The Bloody Black Flag

by Steve Goble

  “It?”

  “The bloody goddamned cylinder that got us all poked and prodded,” Spider growled.

  “Oh. Perhaps,” Hob said.

  “Hold on there,” Spider replied, turning to Hob. “I have a thought.”

  He removed the unopened rum bottles and gave each a shake. They were sealed with wax, but it would have been no difficult trick to open one, insert the cylinder, and seal it up again. Boddings had sealing wax among the many items in his chest.

  Shaking and swirling each bottle, however, produced no sound or sensation other than that of liquid within. “Damn again,” Spider said. He began trying to restore some order to the chest. “Keep an eye, Hob, and see if he hides anything else in here. Tell him you feel weak yet, if you need to, and stay in here another day.”

  “I already feel like cargo lashed down tight,” Hob said. “I want out of this hold, Spider.”

  “I know, boy. I know. But the doctor’s sneaking about is the closest thing I have heard to a clue here. If Boddings took that . . . that . . . whatever it may be, a decoder, Addison called it, he may have killed Ezra. Maybe Ezra saw him lurking, or heard him speak to an accomplice, or something.”

  A sinister thought entered Spider’s mind, and he stared Hob in the face.

  “Does Boddings know you saw him in the cap’n’s stores?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Aye, certain as can ever be.”

  “Well then, good. Make sure he does not learn of it.”

  “I am not a fool, Spider.”

  “Of course you are not a fool,” Spider said. “Of course not.”

  24

  After leaving Hob’s side, Spider headed toward the galley. Doctor Boddings was passing out slices of crusty, stale bread and slabs of cold, salted pork, and filling mugs from a barrel of stale beer. It had been nothing but salted pork since the surgeon had stewed a few of Barlow’s precious egg hens to celebrate the tyrant’s death. Addison fussed less over meals and seemed content with the doctor’s explanation that Hob needed his attention more than the hungry crew did. Spider couldn’t imagine Boddings working any harder than he had to, aside from tending to patients. The man did seem engaged when performing his chosen trade.

  Spider joined the line, grabbed a plank from the crate, and pulled a leather jack from a peg on a post. “Your patient seems well, Doctor.”

  “Aye, tough lad he is,” Boddings said. “I feared fever might take him, but once that broke I suspected he would do well. Prayer and medicine, sir, in conjunction, will do wonders, mark my words.” As he talked, the doctor poked a slab of cold pork with a fork and laid it upon Spider’s plank, then tossed a hunk of bread next to it. Spider saw nothing crawling in the meat or bread, much to his surprise. Boddings then ladled the beer into Spider’s jack. The aroma from the brew was bitter hops and wet wheat.

  “I have been suffering pain here, on my left hand, where the finger used to be,” Spider said before ambling away. “It ain’t pained me in years, but it is now. Can I see you after the meal? Maybe you got something to help.”

  “That is odd, I dare say, but I have an ointment or two that may suffice,” Doctor Boddings answered. “See me later.”

  “Aye.”

  Spider found an empty spot on a four-pounder to eat as Red Viper’s bow rose and fell, rose and fell. Somewhere aft, Weatherall coaxed a somber tune from his fiddle.

  Spider watched Boddings serve the men. The burly man had given up trying to wear a coat on deck many days ago and toiled now in just a linen shirt, suspenders, britches, and boots. Still, sweat dripped from him, especially from his meager gray hair, adding a little extra salt to the pork for some lads. The doctor clearly did not relish what he saw as a servile role, but he filled it nonetheless.

  Could such a man hatch plots of theft and murder? Spider tried to recall the night Doctor Boddings had come aboard along with Ezra and himself. The surgeon merely sought working passage to Jamaica, he’d said. Since that day, the man had spoken little of his plans.

  He was an educated man, probably from a moneyed family, and likely retired from His Majesty’s Navy. Such a man potentially had a home and inheritance and could likely find medical work in London or Boston. So why was he here, sailing with brigands to Jamaica? Had he come aboard specifically to steal Barlow’s brass cylinder? Had Ezra caught him poking around the captain’s stores?

