by Steve Goble
But he could see nothing, and he could not discern much from the distant ship’s bells and occasional gunshots he heard.
They had to wait.
The plan was a desperate one, indeed. Spider could scarce imagine anything so desperate, and part of him was glad they could not talk openly. Kingston Harbour held horrors, and his shipmates would have to get past those if they were to survive.
The graves of the dead were one such horror.
It had been about thirty years since an earthquake and the resulting tidal wave had laid waste to Port Royal, once known as a pirate haven and decried as the wickedest city in the Christian world, a new manifestation of Sodom and Gomorrah. The quake—hailed by many as a justly deserved divine retribution—had leveled two-thirds of city, and the tidal wave had reduced the packed sand beneath the city to sludge that could not support any weight. Buildings and people slid into the harbor, to be battered by the waves and buried beneath the stirred mud.
At least three thousand people had died.
Spider doubted every one of those people deserved God’s wrath, but he was no expert in such things.
Hundreds already dead had their graves torn asunder and their remains dashed out into the sea. Henry Morgan, famed privateer and once governor of Jamaica, was among the dead whose eternal sleep had been interrupted.
Spider recalled Hob’s tale of Blackbeard returning from the deep one day to reclaim his severed head and silently prayed that none of the ghosts dwelling in Kingston Harbour would arise.
Spider tried to convince himself there was no such thing as ghosts, at least outside of nightmares. His shipmates would have to swim through that damned harbor regardless, or await the certain death of the noose.
There were more immediate concerns than Henry Morgan’s ghost, however.
There were sharks.
Spider had been present, years ago, aboard an oar boat when a man foolishly trailing his fingers in the harbor lost most of his hand to a tiger shark. The bay was home to hundreds of them, and you could often watch their dorsal fins cut the water in the wake of a ship’s boat, the sharks waiting for someone to slip overboard or for a boat to capsize.
Spider had visited Jamaica three times previously and had seen sharks in that harbor every time. Some topped fifteen feet in length, and their razor teeth could sever an arm or leg in an instant.
He was glad he could not discuss the peril with his small command, for he feared it would unnerve them. When the time came, he would simply shout to them to swim as though hell’s dogs were snapping at their heels—for it very likely would be true.
For a moment, he envisioned himself holding Ezra’s killer below the surface while sharks gnawed the man’s face.
If the sharks did not finish the Vipers off, men with muskets might. The fugitives would be plowing their way through open water, and the marines likely would get off a couple of volleys at least before any one of the captives could reach any sort of cover.
Even if they survived all those terrors, there was Port Royal itself. Once, men could wander freely, drink copiously, and brag of their exploits loudly, without the slightest danger of a jail cell or a noose.
Those days of piratical glory had slowly faded since the quake, and after a fire years later that undid much of the rebuilding, and the town no longer provided reliably safe haven for pirates.
These days, pirates were hung and their corpses put on public display. Hell, even Calico Jack Rackham—the famed dandy of a pirate who dressed in almost womanish fashion and sailed with women, too—had found his end here, just a couple of years earlier.
But the governor had not been able to erase every sign of Port Royal’s piratical past, and Spider had whispered to his co-captives the name of one place of refuge—the Phoenix, home of fine ale and a former shipmate who would provide a safe harbor. If they could just reach the Phoenix, they had a chance to live out the rest of their lives.
It was, of course, a ridiculously dangerous plan. Spider reminded himself he wouldn’t be any deader if the plan failed than he would be if they didn’t try to escape, and if there was the slightest chance of avenging Ezra, well, he had to roll those bones.
The sun’s rosy touch brushed the sky and sent weak tendrils of light down through the hatches and into the hold where Spider and his friends—for he had now come to think of them as such—were held. A new pair of guards came on to relieve those who had stood through the night. Spider heard orders shouted above, felt the wind gather in Austen Castle’s sails, and noted the ship was coming around.
The time to act was now. Once Austen Castle was anchored, her captain might order a detail to lead the prisoners above, ship them into a boat, and haul them off to prison to await questioning. There would be no hope of escape from that; the captives would be surrounded by attentive guards whenever they were not safely locked behind iron bars, and they would languish in cells until they were hauled back to the ship for the journey to England. Or, Captain Raintree might just leave his prisoners in the hold, where guards would have nothing to do but watch them.
For now, though, Austen Castle’s men were anxious to see their long journey ended, and thus were distracted. They were thinking about shore leave, good drink, and women.
