The Bloody Black Flag

by Steve Goble

  “You won’t even touch me,” Spider answered. “But, no. No. If they want to fight you, they can fight us both. But storms pass. Perhaps this one will.”

  “You are a good friend,” Ezra said. “You could not debate a donkey, but you are a good friend.”

  Hob rushed toward them, with the cat Thomas in his wake. The boy held a long stick, like a broom handle, with a lengthy metal spike protruding from it. Three rats were skewered on that spike.

  “I get an extra tot of grog for this,” Hob said happily, holding his stick out over the rail and shaking it heartily until his rodent victims slid into the waves. Hob, hooting and hollering, ran off to get his reward.

  Thomas stayed behind and seemed vaguely disappointed.

  “You’ll just have to work faster,” Ezra said, stroking the cat’s chin. “You were made for rat killing, you know. Shouldn’t let a snip of a boy do your work for you.”

  “The damned cat does not understand you.” Spider laughed. “You give beasts too much credit for brains.”

  “They are better than most people I’ve known,” Ezra replied. “You rate slightly higher than cats, I’d say, maybe not so high as dogs.”

  Spider rolled his eyes but decided not to press his friend on the matter.

  Barlow marched forward and stood before Doctor Boddings, who was drinking from a wooden bowl. “Well, Doctor Cook, that was a rare soup,” the captain said. “Rare soup.”

  Boddings did not rise from the keg he sat upon. “I did my best. Onions were plentiful, if not of the freshest. I do love onions, and they are rather healthful, too. Very good for the digestion.”

  “Yes, I suppose. We likely won’t have any more onions soon, or any other garden delights until we reach Jamaica, but that’s as may be.” Barlow removed the cane from his shoulder and tapped it against the deck. “Tell me, Doctor. Can you lay eggs?”

  “Eh?” The physician looked confused.

  “I admit it would be a good and rare quality in a doctor, to have him be able to lay us some eggs,” Barlow said. “I doubt you can do it. But circumstances compel me to ask. Can you lay eggs?”

  “What in the Lord’s name . . . ? Are you drunk, sir? Of course, I do not lay eggs,” Boddings mumbled tersely.

  “Then stop killing my damned chickens!” The captain punctuated the command with his cane, whacking Boddings soundly on the shoulder. “Boil the eggs, damn you, not the fucking birds!”

  Boddings cried out. “Damn, sir! Damn!”

  Barlow whacked him again. “You want soup, you catch a fucking fish! Carve a fucking pig! Boil your own fucking leg and balls if you must! But I shall have my fucking boiled fucking eggs, sir. I shall! Idiot college man!”

  Barlow stomped off. Laughter lifted from the deck. Boddings stood fuming.

  Ezra laughed with the others, but the comedy did little to lift Spider’s spirits. Too many evil eyes had been turned their way.

  The doctor straightened his jacket and glowered at Ezra.

  “Seems you have tempers all stirred up,” Boddings said, scowling.

  Ezra chuckled. “I did not slaughter the man’s fowl, Doctor. How many did you kill, by the way? It’s appreciated. Very tasty.”

  “Do not mock me,” Boddings said. “You should be concerned for your own soul.” He strode forward with as much dignity as he could muster, muttering something about Jesus. He staggered a bit. Spider wondered if that was because of the captain’s blows, or because the physician’s bowl had contained more than mere broth.

  “It’s a pretty night, too pretty for bickering. A tune, maybe,” someone said. It was Dowd, the broad-shouldered black man who had charge of the night watch. “How about it, John? I’ll fetch yer fiddle.”

  “Not tonight,” Weatherall said. He kept his eyes aimed on the deck, save for a glance at Ezra. “Don’t like the comp’ny.” He went below.

  “Best we get some sleep,” Ezra said.

  “Aye. Sleep. With an eye open.” Spider nodded. “Maybe both eyes.”

  Spider awoke suddenly.

  He’d expected the nightmares. Being surrounded by suspicious men had not made for a restful night, of course, but the nightmares . . . All the talk of witches and burning, all the tension of knives and guns, the death of Jenkins and the body’s quick descent into the deep—such things led to a haunted and fitful sleep.

