The Bloody Black Flag

by Steve Goble

  Spider, Ezra, and the elderly gent who claimed to be a doctor headed toward the foremast on Addison’s order. The newcomers stood near one of the lanterns, and Spider squinted against the light. Men, most of their faces hidden in shadow, crowded the gunwale and hoisted aboard crates and sacks of supplies from the boat below.

  The rest of the boat’s crew headed one way or another, receiving nods of greeting and slaps on the back from the dozen or so men already standing on Plymouth Dream’s deck. Spider, his eyes slowly adjusting to the lanterns, tried to pick out Captain Barlow in the crowd, but he saw no one who seemed to be in command.

  A chicken clucked somewhere, and a yellow-white cat stepped across Spider’s foot before vanishing into the darkness.

  “Well, then, Addy. You were able to fetch what we needed?” The voice, pitched low and rich as good whiskey, came from somewhere forward. Spider turned toward it and beheld his new commander, Captain William Barlow, climbing down from atop the forecastle.

  Spider had never heard of him before meeting Addison, but the first mate had given Barlow high marks for boldness and ingenuity.

  “Aye,” Addison answered, bowing his head slightly and doffing his hat. “And a bit more.”

  Men milling about the deck made way. Barlow approached, slowly, in measured steps. As the captain came into the light, details emerged. Tricorn hat, white or pale gray. Six feet of height, or more, certainly taller than Spider. About twice Spider’s age, too, somewhere in his forties. A long cane, held in the right hand and resting over his right shoulder. A salt-and-pepper beard in a face with deep-set, dark eyes. A long English naval coat, which Spider immediately envied. A sardonic smile that seemed to lend something sinister to the October chill.

  “Introduce us, if you please,” Barlow said to Addison, while pointing his cane toward the newcomers. Spider thought the cane to be ash and guessed it could give a damn good whacking. He tried to discern whether it concealed a dagger or a short sword, but the dim light thwarted him. In any case, Barlow did not seem to need it to get around. He moved with an athletic grace.

  Spider also noted a pistol handle peeking from beneath Barlow’s coat. The gun was tucked into the man’s belt, within easy reach and placed so that it would be most efficient to draw left-handed. Noticing such details had kept Spider alive to this point, and he practiced the skill diligently.

  Addison pointed at Spider. “John Rush, Cap’n, called Spider. Don’t know why. He’s a carpenter.”

  Barlow’s grin widened, but it did not grow any warmer. “Well. You’ll find Dream in fair condition, I do not doubt, but we’ve got some hatches and spars in need of attention, and our boats are a wretched lot. Had some rough seas of late. A lot of things got knocked about.”

  “Wicked wind, that was,” Spider said, “if you mean about a month ago.”

  “Aye,” Barlow said. “Rigging and masts came out of it well enough, though. We were locked in a harbor for too damned long setting things aright, though, and there is yet more to do.”

  “Same gale put me and Ezra here ashore.” Spider nodded toward his friend. “We were on Lamia, and she did not fare so well as you.”

  Indeed, Lamia—dangerously overladen with goods badly stowed, in Spider’s view, after she’d seen much successful hunting—had gone down once the rudder had ripped apart, and she’d turned herself broadside to the heavy rushing sea. He and Ezra and a few others had been able to get boats launched, and he’d seen men tossing about in the stormy dark, but he had no idea how many had lived and how many had died. He and Ezra had escaped in an overloaded boat that got swamped; the two of them had arrived ashore clinging to a random spar and thanking Jesus whenever they could spare a breath. They had no idea what had become of the other men in their boat, and had spent much of their week of hiking toward civilization discussing the nature of God and why some were spared while others were not. They had finally decided it would take wiser men than themselves to figure that out.

  Spider and Ezra had eventually learned that others had made it ashore, too, though they might have preferred drowning—they’d been caught and dragged in chains to Boston, and were hanged for the entertainment of a mob. Spider and Ezra had decided not to watch.

  At least one man from Lamia had been free when they chased Addison down and accepted his offer. Spider wondered about Scrimshaw’s fate. They had left him in a lurch, out of necessity.

  Barlow cocked his head. “Lamia. Bent Thomas, captain?”

