by Steve Goble
“No vengeance, do you heed?” Addison moved in close to Elijah, until the black man returned his gaze. “You know Odin does this sort of thing. You should not grab at the dice. See the fat surgeon,” Addison ordered. “And if you be wise at all, you’ll both keep your mouths closed and you’ll not draw any more blood over a damned game.”
“Lost my bones,” Odin said.
“I will make you a new pair,” Spider said as Addison retreated.
“Ha!” Odin exclaimed.
A friendly gesture such as making a new set of bones might give Spider an inroad to the crew, he thought, although Odin’s quick violence had him wondering whether the coot could have clubbed Ezra. Odin was old—hell, ancient—for a pirate, but his thin arms were roped with muscle, and he had just shown himself to be as quick as a barracuda on the pounce.
Spider headed toward the forward hold, reached the bottom of the ladder, and stopped short. Sitting on a low hammock, whetting a knife against an oiled stone, Tellam flashed a cheerless grin that looked gray in the faint light streaming down the hatchway. As Dream rolled, that light faded and brightened, lending Tellam an almost spectral aspect as his face vanished, reappeared, and vanished again.
“They tell me you spent a lot of time sniffing your friend’s blood on the deck,” the man said.
“I stopped there to say farewell again, yes,” Spider answered. He tried to make it sound civil, but was fairly certain he’d failed.
“Sad thing, him getting all drunk like that.” Tellam inhaled deeply, then whispered his next words. “Satan leads a man into dark ways.”
“So I’ve heard.” Spider walked toward the hatch to the lower hold. He steeled himself as he passed Tellam, alert for any sudden move, and keenly aware of the sharp blade in Tellam’s hands. Spider placed his own hand on the hilt of the knife in his bucket. Other men snored nearby. Spider wondered if he’d walked into an ambush.
He walked three steps beyond Tellam and pulled his own knife free. He figured the bucket itself might make a good weapon or shield. But there was no need for that. Tellam remained seated.
“You think I killed your friend, Spider John?”
Spider exhaled slowly, and turned even more slowly. He kept the knife concealed behind the bucket. “Did you?”
Tellam shrugged. “Maybe his curse just laid him out. Witch blood, you know. Can’t be good for a body.” Spider could not make out the man’s features in the uncertain light, but he could hear the mockery in his voice. He could hear other men rustling about in their hammocks. He willed himself to be calm and still.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Spider said.
“It’s best he’s gone, I say.” Tellam resumed sharpening his blade. “Better him than the rest of us.”
Spider resisted the temptation to strike. His throat felt as taut as a hawser towing a heavy prize, but he managed to spit and get his voice under control.
“I’ll pray for a safe voyage,” Spider said. “But first I’ll pray for some sleep.”
“If you think I murdered your friend, Spider John,” Tellam said quietly, “I will be happy to discuss it with you, swords in hand, anytime you want.”
“I have made no accusation,” Spider answered. He had meant to add, “and vengeance belongs to the Lord,” but had not been able to get the words out. He was not going to leave that work to the Lord.
“See that you don’t,” Tellam said. “And you’d best hope that curse is truly lifted, because you brought that devil spawn aboard, didn’t you?”
By the time Spider climbed into the lower hold, he was shaking with anger—and more than a little fear. Staring down Tellam was like staring down a rattlesnake.
8
It was dark when Spider emerged again on deck. Clouds obscured stars and moon, and a chilly wind rocked the lanterns swinging from ratlines. Weatherall scratched something resembling a tune from a sadly worn fiddle, while Peg danced nimbly about and hopped higher on one leg than many men could on two. Thomas the cat cavorted, seeming to be playing a game in which he got underneath Peg at each leap, then darted to safety just before the man’s wooden leg thumped the hard deck.
Around them, men clapped or jeered.
Spider worked his way through the men toward a large kettle and the aroma of pork. Smoke curled from the kettle, swinging on a metal stand to keep it level as the ship pitched and yawed. Boddings lifted the heavy lid and poked a fork in. He yanked out a small slab of burnt meat and slammed the kettle lid down. “Say no word of complaint, sailor,” Boddings said, thrusting the pork toward Spider as if he were aiming a rapier at his heart. “It is horrible, but it is hot. Cold salt pork will not do in weather such as this, I dare say, although it seems effort goes unappreciated among pirates.”
