by Steve Goble
“Don’t see why as we can’t lay over a day or two,” said the helmsman, a tobacco-chewing ape known as Simmons who smelled like death and spat brown goo all over Dream’s decks because he didn’t notice there was an entire ocean to spit into instead. “Could use a bit of a cuddle, is all I am saying. And maybe some booze that ain’t watered down like fish piss.”
Spider had heard similar grumbles from men who wanted to lay over in a Bermuda port, thinking they’d earned a bit of good, non-watered rum and some wenches, but he was glad Barlow had decided against that. Once Dream dropped anchor in a harbor, there was an opportunity for Ezra’s killer to run away or join another vessel. Hell, that was what Spider would do if he did not have a murder to avenge. Spider decided he would rather never set foot on solid ground again than let Ezra’s murderer elude justice.
Spider spent a few seconds envisioning his dirk plunging into the killer’s throat, then remembered he had a plan. He ignored Simmons, who now muttered softly to himself with one hand in his pants. Spider blinked, then looked at Hob.
“I like you, Hob,” Spider said in a low voice. “You are a good lad.”
“Thankee,” Hob said in a quiet tone that matched Spider’s.
Spider chuckled. “You’re a sharp one, too, I must say. Can I trust you, boy?”
“Will you stop ordering me about like a child when there’s action?”
Spider laughed softly. “I shall try. I cannot promise you more than that, I am afraid.”
“I am not a child.”
“I know that. In fact, I am depending upon that very thing.” Spider tightened the last of the heavy screws. “I believe you to be a man, Hob, and I could use your help. Walk with me.”
Spider heaved his tool bucket and headed forward, down the ladder and hugging the starboard rail, with Hob beside him. Behind them, Simmons breathed hard, with one hand on the wheel and the other still in his britches, and Spider wondered if it might not be best to put the son of a bitch in a boat and let him row to Bermuda and find a woman.
Hob laughed. “He ought to do that below.”
“Ignore him, boy,” Spider answered.
They talked quietly, taking advantage of small gaps between clumps of crewmen who were either working or slacking. South of them, the island of Bermuda was a dark, jagged shape drawn across the horizon, close enough to distinguish but too far away to be distinct. Barlow had decided to sweep beyond it on the north, within sight, then round it and continue farther south and east before breaking southwest toward Jamaica. He hoped the tailing frigate would stop at the port there and ask questions, wasting time while Dream went her merry way.
That plan suited Spider, for it gave him a few more days to unveil Ezra’s killer. Once they reached Jamaica, there was a chance the crew would be divided among Barlow’s other ships, and a good chance a few men would desert altogether once paid off. Spider guessed Barlow’s Bermuda ruse gave him about two weeks, maybe a few days more if the captain decided to scour the colonial coast in search of prey.
“I want to tell you something,” Spider said to Hob, “but I wish you to promise me my words will go no further. Promise me.”
“I swear it,” Hob said quietly, his chest swelled and his head tilted up like that of a soldier at attention.
Spider inhaled deeply. Confiding in someone felt like diving into the deep, bloody sea.
“I do not believe my friend’s death was an accident,” he finally said. “I believe someone murdered him.”
“Why?” Hob stopped in his tracks, and Spider kept walking. Hob caught up quickly. “Why?”
“That flask,” Spider answered. “Ezra was not a drinker. He had rather strong feelings about it, because his old man was a drunkard. Ezra used to tease me about my drinking, he did.”
Spider paused while a man passed them by, then continued. “So, I am certain someone clubbed him on the head and tossed that flask on the corpse to make it seem he’d drunk himself silly and fallen.”
“What a goddamned cowardly thing to do,” Hob whispered.
“Right,” Spider said. “It was a goddamned cowardly thing to do, and I mean to avenge my friend, or die in the attempt.”
They had arrived at the tool chest, and Spider set his tool bucket down and opened up the chest. “I mean to find out who did the deed, and I mean to cut him up.”
“Barlow will kill you,” Hob said as casually as someone pointing out it might rain.