  “Aye.”

  “Knew him, in Jamaica, a while back. Decent cuss. Good ship, if I recall. Bermuda rig, aye?”

  “Aye on all accounts. Don’t know if Cap’n Thomas lives, sir,” Spider said. “The ship certainly does not. It was a mad rush to get away once she took on water so. She was heeled over good, and last I saw of Bent Thomas he was diving from the rail. Our boats all got blowed and tossed separate ways. There were many men in the water, and no gettin’ to them.”

  Murmurs swept amidships, and a short man with a wooden leg walked away cursing, his peg sounding a dirge drumbeat on the deck.

  He passed a scarecrow of a man, with lanky gray hair draped around a gaunt face and a scar where his right eye should have been, who leaned forward and peered at Spider. The man was at least sixty if he was a day, but seemed to be fit as a fiddle. He leered oddly and laughed a harsh, dry laugh.

  “Stow that, Odin,” Addison said tersely.

  The one-eyed man, still laughing, wandered off.

  Barlow whispered Bent Thomas’s name, paused a moment, but showed no sign of sadness. Violent deaths were expected among men who sailed under a black flag, and a stormy demise was a better death than hanging. “We’ve a few other vessels in need of work,” Barlow said at last. “You know a thing or two about cutting down a vessel to accommodate guns?”

  “Aye,” Spider said. “Done it a few times.”

  “Good,” Barlow answered. “Very good. We’ve tools, if you have none.”

  “Good, sir.” Spider nodded. “My tools went down with Lamia.”

  “You still have a couple of tools, at least,” the captain said, his dark eyes widening. The cane came forth slowly. First it tapped the bone-handled dirk tucked into Spider’s belt; then it rose in a slow half circle to touch the rope that held the scabbard and sword. “Do you know how to use these?”

  “Aye,” Spider said. “When I must.”

  “The knife you may keep, of course,” Barlow said, turning his back to Spider and slowly pacing away. “A sailor is useless without his knife. The cutlass, though, that we must put away until such time as you need it. We’ve a crew with high spirits. I prefer to avoid trouble. When the time comes, you’ll have trouble plenty enough.”

  Spider noted again the pistols Barlow and Addison carried, and felt ill at ease surrendering his weapon, but he slowly removed the scabbard from his shoulder and handed it to Addison. “Of course,” Spider said.

  Barlow spun quickly and stared at him. Spider could not tell whether the man was pleased with his quick acceptance of the rule, or disappointed. The captain then quickly turned his attention to Ezra.

  “Ezra Coombs,” Addison said, hooking a thumb toward Spider’s friend. “Able-bodied seaman, merchant and navy, and some time spent on the account. Looks big enough to hurt someone, aye?”

  “Well met,” Barlow said, and although he was a tall man himself, he had to glance upward to look at Ezra’s face. “Quite the large bastard.”

  Ezra said nothing. Spider glanced toward his friend and noticed Ezra’s attention was focused beyond the captain, on a figure just within the circle of lantern light. That figure seemed equally engrossed with Ezra. The mystery man wore a long cloak, of the sort some monks wore, and Spider could not make out whether there were any weapons beneath it. The man’s face, however, promised danger. He was shaved bald, and his head and face were covered with strange tattoos—dots and whorls and intersecting lines. His eyes were fired with menace and fixed on Ezra.

  Spider nudged Ez
ra slightly. “Aye, Cap’n, well met,” Ezra said. “Thank you for having me aboard. I shall not disappoint.” He said it in his gentlest voice, the one he used to put people at ease. Ezra’s sunken eyes, prominent cheekbones, red beard, and old scars that showed white against the tanned forehead gave him a sinister appearance. Combined with his towering height, it meant people tended to fear him at first appraisal. He had learned to compensate with polite manners and a soft voice.

  “We shall see,” Barlow said.

  Spider watched the tattooed man stare at Ezra. The captain moved on to the next new arrival.

  “And this?” Spider thought Barlow’s voice held just a bit of contempt.

  “Doctor Eustace Boddings,” Addison said, “late of His Majesty’s Navy.”

  “His Majesty,” Barlow said. “May he bugger a goat!”

