by Steve Goble
Spider stared Addison in the eye. He had been suppressing anger so long, hiding his vengeful intentions behind a timid mask, that it felt good at last to have an honest confrontation, one that would not unveil his attempts to solve Ezra’s murder.
No, this was just one man against another. Spider could handle that.
“You might find me a rather difficult man to kill,” Spider said in a calm, even voice. “Others have. But all I did was speak truth. I know you have designs on that girl. I also know there are whores aplenty in Port Royal. You can wait a few days.”
Addison blew out a gust of breath, and Spider tried not to wince at the odors of tobacco, rum, and rotting teeth. “I can wait a few days. I can wait a few days to get some quim, and I can wait a few days to drive my dirk through your goddamned chin.”
“You’d best not be slow about it when you try,” Spider said. “I am damned quick.”
Spider turned away, headed for the ladder, and never looked back.
23
Spider was working in naught but his britches under a blazing sun, touching up the paint on the busty wooden wench looted from Loon. He’d painted her earlier, of course, and given her time to dry in the hot sun, but the ropes had scraped a bit of her paint as she was lowered into place, and she had suffered a few scuffs as she was secured beneath the bowsprit. Spider wasn’t willing to leave her in poor condition, so now he was touching up the bad spots.
Red Viper’s former figurehead, the poor bitch decapitated by a cannonball sometime in the vessel’s past, had been relegated to the lumber hold. Addison said he did not give a damn whether Loon had a figurehead or not, and Dowd seemed not to want the headless figurehead, so Spider tried not to care himself. It pained him, though, as a seaman and a carpenter and a wood-carver, to see Loon go about with ugly scars and naked wood where her figurehead should be.
Maybe, he thought, if I survive this death trap of a voyage, I will carve her one.
Above him, Thomas the cat lazed in the sun, stretched along the bowsprit and stirring only to lick his leg now and then.
Peg and a crew had painted Viper’s new name on the stern and touched up some rough spots elsewhere at Spider’s insistence. Work was getting done, but the ship’s mysteries remained unsolved.
No one had come forth with the missing gadget, but Addison had remained outwardly patient—although he had cast many greedy glances toward the forecastle where May was locked away and under guard.
Addison spent much of his time the last two days in quiet conversations, reminding his crew that they could profit together if the thief turned himself in. He did not bully his men, and he did not randomly execute anyone. It was a marked change from Barlow’s command, but Spider could see the anger and impatience behind Addison’s pretense of reasonableness.
The captain seldom missed a chance to glare at Spider.
Addison’s assumption of command, and the steady, warm weather, plus the heady wind that pushed the ship south and west at eleven knots or better, would have lifted the mood considerably on any vessel not under the devil’s curse. Loon, ordered by Addison to lag astern just within sight as a rearguard to keep an eye out for the naval frigate, would signal with a shot if that pesky ship made another appearance. Meanwhile, Viper beat hell for Jamaica, the voyage’s end, and the big payday—if it came to pass.
Dangling from the prow and dripping red paint on himself thanks to Viper’s ups and downs on a choppy sea, Spider smoothed the paint on the figurehead’s flaming crimson dress. He’d already dabbed paint on her bare nipples. He had worked more quickly than he liked, for he could feel time closing in on him, but he could not leave her with scarred paint. Details mattered in work, as in everything else.
Below him, Viper’s bow cut through the water at a steady clip. To port, dolphins jumped in pairs, blowing water skyward and plunging gracefully into the sea. Spider felt sorry, indeed, for lubbers who had never seen a dolphin leap into the sky; he greatly wished to describe such things to Em and little Johnny someday.
Ezra had loved dolphins, too, and that thought pulled Spider away from his unobtainable fantasies and back into the real world, where Ezra Coombs had been murdered and no one cared save for Spider.
If he had truly believed Barlow had killed Ezra, Spider could have relaxed, knowing he had avenged his friend. But he did not believe that. Instead, he suspected a murderer still trod the decks of the renamed vessel.
