by Powers, Tim
“Was greatly appreciated, Miss,” said Davies, grinning at her. “In keeping with the compact he and Thatch—or Blackbeard, if you like—agreed on last year, your daddy’s delivered to me this fine ship.”
“What are you—” began Beth, but she was interrupted by a shrill oath from Chaworth, who sprang on the nearest pirate, wrenched the saber from the surprised man’s hand, and then shoved him away and rushed at Davies, cocking his arm back for a cleaving stroke.
“No!” yelled Chandagnac, started forward, “Chaworth, don’t—”
Davies calmly hiked a pistol out of his garish paisley sash, cocked it and fired it into Chaworth’s chest; the impact of the fifty-caliber ball stopped the captain’s charge and punched him over backward with such force that he was nearly standing on his head for a moment before thumping and rattling down in the absolute limpness of death.
Chandagnac was dizzy, and couldn’t take a deep breath. Time seemed to have slowed—no, it was just that each event was suddenly distinct, no longer part of a blended progression. Beth screamed. The burst of smoke from the pistol muzzle churned forward another yard. The sea gull squawked in renewed alarm and flapped upward. The dropped saber spun across the deck and the brass knuckle-guard of it whacked against Chandagnac’s ankle. He bent down and picked up the weapon.
Then, without having consciously decided to, he was himself rushing at the pirate chief, and though his legs were pounding and his arm was keeping the heavy blade extended in front of him, in his mind he was deftly rocking the stick and crosspiece and making the Mercutio marionette which dangled from them spring toward the Tybalt marionette in the move his father had always called coupé-and-flèche.
Davies, startled and amused, tossed the spent pistol to a companion and, stepping back, drew his rapier and relaxed into the en garde crouch.
Taking the final stride, Chandagnac almost thought he could feel the upward yank of the marionette string as he quickly twitched his point over the other man’s sword and extended it again in Davies’ inside line; and he was so used to the Tybalt puppet’s answering lateral parry that he was almost too quick in letting his saber drop under this real, unrehearsed one—but Davies had believed the feint and made the parry, and in the last instant the disengaged saber was pointed at the pirate chief’s unguarded flank, and Chandagnac let the momentum of his rush drive it in, and yank the hilt out of his inexpert grip, as he ran past.
The saber clattered to the deck, and then for one long moment all motion did stop. Davies, still standing but twisted around by the thrust, was staring at Chandagnac in astonishment, and Chandagnac, empty-handed and tense with the expectation of a pistol ball at any moment and from any direction, held his breath and stared helplessly into the wounded pirate’s eyes.
Finally Davies carefully sheathed his sword and, just as carefully, folded to his knees, and the silence was so absolute that Chandagnac actually heard the patter of blood drops hitting the deck.
“Kill him,” said Davies distinctly.
Chandagnac had half turned toward the rail, intending to vault it and try to swim to Hispaniola, when a sarcastic voice said, “For excelling you in swordsmanship, Phil? Faith, that’s one way to maintain your supremacy.”
This statement was followed by a good deal of muttering among the pirates, and Chandagnac paused hopefully. He glanced back toward Davies and prayed that the man might bleed to death before repeating the order.
But Davies was looking at the pirate who’d spoken, and after a few seconds he smiled wolfishly and pointed at his own gashed side. “Ah, Venner, you think this will do? This cut?” Davies leaned forward, placed his hands flat on the deck, and strugglingly got one booted foot, and then the other, under him. He looked up at Venner again, still grinning, and then slowly stood up from the crouch. His grin never faltered, though he went pale under his tan and his face was slicked with sweat. “You’re… new, Venner,” Davies said hoarsely. “You should ask Abbott or Gardner how dire a wound must be to slow me down.” He inhaled deeply, then swayed and stared down at the deck. His breeches shone darkly with blood down to the calf, where they were tucked into his boot. After a moment he looked up. “Or,” he went on, stepping back unsteadily and drawing his rapier again, “would you like to…discover for yourself how much this has disabled me?”