  Cheers went up at that, and Spider and Ezra joined in, but the doctor nodded sharply. “Pleased, Captain, and ready to serve.”

  “You have been served yourself, it seems to me,” Barlow said. “I believe I detect a huge stench of liquor on your breath.”

  “A nip, sir, no more,” Boddings answered. “A toast with a lady friend before my departure, is all it was.”

  “You’ve seen long service, I judge,” Barlow said. “Is your mind sharp, still?”

  “As a scalpel,” Boddings replied. “The Lord has blessed me.”

  “Voyaging won’t wear on you?”

  “No more so than any other hand,” the doctor said. “You may rely upon it.”

  Addison cleared his throat. “He heard me mention Jamaica, sir, and inquired about our accommodations. Doctor Boddings seeks to work his passage to the island, sir. He has ample medicines with him, and I’ve talked with a few in Boston who have sailed with him. He’s an experienced hand.”

  “A quality to be sought in a surgeon, I assure you,” Boddings said.

  “We may be a long time coming to Jamaica,” Barlow replied. “We’ve some prowling to do, and hunters to avoid.” The captain and his first mate exchanged knowing glances.

  “I understand,” Boddings said. “As a Christian man I shall take no part in bloodshed, of course, but I shall do my duty afterward, to be sure. And as for any conduct that might transpire, well, judge not, the Good Book says.”

  The doctor, a dour and gray man of too much weight, spoke well, if slowly, but his eyes did not seem to focus on anything. Spider wondered what compelled a man of his age to throw in with a crew like Barlow’s.

  The captain snorted. “You may well take part in the bloodshed when you find a cutlass at your windpipe, I dare say. Many a Christian man will cast his teachings aside when it comes to a choice between someone else’s life or his own.”

  Barlow scratched his chin and paced back and forth.

  “I’ve never had a physician aboard. We’ve an extra berth in the officers’ bay, a small one used for stores right now, but it seems fitting a man of education ought to have it,” Barlow said. “It is yours, provided you do some cooking and other chores when you have no patients to tend.”

  Boddings stiffened. “See here, Captain Barlow, I spent more years at sawing arms and stitching wounds than you have been alive. I am no common ruffian for you to assign to a galley. . . .”

  Barlow moved swiftly, and his nose was in Boddings’s face in a heartbeat. “You are part of this crew,” the captain said, “and you will not sit idly by waiting for someone to cut himself doing real work or get sick in the weather. You will serve me as more than ballast or you will serve me as chum, do you understand?”

  Boddings nodded slowly. “Aye.”

  Barlow pressed closer and sneered.

  “Aye, Captain,” Doctor Boddings added hastily.

  Barlow paced a dozen steps away from the newcomers, then turned and placed his cane back on his shoulder. “You all know what we do here? Our line of work, if you will?” They nodded, and Barlow continued. “We take what we need, where we can find it. Some chose this life. Some did not. Makes no matter. We are outlaws, marked men, and now so are you, if you weren’t already.” Barlow’s eyes blazed at Spider and Ezra, even as his voice grew quieter and his cadence slowed. “If we are caught, we will swing. Simple as that. And I tell you this . . . I’ll not hang. No, sir. I will run, or I will fight, but I will not hang. And you will run with me, or fight with me. Do not become a liability to me, gentlemen, and we’ll all make some fine money as a reward for our risk, and one day we shall live like kings. We’ve a good deal of profit aboard already and just may see a good bit more before we reach Kingston. Just work hard, obey orders, and see to it that I am never forced to choose between your life and mine. You will lose that toss of the dice, lads, every time.”

  Spider listened to the cold words and wished he had his cutlass.

  “You answer to no one but me, as our articles make clear,” Barlow said, after a lengthy pause. “And I answer to no one, not man nor God nor devil. I do not know who you’ve sailed under before, but I do not go in for votes and lengthy deliberations and holding councils as some do. You may tell me what you think, and I’ll ponder it. But I rule in the end, and we’ve all done well by it. Have we not?”

  He raised his cane high, and men cheered loudly. Then Barlow continued. “You’ll be paid according to our articles, which you’ll hear and mark yourselves. We’ll do so come dawn. Do you have questions?”