  The dreams had been particularly horrible. Fire and smoke. Charnel smells. Shouts and taunts. A woman’s face, burnt black, framed by his grandmother’s auburn hair. He had never seen his grandmother, of course, but the dreamer knew her face just the same. Now he shuddered at the nightmare memory of the white smile in the charred face, and the dead woman’s words: “I love you, Johnny.” He still could see her, stretching out arms to him, beckoning him toward her, into the fire.

  Spider sat up, shook his head, and wished he had a drink. He had no notion of time; he only sensed that dawn was not yet here. It took him a moment to realize the shouts of his dream could still be heard—they were part of this world, the real world, not the nightmare.

  The voices came from up on the deck. Someone climbed the ladder quickly.

  “Dead, I say,” were the only coherent words Spider could make out. He rose, took a step toward Ezra’s hammock, then noticed his friend was not there.

  Spider was up the ladder and on deck in a couple of heartbeats. A couple of hands stood there in the night, and one held a lantern that threw an orange circle of light onto the deck. In the center of that circle, Ezra stared up at the stars, seeing nothing of this world. He was seated awkwardly, against the larboard rail, next to a hip flask that had poured most of its contents onto the bloody deck beside him.

  But he was not dead drunk.

  He was dead.

  Spider leapt forward. “Lord, no!”

  A crowd grew around him. “Found him here,” someone said. “Must have been drunk and mindless. Hit his head on the damned rail and busted it.”

  Spider had not seen Ezra go up the ladder, but it was not a rare thing for him to do so. Ezra liked the night stars and slept less than most men.

  Now, he was lost in the longest sleep of all.

  The wound had bled profusely, and moonlight rippled in the puddle. Spider, no stranger to violence, coughed and choked nonetheless.

  “When did he come up top?” Spider asked finally. “Who was with him? Who?” He glanced around but saw no sign of Tellam.

  “No one with him,” Weatherall said. “We found him thus.”

  Spider spat and tried to clear his mind. Ezra’s forehead was a bloody mess, but his dead eyes were peering skyward. “Did anyone move him?”

  “We rolled him over,” Peg answered. “Wanted to see who he was, help if we could. We could do nothing for him.”

  “He hit here,” Barlow said, running a finger along the rail above Ezra. “Wet and sticky right here.” The captain stared skyward for a moment. “Drunk, he was, no doubt.”

  “Heard him muttering earlier,” Peg said.

  Spider shot the one-legged man a glance. “Talking to someone? Who?”

  “Didn’t hear no other voice. Maybe talking to God, or the devil. About a woman. Said he missed her.”

  That made no sense to Spider. Ezra had known women, but had never been particularly attached to one. He elevated no one woman above the others, and was never maudlin.

  Spider, kneeling now by his friend’s side, looked up at Barlow, then back at Ezra. Gently, he closed his friend’s eyes and wept. The rum and blood oozing onto the deck seeped into his britches.

  He and Ezra had laughed about death, how it lurked nearby always, and how they had no right to expect it to keep away for long. And now, here it was. Victorious, as always.

  “Well then,” Barlow said. “He’s your friend, Spider, so you lay claim first to anything of his you like. The rest, such as it is, we’ll sell at bids among the crew, according to the articles. Get it all off him and heave his worthless carcass o’er the side.”

  “Wait,” S
pider said, choking a growing rage. “I want to do this proper, say some words. Do we have a Bible aboard?”

  Barlow glowered for a moment, then let out a loud sigh. “Words make no matter,” he said. “We didn’t give Jenkins no words. And I have no use for a Bible.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn about Jenkins,” Spider said through clenched teeth. “This is my friend, and a good man.”

  “Jesus will sort all that out,” Tellam grumbled. Spider had not seen him approach, but he recognized the voice. He turned toward it and glared at Tellam. The tattooed man’s eyes were closed, and his lips moved in silent prayer. Spider kept his gaze locked on Tellam until the man opened his eyes again. The latter returned the stare, but his expression was as blank as stone.

  “Doctor Boddings has a Bible,” Hob piped up. “Least, I think it is a Bible.”

  “I, indeed, have a New Testament,” Doctor Boddings said, “as any decent man should. But I will not lend it to preside over such a wretch as this, this spawn of demons.”

  Spider huffed. “This is my friend.”