Spider grabbed a plank of wood from the pile near the kettle and a wooden cup from the barrel next to it. “I can eat anything, Doctor,” he said. “Often have had to.” He recalled the surgeon’s holier-than-all harshness after Ezra’s death and wanted to shove the fool’s head into his damn kettle, but he would never solve the murder puzzle that way. He willed himself to be calm and civil.
Boddings snarled. “The boy Hob has hardtack, and they’ve tapped a terribly sour wine yonder.” He aimed his thumb over his shoulder, and Spider went to fill his cup. He drained it, filled it again, and then found himself a spot against a hatch cover and sat down to eat.
Odin ate, grinned, and laughed in his own spot, leaning against a gun carriage. Spider dug into his pocket, withdrew the pair of oak cubes he’d cut and painted, and rolled them across the deck toward Odin. Spider had found the distraction comforting after his encounter with Peter Tellam.
The one-eyed man scooped the bones up and smiled.
“Better than what I lost,” he said. “Tobacco in trade?”
Spider nodded. “Aye. I’ll appreciate that.”
Hob came forth, smiling and holding out the bread bucket as though it were a gift from God. “Biscuit, Spider John?”
“Aye. If you have a bit without something crawling about in it, that would be nice.”
“All infested, I fear, but the rats ain’t been in it,” Hob said. “This one is not too bad, I suppose.”
Spider eyed the bread, and the bugs swirling within it, and shrugged. He had certainly eaten worse.
“Sit and eat with me, boy,” Spider said. “I have questions.”
Spider placed the bread on his slab of wood, tore it into chunks, and crushed weevils in his fingers before flicking them dead on the deck. Then he speared his knife into the pork and bit into it. Salt pork, burned in a black kettle full of smoke, and not much of it. Oh well, he thought. Starving would not help matters. He took another bite.
Hob seemed intrigued. “What sort of questions, sir?”
Spider chewed a long time, waving a finger to let Hob know he’d heard him. He also pondered how much he could safely say. Hob seemed innocent enough, but the boy had been aboard the ship before Spider arrived. Spider had no idea what allegiances the lad may have formed among this murderous crew.
Finally, he dug the holstered pewter flask from his coat pocket. “I did not see in the dark, but this is not Ezra’s flask,” he said. “You think he stole it?”
“I don’t know,” Spider said. “Perhaps it was borrowed, like Doctor Boddings’s Bible.” He winked at the boy, who grinned. “In any event, it is not Ezra’s and I should not like to keep it. It should go to its rightful owner. You are a bright lad. Have you seen it before? Know who it belongs to?”
Hob took it, turned it over in his hands, removed it from the leather harness, and even sniffed it. “I don’t know anyone’s got something nice as this.”
“Yes, it is a good flask,” Spider said. “You certain you don’t know whose it is?”
“Sorry. No. I can ask about, if you like.”
“I can do that m’self,” Spider said. “Thanks.”
Odin stood, laughing, and tossed his plank and cup into a barrel before wandering off.
“What is that man’s story?” Spider wondered aloud.
“Odin? He sailed with Blackbeard.”
“He sailed with Edward Teach?” Blackbeard was the notorious pirate of legend, as dread and frightening a figure as piracy had ever produced. Tales of his crimes and murders rolled like wind across the Spanish Main and up and down the colonial coast.
“Aye,” Hob said in a tone of quiet awe. “He seen Blackbeard himself kill a dozen men at once, with his beard on fire and a sword in each hand.”
Spider spat away some gristle. “Edward Teach is dead, you know. It might surprise you to learn this, but he bled like anyone else.”
“After being cut fifty times and shot a hundred,” Hob said.
“Tales, Hobgoblin. Just stories.”
“They cut off his head, to keep him dead, and tossed his body overboard. And his headless corpse swam around the ship three times before it disappeared. Odin told me all about it.”
“Was Odin there?”
“No, but he knew Teach and he heard it all.”
