by Steve Goble
“Wolves sire their children,” another said. “Witches marry wolves.”
That had been too much for Ezra, who stood up despite hissed warnings from Spider. A moment later, fists and chairs started flying, and Spider and Ezra found themselves outnumbered. Spider had drawn his battered and partially rusted blade and cursed beneath his breath.
As others joined the fracas, Spider had felt a queasy, fearful knot in his stomach. He and Ezra both had dipped their hands in bloody water many times, and the Lamia survivors may well have talked before their executions. Spider and Ezra stood little chance of avoiding the gallows if taken, and this incident was exactly the kind of attention they did not need.
Then things got worse.
Ezra grabbed Spider by the collar and turned him toward the door. He pointed to a man who had just slammed the door shut before moving to a window and peering anxiously outside.
Ezra spat and whispered. “Is that Scrimshaw?”
“Damn,” Spider said. “Sure as I’m a cursed man, that’s Scrimshaw.”
Scrimshaw had been a topsail man aboard Lamia, and he had lost a fair amount of coin and chores to both Ezra and Spider in dicing and other contests during idle moments. He had vowed more than once to slit their throats if given a chance.
The fighting had quieted around them, as the tavern’s company eyed this newcomer and noted the drawn blade in his hand. An increasing wave of noises from outside drew their attention, too, and men peered out of windows to see what was commencing.
“Damn me, now I hear horses, riding hard,” Ezra said.
Spider listened. “And orders. Drums. Troops! Looking for Scrim, no doubt.”
“And the blackguard will sell our souls in a heartbeat,” Ezra said. “Won’t even ask the Admiralty for mercy in exchange for our hides. He’ll do it for spite.”
“We must run,” Spider said nervously as the sounds grew louder.
They bolted for the door, Ezra taking a moment to drive the hilt of his blade into the back of Scrimshaw’s head, once to start him falling, and a second time to be certain he stayed down.
After that, they had rushed out of the tavern, commandeered a wagon, and driven the horses away from the martial sound of drums until the beasts lathered and stank. Then they had abandoned the wagon and made their way in the dark toward the small inlet Addison had described, both thanking and cursing a bright moon and clear sky. They were able to see their way, but the light made hiding difficult.
Heading deeper into Boston had not been an option. Aside from the troops between them and the rest of the city, Ezra’s height was a liability—he was nearly seven feet tall. They could not simply find a crowd and disappear into it.
Nor would Spider feel comfortable in a crowd under the best of circumstances, and these were hardly good. The fracas in the tavern and the attack on Scrimshaw would prompt a diligent, wide-ranging search. Staying in the area almost certainly would have meant a noose.
But at least they had known of a place to go.
The day before, the stranger Addison had made quiet inquiries, seeking a ship’s carpenter for a vessel he described as “hopin’ to avoid His Majesty’s valiant fellows, that we might do some enterprises.” They’d rejected his offer then, but the skirmish and hard words in the tavern had made them desperate.
Fortunately, Addison had given them a rendezvous point and a deadline to reconsider.
So they’d tracked Addison down in a mad rush, with Spider imagining the rope at his neck and lead balls in his back the entire time. They’d accepted the offer to sail with Plymouth Dream, and warned Addison that trouble likely was not far behind them. Now here they were—back on the account and surrounded by suspicious people again.
Spider glanced around the ship and saw no friendly faces.
“Yes, trouble,” Ezra said. “Tellam will be trouble. But I will handle it.”
“We will handle it,” Spider corrected him. “I suppose swimming ashore is a fool idea.”
“A bit far,” Ezra said. “And damned cold.”
Spider rubbed the itchy scab on his left hand where his small finger once had been. “All them markings on that gent’s face. He been to the South Seas?”
“Worked a whaler, the Persephone, had some island folk aboard,” Ezra said. “So people told me, anyway. He let them mark ’im like that. It’s all over ’im, I hear. Even his pecker.”
“Looks a bit crazed, if you ask me.” Spider drained his beer. It was bland, but he could feel the effects.
“Tellam can be intense, I’d say,” Ezra said. “Full of Jesus and fervor.”