He was determined to solve the mystery, and having actual work assigned to him slowed him down. For once he envied the dullards who had nothing to do until there was a ship to seize or the king’s men to fight off.
He knew his bad mood put him at risk. Noticed, it might make someone realize that Spider knew Ezra had been murdered. So he shucked it off as best he could and tried to put some cheer into his voice.
“Well, then, lads, I think this wench is finally as pretty as she is like to get,” Spider called. “Hoist up the bucket, if you please.”
“Aye.”
He gave a tug on the rope, and someone above tugged on the line attached to the bucket of paint. Spider let go, and the bucket swung gracefully away to be hoisted up. Next, it would be his turn. Then, he would avoid Addison’s sight in hopes of evading work long enough to see how Hob was recovering.
He had checked on Hob every morning and was assured by Doctor Boddings that the lad was doing remarkably well. Still, the surgeon would not let anyone pester Hob. He chased Spider off every day, telling him to go find some useful work to do and to leave him and his patient bloody well alone.
This morning had been different, however, and Boddings had told Spider he might be able to sit with Hob a bit in the afternoon. “He is a strong boy, I dare say, and will emerge from this none the worse,” Boddings had said, “but he is sleeping and I shall not wake him. Go nail something or screw something”—the surgeon had chuckled—“and return in a few hours.”
Eager to speak to the boy, Spider had rushed his labor. Once the paint bucket was out of his way, he detached the safety line that ran from the prow to his belt. “Well, then, I am ready.” He pulled on the rope that led above and prepared to swing away and be hoisted upward.
Thomas, above on the bowsprit, hissed angrily and leapt out of sight.
“Are you, then?”
The voice was full of menace. Spider leaned out, looked upward, and saw Tellam’s dark, tattooed face peering back at him.
“I spelled your helpers,” he said. “Sent them off for a tot of grog. Thought we might have words, you and I.”
Spider spat into the sea and glanced downward. Viper was still making eleven knots, perhaps more, he reckoned. A fall might smack the breath from him, the hull would certainly pummel him, and he might bloody well be left to drown. Spider imagined himself delirious below the surface, the ship’s keel battering him, his lungs filling with water, sharks tearing at his flesh. . . .
He thought furiously, but he seemed to be at Tellam’s mercy. Loon, on patrol in case the phantom frigate reappeared, was too far aft to do him any good.
Tellam stood, knife in hand, and Spider calculated how easily the tattooed son of a bitch could sever a line and send him plunging. Too damned easily. He clutched at the figurehead and felt some relief in knowing he’d done a damned fine job of securing her to Viper’s bow.
“I suppose I’ll have to agree,” Spider said, trying to reattach his safety line. Climbing up would be pointless; Tellam could stab him or shove him with ease while Spider clung to the bowsprit and clambered his way up.
“I wonder if you might know more about that missing item than you let on,” Tellam said. “I wonder if you might tell me where it is hidden?”
“I wonder the same about you, Peter,” Spider replied, tying off a good knot in his line.
“Oh, I doubt that,” Tellam growled, brandishing the knife. “Every time I see you, you are sneaking about, listening in to what other men are saying. You’ve been up to something this whole bloody trip.”
&nb
sp; “Just learning the ropes on a new vessel,” Spider said. “Don’t really know anyone here, yet.”
“I do not believe you, Spider John.” Tellam set his blade against the hoisting line. “I do not believe a word you say, you who befriends witch boys. Might be best we lose you. Maybe you are no better than your witchy friend. Hell, you brought him aboard with you, right? Maybe that’s why we still sail under a curse, because you are still with us.”
“Few men are better than Ezra Coombs,” Spider growled. “And if you’d like to discuss that over crossed swords, I will gladly do so. I don’t know that Addison would mind me killing you so much as Barlow might have.”
“Well, then, aren’t we a brave one?” Tellam laughed. “I would like that, Spider John. I truly, truly would like that.”
Then the tattooed man vanished.
Spider waited, listening to the hull cut water below and controlling his breath. Then he called out.
“Here I am, then,” Peg answered, grabbing the line. “Just went for a drink. We are all in place now. Tug when ready.”