Venner was short and stocky, with a ruddy, pockmarked face. Half-smiling, he stared at his captain with the speculative look one gives a card-game opponent whose drunkenness may be a sham, or at least exaggerated. Finally he spread his hands. “Damn me, Phil,” he said easily, “you know I didn’t mean nothing challenging.”
Davies nodded and allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment. “Of course not.” He thrust his sword away and turned to Chandagnac. “Venner’s right, though,” he grated, “and I’m glad…that nobody killed you…if only so I can learn that feint.” He permitted himself to lean against the aftercabin bulkhead. “But God’s blood, man,” he burst out loudly, “how in hell is it that you know such a thefty move when you run like a duck and hold a sword the way a cook holds a pot handle?”
Chandagnac tried and failed to think of a good lie, and then hesitantly told the man the truth. “My father ran a marionette show,” he faltered, “and I’m…for most of my life I was a puppeteer. We…performed all over Europe, and when the scripts called for sword fights—we did a lot of Shakespeare—he consulted fencing masters to make it absolutely realistic. So,” he shrugged, “I’ve memorized any number of fencing moves, and performed each of them hundreds of times…but only with puppets.”
Davies, holding his side, stared at him. “Puppets, he said. “Well, I—goddamn. Puppets.” Slowly he let himself slide down the bulkhead until he was sitting on the deck. “Where the devil’s Hanson?”
“Here, Phil.” One of the pirates hurried over to him, opening a small clasp knife. “You’re gonna have to be lying down,” he said.
Davies obediently lay back, but propped himself up on his elbows to look at Chandagnac while Hanson, who evidently served as the pirates’ surgeon, began cutting away the blood-soaked shirttail. “Well!” Davies said. “Venner has suggested that I was too…harsh, in ordering you killed, and we—ow, damn your soul, Hanson, be careful!” He closed his eyes for a moment, then took a deep breath and resumed. “And we do business on the understanding that all orders are open to discussion, except when we’re in serious action. Nevertheless you did stab me, so I can’t just…let you leave in the boat.” He looked around at his companions. “I propose giving him the choice.”
There were satisfied nods and shouts of agreement.
Davies looked up at Chandagnac. “Join us, wholly adopt our goals as your own, or be killed right now where you stand.”
Chandagnac turned to Beth Hurwood, but she was whispering to her father, who didn’t even seem to be aware of her. Looking past the two of them he saw the broad figure of Leo Friend, who was scowling—possibly disappointed that Chandagnac was still alive. Chandagnac had never felt more friendless and unprotected. Suddenly and terribly, he missed his father.
He turned back to Davies. “I’ll join you.”
Davies nodded thoughtfully. “That is the standard decision,” he said. “I wasn’t entirely sure it’d be yours.”
Hanson stood up and stared dubiously at the bandage he’d belted to his chief. “That’s all I can do for you, Phil,” he said. “Get milord Hurwood to make sure it stops bleeding and don’t mortify.”
Chandagnac glanced at Hanson in surprise. Surely, he thought, you mean Leo Friend. Philosophy doesn’t knit up wounds.
Hearing his name, Hurwood came out of his reverie and blinked around. “Where’s Thatch?” he asked, too loudly. “He was supposed to be here.”
“He’s runnin’ late this year,” Davies said, not even bothering to try to twist his head around and face Hurwood. “Right now he’s up in Charles Town getting the supplies you wanted. We’ll meet him in Florida. Now come here and do something to make sure I don’t die of th
is perforation.”
Beth started to say something, but Hurwood waved her to silence. “He let you have the pointer?” he said, obviously not pleased.
Davies grimaced. “The mummied dog head? Aye. And it sure enough did start hissing and spinning around in its bucket of rum yesterday, and then at noon or so settled, staring hard south-east, and shifting only when we’d shift course, so we headed where it was looking.” He shrugged as well as he could. “It led us to you, right enough, but it’s sure a nasty-looking bit of trash. Had a time keeping the rats from chewing it up.”
“Damn that lunatic Thatch,” Hurwood exploded, “for letting common brigands carry sophisticated apparatus! If rats have touched that pointer, then they’ll devour you entire, Davies, I promise you. You careless fool, how often do you think two-headed dogs are born? Send a man back to your vessel for it immediately.”