Spider sighed. “If I avenge my friend first, what happens next is of no account.” He gulped after saying that, because he realized he had been thinking that way, and had shoved thoughts of Em and his son out of his mind. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and berated himself. He owed more allegiance to more people than he could track in his thoughts, and he silently vowed to do better.
Spider looked into Hob’s eyes, seeking an ally. “Will you help me solve this mystery?”
Hob held out his left hand, then pulled his dirk from his belt. He cut his palm and held out his hand for Spider to grasp.
Spider lifted a blade from the tool chest, then made an incision just below the stump of his missing digit. He grasped Hob’s bloody hand with his own. “God bless you, boy.”
“I dare say it is far too late for that,” Hob answered. “But what I can do for you, I will do.”
“Very well, my friend, very well.” Spider blinked against tears and managed to stop them just before they could go rolling down his face. “All right. Most everyone on board thought Ezra a witch spawn, so anyone could have thought they had reason to kill him. Have you heard any loose talk?”
“Most everyone seems to think it best that he’s dead—I’m sorry, Spider, I am. They feel a curse is off us with his death. I’ve heard no one taking credit nor casting blame. They all seem to think he got drunk and busted his own head open.”
“Aye,” Spider said. He decided to try a new course. “I know that is not the case. Do you know of this bloody Frenchman we’re off to see?”
Hob looked about quickly. “You know about that?”
“Not even Barlow can control every damn wagging tongue on a pirate vessel,” Spider said. “What do you know? Barlow and Addison seem very secretive about it, and I think it might have something to do with the murder.”
Hob seemed reluctant to speak.
“Go on,” Spider said, “no one is paying us any attention.” For once, Spider was glad to be aboard an undisciplined vessel. He could not imagine a pair of hands being able to stop working and talk so under a good commander’s ever-watchful eyes, but under the loose governance of Plymouth Dream, they had only to keep their voices low.
“I know little,” Hob whispered. “I know that the cap’n and Addison got their hands on something, and they think the Frenchman—I do not know who he is—will pay them an extraordinary price for it. I heard Barlow say it would be a king’s ransom, and Addison talked of buying himself a colony in the New World. But they do not speak of it to us. I only hear things because no one pays me any mind.”
“And that’s what will make you a good spy, my boy,” Spider said. “Perchance Ezra overheard something about this Frenchman, or saw something he was not meant to see, and it got him killed.”
“Perhaps,” Hob said. “I know the cap’n sent Blowfish sailing ahead to arrange a rendezvous with the Frenchman while Dream stocked up on recruits and other needs, but that was before you and your friend came aboard. But I have no idea what it is they have got, or why a Frenchman would pay handsomely for it.”
“Hmm,” Spider said. “Well, then. Let me think on this. Keep your eyes and ears open for me, boy, and let me know if you learn of anything. In the meantime, have you noticed anyone changing since the murder?”
“Changing?”
“Aye, like changing their ways. Maybe a fellow used to talk a lot, and suddenly he don’t, or fellows gathering together who didn’t used to, or some other odd change.”
“Ah,” Hob said. “No. It all seems normal, as normal can
be on a ship like this, anyway. Wait! Peter Tellam and Doctor Boddings, they confer a lot, quietly.”
“What do they discuss?”
“The Bible, Doctor Boddings says. But they don’t seem to want anyone else at the meeting. They lean close together, peering at the doctor’s New Testament, and whispering together.”
“Does Barlow know they’re doing that?”
“He scoffs, tells them Jesus ain’t the cap’n of this damned boat.”
“Odd pairing, Boddings and Tellam, but they do both profess to love the Bible,” Spider said. “Could be innocent, could be they’re plotting, could be they’re looking into the Good Book for words to absolve themselves of a murder.”
“Damn,” Hob whispered.
“You have got to be quiet, boy,” Spider warned. “Watch and listen, but don’t say nothing and don’t ask a bunch of foolish questions. You’ll stir up the kind of trouble that’ll get your throat slit. Mark me?”
“Aye.”
