by C. B. Ash
Krumer noticed the captain’s wary glances. “What is it, Captain?”
“Nothing I can put my finger on. Nerves, most likely,” Anthony replied. “Just not quite comfortable with our little role yet. I’ll be fine.”
Just then, a sailor lounging on a nearby barrel got to his feet. He was a thin, rat-faced man, in worn leather boots, ragged trousers, threadbare peacoat, and stained white shirt in dire need of mending. At his waist a pistol and a long knife were thrust into his belt.
The sailor motioned to four others that were dressed similarly, one of which was a burly orc, an elaborate tattoo of knotwork covering what could be seen of his neck past a drover oilskin coat and stained cotton shirt.
With a nasty, grunting chuckle, the orc reflexively checked for the knife in his belt. One of his friends rested a hand on the butt of a pistol jammed into a waistband. All four had been loitering near their ringleader, as if they had been waiting for an appointment. Slowly, they sauntered out into the path of the Brass Griffin’s crew.
“Cap’n,” Moira said in a warning tone.
“I see them,” Hunter replied calmly. “No sudden moves, not till we know what they want.” The captain, Moira, and Krumer came to a stop a few short paces away from the sailors. Moira stood tense, like a tightly wound spring, slowly flexing her hands. Krumer slowly wiped his palms on his cotton shirt and wool coat, then hooked this thumbs into his gun belt, giving the knot of men ahead of them a cagey stare.
“Top o’ the day, Guv’,” the sailor said with a gap-toothed grin. “If ye and yours don’t mind me sayin’, would that be the Brass Griffin ye just left?”
Captain Hunter nodded, “It would indeed. Why do you ask?”
The sailor glanced around at his companions, scratching the gray-brown stubble on his chin. “Oh, see, me mates and I be out lookin’ for such a ship.”
“Ah, well, we’re not looking to take on new crew,” Hunter replied pleasantly.
The sailor laughed with an ugly snort, “‘New crew’ he says. No, Guv’, nothing like that. See, way we heard it, British navy’s lookin’ for the Brass Griffin. Somethin’ about piracy. I tell this lot here, that might mean a bounty. Especially for bringin’ in the captain himself. Are ye the captain? What with ye fine coat, an boots and all?”
Moira’s hands subtly drifted over and rested on the butt end of her pistols. Hunter noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye, “Well, I would be the captain. I’m Captain Anthony Hunter, and these are two of my crew. Though, I must ask you to leave us to be on our way. We’ve no wish for trouble with you.”
The sailor wiped his nose, “well, good meetin’ ya then, Cap’n. An … ye see, we can’t just do that.” He waved his right hand behind him at his companions. “To me mates here, that message ‘twas clear enough. Ye’re wanted by the navy. That means a nice pinch o’ money. Money we’d all like a share of. Ye crew? They be bonus change. Now we can do this the easy way,” the grimy man’s look turned ugly, a dark smile crossing his face while he licked his lips, “or the hard way.”
Hunter lowered a hand to his waist, where his own well-oiled pistol rested in its holster. “I won’t warn you again. Let us be on our way. You will want none of our troubles.”
The sailor shrugged in mock agreement, giving a wink to his companions, “oh well, since ye put it all nice and luverly like that, Cap’n, I guess we’ll go with ‘easy’.” Immediately, his hand flashed to his pistol in a blur. However, the moment the sailor drew and leveled his gun, his eyes widened in surprise at seeing Moira’s pistols already drawn, aimed and stabbing flame.
Gunfire roared and smoke belched across the short distance. The sailor fired once, then twice. The first whipped past Anthony, tugging sharply at a sleeve. Another exploded wood at Moira’s feet, ripping a furrow into the planks. Moira’s shots, however, were true, slamming into the man’s gun arm, shattering bone and ripping the gun from his fingers.
Hunter, who had drawn his own pistol, fired at one of the other sailors, but missed in his haste. Krumer likewise ripped his gun free of its holster and fired, only with better aim. One of the sailors spun around, then dropped to the deck like a marionette whose strings had been cut. The first mate turned to fire at another of the attackers, but his second shot went wide.