A few minutes later, none the worse for the encounter but watching out for both Tellam and Addison, Spider worked his way along the port rail toward the surgery. Ahead of him, Addison ducked beneath a boom and loomed in his path. Spider whirled, leapt over a hatch, and dashed along Viper’s starboard rail, breathing a sigh of relief upon realizing Addison had not seen him.
He did not see Tellam, but he imagined eyes on his back, followed by sharp knives.
Spider arrived at the surgery just as Doctor Boddings was climbing out. “Well, then, John, good of you to come just now. I have orders to cook something for this lot of ruffians, and I have a patient below who is feeling well and wants for company. You can sit with him until I return, if you please.”
“I should like that, Doctor, thanks,” Spider said.
Boddings lifted himself out of the hatch, and Spider started below. “Oh, John,” Boddings said. “A moment, please.”
Spider halted his descent and looked at the surgeon. “Yes?”
“I understand you uncorked the keg, so to speak, and precipitated the retribution upon that bastard Barlow. I know we’ve had harsh words, you and I. I spoke ill of your friend . . . but, well, that was a brave thing you did, and Barlow damned well deserved his fate.”
“He certainly did,” Spider said.
“Had you not struck, I do not know that any man aboard would have done so. I mean to say thank you, Spider John. Thank you.”
“You might thank me by praying, Doctor,” Spider said. “For my soul and for my friend’s.”
“I will do that.” Doctor Boddings nodded, then turned his bulk toward the galley. He halted after two steps and turned slowly to face Spider once again. “I cannot promise it will do you any good,” he said. “And I certainly will not promise it will do your friend any good. Witch blood carries a powerful curse, Spider. I am sorry, but I believe it to be true. Though I should have left judgment to the Lord and lent you my Bible. I sometimes forget myself. It is the Lord’s place to judge your friend, not mine, and I failed in my Christian duty to you. I should have lent my Bible for your sake, if not for that of your friend. I . . . well, I am as fallen as anyone else, redeemed in Christ but not always acting with grace.”
Spider bristled a bit. “If Ezra Coombs had not earned a measure of grace, well . . . Hell, Doctor. I don’t reckon I know much about the next life. But I shall take prayers, nonetheless, as a goodwill effort on your part, and I will try not to hold it against you that you would not lend me your Good Book.”
Spider dropped down into the surgery. He was happy to see Smith no longer took up a berth.
Hob reclined in the bunk farthest aft, a tiny, horizontal closet where Barlow had once slept. “Spider!” The boy’s eyes were wide with enthusiasm, and Spider imagined himself at that age, cooped up in a small berth and wishing to be out and doing things.
“Well, is the surgeon going to ever let you work again, Hob, or do you get to just sleep and eat the rest of this cruise?”
“I feel well enough, now, honestly, but Doctor Boddings insists I need to rest more. He worries me, though. I think he is drunk all the time.”
“I do not ever recall not smelling a whiff of rum upon him, but you live and I would have sworn you wouldn’t, so bless him. I shall pour him a drink myself if I get the opportunity. You look spry, lad, so I reckon he has done well by you.”
Hob pointed to a medical chest under the table in the common space. “If you truly want some rum, he keeps it in there”—the boy winked—“and the key is hidden in that lantern.”
Spider retrieved the key and opened the chest. Three clay bottles, with the wax seal broken on one. Spider lifted the one with the ripped seal, popped the cork, and took a thirsty swallow. “I shall be damned,” he declared. “This is the finest rum I have ever had.”
“He finished a bottle last night and opened this one this morning,” Hob said. “He let me try some. Better than what Barlow gave the crew, no doubt.”
“Aye,” Spider said. “Hob, I want you to promise me something.”
“If I can.”
“When we reach port, I want you to leap from this bloody ship and never look back. Get out of this life, Hob. Don’t dream of riches. Don’t dream of beautiful ports and beautiful girls. Those lure you in, but you never get them in any amounts worth all the blood and pain and the risk to your immortal soul. Promise me.”