“I got my doubts, boy.”
“Blackbeard will rise up from the deep someday,” Hob said. “Lookin’ for his head.”
“We should look for your head, Hob. You ain’t using it.”
Weatherall stopped fiddling, bent low to acknowledge the jeers from the crowd, then walked toward Spider and Hob. He dropped his bow and fished around in Hob’s bucket for a biscuit. “Can’t say it is bad to have your friend gone,” he said without looking Spider in the eye. “Curse and all that. But I suppose you feel the loss, eh?”
“Aye,” Spider said. He clenched a fist and thought about breaking Weatherall’s nose, but decided against it.
Weatherall didn’t seem to notice the fist. “Did you know his past?”
“Ezra didn’t talk much.”
“Well, then.” Weatherall chewed his bread, spat out a wriggling weevil. “Curses and deaths. A bad thing. A bad thing, but, well. May we all have a more pleasant voyage now.” He looked at Spider and sighed.
“A bad thing,” Weatherall said, scratching at the still-young beard on his cheek.
Spider took the flask from Hob and showed it to the fiddler. “Do you know who owns this? I thought it was Ezra’s but mistook it in the dark. It is not his.”
Weatherall looked at it, scrunched up his eyes, and tilted his head in thought. “I’ve not seen it before, as far as I reckon. Ain’t been aboard much longer than you, though.”
“I’ll ask about,” Spider answered with a nod. “It is a good flask, and I suppose the man would like to have it back.”
Weatherall leaned forward and picked up his bow. “Might just wave it about here and ask,” he suggested.
“Not a bad thought,” Spider said as Weatherall moved on. Peg and Tellam watched from the rail, sneering. Spider rose, tucked his knife into his belt, and walked into the brightest lantern light he could find. He held up the flask.
“This,” he said loudly, “is a decent flask, as decent as an empty flask can be, anyway. It was found with Ezra Coombs, and I apologize to the owner he, um, borrowed it from.” Spider silently asked the Lord, and Ezra, to forgive him for that bit of slander. “In the dark, I thought it was his own, but when I got a better look I realized it was not.” He turned in a slow circle as men gathered closely around him.
“If it be yours, you may have it back. I ask no price for it.” Spider looked closely at the ship’s company, gauging reactions, but learned nothing. No one claimed the item.
“Well then,” he said. “I’ll ask about below, too, and you all pass the word. If any be missing a good flask, come see me.” He tucked it into his pocket and headed aft.
Word would pass quickly aboard the vessel. Boredom meant men seized on the least of things for conversation. All would be asking about the flask, pondering who owned it. Someone might recall something, and say so, even if the killer himself was too clever to give himself away. All he needed was for one man to say to another, “Isn’t that yours?”
Spider hoped any talk about the flask would force a killer out of hiding.
9
Another night brought nightmares and fitful sleep. He had seen Ezra, his face peering out from the bloody black flag, fading into a deep sea lit by hellfire below. Spider’s gram had been there to welcome Ezra into hell, and she had waved and smiled to beckon him, too. “Come, Johnny, come.”
That had forced him awake in the deep of the night, and Elijah had growled at him to stay quiet. Spider wondered if he had been talking in his sleep; if so, had he said anything that might alert Ezra’s killer that Spider was on the hunt? Had he blurted out enough for someone to deduce his own bewitched bloodline?
Spider had a devil of a time returning to sleep after that.
Someone whistled, and he thought he made out the words “bugger the king.”
He donned his pea coat and climbed up on deck. Sails were going up and catching wind, and the sharp snap of filling canvas could be heard even over the shouts and jeers. Peg stood nearby, laughing.
Spider tapped Peg’s shoulder. “Why such a din?”
The one-legged man spoke without turning to look at Spider. “Our friend from the Admiralty is back,” he said. “Three masts, acres of sail, and slow as hell. Turns like a boulder.”
Spider did not bother to fight through the crowd looking aft. Instead, he climbed a ratline and looked over their heads. There in the distance astern stood a frigate under English colors, bow aimed precisely at Plymouth Dream. She would carry twenty-eight guns at the least, Spider thought, far outgunning Barlow’s ship. He looked skyward, felt the wind on his cheek. Steady, and in the frigate’s favor. Dream was built for sturdiness and cargo, not for speed, and Spider figured the frigate ought to be able to run her down with ease.