In a mad rush, the remaining three sailors charged in close, knives at the ready. Hunter dodged left, then right, avoiding the slashing blades, only to take a strong punch to the jaw. Eyes watering, he staggered away from a knife that flashed dangerously nearby. With the captain temporarily blinded by pain, the orc lunged forward with a sneer, eager to plunge his blade into Hunter’s chest.
However, before the sailor’s knife cut cloth or skin, Hunter slammed the barrel of his pistol across the burly orc’s jaw. Bone cracked with a sickening crunch, and the sailor howled in pain, falling to his knees. Spitting out a tooth, he shot an ugly glare at Hunter.
Suddenly, a roar of noise exploded behind the group, followed by the acrid stench of burnt gunpowder. Immediately, the combatants separated, bloodied and stunned, and the fight abruptly stopped.
“Genug!” A deep German voice cut through the cold air like a lion’s roar. “That is quite enough!”
The newcomer was built like a mountain, several inches over six feet with broad shoulders, a barrel chest and a wide, reddish-blonde beard shot through with streaks of gray. Unlike the gang of sailors, he was dressed in a clean linen shirt, black trousers and weathered, well-made. A long blue coat hung from his stout figure, and beneath that hung a brace of pistols on a sturdy leather belt. The explosion had been from the still-smoking hammerless shotgun he was now handing to a thin, wiry man by his side.
“Ain’t your affair, Wilhelm!” The original sailor snarled from where he knelt, his wounded arm dripping blood to the weathered deck.
“That’s ‘Captain Wilhelm’ to you, rat!” The thin man next to Wilhelm snapped back at the injured sailor.
Wilhelm laughed, a deep belly laugh full of dangerous promise that echoed in the air, “Oh, is that so, Herr Packer? I think not! It was you and your rats that sent three of my crew to a doctor. This will not happen again! Go! Or I will not aim so high next time I shoot!”
Picking up their wounded members, the gang staggered off. Packer, the outspoken sailor of the gang, shook his fist at the big man and then at the crew of the Griffin. “Mark me! I’ll be seein’ each of ye! Every one!”
Krumer watched the gang retreat warily, keeping his pistol ready. “I’ll be sure to set out the tea.”
Captain Hunter turned to greet the newcomers, keeping his pistol lowered but drawn and ready. “You’ve my gratitude, sirrah. I’m …”
Wilhelm held up a hand to interrupt with a broad grin spreading over his bearded face. “Nein, nein. I know just who you are, Kapitän Hunter.”
Hunter sighed, “ah, the message from the Intrepid.”
Wilhelm laughed again. This time, the thin man in the white cotton shirt and knee-length trousers next to him laughed as well.
Moira, who had been watching the gang retreat like a hawk watches a rabbit, finally dropped her guns into their holsters as the cutthroats vanished around a corner. Racing over, she gave the big man a warm, bear-like hug and a wide grin.
Krumer shot Hunter a confused glance. Confused as well, Hunter started to speak, but found he was at a loss for words.
“Ja, kapitän. Like most here at Port Signal, I have heard the message about you and your ship,” Wilhelm explained, then raised a finger with a wink. “Ah, but, that is not what I mean. Moira’s letters were clear in describing you … and you Herr Whitehorse. You see, I am Kapitän Klaus Wilhelm. Some call me a smuggler, others call me pirate, Moira? She calls me ‘uncle’.” Captain Wilhelm said with another wide grin. “As for you, kapitän, I hope you can call me ‘friend’. You see, from as I understand it, you and your crew need such a thing quite badly.”
Chapter 7
Clouds, rich with the promise of snow, were spread out overhea
d like ghostly fingers wrapping around the sky. On the station’s dock, the gun fight only proved to be a momentary distraction. Passersby who had reasonably taken cover to watch the fight between the three shipmates from the Brass Griffin and the dockside gang slowly returned to work as the excitement died off.
Fifteen yards away aboard the Brass Griffin, Thorias tugged at the canvas medical bag slung over his shoulder, then adjusted his gray woolen frock coat in a futile attempt to stave off the cold. He rushed out the door of his tiny doctor’s office and over to the ladder that spilled out to the deck above. Tonks Wilkerson, dressed in a ragged brown long coat over his vest, white shirt and trousers, was already there, waiting for him.
“I heard gunshots,” The doctor said with a determined look.
“That ya did,” Tonks said casually. “Nothing to worry with. Just the Cap’n and the rest gettin’ acquainted with the locals.”