The cat, carrying a dead rat, jumped up beside Ezra and stared at him. Ezra took the rodent, patted the cat’s head, and tossed the rat carcass overboard. The cat streaked away as suddenly as it had appeared.
“That’s a good cat,” Ezra said.
“If you say so,” Spider replied. “The damned things spook me.”
Spider tried to get the attention of the man wandering about with a wooden pitcher, filling cups, but soon decided he and Ezra were being ignored. “Ho there,” Spider called. “Thirsty men here. Promised drink, we were.”
The tall man approached. His face was hidden beneath the brim of his hat, and he said nothing, but he filled Spider’s jack.
“Well met, and thank you,” Spider said. “I’m Spider, he’s Ezra.” Ezra, lost in thought, grunted a hello and stared out over the rolling sea.
“Weatherall,” the man said without looking up. “John Weatherall.”
“Been with Barlow long?”
“No.”
The man moved to fill Ezra’s mug and glanced up just long enough for Spider to make out a tight-lipped sort-of grin framed by a black beard just beginning to thicken, and eyes squinting in the dim light. Then the man finished his task, and his face vanished again beneath the brim. He scurried off quickly, as though to escape a sudden rain.
“Well, then,” Ezra said. “Not in a mood to visit with us, I suppose.”
“Perhaps Tellam has been spreading gossip,” Spider said. “We may be in for a long, unpleasant voyage.”
“Or a very brief, unpleasant voyage,” Ezra answered, handing his mug to Spider. “Drink up.”
Plymouth Dream’s new recruits did not wait until morning to sign the articles, after all.
“My work in Boston was tiring,” Addison said, “with many arrangements to be made and much vital business to conduct. Very profitable business, I might say.” He winked. “Thus, lads, I shall not wish to be up with the goddamn roosters.”
Spider, Ezra, and Doctor Boddings gathered with Addison beneath a swinging lamp hung above a barrel near the mainmast. A rather handsome black man, who wore his dirty long coat and rakish, yet battered, hat with the air of a toff, brought the first mate a salt-ruined leather tube, a pot of ink, and a quill. Spider wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to fight off the chill.
“Thankee, Elijah,” Addison said, and the man bowed and left. A sweet aroma floated in his wake.
Addison reached into the tube and pulled free a worn, rolled parchment. He dropped the tube onto the barrel head, unfurled the document, and began to read: “Articles of Mutual Agreement Pertaining to All Crew of Plymouth Dream, Cap’n William Barlow Being in Command.”
Addison sighed, spat, and wiped his brow. “Weary as a bonny lass after the fleet comes in,” he muttered, handing the parchment to Doctor Boddings. “You read it.”
Doctor Boddings took the document and began reading in a sonorous, Sunday sermon tone.
The articles were mostly familiar to Spider John; every outlaw vessel he’d ever called home sailed under some sort of written agreement. Plymouth Dream’s articles dealt with matters such as disposition of plundered goods, accounting for all plunder, duties to defend vessel and crew and the rights of men aboard, punishments for cowardice in action and the like, but they gave considerably more power to the captain than articles Spider had signed in the past.
On most pirate ship
s, crews voted on matters such as destinations and general courses of action, and the captain wielded unquestioned authority only when the ship went into action, when there was no time to take a vote. Plymouth Dream’s articles left all such matters in the hands of her captain. And only Barlow and Addison could go about armed with anything more lethal than a work knife or two, or other tools necessary to do the daily work of keeping a ship afloat and in trim. Plymouth Dream’s crewmen went about mostly unarmed, unless the vessel was preparing for battle.
It made little difference to Spider what the articles said. He could sign them, or he could be tossed overboard. Turning back now was not an option at all. So he signed them. He wrote in a crabby hand, “John Rush,” and was proud he was able to do that much.
“I can’t read nor write,” Ezra said. Addison took the quill pen, dipped it, and wrote out “Ezra Coombs, ABS, his mark.” Ezra added a large “X” beside it.
Boddings signed with flair. All three men had marked the back of the parchment, which, like the front, contained many names—a large portion of which had been crossed out. Many crossed-out names had small skulls drawn next to them.