“Well, then, maybe that’s something, what you told me,” Spider said, scratching his bearded chin. “Maybe that’s something, I say. Now, get yourself to wherever it is you should be. I have some thinking to do.”
15
More days passed, and the weather grew steadily warmer. Plymouth Dream had broken southwest at last. Spider estimated her speed at seven knots or so, but as they poked along south they would pick up the trade winds and ride them, making much better headway toward Jamaica.
It was one of those days when the sea just went on forever, and one wondered if the rest of the world had simply vanished.
Men worked up a sweat and smiled and drank in the morning sunshine.
Spider, however, could not share in their fine mood. It felt good to have a confidant, but Hob thus far had not turned up anything of value in Spider’s investigation. Even the apparent conspiracy between Tellam and Doctor Boddings had not produced a real clue. Spider had spent days watching and listening, and never saw nor heard a damned thing to indicate the two were doing anything more than discussing theology, with Tellam generally seeming confused and the doctor constantly defining terms such as “theodicy” and “exegesis.” Spider wondered if perhaps “love thy neighbor” might be sufficient, and whether that simple admonition might be more than most people could handle, anyway.
Spider went to his hammock each night in a state of frustration and slept only in fits. His dreams were filled with vengeance, and he slaughtered crewman after crewman in nightmare after nightmare, but each morning he awoke with the realization that he was not one goddamned inch closer to unmasking Ezra’s killer. Some mornings, he imagined himself setting a fuse to the powder magazine below and killing every soul aboard. At least that way, he’d know he’d slain the bastard who’d killed his friend.
Unless, of course, Ezra’s murderer was over there aboard Loon, sailing in tandem with Plymouth Dream. The sheer unfairness of it all haunted Spider and sent his thoughts spiraling into a very ungodly place.
He splashed water over his bearded face and sneezed away whatever goddamned hair or dust had invaded his nose during the night. An indeterminate ruckus aft slowly resolved itself into intelligible sentences. “She’s back!” “Bugger the King!” “Fuck the Royal Navy!”
The mysterious pursuer had appeared again. Spider, deciding it was already too goddamned hot to keep his shirt, doffed the garment and tossed it down the hatch. Then he headed toward the noise.
“Fucking George, I fucking scoff at thee!” Weatherall stood at the rail, silhouetted in the dawn light, whipping his sheet to and fro and shouting at the top of his lungs. Gathered around him, Plymouth Dream’s crew shouted taunts and screamed catcalls. Barlow, pacing the poop deck, snarled and spat, swooshing his cane back and forth like a scythe. “Odin! Peg! You men look alive up there; we’ll be dancing here. Helm, steady for now.”
“Aye, aye,” came the response from the helm. Above, Peg and Odin growled as men spread along the yards.
“Peg! Signal Loon, tighten up aft of us. Let’s remind our friends they’ll be fighting both of us.”
“Aye, aye!”
Thomas patrolled the deck, snarling and hissing, but whether the cat’s taunts were aimed at the king’s men or merely urging Dream’s crew to quiet down, Spider could not tell.
Spider wandered toward the poop deck and, deciding there was enough room up there, climbed the ladder. “Bloody bastard is following us rather doggedly, I’d say.”
Barlow strode toward the top of the ladder and snarled. “Of course, he’s fucking following us,” he bellowed. “Do you honestly believe, for one bloody goddamned second, that I don’t know yonder English vessel is following us? Do you?”
“No, Cap’n,” Spider said, reaching the top of the ladder and standing before Barlow. “I just thought out loud, sir. Surprised he ain’t lost hope by now, is all.”
“Well fucking stop thinking out loud!” Barlow’s hand went to the pistol tucked into his belt, but he did not draw it. “I will think. You obey!”
“Aye, sir.”
The pursuer, well aft and on the opposite tack, had not yet turned in pursuit. Her sails were mere scraps of white in the distance, far beyond the range of any gunshot or taunts from the pirates. Spider was not much of a navigator, but even he could see that the English captain had already squandered his best opportunity to close the gap. The distance between vessels was still growing.