  Spider sighed. The meat and bread, scarcely tasted, vanished in a few absentminded bites. He saved the beer for last and drained the jack at once. The thin fluid did not satisfy at all.

  The hour passed slowly. Weatherall switched to a brighter tune, and Boddings began to gather up the greasy planks and wet mugs dropped into the crate by crewmen upon finishing their meals. Spider watched him work and noted he wrapped bread and pork into a cheesecloth, probably for Hob. Spider pondered whether to confront the doctor in the surgery, with Hob present, or risk doing so on deck. He told himself he had already decided to trust the boy, and so, by God, he would. Better to rely on that stout lad’s promises than to be overheard on deck.

  The doctor headed aft, and Spider followed discreetly. Now that he had something upon which to focus his attention, his energy was renewed. He could feel an alertness swell within him, and he kissed Em’s pendant as though he were going into battle.

  Perhaps, he realized, he was.

  Spider’s fingers brushed the hilt of his work knife, assuring he would know exactly where to snatch it if need arose. He had not noted a blade on the doctor’s belt, and all the sharp surgical things were in a chest under a table. Still, Boddings had proven to be a sneak, and the captain’s stores he’d broken into also held the ship’s weapons, so Spider would be prepared for anything.

  He would give Boddings a moment or two down in the surgery before hailing him, but Spider could not afford to wait long. The surgery was where Addison bunked as well; the man was kneeling with Peg on the poop deck, discussing their westerly course with a chart unrolled between them. Addison almost always stayed up top until late, especially if Weatherall was fiddling, but Spider wanted no surprises. He would confront the doctor quickly, and as quietly as he could, and hope not to draw Addison’s attention.

  Spider counted slowly to fifty, then knelt by the ladder. “Ahoy, surgeon. Can you see a patient?” He waved his left hand, with its scarred tissue where a finger had once been.

  “A moment,” Boddings said. Spider heard some rattling, followed by the medical chest’s lid clamping down. “Very well, come down.”

  The sun was just low enough, and blocked by shadows thrown by mast and sail, to keep its light from reaching below, so Boddings had lit his lantern. It swung on a hook, casting dancing shadows and oozing its oily, smoky odor into the air.

  Spider nodded at Hob. “Hello again, boy,” he said.

  To Boddings, he asked, “Might the lad take some air? He has been hidden away here for days, and I’d like to discuss my ailment in privacy, if you please.”

  The surgeon pondered, glanced at Hob, and saw the boy smiling and nodding. “Very well,” Boddings said. “When the sun goes down, you return to your bunk. Understood?”

  “Aye,” Hob answered, rolling out of his bunk and practically racing up the ladder.

  “Slow and careful, you jackrabbit!” As Boddings yelled, the rum scent wafted from his breath and competed with the lantern to render the cabin air unbreathable.

  Boddings sat on the table. “A good boy, he is, but if he rips my sutures I shall have to be persuaded to replace them.”

  “Aye,” Spider said.

  “Now then, hold out your injured hand, under the lantern here. Does it pain you all the time, or when you move it, or when the weather changes?” Spider took a deep breath. “The hand is fine, Doctor. I just wanted to talk.”

  Boddings looked immediately suspicious. “Talk?”

  “Aye, about Jesus,” Spider said.

  “The Savior? Well, what is it you would know?”
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  “Does sneaking about and stealing from shipmates sit well with the Lord, I wonder?” Spider raised his eyebrows and tilted his head slightly beneath the lantern light. “Seems I was taught otherwise, but I see other examples set by them what claim to know these matters better than I do.”

  Boddings stammered a bit, looking very confused. “Now see here. Are you seeking some absolution for your pirate soul? I am not a priest, Spider John.”

  Spider pulled his knife slowly and let the lantern light gleam on it. “Scream, and I will cut your throat,” he said quietly.

  Boddings swallowed. “In a vessel full of thieves, what is it you accuse me of, John Rush? I dare say I shall fare better in the ultimate accounting than any other man aboard, certainly better than you.”

  “I saw you skulking about the cap’n’s stores,” Spider answered. “Saw you go in, saw you come out.” He said no more, instead letting the knife and his hard eyes fill Boddings’s mind. It was rather like playing cards, and Spider wondered what cards the surgeon would throw down.