“Well then, lads,” Addison said, initialing each name and adding the date, then clamping the lid on the ink pot, “the three of you all belong to Plymouth Dream now and shall share in any spoils we take from this day forward. You will not share in the profit from our business in Boston—Spanish guns sold to a French trapper on behalf of Indians fighting the English over a lonely stretch of northern border, ha!—but there is always such business to be had, and there always shall be, bless the powers of this world. May they never come to agreeable terms!”
Ezra coughed. The man always seemed to have one malady or another, from coughs to diarrhea. Spider had often offered advice to improve Ezra’s health, but it went ignored. Spider shook his head.
“Let us hope we all never share a spot on the gallows,” Addison said. “I am off to sleep. You may do the same. Forward for you two.
Doctor, follow me.”
Spider and Ezra ambled toward the crew hold. “Our captain does not run the most democratic of ships, Spider.”
“Indeed. Still, I’ve known others to ignore what we’ve all signed when they could do so without consequence.”
“True. Not many we can trust.”
They reached the hatch, and Ezra headed down first. “Good Lord above, this place smells like a dead French whore!”
“You should try living harlots, Ez.” Spider climbed down swiftly, then coughed. “You spoke the truth, though. Damn!”
They watched wide-eyed as Elijah, the fellow who had delivered the articles for their signatures, aimed a small bellows into the crowded chamber of huddled men, dirty hammocks, frolicking shadows, lantern smoke, wooden chests and burlap sacks, shirts and coats hanging about, off-tune fiddle music, rolling dice, and a cat’s mewing. From the bellows wafted a perfumed scent that did nothing to mask the odors of sweat and urine; it only added to the revolting mix to render it even more wretched.
“A gift from a friend, who frowned upon the idea of me among so many unwashed and uncouth sea hands,” Elijah said in answer to their puzzled stares.
“It is no improvement, as near as I can tell,” Ezra said.
Others growled, and several men tried to wave the offending perfume away. One fat fellow bent at the waist and farted loudly, eliciting loud laughter. Spider could not detect the man’s gas because of the overwhelming perfume.
A toothless scruff approached Spider, who still shivered in his two shirts. “Got an extra pea coat, for a price. I am Robert Dobbin.” It took Spider some effort to make out the fellow’s words. Aside from not having a tooth in his head, Dobbin talked at twice the rate of most folks, as though he was merely rushing through a formality because no one would understand his words anyway. He accompanied his speech with numerous gestures, including a finger pointed toward a scratched and battered sea chest.
“I ain’t got much money, but I got some,” Spider said. “Let me see the coat.”
The gray coat was of good wool, had only a few holes in it, and, incredibly, didn’t smell as though it had been wrapped around a feverish horse for a week. They haggled a bit, and Spider thought he’d made a good deal.
Ezra found an empty hammock and hunkered down for sleep. Ezra could sleep anywhere, regardless of odor or snoring or dirty berths. Spider found a spot, looked about to see if anyone had staked it out as his own, and then doffed his outer shirt. This he tossed onto the hammock before donning the coat he’d purchased.
He expected inquiries. New men aboard any vessel ordinarily were pelted with questions, as the crew sought news of the world. That was true aboard any ship, but especially so when sailing beneath a pirate flag. These men were outlaws and courted death if they stepped ashore, but they were men, too, and usually had loved ones somewhere. They normally would wonder about their welfare. Had the crops been good? Were the Indians on the move? And they always wanted to know about any amorous adventures ashore. Sailing was lonely business.
But Spider entertained no such queries. Instead, he got piercing gazes that were quickly averted once noticed. Men talked quietly, but among themselves—not to him.
It was unsettling.
Spider went back on deck for a while to stare into the darkness off the starboard bow. Out there in the distance was Nantucket. Sometime the next day they would pass it by, but probably not close enough to see it as Barlow was tacking well southeast, away from the colonial coast. Spider kissed Em’s pendant and blew two kisses toward where he supposed Nantucket to be. Then he went below and tried to sleep amid the snores, coughs, odors, and Odin’s ominous laugh.
