The Bloody Black Flag

by Steve Goble

  It was a small pewter flask, of the sort hunters sometimes carried, wrapped in a leather harness and small enough to tuck into a pocket. He had not found the cork. Full, the flask might have been heavy enough to strike a fatal blow, especially if swung at the end of a long strap. The harness had fittings for a strap, but there was none attached and Spider had not found one near Ezra’s body. He examined the leather harness, which bore old scratches and stains, but no fresh marks.

  Spider teased the flask from the harness. He had seen such flasks elaborately engraved; sometimes they bore the name of the owner or the name of a ship or a particular battle. This one showed no signs at all, save for a small maker’s mark that meant nothing to Spider.

  He sniffed at the empty bottle and again recognized the strong scent of rum.

  The flask told him nothing else. He rummaged about, found a length of leather cord, and fashioned a strap for the harness. He returned flask to leather and hung the damned thing on a lantern hook.

  He pulled the splinter from his pocket. He smelled it, peered at it, twirled it in his fingers, and chewed on it. It was applewood, no doubt. Spider wished that fact told him more, but at least it was something.

  Almost anybody aboard Plymouth Dream might have been the culprit. No one had admitted seeing anything or hearing any sounds of a scuffle. It must have been a surprise attack. Had it been a real fight, Ezra no doubt would have marked his man. No one fought Ezra without getting hurt. Spider determined to eye faces come morning, looking for bruises and scratches, but he knew it likely would be folly. All the signs pointed to a sneak attack.

  So, then, who could the culprit be?

  Tellam was the obvious suspect. He would bear watching.

  Even so, Spider could not accuse the man of murder on the basis of what he knew so far. Tellam likely had mates aboard, and perhaps one of them had struck a blow as a favor. And all the talk of Satan’s taint and witch blood . . . anyone might have attacked out of fear. Tellam could have instigated the slaying, convincing someone else to do the bloody deed.

  Spider cursed himself for thinking in circles and willed himself to concentrate.

  He tried to remember who had been on deck at the time. Men of Dowd’s watch, and there were only a few of those. Dowd, of course, a quiet man Barlow deemed worthy to take charge at night. Weatherall, Dobbin, and Peg all were assigned to that late watch, and a few others whose names he had not yet learned. It mattered little who was assigned, though, for watches meant very little aboard Plymouth Dream.

  On a naval ship, or on a legitimate merchant craft, for that matter, comings and goings were easier to track. Men kept regular watches, with times set for working and for sleeping, and there were ample officers’ eyes upon them. Everyone had a particular place to be, and a particular time to be there.

  That was not the case on a pirate vessel, and certainly not the case aboard Plymouth Dream. Some men had particular tasks, while others seemed only to take up space, with no apparent use until it came time for a fight. Nothing happened on a schedule, and Spider had seen crewmen swap watches freely with little supervision. The men on Plymouth Dream frequently traded chores or gambled to foist their duties off on others. All that likely would change if the ship went into battle; he’d already been told that his role in a fight would be boarding party duty unless ordered otherwise. Men would know what to do when bloodshed was in the offing, but they cared little for the day-to-day work of sailing.

  As for his own watch, Spider could not narrow anything down there, either. They had been below sleeping, for the most part, but men had gone up top and come back down throughout the night, whether they went up to piss or smoke or drink or just to get away from the stench below, a miasma of sweat, farts, urine, and the odor of boiling whale fat soaked into the wood, plus Elijah’s damnable woman scent.

  Spider held a saw, momentarily imagining it slicing the neck of Ezra’s killer, then placed it into the large bucket, the one he had picked to hold the best tools. The dangling flask threw an odd shadow against the bulkhead, like a man swinging from a gallows. Spider snatched the damned thing off the hook and threw it into a corner.

  Who might have had strong reason to kill Ezra?

  Captain Barlow, perhaps.

  Hell, the captain may have slain Ezra just to shut mouths and end all the talk of curses and witches. He’d made a grand talk after killing Jenkins, but might well have decided the loss of one more able fighter was not so bad a price to pay to quell the bitching during a lengthy voyage.