Barlow grimaced and scratched his beard. He watched Spider intently, while a chorus of boos and jeers continued around them on the poop and below on the main deck. “You do not follow the mob, do you, Spider John? Think for yourself, aye? Well then, deep thinker, I shall ask your thoughts, after all. What do you make of this frigate that plagues us?”
“I believe yonder vessel to be captained by an idiot,” Spider said, “else it is crewed by idiots. I have seen press gangs bend sail more smartly than that. We won’t even need to load a stern chaser.”
“Aye,” Barlow said. “It seems we are pursued by the dregs of the Royal Navy, by fucking ignoramuses who could catch us only if we cut away our sails and dropped all of our shot into the fucking sea.”
Spider stared at the captain, trying to discern whether he was pleased or disappointed. Then Barlow growled deeply. “But they keep finding us, nonetheless.”
Barlow spat overboard in contempt. “Fuck the bastards,” the captain said as the frigate finally, slowly came about in chase. “Helm! Hard to starboard! Dowd! All sail, goddamn it! All sail!”
Spider watched as Dream’s crew put Barlow’s orders into action. The men, who struck Spider as useless layabouts most of the time, did an outstanding job and altered course as smartly as he had seen done on any Royal Navy vessel. Booms swung, lines tightened, canvas slacked and swelled anew. Spider peered into the distance aft and noted the sailors on the pursuing ship were far less efficient. The rules of wind and wave would soon put ample distance between hunter and prey. Dream had not a damned thing to worry about.
Despite the outcome, Spider could not help wondering how the goddamned ghost ship kept appearing behind them. “It is like they know where we are going,” he said aloud to no one in particular. “How the hell else could they hound us like this?”
“Aye,” Barlow growled. “Her captain thinks he knows where we are bound, anyway. I agree. That makes sense.” He stared at Spider long and hard. “Still, his crew cannot seem to answer smartly, aye? Pressed men, or malcontents, or fucking lobcocks who prefer not to risk their fucking necks in a confrontation with us. Aye? Cowards, I say, or lubbers unable to tell a hawser from an anchor. Fuck them. We slip away time after time. And we shall do so again.”
Spider peered aft. “Aye, Cap’n. The distance between us and them grows. Her cap’n must be timid, indeed.”
Barlow spun about, his ever-present cane perched on his shoulder. “If this is the best George has got, I dare say we shall rule the seas! Damn Roberts! Damn Blackbeard! Barlow will be the name they all remember, because Barlow wi
ll be the one to endure!”
Spider, unsure of how to respond to such demented conceit, turned and headed forward, happy to know that this day Dream would outpace her hunter. And he took hope in that fact, because it gave him more time to avenge Ezra.
16
Morning was announced with angry shouts from Barlow.
“Furl the sails! Let no canvas remain. We shall drift, by God and devil! Then get the bloody hell on deck, every goddamned one of you!”
The ship’s bell rang out in a frenzied cadence, and shouts went up. Men let down the sails in rapid fashion, under Odin’s snarly guidance, then began hustling down the ratlines as Plymouth Dream slowly came to drift.
Spider was already on deck, replacing oar locks on one of the ship’s new boats pilfered from Loon. He dropped his tools at Barlow’s call and strode aft where the crowd was gathering. The captain stood above on the poop, silhouetted by the early-morning sun and holding his blunderbuss in one hand and his cane in the other.
Three days had passed since the phantom frigate had been sighted astern—and the nights had been haunted by nightmares. Ezra on fire, Spider’s gram on fire, witch chants. Lack of sleep, and fear of talking aloud if he did fall asleep, had Spider’s nerves unraveling like bad rope. Barlow’s fierce demeanor and the spittle on his beard pulled on those nerves.
Spider cast a hard glance across the water in all directions, but saw nothing to justify the all-hands call. Loon trailed quietly behind, and those were the only sails he saw.
Thomas the cat seemed to sense Barlow’s agitation and sprang toward the closest hatch.