by Steve Goble
Spider spat in contempt of the forces arrayed against him and furiously bit his tongue.
11
“So, there, lad,” Doctor Boddings told the man rising from the hammock. The common area surrounded by the officers’ small bunks had been converted into a temporary surgery, and Boddings had just finished wrapping a bandage around a man’s torn tricep. “You shall be able to work, I dare say, and this mess will mend nicely. A tot of rum might help with the pain a bit, I should think.”
Spider, aboard Plymouth Dream again, waited at the top of the ladder with Weatherall and a couple of other wounded men while Boddings uncorked a small jug and poured a stingy shot of rum into a pewter cup. The patient took the cup, nodded appreciatively, swigged down the liquor, and then headed up the ladder.
“Glad to see the surgeon prescribes rum,” Spider said. “Although I suspect most of his prescribing is done for himself.”
Weatherall looked at Spider as though he was unsure whether to talk. “Aye, perhaps. Might be Boddings is helping himself a bit more often than the captain would like.”
“I do not think Cap’n would appreciate that,” Spider said.
“No.” Weatherall laughed.
“What do you think he plans for the girl?”
“I do not know,” Weatherall said, his tone growing more serious. “Perhaps he is just saving her for himself, as captains are wont to do, or perhaps he thinks he can sell her, or compel a ransom. Addison seems to have more immediate plans.”
“Aye,” Spider said. “Think Barlow and Addison might come to blows?”
Weatherall’s eyebrows lifted, but he shrugged, saying nothing.
Elijah came by bearing two buckets sloshing with water. The slender man was entirely naked and dripping wet. “Cap’n has five sisters,” he said. “I have never yet heard him say a foul thing ’bout a woman, nor seen him hurt one.”
“The devil you say,” Spider answered.
“Truth. I think that is why he spared her,” Elijah said, “and I’ll bet a tenth of my share against a tenth of yours he does not allow her to come to harm.”
“Genteel manners in a pirate captain,” Weatherall mumbled. “The Lord doth move in mysterious ways, or so we are told.”
“I think I will not take your bet,” Spider said. “I have seen stranger things upon the Spanish Main.”
Elijah winked. “If you’d be clean, here’s your opportunity, gents,” he said, setting down his burden of buckets. Spider ripped off his own tattered shirt and the sweat-soaked kerchief from his head, and decided to leave his britches and boots on. He tossed aside shirt and kerchief, then used his hands to cup water from one of the buckets and splash his face, shoulders, arms, and chest.
Beside him, Weatherall stripped off his own long-sleeved shirt and draped it over his arm. Weatherall’s shirt was covered in blood—most of it the blood of other men—but otherwise was in much better condition than Spider’s.
“You handle that blade of yours well,” Spider said. “Seems nary a sword got through your guard, except that devilish one that sliced up your leg.”
“My father knew how to fight, taught me well,” Weatherall said, lifting a bucket and turning it upside down over his head. Spider grabbed the other bucket and did likewise. The soaking felt good, as it was the closest thing to a bath Spider had enjoyed in weeks. The goddamned decks could use a good soaking and scraping, too, Spider thought, but he doubted that was going to happen. No captain in Spider’s experience would have tolerated the bloody mess that coated Dream’s decks, but Barlow apparently did not give a damn.
The next man in the medical line headed below. Spider nodded at the ugly rip across Weatherall’s thigh. “That is a painful sight.”
“I will be fine,” Weatherall said, then pointed over Spider’s shoulder. “He will not be.”
Spider looked where Weatherall had pointed and saw two men cradling a third in their arms. The fellow they carried bled profusely at the belly, and the men carrying him cried for the doctor.
“He fell into a boat,” said one of the couriers, a malcontent named Bartleman. “We just found him moaning. God, he’s in a bad way.” They laid him at the feet of Spider and Weatherall.
“This man’s hurt worse than any of us,” Spider called down into the hold.
“We thought him dead,” said the other man accompanying the wounded man. “Guts are all ripped. But he breathes yet.”
