by Lyle Brandt
Not that any of it mattered to him, either way.
Stede named his ships for ghosts because they were elusive, flitting here and there across the sea in answer to the winds and to their captain’s will. And ghosts were frightening to most people, which often helped Stede in his chosen occupation as a predator. He changed the names from time to time, if they became well known, and made various superficial alterations to the vessels, thereby helping to prolong their useful life.
Banshee.
It had a nice ring to it.
And he had been growing bored with Revenant.
*
The waterfront was busy by the time Ryder arrived, ten minutes early for his meeting with the Marley crew. Upon arrival he had ascertained that work gangs labored more or less around the clock in Galveston, unloading cargo and replacing it with merchandise bound for other cities, some halfway around the world. Watching the segregated groups of stevedores, hearing the shouted orders from their foremen, Ryder wondered how much different the process was from antebellum days, when all the grunt work had been done by slaves.
That was illegal now, of course, at least in theory. A thirteenth amendment to the U.S. Constitution had been passed in Congress and ratified by twenty-three states, but still stood four states short of final ratification. Four of the eleven Rebel states had ratified the ban on slavery, which still left seven holding out, dragging their feet, Texas among them. It appeared that some Confederates still didn’t realize they’d lost the war. An irritating fact, but not Ryder’s concern just now.
He spotted Bryan Marley, standing near a hot tamale stand with Otto Seitz and several others Ryder recognized from their adventure of the night before. A pair of horse-drawn wagons sat to one side of the group, waiting to haul whatever merchandise they were expecting. Ryder made his way to join them, noting the change of expression on Otto’s face as he picked Ryder out of the crowd. Seitz said something to Marley, speaking from one side of his mouth, and Marley turned to watch Ryder approaching.
“George,” he said, “I’m glad you made it.”
“It was touch and go,” Ryder replied.
“How’s that?”
“I had a spot of trouble on the way back to my boardinghouse last night.” He palmed the badges from his pocket, handing them to Marley.
“So, what’s this?” asked Marley, clearly puzzled.
“Cops,” Ryder explained. “They tried to jump me, but I beat them to it.”
“Beat them how?” Seitz interjected, frowning.
“They’re alive,” said Ryder. “Or they were, with headaches, when I left them. I can’t say what might have happened to them lying there, if someone hostile came along.”
“You took their badges … why?” asked Marley.
Ryder shrugged. “Why not?”
“Coppers don’t like being embarrassed,” Seitz advised.
“Too bad. They had worse than embarrassment in mind for me, I’d say. With these”—he nodded toward the badges Marley held—“you can identify them.”
“What’s the point of that?” Seitz asked.
Ryder allowed himself another shrug. “It seems to me you must be paying off some of the law in town. If these two are collecting from you, Bryan here deserves to know he didn’t get his money’s worth.”
Marley was nodding. “That’s good thinking, George,” he said and put the badges in his pocket. “I’ll hang on to these and see who they belong to. If they’re on our list, they’ll need a talking to.”
“Your call,” said Ryder, with a pointed glance at Otto as he added, “You’re the boss.”
Seitz couldn’t very well object to that, but he was obviously fuming as he turned his full attention toward the Gulf of Mexico. “This should be it,” he said, to no one in particular.
Scanning the water, Ryder saw a clipper gliding into port, its crewmen scrambling like monkeys in the rigging, trimming sails. The ship sparked something in his memory, but Ryder told himself that clippers shared a common slender form and deep draft, built for speed, with sails aplenty to take full advantage of the slightest wind. There was no reason why this clipper should not bear a close resemblance to another that he’d seen, not long ago.
Five minutes later, Ryder saw the clipper’s name—Banshee—painted across its bow, red letters on a white background. The paint looked bright and fresh, not weathered as it would have been by months at sea.
Coincidence, he told himself, but felt a niggling sense of apprehension in his stomach as the clipper docked and Marley’s men rushed forward to secure its mooring lines. He waited for the gangplank to be lowered and the Banshee’s captain to descend, greeted by Marley on the wharf, with Otto Seitz beside him. Only when the bearded, grinning captain reached the pier was Ryder’s first impression finally confirmed.
He’d seen that face before, all right. Not smiling; shouting orders in the midst of battle.
Fresh paint might disguise the clipper’s old name, but he recognized the skipper of the Revenant.