  “Well, then,” Boddings said in a hushed tone. “May I presume from your presence here, weapon and threats at the ready, that you wish not to involve others in the matter? You’ve said nothing to Addison, I take it, or to anyone else?” The doctor’s string y, thin hair trickled rivers now.

  “I have held my tongue to this point,” Spider said. He waved the knife slowly. “And I shall very soon hold your tongue if you do not tell me the truth.”

  Boddings gulped, and Spider inhaled deeply. It felt good to be on the offensive.

  “Very well,” the doctor said. “I understand you completely. I have been in such situations before, in my long years of service. You seek a cut for yourself, aye? A share of the spoils?”

  “Where are the spoils, Doctor? Show me.”

  Boddings nodded and stood, moving like a dismasted ship on a still sea. “It is in here,” he said, pointing toward the medical chest under the table.

  “Open it slowly, and if I see anything I don’t like in your hands, I will end your life quick as you please,” Spider whispered. The tension in him, building now for weeks, grew, and he half hoped the doctor would pull a flintlock out of that bloody chest.

  “I understand, I say,” the doctor said, “although, I must say, I find your attitude somewhat out of kilter.” He pulled the chest’s key from the lantern, opened the lock, and lifted the lid. He kept his left hand high, where Spider could see it, and reached in with his right. Spider leaned forward and touched his dirk to the doctor’s neck, with just enough of a poke to remind the man of the stakes. A red dot appeared under the doctor’s jaw.

  Boddings slowly pulled out a clay bottle. Spider could see the broken seal, and the rum scent grew.

  The surgeon handed the bottle to Spider.

  “It is in here?”

  Boddings nodded, confused. “Aye.”

  Spider locked eyes with the physician and bit the cork from the bottle. He lifted it and drank slowly, listening for the clatter of the brass cylinder inside. He heard only the swoosh of liquor.

  Spider swallowed, enjoying the fine rum but unsure of what was happening. “Is it held firm with wax?”

  “I beg your pardon? I broke the wax.”

  “Not the wax on the cork, damn ye! The cylinder! The brass cylinder that supposedly is worth more than all our carcasses! Is it in the bottle, secured with wax to keep it from shaking about?”

  The doctor shook his head, and a smile slowly broke across his grizzled face. “I stole only rum, Spider John. Only rum.”

  Spider pointed the knife. “You were in those stores the night before Barlow stripped us all in search of the damned thing.”

  “Aye,” Boddings said, “and twice before that.”

  Spider took another swig. It was, indeed, fantastic rum, and he loved the burn at the back of his throat.

  “Captains, naval or otherwise, always keep the best stuff for themselves, Spider.” Boddings sat on the table. “It is universal and hardly fair. I have pilfered drink from every captain I have ever sailed under. It is why, alas, I no longer sail for His Majesty. I’m twice the surgeon with drink in me than the next man is dead sober, but a board of captains assessed things differently. I was drummed out. It shames me to admit it, but there you have it.” He reached for the bottle, and Spider handed it to him. Spider also tucked the knife back into his belt.

  “The stores were locked, and men all about the decks. How the devil . . . ?”

  “Spider John, I have pulled musket balls and bone from men’s brains, and from their arses, too, and done that with half a pint of rum in me. I assure you no simple padlock will stand between me and a good drink.” As if to prove his point, he took a healthy swallow.

  “And the sneaking about? You are not the most graceful of men, nor the smallest.”

  “Mister Dowd, of the night watch, enjoys a tot of the good rum, too,” Boddings said. “He sends the night men out of my way, I pilfer the bottles, and I deliver some to him. Child’s play. Barlow has so many tucked away in three chests, he’d never have missed the bottles I took, not before I was well off this blasted ship, anyway. But I did not steal the captain’s gewgaw, I assure you of that. I have no idea what the bloody thing is, nor ever heard of it until the bastard stripped us and had his trained dog poke our bums.”

  Spider sighed. The doctor’s tale seemed plausible, and the man looked to be telling the truth. He had the exquisite rum to back up his story. The stuff they were drinking now was far better than the watery swill given to the crew.