Boddings, cursing, climbed up the ladder. “I will take a look, damn ye.” He did not clamber entirely out of the hatch, but instead froze with his head and shoulders peeping out from below. He looked at the wounded man and muttered, “Wasted time, gents, wasted time.” The doctor called to his patient below. “Hand me up that black bottle there, from my kit. No, that one, ye lout! The bottle tucked into the strap. Yes, that one, damn ye. Hand it up, smart now. Waste not a moment.”
Boddings received the small black bottle and handed it to Weatherall. “Have the poor wretch drink this, right away. Then take him somewhere, as peaceful a spot as you can find. He will not live long. Shouldn’t waste the medicine, frankly, but . . . I am a Christian man. This won’t save him, but it will kill the pain, most of it, anyway.”
Then the doctor clambered back down, cursing.
Spider held the man’s mouth open while Weatherall poured the thick fluid. It smelled horrible. “What do you think . . . ?”
Weatherall shook his head. “I have no idea what this is.”
The man was moaning, and trying to shake his head back and forth in agony, but clearly was not swallowing. The thick blue fluid welled up in his mouth and oozed down his cheeks. Spider felt the man’s forehead and could not recall ever touching flesh so hot. Spider smacked the man’s cheek in hopes of inducing him to swallow; the patient gagged and convulsed violently but swallowed the medicine. Then a gasp ripped from his chest, and Spider thought the man’s life likely flew out upon it.
Spider struggled to remember the man’s name, or anything about him.
“See to him,” Weatherall told the men who had brought the wretch. “Soak a rag, mop his brow, try to make him comfortable. May he rest in peace.”
“I don’t even know his name,” Spider said.
“Tallmadge,” Weatherall said. “Works aloft, mostly. Quiet man.”
Spider and Weatherall were lost in thought when a shout broke the silence. “Cap’n! We’ve done well, indeed, sir!”
It was Addison, hollering from atop Loon’s forecastle.
Barlow replied. “And how well might that be, Addy?”
“Three chests, full to the brim with silver bars, a couple thousand pounds sterling silver by my estimation,” Addison said, his words eliciting a round of loud cheers. “Also, she carries a wealth of timber and chilies, tobacco by the ton, six hogs, plus other food and water aplenty. And lots of hogsheads of wine, sir! I took the liberty, as they say, and judge it to be very fine. French, unless I miss my mark, and I seldom do with wine. Fit to celebrate with the Frenchman when we meet, I dare say!”
“You dare say?” Barlow yanked a gun from his belt and fired at Addison, but the ball struck the mast behind the captain’s intended victim. “You have had enough wine, damn ye! Enough, I say, you loose-tongued son of a mermaid whore!”
The distance was enough to render the shot an unlikely success, but still a flying ball of lead was a danger not to be discounted. Nonetheless, Addison showed no fear, nor even a twitch; indeed, he gave what Spider considered to be a rather courtly bow. “Admonishment deserved, my dear cap’n, admonishment deserved. ’Tis thirsty work, killing and thieving and counting, and it wearies the brain, sir, it truly does, but I should have awaited your pleasure, sir, before saying so much. I will bring you a more exhaustive accounting of our new belongings as soon as may be. It shall be some time.”
Addison rose from his bow and stumbled backward a step. Spider judged the first mate had sampled the fine French wine several times.
Barlow stuck his empty pistol back into
his belt. “You’re my good right hand, Addy. See that you remain so!” The captain then began climbing into the rigging. “Have those chests of silver hauled over here. Find a goddamn boat over there that doesn’t leak like a fucking wicker basket and get that over here, too. And butcher a hog or two for tonight. We shall celebrate in high fashion, lads! High fashion, indeed! Leave the rest aboard Loon for the moment.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Addison said, turning back toward Loon’s hold.
“Quick to anger, that one,” Spider said, nodding toward Barlow.
“Yes,” Weatherall answered. “Any spark will do, it seems. And any drink’ll do for Addison.”
“Who is the Frenchman?”
