when she arrived at the sideboard to consider the best way to soak the material. Spread the sheet on the floor and pour the water over it? Wad up the fabric and stuff it in the pitcher?
There wasn’t time to plan and consider. The flames were moving toward the bed now, and the last thing she needed was for the mattress to catch fire. There’d be no extinguishing it then.
She opted to pile the fabric into a loose bundle on the floor and, as slowly as she dared, upended the pitcher over it. The water soaked in and Hannah lifted the linen to inspect its saturation.
What she saw was a sheet that was still far too dry in too many areas. No. This would never work. Parts of the fabric would catch fire as well.
“What now? What now, damn you?” She swore at herself, at the fire.
Something had to give. Hannah did not want to die like this.
As her eyes combed the room in desperation, they landed on the bucket. Even with her life in peril, she recoiled at the thought.
Disgusting!
All the same, the fact that she’d made use of it might be enough to save her own skin, just now.
She felt her stomach churn.
Do you want to die down here, Hannah?
No. No she did not.
Hannah tried not to think as she crammed the partially damp linen into the bucket, and made a fervent wish that she might be anyplace else on Earth when she did what was needed to fully soak the sheet, swishing the material around. It was horrific, but less so than the alternative.
She drew her sickening answer to the fire out of the bucket and was nearly ill at the smell, cursing Graves and Blackburn and gods she didn’t even pray to for the disaster before her.
Crossing the room in quick strides, chain clattering as she went, Hannah lifted the sheet with both hands and flung it over the oily base of the flames as though she were trying to capture a wild animal in a pillow case. As the wet linen descended, she used her feet to press it down everywhere, further smothering the fire. The smell in the room was going from bad to worse, and she grimaced.
But in moments, she had the fire out. It was out.
The relief that washed over her was followed by blinding anger at Graves for once again proving himself a foul serpent. At Blackburn for chaining her to the table and leaving her vulnerable. At Till for his relative complacency in the whole affair.
She felt a second sting at the layer of truth in the surgeon’s words as well. What else had she been doing, but waiting for men to push her along in this direction or that? Nothing out of that fiend’s mouth should ever be true, but this …
What else could the Fates possibly throw at her? Plagues? Dragons?
The level of absurdity of her last thought nudged Hannah over some indefinable ledge and she burst out in mad laughter.
The last of the smoke was making its way out the open window panes and the room smelled like burnt things and waste. She was chained to a table on a pirate ship and her two former lovers were trying to capture her uncle. Hannah laughed and laughed until she cried. Tears came along with great, racking sobs, and she laughed some more. Nothing made sense. Not any of it.
* * * *
Metal rang against metal over the grunts of scuffling men, and Edmund grit his teeth in annoyance as he carved his way through the brawl with the edge of his cutlass.
The one thing he’d been trying to avoid on the schooner had happened anyway, despite his efforts at making a clean take. A few among the crew of the smaller ship had decided to be heroes and resist, against all sense and despite their captain’s orders, and now his men had a fight on their hands. It was nothing the crew of The Devil’s Luck couldn’t handle, but it would likely cost him in injuries among his own, and the men aboard the cargo ship would be going to the pointless effort of trading their lives for an inventory of tobacco and fabric, material things they would lose either way.
He’d already emptied both of his pistols, and the edge of his blade had been sullied more than once. But the density of the melee was decreasing, and he could tell his crew was close to snuffing out the last throes of defiance. Edmund hollered at them in encouragement.
“Finish it up, men! Take what we came for!”
The unfortunate man in front of him fell, clutching a ruined arm, and Edmund whirled to make sure there was no one at his back amid the last of the scattered clashes churning about the deck. After seeing no immediate threat to his person, his eyes focused across the gap to his own ship. What he saw there was a different problem entirely.
Smoke was billowing up from the aft end of the ship.
There was no visible fire, which meant the source must be below decks. What had happened? Nearly everyone was on this ship. No one should even be in that part of The Devil’s Luck at the moment. Who would—?
The widow.
A sickening lurch in his chest told him there was only one place the fire was likely to be. His stateroom.
He fought down the urge to vault over prone bodies, grab the first line he saw, and hoist himself back onto the galleon. His duty here was to lead his crew—a group of sailors who were already nervous about his involvement with the woman he had sequestered in his cabin. Leaving before their task was complete would damage their respect further, and he would need them long after he left the troubling woman in Boston.
She’s chained up in there, Edmund. If there’s a fire …
His eyes darted from one ship to the other, fingers flexing on the hilt of his cutlass in painful indecision. If she died in there, could he bring himself to look upon her corpse? Blue eyes closed for ever?
