On Stranger Tides

by Powers, Tim

  “That’s easy. Leave Haiti. You can take passage on my ship.”

  “But,” Hicks had protested unhappily, “how could I bring along enough money to live comfortably? And they’d be sure to come after me.”

  Ulysse Segundo had winked. “Not if you were still here. What if a body were found in your bedchamber, in your night-clothes…a body of your height and build and color…with its face destroyed by a load of shot from a blunderbuss…and a suicide note beside it, in your handwriting?”

  “…But…who…”

  “Don’t you have some indentured white men working for you? Would one be missed?”

  “Well…I suppose…”

  “And as for money, I’ll buy you out right now—your house, lands and everything. Foreseeing this eventuality, I have had my solicitor draw up a series of quitclaims, promissory notes and bills of sale, back-dated throughout these last two years, which will seem to indicate that you’ve lost everything, piece by piece, to a group of creditors—it would take an international army of accountants years to discover that each of the creditors, tracked back through all the silent partnerships and anonymous holdings companies, is me.” He smiled brightly. “And that way there will be a motive for your suicide, you see? Financial ruin! For I suppose you do owe various people money, and when they try to collect from your estate, our manufactured story will come out.”

  And so they had done it. Hicks had signed all the papers; then, after Segundo left, he went to the indentured servants’ quarters, woke up a man of the right age and build, and curtly told him to come to the main house. Without explanation he led the man up to his bedchamber and gave him drugged wine, and when the man’s mystified eyes had finally closed in unconsciousness, Hicks stripped him and threw his clothes into the fireplace, then dressed the slack body in his own nightshirt. He loaded a blunderbuss pistol with a good double-handful of rings and coins and gold chains, and packed all the rest of his gold and jewelry into three chests. Segundo returned with several ill-looking but powerful sailors before dawn, and the last thing Sebastian Chandagnac did, before abandoning his ancestral home and adopting the name Joshua Hicks, was to fire the gun into the face of the unconscious servant. The recoil sprained his wrist, and he was appalled by the noise and the instant destruction—the shot devastated one entire side of the room, and blew the servant’s head, in a million pieces, right through the closed window and out into the garden.

  Segundo, though, had been in good spirits, and as they’d ridden away in a four-horse wagon he had claimed to be able to smell the murdered servant’s blood on the night breeze. “That’s what I’m going after now, you know,” he had remarked as he’d cracked the whip over the horses. “I’ve got just about all the wealth I need—what I’ve got to get now is sea water and blood—positively insane quantities of fresh, red blood.” His hearty, almost boyish laughter rang away among the coconut palms and breadfruit trees on either side of the shoreward road.

  Now, sitting on this balcony in Jamaica, Sebastian Chandagnac grinned unhappily into his brandy. Yes, he thought, I should have waited, and checked for myself. Segundo simply wanted an absolutely captive servant—a well-mannered puppet—to guard that girl upstairs; and, in case Segundo is not back here by Christmas, to…how had Segundo put it…“perform the ritual that will make of her an empty vessel ready to be filled.” I hope to God he is back before Christmas—not only because I can’t bear the thought of performing that ritual he made me memorize, but also because of the dinner party I’m giving here Christmas night; after I’ve gone to all the itchy trouble of growing a beard just in case someone might otherwise have recognized me as Sebastian Chandagnac, it would be a shame if I had to attend my own introductory party all covered with blood and chicken feathers and smelling of grave dirt.

  Chandagnac shook his head sadly, remembering the house and plantation he’d left behind in Port-au-Prince…for nothing. He was paid a regular allowance now by one of Segundo’s banks, but no payment for all that he’d signed over to Segundo had ever been discussed; and only a week ago, in the course of a brief conversation with the postman, he learned that Blackbeard had been killed—not captured—in mid-November: fully three months after the midnight conversation in which Segundo had convinced Chandagnac that Blackbeard had been captured and was implicating everyone he could remember.