Davies smiled and lay back on the deck. “Wellll,” he said, “no. You can have the other half of your filthy pair back as soon as I’ve stepped ashore at New Providence Island, as healthy as I was an hour ago. If I don’t recover totally between now and then, my lads will burn the goddamn thing. Am I right?”
“You said it, Phil!” shouted one of the pirates, and the others were all nodding happily.
Hurwood glared around, but crossed to where Davies was lying and knelt beside him. He looked at the bandage and lifted it and peered underneath. “Hell, you might very well recover even without my help,” he said, “but just for the sake of my pointer set I’ll make it certain.” He began digging in the deep pockets of his knee-length coat.
Chandagnac looked to his left and behind him. Chaworth’s body, clearly dead, shifted loosely back and forth in the sun as the ship rolled, and one outflung hand rocked back and forth, palm up and then palm down, in an oddly philosophical gesture. It comes and goes, the movement seemed to indicate; good and bad, life and death, joy and horror, and nothing should come as a surprise.
Chandagnac found it embarrassingly inappropriate, as if the dead man had been left with his pants down, and he wished somebody would move the hand to a more fitting position. He looked away.
Never having seen a wound worked on by a physician, which it seemed Hurwood was, Chandagnac stepped forward to watch; and for one bewildering moment he thought Hurwood was going to begin by tidying up Davies’ appearance, for what he pulled out of his pocket looked like a small whisk broom.
“This ox-tail,” said Hurwood in what must have been his auditorium-addressing voice, “has been treated to become a focus of the attention of the being you call Mate Care-For. If he was a grander thing he could pay attention to all of us at once, but as it is he can only thoroughly look after a couple of people at a time. In this recent scuffle he preserved myself and Mr. Friend, and since the danger to us is passed, I’ll let you occupy his attention.” He tucked the bristly object down the front of Davies’ lime green shirt. “Let’s see…” Again he went fumbling through his pockets, “and here,” he said, producing a little cloth bag of something, “is a drogue that makes the bowels behave properly. Again, you are in more danger in that regard than I am, at the moment—though I’ll want it back.” He took Davies’ hat off and set it on the deck, laid the little bag on top of the pirate’s head and then replaced the hat. “That’s that,” he said, standing up. “Let’s waste no more time. Get the ones who are leaving into the boat, and then let’s go.”
The Carmichael’s new owners swung the ship’s boat out on the davit cranes and lowered it with a careless splash to the water on the starboard side, and they flung a net of shrouds and ratlines after it for the people to climb down on. At the next swell the boat was slammed up against the hull of the ship and took on a lot of water, but Davies tiredly called out some orders and the ship shifted ponderously around until the wind was on the starboard quarter and the rolling abated.
Davies got to his feet, wincing irritably. “All off that’s getting off,” he growled.
Wistfully Chandagnac watched the Carmichael’s original crew shambling toward the starboard rail, several of them supporting wounded companions. Beth Hurwood, a black hood pulled over her coppery ringlets, started forward, then turned and called, “Father! Join me in the boat.”
Hurwood looked up, and produced a laugh like the last clatter of unoiled machinery. “Wouldn’t they be glad of my company! Half of these slain owe their present state to my pistol collection and my hand. No, my dear, I stay aboard this ship—and so do you.” His statement had rocked her, but she turned and started toward the rail.
“Stop her,” snapped Hurwood impatiently.
Davies nodded, and several grinning pirates stepped in front of her.
Hurwood permitted himself another laugh, but it turned into a retching cough. “Let’s go,” he croaked. Chandagnac happened to glance at Leo Friend, and he was almost glad that he’d been forced to stay aboard, for the physician was blinking rapidly, and his prominent lips were wet, and his eyes were on Beth Hurwood.
“Right,” said Davies. “Here, you clods, get these corpses over the side—mind you don’t pitch ’em into the boat—and then let’s be off.” He looked upward. “How is it, rich?”
“Can’t jibe,” came a shout from aloft, “with the spanker carried away. But this wind and sea are good enough to tack her in, I think, if we get all the lads up on the footropes.”