Dr. Llwellyn glanced up the ladder, then back to Tonks, who kept his arm resting on the ladder, barring the doctor’s way. Tonks shook his head.
“Don’t even consider it,” The pilot said, “besides, I already checked. They were tossed about, but only the dock rats that came after them are leavin’ battered and bloody. If you go rushing out there to bandage someone, most likely someone will see ya, and it’ll be harder to lose anyone who tries to follow us.”
The doctor let out an exasperated sigh, “I know. It’s instinct at this point. Hippocratic Oath and all that. I’ll try to keep it in check.”
Tonks nodded, “good ta hear. Save it up for when we find them missin’ people. Odds are, they’ll need the attention the most. Lets get up there and take a look about.”
At the top of the ladder on the main deck of the ship, a sharp, cold wind picked up, racing along the deck to jerk at everyone in its path. Rigging shivered, and even the ship’s gas bag looked a little deflated from the icy temperature.
Thorias blew on his hands to keep them warm. “Confound it, I forgot my gloves. It wasn’t quite this cold at the last station we stopped at.”
“I didn’t notice. The sight of all them zombies runnin’ about kept me blood up enough to keep any chill away,” Tonks quipped dryly. The pilot walked from the hatch to the railing, and looked around at the activity along the dock and the boardwalk beyond. Dr. Llwellyn followed a moment later.
“Anything?” Thorias asked, while trying to appear casual while leaning against the railing, rubbing his cold hands together.
Tonks frowned while he casually seemed to take in the scenery, “not so much a twitch.” Suddenly, the corners of the pilot’s mouth turned up in a sly smile. “Ah, then again. Oh, he’s a clever bugger, that one.”
“What?” The doctor asked, starting to turn around to look.
Tonks subtly tapped the doctor on the elbow to stop him. “No, don’t look. Last we want is for him to realize we’ve found his hiding place.”
“How do we know he’s watching us?” Thorias asked. “He could just be watching the ship, or any of the ships along here.”
Tonks stuffed his gloved hands into his coat pockets. “Just a feelin’. He’s got himself tucked back between some crates and the shadow of a warehouse. He’s a thin bloke, almost gangly. Nothing too remarkable, looks like he’s just standing about, waiting for his mates or just passin’ the day by. The way I figure it, he’d be warmer over in that patch of sunlight and out of that cold shadow, not to mention I caught him glancing our way.”
The doctor nodded ever so slightly, then resumed lounging against the railing. “Surely he sees us, how will we get off the ship?”
“Its for sure he’s seen us by now,” the pilot admitted, his thoughts turning rapidly like a well-oiled clockwork drill. Tonks’ eyes scanned over the boardwalk where small, scattered groups of pedestrians walked briskly on their way in the chilly air.
Suddenly, the crash and clank of metal caught his attention. To his left, on the dock where they were moored, a team of five men were unloading a stack of lumber and crates from a neighboring cargo ship. Amid the men lumbered a C.A.S.S., or Clockwork Augmentations Suit, a dangerous device resembling the nightmarish brass and steel skeleton of giant.
Sitting inside the ribcage of the vehicle, bundled up in a warm coat, a dock worker was strapped by his arms and legs to the corresponding limbs of the device. Casually, the worker flexed his own arms and in turn the device responded, pulling the crate to him. Then with expert control he flexed his legs, causing the ungainly vehicle to turn neatly around without toppling over. Once he faced the boardwalk, he began his noisy trek to deliver the crate where others like it had already been placed.
As the clockwork-powered skeleton lumbered away, a steam-powered loading crane trundled up in its place on spidery metal legs and squatted down. Officially sold under the name ‘Multi-Articulated Ambulatory Crane’ – or MAAC for short – it was a common fixture where cargo ship’s moored. Once the MAAC had settled into place, a gaunt dock worker with a handlebar mustache reached down to manipulate a pair of levers on the back of the device.
No sooner had he done so, a metal hatch popped open allowing a long metal arm that ended in a metal, vulture-like claw to rise up and extend. Using this, the man was able to pick up a bound stack of lumber from the cargo ship and deposit it onto the pier.
Tonks turned and grinned at the doctor.
Thorias raised an eyebrow, “you’ve an idea?”