  Spider noted that Ezra and the tattooed man remained locked in some sort of silent communication, while Doctor Boddings seemed tense. “None, Cap’n, save wanting a look at the tools,” Spider answered.

  “Come daylight, for that,” Barlow said. “You and Coombs will be on Addy’s watch, go to work at daybreak. Doctor, Addy will show you your berth and the galley. For now, welcome to Plymouth Dream. Addy, some ale all around, and weigh anchor. Dowd, get someone on the halyards and let us put on some sail. I think we have been anchored long enough. Helm, south by southeast, if you please.”

  “Aye,” said a broad-shouldered black man, as tall as Barlow and wearing only pants, boots, and a shirt, open despite the chill. Dowd pointed at the short peg-legged man and called out a few names. “You heard the cap’n. Move.” The man spat tobacco on the deck and watched to see that his orders were obeyed; apparently, Dowd commanded the night watch.

  Barlow spun and headed aft, vanishing into the night once he moved beyond the lanterns’ reach. Men climbed into the dark night and went to work, and the mainsail filled with wind, white as a ghost in the moonlight. Other sails followed, and soon Spider could feel the vessel move against the ocean. He could not venture a guess as to the ship’s company, but he could tell Dream was crowded.

  Addison called for a keg to be tapped, and Doctor Boddings seemed much more interested in the proceedings than he had been a moment before.

  Ezra’s mystery acquaintance, the tattooed man, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Well,” Spider said quietly. “You’ve a friend aboard already, I see.”

  “Not a friend,” Ezra said, whispering. “His name is Tellam, and he hails from Salem. I know him from way back, and he knows.”

  “He knows?”

  “Yes. He knows of my witch blood.”

  2

  Spider sat on a four-pounder next to Ezra, in a spot as far from the lantern light as was feasible. Shadows danced upon the sails, and oily smoke tickled Spider’s nose. Plymouth Dream forged southeastward with a gentle lift and drop, lift and drop, that made Spider feel at home again after their brief stay in Boston.

  He’d selected a leather jack from a barrel full of drinking vessels, and Ezra had a mug of pewter. Both were filled with lifeless, lukewarm beer.

  “To Bent Thomas and Lamia,” the peg-legged man, standing nearby, said somberly.

  “Aye, Peg, to Bent Thomas.” That reply came from Odin, the ugly one-eyed bastard. Both Peg and Odin nodded at their new shipmates, and Spider nodded back. All manner of drinking vessels were lifted high, and there was a second or two during which only the wind and
the snapping of sail and creaking of timber were heard—until Odin laughed and swallowed his beer.

  “To Bent Thomas,” Spider said quietly; then he drained his ale in a couple of swallows and turned to Ezra. “So, this fellow Tellam knows.”

  “Aye,” Ezra said. He took a whiff of his drink, then winced and poured the contents into Spider’s jack. Spider nodded appreciatively and took a sip. “Peter Tellam is his name.”

  “That’s likely to be trouble, I suppose, judging by the look on your ugly face,” Spider said after wiping beer from his chin.

  “Aye,” Ezra answered. Ezra’s grandmother had been hung during the witch madness in Salem, and his mother had been hung sometime later. Spider’s family tree held similar secrets; his own gram had been accused and set afire by a drunken, fearful crowd before he was born, but his mother had escaped to Boston. Such dark pasts were a big part of the bond between Spider and Ezra. It was something they could each share and understand—or not understand—together.

  It also was something neither man shared with others, if they could help it. Their current situation showed plainly why that was necessary.

  Their haunted past had led to the latest troubles ashore, the pursuit that had compelled them to seek the sea again. After learning the horrid fate of other Lamia survivors, Spider and Ezra knew they needed a real plan. So as they ate decent crab and cod near a warm tavern hearth, they tried to devise new names and identities for themselves, with a hope of arranging passage to Nantucket, and to Em.

  But others huddled in the tavern began to speak of witches.

  “You can tell them by the smell,” one said. “Like an old grave.”

  “They can only turn to the left, never the right, my ma says. That is as sure a sign as any, I say.”