  Still, Spider had questions. “Why are you on this floating den of thieves and scoundrels, Doctor Boddings?”

  Boddings swallowed more rum. “I’m a thief, am I not? At least, a thief of rum. Heh. The navy is done with me, Spider John. My family spent its fortune—misspent, I should say—and Jamaica is the prettiest place I have ever been, and home to the prettiest girl I’ve ever loved. Where else might I go? And His Majesty was in no mind to book me passage, I’m afraid. I make do with what the Lord gives me.”

  “That hardly seems enough reason to go pirate at your age, Doctor,” Spider said. “There are merchant vessels.”

  Boddings stared at him, and his eyes went watery. He waited several awkward seconds to respond. “You are correct, of course,” he answered. “There are legitimate enterprises and vessels to carry them out. But none were sailing for Jamaica soon, you see, and I am rather in haste.”

  Boddings took another swallow. “You see, Spider John, I am dying.”

  “Dying?”

  “Aye,” Boddings said, taking another huge swig of rum. He swallowed, grimaced, peered into the empty bottle, then stared at Spider. “I do not know precisely how long I have, but I am as fine a physician as has ever sailed under the king’s flag, and I know my prospects. I am dying. And I damn well was not going to die alone in a Boston winter.”

  Spider sighed. “Go on.”

  “I could not sail on a naval ship, of course. None would have me. And I looked, you see, for a merchant vessel Jamaica-bound. But there were none, at least, none departing in a timely fashion.”

  The surgeon’s eyes welled up with tears.

  “I overheard Addison, you see, recruiting, searching for a carpenter and other hands.” He sniffed and swallowed hard. “He was leaving soon, and there is a lady in Jamaica I wish to see before . . . before . . . while I still can.”

  A quiet filled the cabin then, and neither man talked for a long while.

  Spider spat. “Keep your bottles, surgeon. I shall take a sip now and again, in payment for my silence.”

  Boddings looked at him, swallowed, and nodded.

  “Well enough, Spider John, well enough.”

  They locked eyes for a few moments, while Boddings chased away whatever demons filled his mind.

  “You really thought I had the damned thing that drove Barlow off course? What the hell is it, anyway?” Boddings asked at last, tossing the empty bottle into his chest. �
�And what is your interest? Do you think to cheat Addison with it, steal it for yourself?”

  “I do not know what I thought,” Spider said, feeling the booze in his head and unwilling to say more. “Good night, Doctor Boddings. I will send Hob back this way.”

  Spider started climbing back up to the deck.

  “If you ask me,” Boddings said, “Barlow himself was the thief. He knew men were talking, whispering of the Frenchman. I believe his tale of theft to be a complete fabrication and his damned search a mere pretense for him to give vent to his perverse nature. He wanted the men fighting each other, spying on each other, while he snuck away and sold the bloody damned thing himself. He wanted to cut Addison and Dowd and all the rest out of it. He was a devil for plots, Spider John, and no more trustworthy than a man selling a horse.”

  “Perhaps,” Spider said. “Perhaps. But if that be the case, then where is the bloody thing?”

  He climbed up and stared into the lowering sun. He was no closer to solving the mystery of Ezra’s death than he had been, and time was growing short.

  25

  “Murphy,” Addison called. “Get up top and signal Loon. I want all hands on the main deck, smart as may be.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Peg, Odin, let us furl sails and drift a bit here, give Dowd and his lads a chance to come alongside.”

  “Aye.” Peg ran off, his oak leg drumming on the planks. Odin went up the mainmast. Orders were barked, men responded, and soon Spider could feel the vessel slowing beneath him.

  Spider sat on a gun and waited, hardly noticing the early-morning breeze. It had been a bad night for sleep, filled with dreams of Ezra. Spider shuddered at the memory—Ezra and his grandmother beckoning him to the fire, reminding him he was a witch-spawn like them, while the sailors of Red Viper laughed and fired pistols into his brain.

  Spider shrugged, shook, took a bite of hardtack, and washed it down with watered wine. Forget the nightmares, he told himself. Figure out who killed your best friend.