The Quality of Mercy

by Faye Kellerman

  “I’ll go with you and Shakespeare, Thomas,” Rebecca said. “Dunstan can keep watch over the horses—arm’s distance from harm’s grip.”

  Dunstan ignored her. “Hold your peace, all of you. I never said I wouldn’t join you in your foolish quest. I merely pointed out a distinct possibility.”

  “Still, I should accompany you,” Rebecca insisted. “I’ll keep the boat safely anchored and manned while you board the galleon. Why should you waste the arms of a needed fighter to tend ship?”

  “What do you know about sailing?” Thomas said.

  “Nothing,” Rebecca said. “Ergo, you have much to teach me and little time to do it. Are we to pass minutes arguing or are we to save our brother?”

  Thomas turned to Shakespeare. “Know you the workings of a cutter?”

  “A bit,” said Shakespeare. “Fore is to the front, aft is to the rear, and the topmast points straight up.”

  “Welladay,” Dunstan muttered.

  Shakespeare said, “Kidnap the captain of the ship you steal. Force him at knifepoint to your destination.”

  “The man talks with greased lips,” said Dunstan. “As if words make action.”

  Shakespeare turned on him. “Stow the insults, Sir Dunstan. I’ve nothing to gain from this, and much to lose. If you want me along, so be it. I’ll do it for Becca’s sake. But keep thy knightly tongue knotted.”

  Before Dunstan could speak, Thomas said, “Calm, I pray everyone. Calm for Miguel’s sake.”

  Dunstan glared at his younger brother but said nothing.

  Thomas pulled out his dagger and flipped it in the air. He caught it by the handle and said, “We accept your help, Shakespeare. We accept it and need it.” He cleared his throat. “There is a fine fishing boat docked not more than four miles from this point. It’s called the Good Bounty—a medium-sized cutter. It could be sailed by three hard-working men, if someone could guide us.”

  “Who’s the captain of the boat?” Shakespeare asked.

  “A white-haired jack named Nathaniel Krabbey,” Thomas said. “An old wight of forty. Obese, fond of eating, dicing, spirits, and women.” He glanced at Rebecca and arched his eyebrows. “What impressed me about the vessel was its compactness—designed to race at high winds, yet sufficiently bottom heavy to withstand choppy waves. And a large hatch, when emptied of fish, that is perfectly suited for hiding stowaways.”

  Dunstan groaned. Thomas continued,

  “No doubt the ship is guarded at night. But probably not by more than a half-dozen men.”

  “The numbers are still poor,” Dunstan said. “A hue and a cry and we are done in.”

  “We have the element of surprise,” Shakespeare said.

  Dunstan cursed the player’s boldness—his damn bravery. Thomas began to clean his nails with the point of his stylus.

  “Does the captain keep watch over the ship at night?” Dunstan asked.

  “No,” Thomas said. “Too busy boozing at the local tavern.”

  Dunstan said, “So even if the three of us could overtake the watchmen and commandeer the ship, the captain still remains on land. How do we get him on the ship to guide us?”

  Thomas’s lips formed a sly smile. “As I said, Krabbey is fond of women….”

  Rebecca smiled back and nodded.

  “No,” said Shakespeare and Dunstan at the same time.

  “Uncle will kill you,” Dunstan said.

  “If Uncle were to find out,” Thomas retorted.

  At the mention of her father, Rebecca became grave. Her cheeks flushed with purpose of mission, her eyes glittering like polished silver. She said, “Get me the clothing of a punk. Then leave the captain to me.” She tossed off her cap, unpinned her hair, and shook out folds of jet-black velvet.

  Thomas said to Dunstan, “Pick up your eyes, brother. They’ve fallen out of their sockets.”

  Dunstan closed his mouth and swallowed. He stammered out, “Where are we to find such clothing?”

  Shakespeare was amazed how devious his mind had become, at how easy it was to sink morally. But now was not the time to ponder ethics. A life hinged on their cleverness. He said, “Get me a crome and a hook. I’ll angle in some duds as they dry on the bushes.”

  Dunstan said, “And how is it that our player has learned how to hook clothing?”

  Shakespeare said, “I’ve known some knavish men in my life.”