  For all his talk of strength in numbers, Barlow himself was on the wrong end of that equation. He ruled, through guile and strength and terror, but only so long as his crew did not rise up. He had no marines, no Admiralty to enforce his will, and the captain knew it—Spider could see it in his eyes.

  The captain had stepped in to stop Ezra and Tellam from killing one another. Had his tough talk and threats been only that? Something to stop a volatile situation from growing worse? Perhaps Barlow, once things had settled down, had carefully arranged an accident in the night. Find Ezra, club him dead, drag him against the rail, and drop a flask of rum. A sad and tragic event, but one that kept fear and anger from fermenting into an uprising, and one that kept Barlow from having to openly kill another member of his crew. Men might balk at the fear of such a thing, but if Barlow turned threat into deed too often he might well touch off a mutinous powder keg. But an accident, God’s judgment and not the captain’s, might serve.

  Once coming to that conclusion, Barlow would not even have to do the bloody job himself. Either Dowd or Addison, the only two Barlow seemed to trust at all, might have arranged the death on Barlow’s orders. Or they might have done so on their own initiative.

  And what of Doctor Boddings? He had made his disdain for Ezra quite clear. The doctor was no fighter, but it took no fighter to crack a man’s skull in a surprise blow. Ezra might not have suspected such a thing at all from the rotund surgeon, and might well have let his guard down. The doctor had been drinking rum, too. Was the flask his?

  Why was Boddings aboard this vessel, anyway? He must be sixty years old if he was a day, Spider guessed. Why turn pirate at that age? Boddings had said he wished to reach Jamaica, but he had not really talked of his future or his past, and had done his best to avoid conversation. He kept to himself, and his manner kept others away from him.

  Might Boddings have some mysterious agenda? Might Ezra have somehow run afoul of him?

  And what in hell was this talk of Ezra muttering about a woman? What woman?

  Other men’s faces flashed in his mind. Elijah. Dobbin. Crazy Odin.

  It all made Spider dizzy.

  He found an old knife blade in the bucket and began seeking some decent wood or bone to serve as a handle. He searched among the strewn metal and wood and rope and bone for anything he could fashion into small weapons he might conceal. He thanked the Lord he was a carpenter and could go about with sharp things without arousing suspicion.

  Spider and Ezra had boarded Dream together, and the killer might believe Spider carried the taint of Satan as well.

  Spider spat on his hands and rubbed them together rapidly. He had work to do. If it came to a fight, he would give them hell.

  6

  Shortly after first light, Spider wrapped himself in his pea coat, bound his unkempt blond-brown hair into a black strip of rag, and climbed on deck. A steady wind filled the sail, and Plymouth Dream was riding nicely with her larboard side high and a gentle rocking fore and aft. The sky was gray, and the clouds were low. The cold seeped into the earring he wore, and the stud felt like an icicle piercing his lobe.

  Hob was carting about a bucket of hardtack, and Spider grabbed a couple. “Fresh water forward,” Hob said.

  Thomas the cat trailed Hob.

  “Did you get the doctor’s Bible back where he keeps it, boy?” He did not really care whether Boddings got his book back, but he was tired of silence.

  “Yes, sir, I did. He snores and grum
bles a good deal in his sleep, but he’s dead to the world when he’s drunk. There was no trick to it.”

  “Good. He’d been drinking hard, I’d judge.”

  “Always seems to,” Hob said before rushing aft to distribute biscuits.

  Spider’s bucket contained mallets, a file, pliers, calipers, a couple of rulers—and the long knife, its new handle conspicuously white so it could be spotted and plucked free quickly. He had his belt knife, too.

  Spider went about inspecting the ship, checking fittings and planking, spars and ratchets, booms and hatches. By an act of will, he made himself start far aft, away from the point amidships where Ezra had been killed. He did not want anyone to think he was on the hunt.