  He heard the upstairs door close now, and the brass bolt rattle across into the locked position. He hopped to his feet, gulped what was left in his teacup, then grabbed the decanter and ran back into the house, hoping to lock himself into his bedchamber before the dreadful nurse could get downstairs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  UP IN the rigging, straddling the headsail yard and leaning against the mast, Jack Shandy lowered his telescope at last, after having stared for nearly a quarter of an hour at the waves, the wispy clouds overhead, and, most intently, at the solid, dark, sharp-edged cloud swelling on the eastern horizon ahead. He reviewed all the weather lore he’d learned from Hodge and Davies and personal experience, and he had to admit, to himself at least, that Venner was right. It would be wisest to turn around and try to run the sixty-five miles back to Grand Cayman, jibe through the reef at the rum Point Channel and then drag the Jenny ashore and break out the liquor. And damn soon, too, for the storm was moving faster than the Jenny could, and the wind seemed to be falling off.

  But today, he thought desperately, is the twenty-third of December. On the day after tomorrow Hurwood is going to do the magic that will evict Beth’s soul from her body. I’ve got to find Ulysse Segundo, as the old fool apparently likes to call himself now, today or tomorrow, or I might as well never have left the New Providence settlement. And if we run back northwest and tuck in to wait out the storm, we’ll lose at least the rest of today. But can I take these men out into a storm that may very well kill them all?

  Oh, hell, he thought, tossing the telescope to one of the pirates below and beginning to climb down, that’s the captain’s right—my job isn’t to avoid risky situations, but to get us through them. And I can’t believe Woefully Fat will let himself be prevented from getting onto Jamaican soil…even by a hurricane.

  He dropped to the deck and grinned confidently at Skank. “We could scoot under that with half of you dead drunk,” Shandy said. “We’ll continue southeast.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jack,” Skank began hurriedly, but Venner interrupted him.

  “Why?” Venner demanded. He pointed astern with one big, freckled arm. “Grand Cayman is only a few hours back that way! And even if this wind does die, which it’s about to, the goddamn current’ll take us there!”

  Shandy turned, unhurriedly, to Venner. “We wouldn’t get to Grand Cayman. This storm is going to catch us, and we’d better be bow on when it does.” Venner’s broad shoulders were hunching with tensed muscles, but Shandy made himself laugh. “And hell, man, the famous Segundo is somewhere ahead, remember? Those turtlers yesterday said they’d seen his ship only that morning! Not only does he have with him the booty from a dozen plundered ships, he’s almost certainly in the old Carmichael, renamed. That’s our ship—and it’s a full-size, sea-worthy vessel, and we’ll need it, because little pond-scooters like the Jenny here are no good for the long reaches to Madagascar and the Indian Ocean, and that’s what these days require. Look what happened to Thatch when he switched to a sloop.”

  “And this Ulysse fellow has got that woman,” Venner almost spat, “and don’t try to make us believe that ain’t your whole reason for wanting to catch him! Well, maybe she means more to you than your hide does, but she’s nothing to me. And I ain’t risking my hide to get her for you.” He faced the rest of the men. “You lads think about that. Why do we have to catch up with this Ulysse or Hurwood today? What’s wrong with next week?”

  Shandy hadn’t slept much during the last several days. “It’s today because I say it is,” he said, a little wildly. “What do you think of that?”

  Woefully Fat stepped up beside Shandy, his huge s
hadow eclipsing Venner. “We goin’ to Jamaica,” he said.

  For several long seconds, while the cloud ahead grew and Grand Cayman became still more distant, Venner stood motionless, his eyes darting back and forth from Shandy and Woefully Fat to the rest of the crew, obviously wondering if he could provoke a mutiny.

  Shandy, though he hoped he looked confident, was wondering the same thing. He had been an able enough captain during the month after Hurwood took the Carmichael, and he was still looked on with some awe because of the exaggerated part he’d played in the escape from that Navy man-of-war, and it helped to have the support of Davies’ old bocor, even though his impending death seemed to be all the man could talk about these days; but Shandy could only guess, as Venner was obviously doing too, at how much the men’s confidence in him had been eroded by his three months of drunken apathy in the New Providence settlement.

  “Shandy knows what he’s doin’,” grumbled one toothless old wretch.

  Skank nodded with a fair show of conviction. “Sure,” he said. “We couldn’t get back to Grand Cayman before the storm overtook us.”