Benjamin was wading toward him, picking his way around debris and felled sailors. The larger man’s shirt was soaked through with sweat, and he wore a brilliant red cut above one brow which shed its crimson tears down his temple. The quartermaster had sheathed his own cutlass, but still had his dagger in hand.
Edmund jerked his chin in the direction of the rising smoke.
“There’s a fire. It might be the stateroom.”
His friend looked in the direction of his gesture, and then back to Edmund in realisation. The unspoken thought passed between them.
What should we do?
Till’s grasp of his captain’s dilemma was immediate, and he was the first to speak.
“This is all but at an end, Captain,” he said, swinging a tattooed arm behind him, indicating the aftermath of the conflict on the deck. “I’ll send men below to start hauling cargo up. The crew won’t need to see you here for that. Go.”
Edmund felt relief loosen his limbs for a moment, before they tensed back up in urgency. He gave a single brisk nod to Benjamin and the other man nodded back. There was
often no need for words between the two of them, but in this case, as in many others, there would be a need for thanks. Later.
Till turned away to stride over the deck of the schooner in the opposite direction, shouting orders to the crew as he went. Edmund sheathed his blade and moved off to his own concerns with a purpose.
The last body he stepped over was none other than the grey bearded captain of the unlucky cargo vessel. What a waste, Edmund thought, as he glanced down at the lifeless man who’d had command of a ship only hours before. Yet another poor fool who placed the value of goods above that of his own life.
So many people in this world, he thought as he hauled himself up over the gunwale of The Devil’s Luck, had their priorities entirely askew.
Perhaps you are one of them, Blackburn?
Perhaps he was, but there was no time to think on it now.
* * * *
The door to the council chamber was already ajar, and Edmund took this as a bad sign as he hurried along the deck. No one should have gone in or out of the area leading to his stateroom while they’d been engaged with the other ship.
In moments, he’d passed the threshold and bounded down the steps, dodging around the long table as he made for his stateroom. The familiar door banged open in front of him under a shove of his palm and a twist of the latch.
The smell in the room hit him like a wall. Smoke, charred wood and paper, damp linen, and … something much more pungent. But no fire now. What had …?
When his eyes found the widow, she was on the floor, her back leaning against the face of the cabinets that lined the front of the sleeping berth. She was hugging one knee to her chest, while the other leg, the one still shackled, stretched out before her. Her hair was damp and disarrayed, and she was massaging the back of her neck with her fingers. The eyes he’d been so afraid to see lifeless took him in with exhaustion, and what might have been perhaps the faintest glimmer of madness.
Edmund went to her in a rush, coming to one knee beside her outstretched leg, his hand moving to clasp her shoulder, perhaps to reassure himself she was real and alive.
“Hannah.” He couldn’t escape his desire to speak her name, despite the bitter, spent way she eyed him now. “What happened here? There was a fire? I saw smoke …”
The corner of her mouth twitched in the start of a grin, but the idea of a smile didn’t match the hardness of her eyes, and something about the situation tasted even more wrong than his initial impressions had led him to believe.
“What happened?” She repeated his question, with a feather’s hint of a laugh coming to her voice. “Perhaps you should ask your surgeon, Captain Blackburn.” Her gaze seared into him in accusation.
Graves. He should have known. During a boarding, the surgeon remains behind so he’ll be at the ready and uninjured himself if any of the crew returns in need of his attention. He’d given the man the perfect opportunity, and left her chained in place to boot, with no means of escaping the beast.
It appears he’s not the only beast on this ship, eh, Blackburn?
“He started the fire?” he said, attempting to ignore his own thoughts. Edmund came to his feet and offered a hand to help her come to her feet. She took it just long enough to rise, before stealing her fingers away from his.
“Not by design. He flung everything off the table, including the lamp, and it broke. Then there was a fire.” She was pushing strands of hair away from her face now, staring at the half blackened table, her mind clearly elsewhere.
“Flung everything off the table?” His confusion was nettled with some surety that lay just around a corner, as he stooped to begin gathering what was left of the papers from the floor. “What was he—?”
Something about the way her entire garment seemed askew, her eyes darting and avoiding focus on any one part of the room.
He stepped toward her again, wanting to envelop her, to do something to calm her nerves. “Hannah … did he …?”
The acid in her expression did nothing to assuage his fears. “Not as much as he’s planned for, he told me himself. Don’t worry, Captain,” she said with an unladylike sneer, “you’re the only one who’s succeeded in doing that.”
Edmund didn’t know what exactly the first part of her response meant for now, but the second half hit him like a cannonball in the chest.
That’s right, Blackburn. You took advantage. No one else.