  There was endless work for any carpenter on any ship, even one in excellent condition, and Spider saw many things that needed attention, but none that needed immediate work. As he stooped by a scupper, feeling for rot and finding none, he was aware of the gazes that followed him. He had lost a friend, but there would be little sympathy shown among this crew. Pirate lives were easily lost, and he was not among old acquaintances here.

  Men turned away quickly whenever he looked at them, but Spider made a point of studying faces, looking for fresh cuts or bruises, signs to show perhaps Ezra had been able to fight back after all. He saw none. All the scratches, cuts, and scrapes he spotted had been there for days, at least.

  There was not a man aboard who did not have bloodstains somewhere on his clothes, but Spider saw none that looked fresh.

  No one spoke to him, and most hands went silent when he came nearby. A couple of times he tried to strike up a conversation, hoping to nail down who had been up on deck at the time of Ezra’s death. He got little but shrugs and stares in return.

  The one exception was the strange cuss they called Odin. When Spider studied his gruesome face, the man stared back at him with his one good eye. Odin laughed quietly before turning and climbing into the hold.

  Spider shuddered and looked for Tellam. He saw no sign of the tattooed bastard—and he reckoned that was a good thing for Tellam.

  He heard the tapping of Barlow’s cane before he heard the man’s voice. “And how do you find our pretty Plymouth Dream, sir carpenter?”

  “Tools were a righteous mess, but Dream seems sound enough. Her boats are horrible. I’ll know more after I get around the ship.” Spider was in no mood to talk to Barlow, but he forced himself. He wanted a closer look at the pistol tucked into Barlow’s belt.

  Barlow stared off into the sky. “It is good, Spider, good to get on with your work. Addy did good with you, I think. You may be worth keeping around.”

  “I keep busy, sir.” The grip of Barlow’s gun might be applewood, Spider thought. He’d have given much to get his hands on it, to see if it had recently splintered or been stained with blood. But Barlow was in constant motion, and Spider never got a clear look at the gun for long.

  The captain tapped a spot on the taffrail with his cane. “There, I think. A swivel gun would be useful there. Blast at anyone trying to rake us. We have one below. I will tell Addy to have it fetched up. You can mount it.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Barlow glanced about at men tossing coins and dice, eating hardtack, idiotically attempting to juggle knives on a rolling deck, or dozing against a gun mount. Pirate vessels needed many hands for thievery at sea, but Dream did not require so many hands to sail her. Life on the account was largely an endless search for diversion.

  “Initiative such as yours is sorely lacking, I should say.” Barlow smiled. “Hell, it’s no matter. They’re hungry, wanting for something, too idle. We’ll likely find us some prey as we get farther south. A little profit, hey? And a little hard work to earn it? And then a sunny place in the Caribbean to spend it all, and a rendezvous with friends. We’ve a small fleet, Spider, a small but mighty fleet.”

  “Aye,” Spider said.

  Barlow left abruptly, and Spider continued working his way about the vessel. The masts and booms were sound, and the deck was in good shape, if in need of a good scrape with the holystones. There’d be some work to keep these lazy hands busy, he thought, but he decided against saying anything to Barlow. The man knew his deck was filthy, and he could decide for himself whether that needed correcting.

  Finally, with the sun a bit higher and the wind easing off, Spider came to the spot he sorely wished to inspect. Bloodstains on the deck showed where Ezra had fallen, and a smear indicated he’d been dragged a short distance to the rail.

  He looked around for a cork but found none. It bothered him that the cork should be missing; no one wandered about with an uncorked flask. He looked this way and that, imagined the damned thing rolling about, and realized that the tossing deck might have sent it anywhere. Seeking it was useless.

  Spider ran his fingers across the bloody wood, then wiped away a tear. A familiar scent arrested his attention, and he sniffed his finger again. Gunpowder. He eyed the deck more closely and knelt until his nose almost touched it. Gunpowder, grains scattered here and there, some of them stuck in the bloody stains.

  Spider closed his eyes and tried to envision the murder. Ezra, staring at the sky or off to sea. A half-dozen men, maybe, on deck because of duty, and who knows how many there just because there was nowhere else to be? Privacy was scarce on a crowded ship.