  “Your friend, not mine,” Boddings growled. “Nor is he the Lord’s friend, I should say. His soul, such as may be, is consigned elsewhere, I make no doubt.”

  “Damn true,” said Peg. “He’s cursed, he is.”

  “Cursed, indeed,” Boddings agreed. “But bless the Lord for lifting the curse from us, aye? Bless him, gents. Bless him. We no longer sail under Satan’s taint.”

  Spider smelled the alcohol on the doctor’s breath even from a yard away. “You need not be involved, if you have no compassion for one of God’s own. I’ll say the words. Can’t read, but I’ll say the words. I just want to hold the Bible as I pray.”

  “No,” Boddings said, his forehead wrinkling in deep folds. “No. My Bible is not for this . . .” He waved a hand in Ezra’s direction, then stalked off, grumbling.

  Odin shut his good eye and laughed quietly.

  “High words is a waste of your time, Spider,” Barlow said. “Heaven, if it be a real place and not a fucking lie, ain’t got no use for such as him. Nor you, nor me, for that matter. But it is your time to waste, I suppose.”

  “Aye,” Spider answered.

  “What’ll you claim from him? He ain’t got much,” Barlow noted. “Nice knife. Bone handle, looks like. Boots may serve, but his feet are damned huge. Wind prob’ly will cut right through that fucking mangy coat. Take your choice. Crew can bid on the rest.”

  “I’ll take the flask,” Spider said. “That is all.” He reached for the leather-bound flask and sniffed deeply. Strong rum. Spider’s rage grew, but he willed himself to control it. It would not do to let it show, not here, not now.

  “Very well,” Barlow said. “See it don’t lead you to the same sorry state. Say your damned words, then haul him up and over and into the deep, and out of my sight.” Barlow stalked away, cane on his shoulder.

  Spider began sobbing quietly as others drew back or headed elsewhere. “Ezra,” he said quietly, leaning toward his friend’s face. “I’ll avenge this, brother. I swear it.”

  He knew Ezra had not filled himself with liquor and tripped or stumbled into the rail. There was no bloody chance of that.

  Ezra would have a daily dose or two of heavily watered wine, for his health. He would sometimes have a bit of highly diluted grog when he ate. Spider had often urged his friend to drink more, to fend off the constant sniffles and stomach bugs that plagued Ezra.

  But Ezra did not drink hard liquor, and he did not get drunk.

  Ever.

  4

  Spider seethed. He and Ezra had always known death might ride in any day on a musket ball, or on a sword point, or on a mighty storm. Many times they’d spoken of preferring a swift death, that they might avoid hanging or burning. But this! This was death by a coward’s hand, and the more Spider saw, the more certain he was that his friend had been murdered.

  The now-empty flask lay on the deck beside him as Spider tended to his friend. Already, Ezra’s flesh looked pale in the moonlight. Spider was dying to examine the flask, pewter wrapped in leather, to see if it might provide a clue to the killer’s identity.

  He did not dare voice his thoughts, though. There were, perhaps, seventy killers aboard Plymouth Dream, and not a damned one of them cared about justice for Ezra. No one cared, save for Spider John Rush.

  Every one of the suspects already had a past of black deeds, and not one of them was likely to put up with Spider poking around into the circumstances of Ezra’s slaying.

  Spider’s only chance of serving justice on Ezra’s murderer was to remain silent, pretend the ruse with the flask had worked, and act as though his friend had been nothing more than the victim of his own foolish, drunken binge.

  It would be difficult, and painful, but it was the only way.

  Spider’s mind filled with images of Plymouth Dream’s crew.

  Tellam might have done this. Ezra had shown up his friend Jenkins badly, and the man had died at the captain’s hand as a result of that fight. Perhaps Tellam had blamed Ezra and sought vengeance. But with all the talk of witches and curses flying about the vessel in the wake of the fight, any one of the souls aboard might have done the bloody deed, in a bid to erase the supposed curse. For all Spider knew, the same culprit might now be whetting a blade intended for his throat, or waiting in the dark to club him. He was Ezra’s friend and, perhaps, a target because of it.

  He certainly would become a target if he began lobbing accusations and difficult questions.