Before they could enjoy any of that, though, they had to work their way into the harbor. They must navigate reefs, keep an eye out for other vessels, and choose their anchoring spot. They would be preparing at the capstan, freeing the anchors. A gig would be made ready for the captain to go ashore. Guns would be loaded, too, to fire a salute as Austen Castle drew past the harbor fort.
Everyone was busy, and little attention was being paid to the prisoners. Swift action now, while the men were distracted, might just prevail.
Or it might lead to a quick death—still a better option than hanging.
Spider waited until he heard the frigate’s cannons fire a thundering salute and her crew shouting helloes and other vessels answering. He waited until he could not possibly imagine Austen Castle had not entered the harbor, and until he knew the men above must be focused on the ceremonies of arrival.
He gave the men of his small command a knowing look.
One, he mouthed.
He watched the guards. Their attention was focused above.
Hob and the others quietly slipped off their bonds and their boots.
Two.
Odin suppressed a cackle, and it seemed to take an effort worthy of the one-eyed Norse god who inspired his name.
Three.
Spider, Hob, Dobbin, Jones, and Odin rushed the two guards. Spider clapped a hand over one soldier’s mouth; Dobbin did likewise on the other. The guards went down under the weight of their attackers. Hob took a musket from one guard and drove the butt of it into his head, then did the same for the other.
“Again,” Spider said. “Make certain.”
Hob bashed each man in the skull twice more.
“Let us go,” Spider said tersely. “Be quick! And swim fast, lads. Muskets and sharks.”
“Sharks?” That was Dobbin, his toothless mouth making the word sound like something spoken in French.
Hob went up the ladder first, followed closely by Spider. The plan was brazen and foolish—get to the deck, run for the starboard rail, and dive into the harbor, then swim faster than musket balls and tiger sharks.
That was the plan for Hob and the others, anyway. Spider had another role to play.
It was a long way up. They had been placed in a lower hold, where everything stank of bilge water and where the chatter of rats was a constant noise. They had to climb their way past a lumber storage and a gun deck. The latter was manned by men who had fired salutes moments before; Spider counted on their attention being aimed at the town and urged his small command to simply rush upward. Speed was their ally. Wasting time in worrying would get them killed.
His calculation proved to be imprecise, and a man on the gun deck yelled, “Escape!” and snatched at Spider’s shirt. Spider kicked h
im in the groin, grabbed his hair, and sent him tumbling below to where the other guards bled in the hold. He had already climbed higher by the time he heard the horrid thunk of the man’s impact reverberate through the hatchway.
Spider reached the main deck just on Hob’s heels.
Bright morning sun stung Spider’s eyes, and he had difficulty seeing. Austen Castle’s men crowded the rail, waving hats at ships, boats, and gulls. Hob sprinted for the rail and dove through the gap between a pair of seamen. Startled, they hardly reacted.
The other Vipers followed suit. Spider, though, stood his ground and spun around, shielding his eyes from the sun. He heard the splashes of his companions in the harbor but saw out of the corner of his eye Doctor Boddings being held back by a couple of sailors. Spider did not spare time to pray for his friends, though. He was searching for a killer and praying he found him before a musket ball or bayonet ended his search.
Then he saw Ezra’s killer, plain as day, freshly shaved and dressed in a lieutenant’s uniform, bellowing orders to stop the escape.
Ezra had never said “I miss her,” referring to some mystery woman. Peg had misheard, Spider realized. Ezra had said, “Aye, mister,” upon being addressed by an officer he recognized.
John Weatherall, the navy officer who had posed as a pirate to recover a spy decoder. The man who had wrapped a bandage on his arm instead of seeking Doctor Boddings’s aid, because he was not wounded; he was covering up a tattoo that said “Trusty 1716.” The man who had waved a white sheet at the pursuing frigate during every encounter save the last, when he’d switched to a red one to signal to Captain Raintree that the goddamned spy bauble was safe in hand.
The man who had clubbed Ezra Coombs over the head with Peg’s stolen spare leg, because Ezra could identify him, and then tossed a flask of booze by the corpse to make it look like an accident. The killer might have stolen the flask from anyone.
A marine poked a bayonet at Spider’s belly. Spider knocked the blade aside, punched the marine in the nose, and bolted toward Weatherall. The killer stood on the quarterdeck, next to Captain Raintree, a place of honor for the hero welcomed home. Spider ran at his foe, shoving men aside. He gambled that anyone carrying a gun would hold fire on a crowded deck. Most of the men on the deck were unarmed, or at least were armed with nothing more significant than a knife tucked into a belt, and none of them was motivated like Spider John.