“Some bastard they want to sell something,” Weatherall said, shrugging. “They have said little, Barlow and Addison, and they shush when anyone catches them talking about it. Gossip is they have something of rare worth, and a Frenchman intending to purchase it for a handsome price.” Weatherall’s expression said he hoped Spider might shed some light on that mystery, but Spider knew nothing.
“I hope we all get to share in that,” Spider said.
“We shall see. We shall see.”
The current patient lifted himself from the hold. “Doctor says whoever is bleeding the most should go down next.”
Spider indicated Weatherall should climb down. “I do not think my wound will slow me down at all,” Spider said.
“Thank you.” Weatherall bowed. “You are a good man.”
12
A couple of hours later, with a chilly wind out of the west and a blazing orange sun an hour or so from vanishing below the horizon, Spider sat high on the mizzenmast, secured by a safety line and hauling up a new spar to replace a damaged one that had to be cut away. His shirt had been dunked in a bucket and hung on a line to dry, so he was naked to the waist and shivering a bit despite the hard work. Peg worked just above him, explaining how his false leg had broken. He asked about the flask again, and Spider asked for time to think about it. He wasn’t certain he wanted to part with the only physical clue he had to Ezra’s death, but he wasn’t sure what further use he could make of it.
Odin, across the way on the mainmast, inspected rigging repairs and chortled softly. Strange man that he was, Odin seemed to be as fine a rigger as Spider had ever seen and supervised the younger men with a sense of pride and only the occasional reminder that he had sailed with the most notorious pirate who had ever lived.
Below, men who had won dice rolls to push duties off on others or who had simply decided not to work took advantage of Addison’s labors aboard Loon and the captain’s trip belowdecks to keep an eye on stowage of the silver chests. They had already been at the wine, and some rum had been brought up as well.
Spider cursed them and wished someone would motivate these ruffians. Several of them could use a knotted rope against the skull, in Spider’s estimation.
Peg seemed not to notice the party below and went on about his leg.
“Same ball as took out the spar,” Peg said. “I was sitting in the trees, m’legs hanging down, aiming a musket at some scalawag over there on Loon, and the damned ball ripped up through m’wooden leg and through the damn spar. Lost me leg and damn near me ass! Fell at least five feet, straight down, until I got tangled in a ratline. Spent most of the rest of the fight hangin’ from a fuckin’ rope.”
It had to have been the four-pounder that got pounded by one of Plymouth Dream’s guns. Spider recalled how the barrel had tilted upward after its carriage shattered; it was a stern reminder there simply was no safe place on a ship when it went into action. Spider had heard Peg’s tale three times now, but laughed all the same even though he was in an ill humor. For all he knew, Ezra’s killer was among Plymouth Dream’s battle dead, or about to be assigned to Loon, and the thought that the son of a bitch might elude him boiled his gut.
He also had some suspicions about Peg. He could not forget the man’s mention of the flask and his connecting it to Weatherall. Peg deserved a closer look as the suspect in Ezra’s murder.
But Peg’s story was a good one, and the sea battle had eased the way a bit for Spider among Dream’s crew. Shared danger, and Spider’s demonstrated willingness and ability to take part in the bloody work, had created a camaraderie of sorts. He had seen the situation many times before; until crewmates saw a man in action, and knew he could be relied upon to carry his share of battle and risk, he remained a question mark.
For the sake of a chance to learn more about Ezra’s murder, Spider made himself laugh at the tale one more time. He wondered how many years Peg would live to tell it.
Not even one if he turned out to be the killer, Spider thought.
“So my damned leg splintered like a rotted mast in a hurricane,” Peg said.
Spider’s own leg wound had turned out to be a mere grazing; Boddings had almost deemed it unworthy of a tot of rum. An ointment, a bandage, and a drink, and now the pain was mostly a memory.
“That’s a fine tale, Peg,” Spider said. “Fine tale.” He made sure the new spar was snug, with help from some fellows hauling on the other side of the mast. “That is the kind of crazy thing that often happened to my friend Ezra.”
Peg lowered his head a moment. “May he rest in peace.”