The crew disagreed with that assessment. They jeered and catcalled. Weatherall stood in the ropes, above the crowd, waving a dirty white sheet wildly back and forth. “Fuck all kings and admirals! Fuck them all!”
Spider did not join in the shouting. “Seen her before, I take it?” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the commotion.
“Aye,” Peg answered. “This is the third time in a month. Haunting us, she is, but she ain’t catching us.”
“Bring ’er about, lads, south by southeast,” Barlow called. “Look alive, damn ye! If you let these pigs catch you, I shall hang you my damn self, I will! Haul now!” Barlow ranged amidships like a caged cougar, eager to pounce on something.
Hoots emanated from the men around him as Dream swung around and her sails filled again with a series of sharp snaps. Spider watched the pursuer, and it seemed Peg’s assessment was true. The frigate certainly looked like a sweet dancer, but she apparently was crewed by pressed men and layabouts. She came around slowly in pursuit, and the distance between hunter and hunted grew accordingly. Old Lieutenant Bentley, Spider’s nemesis of old, surely would be knocking some heads if he were over there, Spider supposed. It was not as though Dream’s crew was made up of God’s finest-made sailors, but they’d managed to outmaneuver the navy lads.
“As I said, she ain’t catching us,” Peg yelled.
“Not today, she won’t,” Spider said. He dropped to the deck.
Weatherall shouted, “Bugger the royals!” and lobbed a few more choice words for the king before heading toward the hatch leading below.
“Addison! Carry your lard over here, if you please,” Barlow roared, pulling at his own beard.
The burly first mate answered the captain’s call. “Here I be, Cap’n, fit to fight for all my somewhat excessive weight. What is your pleasure?”
“I have in mind a ruse,” Barlow said. “I want to feint toward Bermuda. We shall dance, of course, tack as need be, but keep us on a southeasterly way, and let yonder frigate see us before we leave her behind. If she thinks we are Bermuda-bound, we might throw the hound off our scent.”
“Aye, sir, a sound plan, and a few extra days will not cost us, I agree. O
ur friend will wait. I shall make it so.”
“Good man, I rely upon it. Carry on, mate.”
“Aye, sir.”
Barlow headed aft toward the officers’ bay in the hold before the poop deck.
With excitement among the men fading, Spider headed below again. No one had claimed the flask or pointed out its owner—nor did anyone seem concerned that he was asking about it. Whichever of these sons of bitches killed Ezra, Spider thought, he’s got balls of oak.
Spider dropped into the crew hold. Weatherall was returning the filthy white sheet to his hammock.
“You certainly have no love for our navy friends,” Spider said.
“None at all,” Weatherall growled. “Got pressed once, whipped twice, no good reason other than some officer wanted to maintain discipline, as they say. To hell with that.”
Weatherall started back up the ladder. Spider rolled into his own hammock and closed his eyes. He did not intend to fall asleep, but he did. Images of Ezra sinking in his black shroud soon filled his mind. It would be another night of haunted dreams.
10
Spider’s investigation had not progressed a bit. Another day of subtle questions elicited only evasions and grunts. Small talk ended when he came around.
Today might well offer chances for talk, though, for it was Sunday.
While Plymouth Dream failed to observe many nautical traditions, such as decks scrubbed clean and keeping hands busy with routine maintenance chores, there was one tradition Barlow had insisted upon—duff to eat on Sundays. On naval and merchant vessels, Sunday was a day of rest and a day to enjoy the flour pudding flavored with molasses. It was considered a treat by seamen fed on cold salt meat and bug-ridden bread the rest of the week, and a Sunday without duff was considered sacrilege.
Spider stood in a slow line behind Peg, holding a wooden bowl, a wooden spoon, and a leather mug. The one-legged man, who had been at least a tad courteous toward Spider as compared to many, turned to him and asked, “Anyone claimed that flask?”
“No,” Spider said. “Is it yours?”