He bounded up the ladder with an energy that sprang from pure fury, fueling his sore and stiff limbs. A snarl erupted from his throat and grew in intensity as he closed the distance.
Weatherall stepped in front of Raintree and drew his sword as Spider approached, and a wicked slash caught Spider across the chin. A better-timed stroke would have slashed his throat. Spider ignored the pain and barreled into Weatherall, planting the crown of his head squarely on the man’s breastbone. Weatherall went down hard, the sword clattering to the deck, and Spider dropped on him, his knees driving hard into Weatherall’s gut and forcing air out in a miniature gale.
Nearby, men shouted and muskets fired and acrid smoke rose in the sun. Whether they were shooting at him or at his shipmates swimming in the harbor, Spider could not say.
Spider grabbed for Weatherall’s loose sword, even as men clutched at his shoulders. He drew the blade across Weatherall’s uniform sleeve and ripped at the fabric. There was the tattoo.
“You killed Ezra Coombs, and you will die for it!” Spider swung the blade around in a wicked arc, forcing the surrounding men back.
“It was my duty,” Weatherall said.
“And this is mine.” Spider drew the blade neatly across Weatherall’s throat and glared steadily at the man as a red ribbon blossomed below the dying man’s chin. Spider was still glaring at Weatherall when a strong grip tore into his shoulder, and glaring still when a knife touched his own throat, and glaring still when rough hands lifted him to his feet.
Men held Spider by the arms, but no one said a thing for several heartbeats, until Raintree broke the silence.
“You will hang,” Raintree said, hate and shock filling his eyes.
Spider took his gaze off Weatherall once he was certain the man’s last breath had joined the gun smoke in the air around him. He glanced past the line of musketeers firing over the gunwale and looked out into the harbor. He saw his small command, some of them, anyway, swimming for freedom. He heard a voice that could only be Odin’s shout something about Blackbeard, and saw a small but strong figure that had to be Hob vanish behind a rowboat. And was that Elijah, pulling Dobbin into a rowboat? How the hell had Elijah managed to vanish from the midst of that battle and appear now? Spider wished he could hear that tale.
He swallowed hard. Spider was glad his shipmates had a chance to be free. He wished he could have gone with them, but it would have cost him any chance of avenging the best man he ever knew.
Spider returned Raintree’s hard gaze. “There are hundreds of crimes you can hang me for,” he said. “Killing John Weatherall ain’t one of them.”
Spider looked across the deck and imagined he saw Ezra there, towering over the others and wearing a silly grin. He knew what Ezra would advise. Damn the muskets! Damn the sharks! Anything but the gallows! Anything but that!
Spider wrenched himself free just before the manacles were locked onto his wrists. Cat-quick, he was over the rail, plummeting to death or freedom, and shouting thanks to his best friend.
Acknowledgments
It is sometimes said that writing is a lonely, solitary endeavor. That is bullshit.
The truth is I could not have written this story, nor gotten it published, without a solid crew to back me up.
My longtime friend and partner in crime Tom Williams, whose work I am sure you will be reading one day, provided strong copyedits and much sage advice, along with friendship and encouragement. Look for the byline Mas Williams.
Fantasy author Tyrone Johnston set the example, by getting his ass in a chair every day and producing works at an impressive pace.
Fantasy authors Howard Andrew Jones and James Enge are sword brothers of mine from a different era, and both helped me along the way.
My agent, Evan Marshall, was enthusiastic from the start and offered keen editorial insight. He also found me a publisher.
Dan Mayer, the editorial director at Seventh Street Books, decided a pirate murder mystery would be a fine thing to unleash upon the world. I thank him profusely for that and for his patience and guidance in editing.
I also want to thank you, dear reader. Book people are the best people.
More than anyone, though, I have to thank my wife and kid, Gere and Rowan. They gave me the time and space to write this, and the love and support needed to get me through the agony of seeking an agent and selling the book. Gere, in particular, did some stellar copyediting and provided full-time muse service, helping me sort out plot problems and listening to my endless thinking out loud. I could not have done this, or anything, without her. When she gets a book out there, you all are going to love it.
About the Author
Author photo by Jason J. Molyet
Steve Goble is a career journalist, working for USA Today Network–Ohio. Before he started writing about murder on the high seas, he wrote a weekly craft beer column called Brewologist. He lives in rural Ohio with his lovely and patient wife, a supremely sarcastic teenager, and two occasionally well-behaved dogs. Learn more at SteveGoble.com.