“Aye,” Spider said. “May he.” He eyed Peg, looking for signs of sincerity and noting none.
They worked in silence, securing the lumber into its place, then going to work to rig it. Spider looked at Peg’s broken, wooden leg. The peg was attached to a leather holster that fitted over the stump where Peg’s knee used to be. Leather straps tightened it to the man’s leg. “That will be but a few moments to fix, I dare say.”
Peg laughed. “Appreciate it, I will. Lost m’spare. Lost it, or some bloke stole it. Prob’ly someone thinking he’s funny, or I pissed someone off.”
Spider pondered. A man’s wooden leg seemed an unlikely item for theft. “What was the spare made of? Oak, like this?”
“Nah. It was an ugly chunk of applewood. First stump I got after losing the genuine article. Kept it as a spare, but I liked this one what got broke a sight better.”
Spider had found applewood splinters in Ezra’s skull.
“I will make sure the new one is at least as good,” Spider said. They worked a bit more in silence, and then Spider decided to push his luck as Peg seemed to be in a mood to converse.
“You said Ezra was talking the night he died,” Spider said. “Something about a woman. Did you hear any more, a name or anything? And are you certain he was alone?”
“Did not hear another voice nor see another soul, damn me if I did,” Peg answered. “All I heard was your friend saying he missed her, or more proper, ‘I miss her.’”
“Hmm,” Spider said, then wished he hadn’t.
“Why?” Peg asked.
“It is just that he never told me of a woman, not once,” Spider said.
“Never met a pirate what didn’t have his secrets.” Peg chuckled.
“I suppose you have the truth of it,” Spider said, although he was far from convinced.
“Not so tight, there,” Odin hollered across the empty space between masts and pointed to Spider’s work with the hawsers.
“Aye,” Spider said, paying more attention.
“Ha!” Odin barked.
As they worked, Spider ran the facts of Ezra’s murder through his mind and tried to picture what must have unfolded.
Ezra had gone up on the deck. Someone had attacked him, clubbed him over the head, and then tossed that pewter flask at the body to make it seem as though Ezra had been drunk and fallen. That had been a fatal mistake, of course, because that flask convinced Spider that murder had been done.
Spider had seen Ezra fight a hundred times and knew the man lived by a code of sobriety and caution among strangers. He tried to envision someone getting close enough to Ezra to land a sneak blow—because he could not imagine Ezra being unable to fend off a blow he saw coming. That had nev
er happened in all the time Spider and Ezra had been friends.
So . . . had Ezra gone on deck to meet someone? The only man aboard Dream who had a history with Ezra—aside from Spider himself, of course—was Peter Tellam. And that tattooed bastard had a motive, a deeply ingrained fear of witchcraft. But Spider could not see Tellam being able to get so close to Ezra without his friend raising his guard. A surprise punch did not seem to be Tellam’s style, nor did it seem likely Ezra would be fool enough to let it happen.
So . . . who? Why?
“Reckon we are finished here, carpenter?”
“Aye, Peg, I think we be done.” Spider checked once more that the rigging was secure. “Let’s repair that stump of yours, and we’ll tell Boddings it will hurt you like hell and see if we can get him to prescribe some rum.”
13
It was decided that Addison would command Loon and sail her to the rendezvous point, where the rest of Barlow’s fleet would gather, after both ships sailed around Bermuda in hopes of thwarting the naval frigate. Afterward, they would beat hard for Jamaica.
Several Loon survivors had signed Barlow’s articles, so only a handful of Dreamers were needed to fill out the minimal crew. Addison chose Peg, who loved his polished new oak stump, and a black fellow named Oscar to serve him aboard the other ship. Spider sighed in relief; the bulk of his suspects would remain aboard Plymouth Dream where he could get his knife into a throat once he determined who had killed Ezra.
There was more cause for relief as well. The skeleton crew for Loon told Spider that Barlow intended to keep the vessels together. That meant Addison, Peg, and Oscar would remain close by. Spider might still be able to avenge Ezra if one of those three turned out to be the killer.