  Had the killer tried to shoot Ezra, and perhaps suffered a misfire, then used the butt of the gun as a club?

  No, Spider decided. That made no sense. A shot would have drawn a dozen eyes instantly, and the ruse with the flask indicated an attempt at deception. Also, a misfire would have given Ezra a chance to bloody the son of a bitch.

  No, the killer had not tried to shoot Ezra, but that did not rule out the butt of a blunderbuss as a convenient club. Only Barlow and Addison carried guns aboard Dream. Or, perhaps, a belaying pin had served as a weapon; the presence of gunpowder did not prove a gun had been used. Powder was no surprise on a ship like this, and these decks were rarely cleaned. That gunpowder might have been there long before Ezra was killed.

  Spider imagined the killer skulking toward his prey, perhaps creeping beneath the boom. The man would have had almost no time to do the bloody deed before being seen, so he would have struck quickly. One sudden blow, and another to make certain.

  What would follow the clubbing?

  Drag the body toward the rail. Had the killer intended to heave Ezra overboard? Probably. That would have made Ezra just another damned sailor who vanished in the night.

  But Ezra was a big fellow. Dream had many strong, stout men among her crew, but lifting Ezra would not be easy, nor would it be something that could be done quickly.

  So, the attempt failed. Perhaps someone approached, or the killer grew nervous. In any event, here was a dead body on the deck of a captain who might react badly—unless he was the killer himself. So improvise. Drag the dead man against the rail, drop the flask, smear some blood on the gunwale, duck out of sight, emerge with the crowd once the body was discovered.

  Spider looked around and tried to decide where he might dash if he had to vanish in an instant. He might have rolled to starboard under the mainsail boom, or dodged behind a ship’s boat. He might have scurried into the hold, for the hatch was not far away. There were shadows, too. On a night vessel with no real routine, it might be done.

  Vanishing may well have been the simplest part of the crime, even for a killer with nowhere to run.

  Damn! Spider tried to recall who was on deck when he came up top, but it was a blur. He remembered Weatherall and Dowd were close by the body, and Barlow showed up quickly, but there were others milling about. And Spider had gotten there slowly, groggy from a bad sleep.

  Trying to remember faces and voices from that dark night would get him nowhere. He had to focus on the evidence at hand, scant though it may be.

  7

  By late afternoon the lack of sleep finally caught up to Spider. Having cut away part of the taffrail and mounted the swivel gun
as a stern chaser, with the help of five men who had said hardly a thing during the labor, there was no other immediate carpentry work to be done. The worst problem he’d seen was the figurehead—the “figureheadless,” perfumed Elijah had dubbed it. A cannonball had long ago decapitated the poor wench, leaving only a savagely torn and splintered neck above her naked torso. It seemed a bad omen to Spider, but Addison said she’d been that way almost a year, so Spider saw no need to hurry in making repairs.

  Odin and Elijah sat on a hatch cover, playing dice. Spider nodded at them, and they both grunted in return. Odin’s long, unruly hair was pulled back from his face and held by hairpins that looked like brass. The pins provided a better view of the ugly scars where his eye had been, and lent him an even more sinister visage.

  Elijah rolled the bones and shouted, “Six!” He scooped up the dice, and quicker than a wink Odin whipped a hairpin from his head and stabbed Elijah’s forearm.

  “Damn! Bastard!” Elijah jerked his injured arm back, prompting a small shower of blood in the hairpin’s wake. The dice clattered away across the deck to vanish through a scupper.

  “Do not snatch them up before I see them,” Odin said. Then he laughed his usual dry chuckle and replaced the bloody narrow spike in his hair.

  Addison, looking around wildly, rushed forth. “Confound, gents, what do you do here? If Cap’n should see this, one of you or both would die quick, and you know it.”

  “Ha!” Odin barked. “I am not scared of Barlow.”

  “We’ve lost enough hands,” Addy said tersely but quietly. “Elijah, can you work?”

  “He stuck me good, sir, but I will recover.” He held up his arm, his hand clasped over the hole, and glared at the crazy coot who’d stabbed him.