Spider decided to sleep with a knife in his hand.
3
After far too little shut-eye, Spider rolled out of his hammock, which was too close to a bulkhead for real comfort. Ezra was already above, apparently, but other men stirred slowly and grumbled. Barlow called down the hatch. “Move, lads. Dream won’t sail herself.”
Men responded slowly to the captain’s call. This was a far cry from naval discipline. Old Lieutenant Bentley, the former navy man, would have clouted a couple of these sluggards by now, Spider reckoned.
Spider emerged into sunshine and a sharp chill in the wind. His exhalations formed clouds that rushed away on the breeze. Gulls perched on the bow, calling to comrades who hung in blue sky, seemingly as motionless as the white clouds farther above. Plymouth Dream’s bow rose and fell in a gentle cadence.
Addison had said the ship’s company included more than seventy men, more than was strictly necessary to sail her, but providing ample manpower in a battle. The sun had lured most, it seemed, out onto the deck or up into the trees. She was a crowded vessel.
Despite missing a chance to go to Em—he cursed the panic that had consumed him ashore at the approach of English soldiers—Spider had to admit to himself he enjoyed being on the ocean. Yes, it was cold now, and he had to bundle up against the icy spray thrown up each time Dream’s bow hit a trough, but soon enough they would be in warm, southern air, and after that they’d be working in sweltering, equatorial heat.
And chill notwithstanding, he had a vast expanse of sea between himself and anyone who might decide to hang him. Spider wandered aft, where sails might shield him from the icy splashes. He took a deep breath, tasted the salt, and closed his eyes for just a moment.
A tug at his sleeve turned him around. “You are Spider John, sir?” It was a boy, maybe thirteen or fourteen, blond and freckled and earnest, wearing at least half a dozen shirts in a desperate bid to block out the October wind. Spider pondered, for a moment, whether to set the poor boy in a boat and tell him to row for shore as hard as he could, before this hard life on the account swallowed up his soul. But he knew the boy wouldn’t listen, and the land likely was out of reach anyway.
Spider sighed. “Yes, Spider John Rush.”
“Why do they call you Spider?”
“I climb good, is
all.” It was a lie, although he was, in fact, a fine climber; he was called Spider because, as a boy, he used to eat the eight-legged pests just to hear his sister scream.
Spider tucked his wild blondish mop of hair into a blue scarf and deftly knotted it behind his head. “Who are you, boy?”
“Hob. Really Hobart, but Hob.”
“Got a surname, Hob?”
The boy lowered his head. “Not anymore,” he answered quietly. “Da wouldn’t like me using it, not on this ship.”
Spider nodded. He didn’t want to bring shame on Em or anyone back home, either.
“Well, then, Hob it is,” Spider said, tapping him on the shoulder.
“I’m to show you the tools.” Hob pointed. “This way.”
They trod the deck, as sails snapped and men hummed. Spider judged Dream to be about a hundred feet long, and perhaps a shade over a quarter of that abeam. Her masts looked solid and straight, but the deck was worn and in need of a good scrubbing. She was not particularly speedy, and not as maneuverable as the numerous pirate sloops he’d served aboard, but Dream had a cavernous central hold, where men once did the messy work of whaling. The odor of whale oil seemed infused into the very wood; it lingered, ghostlike.
Spider knew Barlow commanded a small fleet of vessels and figured the man sent his swift sloops and frigates out in search of prey, then stored most of the booty here. Spider hoped that was the situation, in any case, for it meant he and Ezra might miss out on most of the killing. That would be fine with Spider.
Spider followed the boy forward, where a large chest was lashed against a hatch by the foremast, with a boat to either side. One of the boats was the wretched thing they’d rowed from shore. It looked worse by daylight. The other boat was not much better. Spider would apply pitch, brace what he could, and try to make them respectable. He rather hoped Dream would take another vessel prize and simply replace these leaky vessels.
The cat sat on the better boat, licking itself. “Shoo, Thomas,” Hob said. The yellow-and-white critter stared at Hob as though the boy had no right at all to issue orders.