“Good. Elliot, you take a couple of men and pilot the sloop back home.”
“Right, Phil.”
Beth Hurwood turned her gaze from her father to Leo Friend, who smiled and stepped forward—Chandagnac noticed for the first time that the fat physician’s finery included a ludicrous pair of red-heeled shoes with “windmill wing” ties—and proffered an arm like an ornate, overstuffed bolster, but Beth crossed to Chandagnac and stood beside him, not speaking. Her lips were pressed together as firmly as before, but Chandagnac glimpsed the shine of tears in her eyes a moment before she impatiently blotted them on her cuff.
“Shall I take you below?” Chandagnac asked quietly.
She shook her head. “I couldn’t bear it.”
Davies glanced at the two of them. “You’ve got no duties yet,” he told Chandagnac. “Take her up forward somewhere out of the way. You might get her some rum while you’re at it.”
“I hardly think—” Chandagnac began stiffly, but Elizabeth interrupted.
“For God’s sake, yes,” she said.
Davies grinned at Chandagnac and waved them forward.
A FEW minutes later they were on the forecastle deck by the starboard anchor, shielded from the wind by the taut mainsail behind them. Chandagnac had gone to the galley and filled two ceramic cups with rum, and he handed one to her.
Line began buzzing through the blocks again and the spars creaked as the sails, trimmed and full once more, were turned to best catch the steady east wind; the ship came around in a slow arc to the north, and then to the northeast, and Chandagnac watched the crowded lifeboat recede and finally disappear behind the high stern. The sloop, still on the port side, was pacing the Vociferous Carmichael. From where he now leaned against the rail sipping warm rum, Chandagnac could see the mast and sails of the smaller vessel, and as their speed picked up and the sloop edged away from the ship to give it room he was able to see its long, low hull too. He shook his head slightly, still incredulous.
“Well, we could both be worse off,” he remarked quietly to Beth, trying to convince himself as much as her. “I’m apparently forgiven for my attack on their chief, and you’re protected from these creatures by…your father’s position among them.” Below him to his left, one of the pirates was walking up and down the waist, whistling and sprinkling sand from a bucket onto the many splashes and puddles of blood on the deck. Chandagnac looked away and went on. “And when we do manage to get out of this situation, all the sailors in the boat can testify that you and I stayed unwillingly.” He was proud of the steadiness of his voice, and he gulped some more rum to still the post-crisis trembling he cou
ld feel beginning in his hands and legs.
“My God,” Beth said dazedly, “all I can hope for is that he dies out here. He can’t ever go back. They wouldn’t even put him in a mad-house—they’d hang him.”
Chandagnac nodded, reflecting that even hanging was less than what her father deserved.
“I should have seen his madness coming on,” she said. “I did know he’d become…eccentric, taking up researches that… seemed a little crazy…but I never dreamt he’d go wild, like a rabid dog, and start killing people.”
Chandagnac thought of a sailor he’d seen killed at the swivel gun, and the one Hurwood had shot in the face a moment later. “It wasn’t done in any kind of…frenzy, Miss Hurwood,” he said shortly. “It was cold—methodical—like a cook squashing ants on a kitchen counter, one by one, and then wiping his hands and turning to the next job. And the fat boy was at the other end of the ship, matching him shot for shot.”
“Friend, yes,” she said. “There’s always been something hateful about him. No doubt he led my poor father into this scheme, whatever it is. But my father is insane. Listen, just before we left England last month, he stayed out all night, and came back all muddy and hatless in the morning, clutching a smelly little wooden box. He wouldn’t say what it was—when I asked him, he just stared at me as if he’d never seen me before—but he hasn’t been without it since. It’s in his cabin now, and I swear he whispers to it late at night. And my God, you read his book! He used to be brilliant! What explanation besides lunacy could explain the author of The Vindication of Free Will babbling all that nonsense about ox-tails and two-headed dogs?”
Chandagnac heard the note of strain and doubt under her carefully controlled diction. “I can’t argue with that,” he conceded gently.
She finished her rum. “Maybe I will go below. Oh, uh, John, could you help me get food?”