  A sly bitch in heat, thought Krabbey. As angelic as the heavens yet as real as earth.

  He looped his hands around his overhang of belly and pushed it upward, hoping that the fat would magically transform itself to chest muscles. When that failed to occur, he dropped his stomach and let it jiggle loose around his middle.

  Yet the bitch still stared at him, licked her lips and smiled.

  Her attention amazed him. He was not a youthful man anymore. His hair had turned white, his skin, once so firm, had become as slack as a beached whale’s. Now it seemed only hags looked at him with lust. But this one was not only young but incredibly beautiful. That face, those eyes, those large mounds of teat spilling out of her bodice. He could almost see her nipples—aye, he could make out a dash of pink.

  He felt a stiffening below and was embarrassed by it. He, a red-blooded English captain of the seas who had fucked more wenches than he could count, should act like a virgin schoolboy.

  Maybe it was her dress. She wore his favorite color—red, bright red like blood, with sleeves of black. A meal for the gods, a feast for him. He could imagine her honey pot—moist, warm and sweet, sweet, sweet.

  She kept smiling at him, God be praised. He didn’t know why and didn’t care. The sting was attacking him furiously and he felt himself about to explode in his breeches. God in heaven, what noble deed had he done in his life to find her.

  A pissant cuss—a mariner half his age—approached the wench. She shook her head and waved him away, but the churl was persistent. He placed a coin upon the tabletop. She pushed it aside and went back to her beer. The drooling jack added another two pence to the pile. She shook her head no.

  Krabbey cleared his throat, approached her table. “Away with you, lad,” he said to the young sailor.

  The girl added, “I’ve found my escort for the evening, dog. Be gone.”

  The sailor picked up his coins. “Piss off, punk,” he said as he left.

  “Piss off yourself,” answered the girl.

  “Go fuck a horse,” the young man muttered.

  She laughed. Gods, her voice was lovely.

  “Whatcha be drinking, girl?” asked Krabbey.

  “What does it look like, man,” she answered.

  Krabbey swallowed hard, holding himself back. “Can I buy ye another tankard of beer?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “A bit of grub, mayhap?”

  “No.”

  “What then?” Krabbey said, trying to refrain himself from ripping her clothes to shreds.

  “How much you got in your bung?” the girl answered.

  Krabbey reached into his purse and pulled up a shilling held between shaking fingers. The girl took it, bit it, and slipped it in between those luscious pillows.

  “You a captain?” she asked.

  Krabbey nodded.

  “You got a boat?”

  Again he nodded, faster than the first time.

  “Let’s do it on the boat. I like the waves. Gives me rhythm.”

  Krabbey bolted upward, knocking over his chair. He squeezed her hand, perhaps a bit too tight. She seemed to wince. He pulled her up, hearing hoots and hollers as he dragged her out the door.

  “Faster, wench,” he said, yanking her along. “Afore I spend in my breeches.”

  As Krabbey led the slattern toward his boat, he congratulated himself. How well he played the gentleman, masking the animal urge by not pushing her behind a bush and fucking her right there.

  Rebecca thought he’d dislodge her arm from its socket. Dear God, he was revolting! But at least the fresh, cold air brought a t
ingle to her cheeks. The tavern had been a muckheap stinking of urine, vomit, and the newest vice—foul-smelling tobacco smoke.

  Gods, her dress was tight—the only thing Shakespeare had been able to filch was clothing much too small. The seams were ripping under the captain’s tugs. Then the uncouth lout had stepped on her foot. As if the ill-fitting shoes weren’t doing enough damage. Her feet were cramped and sore.

  Finally they reached dock, the deck of Good Bounty swaying with the tempo of the tides. He jumped aboard, extended his hand to help her. Strange, Krabbey thought, no member of the watch was on deck.

  And then he felt something hard upon his head. He was confused, looked upward thinking something must have fallen on him, the wind must have blown forth—

  Then nothingness.

  “You pisshead!” Krabbey shouted once the gag was removed. “You rotting piece of turd! I’ll see you in the stocks for this—your ballocks cut off and shoved down your throat! Your head on the bridge! Where are my men? The devil with you whoever the hell are you!”