At least she was whole, and breathing, never mind their personal war, for now. He moved to circle his arms around her, wanting to soak her in, indulge himself in a small measure of the contact he’d almost lost, and would lose again soon enough.
For a frozen second she allowed it, and her forehead was on his shoulder as though she was ready to lean on him and accept his embrace. But then she turned her wrists, placing her palms on his chest and, firmly, but without any sudden force, pushed herself away. Pushed him away.
Her eyes met his now, jaw set. Volumes passed between them in harrowing silence as they stared at each other. The widow looked to the ragged hope, jaded though she was at this point, that he might still turn away from Boston. It would be the only scenario in which she would allow him to touch her, to talk to her the way he wanted. Edmund knew he wouldn’t be swayed, though at this point his own stubbornness seemed a last straw to cling to, a final vestige whispering promises of fabled hopes from his youth.
He sighed. Edmund did not like his choices at all. But he would do as he’d planned, no matter what it made him feel now. For how else did one manage any sort of order in the world, if they did not follow through on their plans?
The key to her shackle was on a thin leather cord, tucked into his shirt, and he fished it out, pulling the cord over his head. He held the token up between them, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a small, iron embodiment of the finality of his decision.
She didn’t reach for it right away, and he became impatient, wanting to be away from her before the strength of his will wavered. Reaching out, he took up her wrist and turned it so her palm faced upward, and laid the key in it, closing her fingers around it with his own.
Something more passed between them with the gesture, some closing of a door or extinguishing of a lamp. It was how it must be.
“I would wait,” he said, leaving everything unspoken to hover in the air, “until Graves is confined to the brig. I’ll be seeing to that next.”
She brought her gaze from the key in her hand back up to him in a defeated search for meaning. The way her face hung, the widow looked as though she’d been walking for days without rest.
“We’ll be in Boston in just over a week. Sleep where you want, Hannah. It doesn’t have to be in here.”
Edmund was not accustomed to feeling guilt. Or hurt. And he wanted to feel neither in front of this woman who was so wrapped up in the reasons he was being weighed down by both. He turned on his heel and made his way out of the cabin, not looking back because he couldn’t. It would ruin him.
The sooner we arrive in Boston, the sooner my affairs turn right side up again.
The captain of The Devil’s Luck made his way back out onto the open deck and into the familiar hive of activity which took place after a successful looting.
Here now, this was normal. He’d given the widow the key to her chains. Now he only needed to descend on Prometheus and snatch up the key to his own and he’d be free.
Will you, Edmund? Truly? Or will you only unlock a new kind of prison?
He snorted in disgust at the flavour of his constant doubts. Days, mere days, and he would be rid of them, at last.
* * * *
Chapter Eight
The Devil on Sunday
“In the immediate nearness of the gold, all else had been forgotten […], and I could not doubt that he hoped to seize upon the treasure, find and board the Hispanola under cover of night, cut every honest throat about that island, and sail away as he had at first intended, laden with crimes and riches.”
– Robert Louis Stevenson
, Treasure Island
“Proud and insolent youth,” said Hook, “prepare to meet thy doom.”
“Dark and sinister man,” Peter answered, “have at thee.”
– J. M. Barrie, The Adventures of Peter Pan
* * * *
Boston Harbour was busier every time Edmund saw it, and the way it bristled with masts the morning they arrived gave him all the more reason to want this business over with as quickly as possible. It was no place for a ship such as The Devil’s Luck to linger.
The aptly-named Long Wharf jutted way out into the harbour, dividing the port in two. They’d managed to find a place to dock along its south side. The central location was ideal for sending men out in several directions, and it put his ship straight in line with King Avenue, one of the city’s main thoroughfares. There would be no faster way to be about his business and gone from the harbour before trouble came in on the tide.
He’d sent out five men to make inquiries, each headed into a different area of the city, all carrying the message that Black Edmund sought a meeting with Bertrand Symes. The linguist would respond to the request, of course, because he’d also instructed each sailor to inform Symes, or his intermediaries, that his niece, Hannah Collingwood, was in the captain’s care and would remain unharmed on the condition they meet.
When Edmund had first learnt of the widow’s connection to the man his father named Prometheus, his plan had seemed so very simple. Sail to Boston, use the woman as bait for the old man, pluck up said old man, carry him back to Kingston, then deliver Prometheus to his father and secure his inheritance. And, possibly more important, secure some acceptance from the elder Blackburn. Some approval.
However, somewhere between Bristol and Nassau, matters had grown far more complicated, and the ‘bait’ he’d intended to use had snared a much more familiar catch. Two of them, actually. He wondered if Benjamin would forgive him, in time.