  He did not even consider taking his concerns to Barlow. Despite his speech about the common good after the fight, the captain likely considered the loss of Ezra a good thing, something that would hush the rough talk and prevent more trouble. If Spider stirred things up, Barlow might well heave him overboard to keep Ezra company.

  Even if Barlow did give a damn about a bloody murder on his own vessel, telling him would only cause a ruckus and alert the crew that Spider was on the hunt.

  No. Spider would not have that. He would keep his head down and his mouth shut. He would pay heed to what went on around him, listen to all that was said, and learn who had killed Ezra Coombs.

  And then, Spider would cut the goddamned bastard in half.

  He could not examine the flask now, but he had a chance to examine Ezra and the vicinity as he removed his friend’s jacket, boots, and knife, then prepared to stitch him into the shroud. Barlow, when asked, said he would not waste sailcloth on Ezra, but he allowed for use of a large and tattered black flag. The ensign was riddled with holes from moths and chain shot, and had been partially burned. It was crusted with sweat, salt, and old blood, and would have been an embarrassment to fly, even over a pirate vessel.

  But it was all Barlow would spare, and it would have to serve. Spider felt strongly that there should be a shroud, however meager it might be.

  The flag bore Barlow’s device of a white skull dripping blood. The irony of that rattled Spider, because the front of Ezra’s head was sharply dented where something had hammered him, and his face and head were sticky with blood.

  Spider winced and slowly ran his fingers over the wound. No . . . wounds. Two clear, deep impressions could be felt beneath the bloody, matted hair. Spider eyed the gunwale, smeared with blood. It was smooth cedar, and he did not see how it could possibly have caused such a pair of wounds. Certainly, Ezra did not fall and hit his head twice, and Spider doubted such vicious wounds would have resulted even if Ezra had run headlong into the rail at full speed. No, the killer had hit Ezra with something hard and heavy, then hit him once again to be sure, and dragged him against the rail. Spider could see a smear of blood on the deck, darkly wet in the bright moonlight.

  Spider’s fingers found something else. He thought it was a shard of bone, but looked at it and realized it was a splinter, embedded in Ezra’s skull. Applewood, not cedar, or he was no carpenter. He pocketed it for later inspection.

  Hob plopped down beside Spider and placed a le
ather-bound New Testament on the deck, next to the spilt liquor and blood. The book was in sorry condition, its pages frayed and its cover whitened by much exposure to salt spray and sun.

  Spider picked it up gently. “Did the doctor change his mind, boy?”

  “No,” Hob said. “But I helped him stow his stuff and knew right where it was. The doctor is asleep already, deep drunk.”

  “Thank you, Hob. We’ll do this quick, then. I ain’t able to read it anyway. After, you can get this back where it belongs.” Spider put a hand on Hob’s shoulder. “Not sure the Lord would like you stealing a Bible.”

  “Borrowing,” Hob said. “Borrowing a Bible, and for a good cause.”

  “Aye,” Spider agreed. “A good cause.”

  Spider placed the book beside his dead friend, careful to keep it from the gore and booze, then finished stitching the shroud shut. He did not run the needle through Ezra’s nose, as was customary, to assure himself Ezra was truly dead. There was no doubt of it.

  Spider closed his eyes, picked up the weather-worn Bible, and began to pray quietly.

  “Lord, Ezra don’t deserve it, and I’ve no right to ask it, but if your mercy be what they say, spare some of it, I beg, for my friend Ezra Coombs. He’s done some ill in this world, as have I, but not so ill as we might have done, and we’d both of us had picked a better path if one had been open to us. If it be worth anything, he was a friend to me as good as any. A sturdy man, a good sailor, honest among friends.

  “God bless his soul, if it please the Lord.”

  And damn the coward who murdered him, he added silently.

  5

  Spider would never forget the sight of his friend slipping into the dark waters. He’d watched from the rail a long time, as though he could still see the bloody black flag sinking in the moonbeams that fought to penetrate the waters, even after Plymouth Dream had passed far beyond the spot.

  He saw nothing but the deepest of graves.

  Spider hid out in the lumber hold. He had not bothered trying to sleep. Instead, he sat there, where a swinging lantern fouled the air and provided untrustworthy light as Dream rolled. Spider stared at the flask, hoping it might provide a vital clue. A couple of times, he kissed Em’s pendant for comfort.