  The man didn’t answer, only walked away and closed the door to the hatch, leaving Krabbey in darkness. But the captain knew where he was—companion hole, aft side of his cutter. A rope was at his feet, the nets behind him. He knew every single inch of his ship. The hatch reeked from his recent herring catch—a good one that was. The air about him was cold and damp, and his nearly frozen hands and feet seared with pain as he tried to loosen the binds around them. But it was to no avail. Whoever tied him up had done a good job.

  Then the bitch appeared. Krabbey was about to spit in her face until she gently kissed his forehead.

  Krabbey felt a stirring below. It rose from the dead as if powered by a force of its own.

  “I’m placing a towel soaked in cool water upon your head,” she said. “Twill soothe the wound.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Not a stew,” the girl answered.

  Krabbey looked down at his breeches. “But Master Will awaits your attention,” he said.

  Rebecca regarded his erect penis. She smiled and loosened the binds around his wrist.

  “Better?” she asked.

  Krabbey said, “G’wan, girlie. Touch it. It won’t bite.”

  “You perform a noble deed, good captain. God shall reward you for this.”

  “How ’bout you providing a noble reward?”

  “A slice of salted beef?” the bitch asked. “I’ll feed it to you.”

  He didn’t want to eat. He wanted to spit in her face, kill her, fuck her. God’s sointes, what a beautiful wench.

  “Eat,” she ordered him.

  Krabbey bit off a corner of the meat and swallowed it whole. She also brought a gourd of ale to his lips. Krabbey took a gulp and asked,

  “Where are you taking me and my boat, whore? And what the devil happened to my crew?”

  “Drink more, Captain,” the girl insisted.

  Krabbey complied, unable to resist the lilt in the girl’s throat.

  In walked the man who had removed the gag. He said, “I see our captain is being well fed.”

  “Yes,” said the girl. She and the man locked eyes. He nodded imperceptively and she left the hatch.

  “You piece of dog shit! Where is my crew!” screamed Krabbey.

  “Calm, man.”

  Krabbey spit at him.

  “Your breath is foul,” said the man.

  Krabbey spit again.

  This time the man ignored the insult. He said, “Lo be me to tell you most distressing news, but your faithful crew has deserted the ship as if it were sinking. Which, thanks be to God, it is not.”

  Krabbey was puzzled.

  The man said, “I paid them off. Gave them lots of silver and told them to revel with cards and dice while I kept their watch over the ship. The only condition—no questions asked. Twas a proposition they evidently found hard to resist.”

  “Mealy bastards,” Krabbey groaned. He looked at the man, his eyes as blue as the white shark’s and equally as cold. “What the fuck do you want of me?” he asked.

  The blue eyes broke into a smile. “Your expertise, sir.”

  The man explained his purpose. Krabbey knew it had to be a trick. Still, he remained curious.

  “And I will be compensated?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Generously,” answered the man. “If the mission is successful. If not, we’ll all be dead. Then the money will matter not, will it?”

  Krabbey frowned. “And what if you cause damage to my Bounty?”

  “Generously compensated, my good man.”

  Krabbey liked the emphasis on the word generously. He asked, “The girl as part of my compensation?”

  “No.”

  “The whore is your wife?”

  “She’s no whore.”

  “But she is your wife?”

  Shakespeare didn’t answer. The less said the better.

  Krabbey grinned columns of cracked, brown teeth. “Ifin she was mine, I’d care not who she’d fucked. Just as long as I was included in her long list of cocks.”

  Shakespeare remained silent, impassive.

  Krabbey snarled, spat on the floor. “Why didn’t you just ask me to let you my ship?”

  “Would you have let it to me?”

  The captain broke into peals of laughter. “Not a chance, you son of a bitch.”

  Shakespeare shrugged.

  Krabbey asked, “How am I to helm my vessel if you keep me locked up in this pisshole stinking of fish?”

  “It’s your boat, Captain. You breathe its vapors daily.”

  “I can’t man the boat from the hatch,” Krabbey said.

  “I’ll bring you on deck.”

  “And am I to man the ship with my hands behind my back, you prig?” asked Krabbey.

  “Rewards do have their price, sir.” The blue eyes twinkled.

  “Big rewards.”