“Close enough to one. We’ll just blend in,” the pilot replied, pushing away from the railing, “follow me.”
“‘Blend in’?” Thorias echoed, staring at Tonk’s retreating form in amazement. “We’re on an ice cold dock, three miles above the North Sea. Blend in with what? Icelandic gulls?”
When the pilot’s only answer was another grin, obviously meant to be reassuring, the doctor rolled his eyes and quickly fell in step.
The pair made their way down the gangplank, then onto the dock proper. Thorias stopped once he reached the bottom, but Tonks kept walking. He kept his brisk pace until he reached the knot of workers.
The five men only briefly glanced at Tonks, preferring to remain engrossed in their work of unloading the lumber. Without a word, Tonks hefted one end of a stack of boards, and a charybdian man, bundled up in a heavy woolen coat, grabbed the other.
Dr. Llwellyn quickly joined the group as Tonks and the dock worker shifted the boards to their shoulders for ease of carrying.
“Grab some boards Thorias, lets give these lads a hand,” Tonks said cheerfully. “Better to get ’em out of the cold.”
Thorias glanced at the growing stack of wood, then back to Tonks as the full implication of the idea around ‘blend in’ dawned upon him.
“Certainly. It’s not fit for man or beast out here,” the doctor admitted, squatting down to grab the end of another stack of wood.
One of the dock hands, a burly man topped with a bright orange-yellow woolen cap and wrapped in a woolen great coat grinned broadly, “Aw, its quite all right ‘guv. Ya get used to it. We appreciate the help, though. Me name’s Henry.”
The doctor smiled, “well, it’s pleasant to meet you, Henry. I’m Thorias.”
“Ready?” Henry asked.
Thorias nodded, and the two men lifted the ten-foot long boards, carrying them in tandem to the end of the dock. As Henry and Thorias dropped the lumber onto the growing stack of wood, Tonks, who was standing nearby, glanced over his shoulder towards the shadowy corner where he had first spotted their observer.
Unfortunately, a stack of crates blocked the pilot’s view of the man that had been watching them. Henry walked past Tonks to the end of the dock, just out of earshot, leaving the two alone for a moment.
“One trip, maybe two, ought to take care of it,” Tonks admitted to the doctor, “then he’ll be bored enough to stop watching.”
“Just what are ya two blokes playin’ at?” Henry asked suspiciously, catching them both unawares when he walked over to them. “Like I told ya, we appreciate the help, but it be a
s plain as the sun above that yer both dealin’ in a bit of mischief.” Henry folded his arms over his chest. “So, out with it, or I get the dockmaster.”
Chapter 8
When Tonks hesitated to answer, Thorias jumped in with a quick explanation. “We’re looking for a young lady we know, Henry. She is my … ward … and you see, she’s quite lost. Possibly run afoul of some rather unpleasant chaps. After all, she’s no more than ten, for heaven’s sake!”
Henry’s face darkened considerably. “Ten, ya say? This is no place for a girl her age. If she’s here, then it’s one of them bloody damn smugglers again that brought her up here.”
He jerked a calloused thumb at his chest. “Got four girls of me own down landside. I’m only up here working the season for some extra money so’s I can send the oldest to a proper school. You just say the word, and ol’ Henry here will round the lads, and we’ll set a few things right! Wouldn’t be the first time. Bet it won’t be the last!”
The doctor extended his hand with a smile. “We may take you up on that. In the meantime, we believe one of those smugglers is watching us.” With a glance and a brief nod, Thorias indicated past Henry’s right shoulder. The direction towards the dark corner where the suspicious thin, gangly man stood intently watching the Griffin. “We think that’s him in the shadows past the crates ten yards behind you.”
Henry instinctively looked over, then looked back with a bear-like grin. He flexed his muscular hands, “Oh, is he now? Easy enough to fix that.”
Before he could move, Tonks interrupted, “Hold it now, we can’t go lettin’ on we see him.”
“Ah! Right, it’d might make it harder to get the luverly lady back safe,” Henry said with a bold wink. “Well, I’ll pass the word with the lads, and we’ll keep an eye out. In the meantime, scurry off along the boardwalk here. You’ll be covered by crates for a good dozen paces or so. In the meantime, the lads and I will cook up somethin’ better for the bugger to look at.”