  Shandy was very grateful, for he knew Skank wasn’t being sincere.

  Venner’s shoulders slumped, and his grin, which was beginning to look less like lines of cheer than wrinkles in a long-unchanged shirt, was hoisted back onto his face. “Well, sure he does,” he said hoarsely. “I just…wanted to make sure we were all in…agreement.” He turned and, shoving a couple of men out of his way, lurched away toward the stern as Shandy ordered the removal of the jib and the reefing of the mainsail.

  When the sloop was moving forward under minimum working canvas and Shandy paused to squint up at the cloud that now shadowed them, Skank tapped him on the shoulder and, with a jerk of his head, drew him aside.

  “What’s up?” Shandy asked, tension putting a tightness in his voice.

  “Venner ain’t near pleased,” Skank said quietly. “Watch him. It’ll be today, and probably from behind.”

  “Ah. Well, thanks. I’ll keep an eye on him.” Shandy started to turn away, but Skank stepped in front of him.

  “Did you know,” the young pirate went on hurriedly, “I don’t think you know—he got Davies killed.”

  Shandy’s impatience was gone. “Tell me,” he said. A few heavy drops of rain fell through the still air to thump on the deck and make long dark streaks on the canvas. rain before wind, Shandy thought, remembering old Hodge’s long-ago warning. “Loosen the sheets a bit,” he called, then turned back to Skank. “Tell me.”

  “Well,” said Skank quickly, peering fearfully at the dark sky as he spoke, “the dead sailor that killed him was going to kill you, a minute before—you was runnin’ toward the girl in the air, and you didn’t see this dead fellow waitin’ for you. So Phil ran up to nail the thing and save you, no trouble—but Venner saw what he was up to, and blocked him—Venner not bein’ glad you was made quartermaster.”

  The rain was falling steadily now, and still there was no wind. “reef the main a little more,” Shandy called uneasily. “No—lower the gaff entirely. We’ll meet her with bare spars—and be ready to heave to.”

  “It threw Davies off his stride,” Skank went on, “when Venner bumped him, and it let you get two steps further; but Davies kept running anyway, and by then the only way he could hit the thing wasn’t good enough to kill it outright. His second chop cut its head off, but by then it had got its cutlass into him.”

  Then the wind hit them, and even under bare spars the Jenny heeled sharply, losing headway and leaning over so far that men had to grab rails or rigging to keep from tumbling up against the port gunwales. The mast was nearly horizontal.

  Close behind the wind came high waves, and Skank scrambled aft to help the helmsman drag the rudder through the strong sea and get the bow pointed more directly into the wind. Slowly, against resistance, the mast came back up.

  As the little craft balanced at the top of one foam-streaked wave and then slid down the far side into the trough, the rudder swinging free in the air for a moment and then the long bowsprit stabbing into the next steep gray slope of water ahead, Shandy held his breath, expecting either the bowsprit to break off or the bow and the whole hull to follow it in, and not come up again—but after eight rapid heartbeats the bow did rise, bowsprit intact, throwing off the weight of solid water like a man flinging away a pack of murderous dogs that had almost got him down.

  Shandy exhaled. Evidently whoever had built the Jenny had known his business. He yelled the order to heave to, and when they had crested the wave the wind was on the starboard bow and enough of the mainsail had been unreefed to keep the Jenny falling back onto the same tack and making no headway. In principle they could ride out the storm this way.

  Shandy climbed and slid back to the stern and the men laboring at the helm. There were no further orders to give now, and the wind would have torn the words out of his mouth anyway and flung them away unheard, so he just leaned against the transom and tried to guess how long the Jenny could continue to take this without breaking up.

  The warm wind was still somehow strengthening, and spray flew past in fast clouds like grapeshot, and stung his face and hands; he licked his lips and the salty taste let him know that it was seaspray and not rain. The waves were as tall and solid-looking as cliffs, and every time the Jenny slid down the weather slope of one and crashed into the next, she was jolted and shaken so violently that the mast swung wildly back and forth overhead. The splash spray instantly blew away behind them, and solid water swirled around Shandy’s thighs and tugged ever more strongly at him.