  “Very big,” Shakespeare assured him. “Know that your instructions will be followed to the letter.”

  Shakespeare told him what he wanted. Krabbey swore him to the Devil, then told him what to do.

  Dunstan yanked on the halyards, hoisting up the starsail. His back felt a pull of tension, a sharp stab of pain with each draw of the rope. Though cold black gusts of wind had seeped into his bones, he sweated profusely and gasped for breath. A shot of foam sprayed his clothes, dusting his clothes and face with salty mist. He coughed. Lungs of a gallant, he thought, ill-suited for common labor.

  A moment later the tautness in his arms was partially relieved by another set of limbs helping him with the riggings. Dunstan turned to Shakespeare and asked,

  “And how is our mighty helmsman of the sea?”

  “What?” asked Shakespeare.

  “The captain,” Dunstan shouted over turbulent waves. “How does he fare?” He drew the lines aft, the rope cutting into his palms.

  “Quiet finally, the foul-mouthed churl,” Shakespeare yelled back. “Though I suppose he has good reason for his spleenish mood. Watch, if you can, how quickly dissipates his bile once the sparkle of gold hits his eye.”

  “Gold has medicinal powers,” Dunstan shouted.

  “I’ve got a bit of good news,” Shakespeare said.

  “What is it?”

  “Inside the hatch lie other things besides fish.”

  “Go on,” Dunstan said.

  “Six pistols and three calivers,” said Shakespeare.

  Dunstan broke into a grin.

  “Your brother was most displeased by the discovery,” said Shakespeare. “He claimed that true men fight with swords not firearms.”

  Dunstan smirked and said, “Tommy is entitled to his weapon of defense. I’m entitled to mine.”

  The boat suddenly lurched portside as white-tipped waves splashed water onto the deck. Shakespeare lunged for the shroud to the masthead and pulled it tightly, keeping the boat upright. The staysail boom swung outward. Dunstan grabbed it, was dragged forward and tripped over his boots. Clumsy was h
is footwork, but at least he prevented the boom from knocking over the player. Shakespeare offered him a hand, hoisted him upward.

  “Many thanks,” Dunstan said. The last wave had thoroughly soaked the soles of his boots. His feet felt like ice. “What’s Krabbey doing with firearms?”

  “Perhaps he’s selling them to the highest bidder,” said Shakespeare.

  “A smuggler?” asked Dunstan.

  “Or a pirate,” Shakespeare said. “The man is less than honest, and fishermen are notorious for hauling in booty that doesn’t swim.”

  “What do you know about pistols?” Dunstan asked.

  “Not much,” Shakespeare said. “You?”

  Dunstan shook his head.

  Shakespeare said, “The hand-held firearms are noted for being unreliable. They’ll just as soon fire backward as forward.”

  “Ah, but if they do what they’re smithed to do…”

  Shakespeare completed the sentence. “If they work, your enemy is dead.” Spray stung his eyes as the boat bounced upon the waves—a small star in a restless black sky. Shakespeare tightened the rigging and stabilized the boom. He said, “The biggest obstacle is how to dry out the gunpowder.”

  “All of it is wet?” Dunstan asked.

  “Every bit.”

  “Mayhap Becca can blow on it. She’s full of hot air.”

  Shakespeare said nothing. Dunstan felt himself go red with shame.

  “Where is Becca?” Dunstan asked softly.

  “What?”

  “Where’s Becca?” he repeated, shouting as loud as he could.

  “Singing Krabbey to sleep,” Shakespeare said. “I placed the blindfold back upon the old fart’s eyes. The moon has risen, highlighting our faces. I didn’t want him seeing yours or your brother’s. The less men he can identify, the better.”

  The wind blasted the bellows of their shirtsleeves, cracking them like whips. Shakespeare tented his eyes with extended fingers upon his brow.

  Dunstan said, “How far are we from the galleon?”

  “Don’t know,” Shakespeare said. “But Krabbey thinks the cutter is making good time.”

  “The winds are strong and skittish.” Dunstan held the lines with one hand, his stomach with the other. “So are the waves.”

  “All the better,” Shakespeare yelled. “Calm air is the archenemy of the mainsail. Krabbey told me to pull the riggings aft. It will keep the jib upright.”