“What shall I do, then?”
“There’s work for a smart lad, repairing ships, loading cargo,” Spider said. “Honest work. I plan to get the hell off the account myself. I’ll teach you woodwork, if you wish, and we’ll earn our way in Jamaica’s harbor until we can find a decent vessel headed back north. I’m for Nantucket, if I can get there. You may join me, if you will.”
“It sounds like running away,” Hob said. “I ain’t no coward.”
“I know you ain’t a coward, Hob. I know you ain’t. We won’t be running away, boy. We’ll be running to. And the world being what it is, we’ll still have to do some cut and thrust along the way, so you shall have many a chance to show your mettle. We shall have to watch one another’s backs, I dare say. It ain’t a world for cowards, no matter what we do.”
“Well,” Hob said after a deep breath. “You showed the cap’n, so I reckon you can watch my back.” He grinned.
“It is a deal, blood brother,” Spider answered, taking another quaff of the doctor’s rum and offering Hob a drink, too. After drinking to their future success, Spider corked the bottle, hid it away, and returned the key to its hiding place. “The doctor is a sneaky bastard, I’ll say, for being a fat man and all that. He’s got far better rum than the piss he serves the rest of us.”
“You don’t know all,” Hob said. “I tried to tell you before Cap’n went all off course. I seen the doctor sneaking into the cap’n’s stores.”
“Under the poop deck?” Spider pointed to the deck above. That was where most of the ship’s charts were stored, and many of the weapons, along with some of the captain’s personal belongings.
“Aye.”
Spider knelt close to Hob and whispered, “When, boy?”
“The night before Barlow called us all out and searched us.”
“The night his goddamn cylinder disappeared?”
“Aye.”
The aft cabin was a likely hiding place for Barlow’s item, Spider thought. It was where Barlow hid when he wanted to avoid the crew.
“Why did you not say something before this, Hob?”
“I tried,” the boy said, “and then, well . . .” He pointed to his bandaged shoulder.
“Aye, sorry.” Spider nodded. “Sorry. Does Boddings have any other hidey-holes in here?”
“Not that I seen,” Hob said. “He sleeps there, and keeps his Bible there.” He indicated a bunk on the port side.
Spider opened the tattered curtain. The bunk contained a pillow, a partly shredded red wool blanket, a
couple of linen shirts, the doctor’s coat and hat, and his New Testament. Seeing the book reminded him of Ezra’s death, and he drew a deep breath. Spider tossed the blanket and pillow but found nothing hidden. If the doctor had stolen Barlow’s device, it was not concealed here.
He looked around the chamber. The other bunk, to starboard, was Addison’s, Hob told him. Spider gave it a quick look, too. There were two pillows, a better wool blanket than the doctor’s, and a very nice knife in a leather scabbard. That was it.
“Damn,” Spider said, looking about for other hiding places. The doctor’s medical chest was large, with several drawers and cabinets. Spider grabbed the key again and opened it. He rifled through, aware he was making something of a mess but determined to find a clue. He noted many a medical device he could not recognize, along with scalpels, forceps, and more, but nothing that resembled the mystery item. That damned brass cylinder had been the focus of a great deal of bloodshed, and Spider could not set aside the notion that the deaths surrounding it had started with Ezra Coombs.
Spider lifted a cheesecloth and exclaimed, “Jesus!” He’d uncovered a skull, its empty sockets staring back at him and its crooked teeth grinning.
“What the hell is this for, and what is the bloody smell?”
An unholy stench rose from the chest, worse than the odor in the crew quarters. Spider poked around and found a bottle of blue fluid, its cork popped, lifting the stench into the hold. Spider was fairly certain he had not been the one to disturb the bottle.
“It is horrible,” Hob said.
Spider wanted to cork the jar but did not want Boddings to know someone had been poking about. He held his nose and pressed on.
A thorough search turned up plenty of potions and surgical tools and herbs tied together with leather cords, but no clues. Spider dared a deep breath and spat hard. “Damn! It is not here. Maybe he keeps it on him.”