  He kept squinting against the lash of the wind to make sure they neither faced the wind too directly nor let it come around and hit them broadside, and for several minutes he was amazed at how perfectly the old sloop was riding; then he noticed wisps of steam fluttering away from the joint where the tiller bar was attached to the head of the rudder, and when he peered more closely he saw that the iron pin was glowing a dull red. Woefully Fat was standing braced on the other side of the helm, and Shandy cuffed water out of his eyes and squinted across the deck through narrowed, stinging eyes at the big magician. The bocor’s eyes were closed and he was chewing the knuckles of one hand—and even though the rain and sea were scouring the brown hand, Shandy could see red blood springing from where the teeth were working—and he realized that the Jenny’s progress was not entirely a result of the helmsman’s skill.

  Even so, each succeeding wave was taller, and when the little craft laboriously crested the next one, and Shandy blinked around at the sea, it looked to him as if the boat were attached to a vast shiny cloth that was being dragged over the Alps; and the shrieking of the wind was so furious that he had to keep reminding himself that there was no sentient wrath behind it.

  They slid down the windward side of the wave and plunged into the next one—the old sloop heaved up, pouring solid water off to both sides—and when the Jenny climbed the lee face of it, Shandy could feel her forcibly shift around, and the gaff-saddle, lowered now to head height, glowed orange with the effort of it.

  Then they were at the top, and the full force of the wind hit them again, and with a gunshot crack that was audible even over the wind the glowing gaff-saddle broke. The horizontal spar was now just a fire-headed spear laced to a big, fluttering flag—it slammed the deck under the mainsail boom, bounced up on the other side, spun all the way around like a crazy compass needle as the luff side of the sail tore, then flew aft. The boat shook as the spar thudded into the transom.

  Shandy had ducked in the second when the thing was so violently tearing around, and now he looked up, fearing that it might have killed the helmsman, or, worse, wrecked the tiller; but the helmsman was still braced against the tiller bar—only after sagging with relief did Shandy notice that the iron-headed spar had struck Woefully Fat squarely in the center of his massive torso, and had nailed him upright to the transom.

  “Christ,” Shandy cried through spray-numbed lips. C
ould they survive without the bocor?

  Shandy was anything but confident, but he pushed away from the rail and grabbed the mainsail boom and pulled himself forward along it, past the tied-down leech-end of the mainsail to the mastward end where the luff side flapped loose. Someone was with him now, on the other side of the swinging boom—it was Skank, his face emaciated with effort, and he had a knife and a length of rope. Together, as the boat skewed down into the trough, the two of them managed to stab several holes through the top edge of what remained of the sail; they held on while the Jenny crashed into the streaked face of another wave, and then when the water had swept on past them Shandy strung the rope through the holes. Then as the sloop leaned back, rising to meet the next crest, Shandy threw the end of the rope high toward the port bow—the headwind flung it back around the mast to Skank, who caught it and fell to the port gunwale and managed to flip two loops of it around a belaying pin before the wind hammered them again.

  The couple of square yards of raised canvas caught the wind enough to kick the stern back, but Shandy knew it couldn’t hold for very long. Several more men had crawled up the deck to help, though, and Shandy fell back to the rail and let them take his place—his stomach felt knotted up, either with tension or something rancid at lunch, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to do any hard work for a while.

  All at once he became aware of a weight on his jacket pulling the back of his collar tighter against his neck, and he glanced down—and then recoiled away from the rail, for clamped tight onto his jacket-front, from God knew where, were what seemed to be two knobby-headed gray eels; it was only when he grabbed one to yank it off that he realized they were two unfresh human arms, severed at the elbows, with the fingers tightly gripping the fabric of his jacket.

  One part of his mind was just moaning with the horror of the thing, but after the first frozen moment of shock it occurred to him that this was the same jacket he’d been wearing on the day Hurwood took the Carmichael away from Leo Friend—and on that day one of Friend’s crew of dead men had hung on to the jacket after being rolled over the rail, and had fallen into the sea only because its arms had parted at the elbows. The clinging arms had seemed to disappear shortly after that, but apparently they’d been ghostily attached to the jacket ever since, like ceiling cobwebs that can be seen only in a certain light.