*
Bryan Marley met the Banshee’s captain and his first mate at the bottom of the gangplank, shaking hands with both. Seitz hung at Marley’s elbow, clearly wanting to be part of it, while Ryder hung back in the ranks of Marley’s men collected on the pier.
“It’s good to see you, Stede,” Marley addressed the captain, then turned to his mate and nodded. “Randy.”
“Same as ever,” said the first mate, grinning at a joke he obviously told at every given opportunity.
“You know Otto and all the boys,” Marley continued, nodding toward his crew.
“Not all of ’em,” the captain—Stede—replied. “I see a new face over there.”
Marley followed the sailor’s gaze to Ryder. “Ah, you’re right,” he said. “George, come on over here and meet a friend of mine.”
Ryder advanced to stand at Marley’s side, letting him make the introductions.
“George Revere, Stede Pickering. He’s captain of the Banshee.” Grinning, Marley added, “Though I do believe she had another name last time I saw her.”
“Names don’t mean much to me,” said Pickering. “But I remember faces, and I’d say yours looks familiar.”
“Oh?” The best Ryder could do was act surprised.
“I’ve seen you someplace,” Pickering insisted. “Can’t quite put my finger on it, but I figger it’ll come to me.”
Trying to look confused, Ryder replied, “I’m pretty sure I would remember meeting you.”
“Ah, well, I never said I met you, laddy. What I said is that I’ve seen you. There’s a difference you know.”
“That’s true enough,” Ryder agreed. “I can’t imagine where that would’ve been.”
“I’ll work it out, don’t worry.” With a grimace, Pickering inquired, “You ain’t a copper, are you?”
Ryder forced a laugh and said, “Not even close.”
“He thumped a couple, though,” said Marley. “Just last night, in fact. And brought me these to show for it.”
He took the badges from his pocket, letting Pickering examine them. The captain’s frown inverted, turned into a gold-toothed smile. “They’ll have to spin a tale today, I reckon, showin’ up without ’em.”
“So,” said Marley, pocketing the badges as he got around to business. “Have you got the goods?”
“Indeed I have, and then some,” Pickering confirmed. “Your lads ready to help off-load?”
“That’s why they’re here,” Marley confirmed.
“Well, come aboard then, and we’ll get ’em started workin’ for a living.”
“Don’t say that,” Marley advised him. “It’s what they’ve been trying to avoid.”
Pickering laughed at that and answered, “Ain’t we all?”
The gangplank groaned beneath their weight as Marley led his team aboard the Banshee. Ryder eyed the crewmen lined up on the clipper’s deck, around the open hold, but Pickering remained the only one he recognized. As they approached the h
old, Stede Pickering ran down the list of cargo they’d be carrying ashore.
“I’ve got the usual pistoles and doubloons,” he said. “Say seven hundred pounds in all, whether you want to pass it on as is or melt it down.”
“At eighteen ninety-three per ounce,” Marley replied, “that’s—”
“Thirteen thousand two hundred and fifty-one dollars, retail on the open market. Since we’re not exactly on the open market, I’ll be asking nine.”
Marley considered that, then nodded. “Done,” he said. “The rest?”
“A fair number of gems, including diamonds, rubies, emeralds, with some topaz and sapphires. As for carats, I would estimate … well, how does one million strike you?”
“Nearly three pounds,” Marley answered, when he’d done the calculation in his head. “How much?”
“Two thousand even,” Pickering replied.
“All right. And what about the ganja?”
“Say another seven hundred pounds. I’d like to get four hundred for it.”
“Fair enough. I’ve got a couple wagons standing by.”
“What’s ganja?” Ryder asked Ed Parsons, standing to his left.
Parsons responded with a crooked smile. “It’s like tobacco, with an extra kick to it. You oughta try it, Georgie.”
“Hmmm.”
“You owe it to yourself to live a little,” Parsons said.
“I’ll think about it,” Ryder said.
“Ask little Nell about that ganja, next time you go up to see her in her crib,” Parsons suggested, chuckling as he moved off toward the Banshee’s open cargo hatch.
Ryder watched him go and put the ganja out of mind. He had been sent to document smuggling of gold and gems, a mission now completed once he traced the Banshee’s cargo to wherever Marley planned to stash it. Somewhere within Galveston, he calculated, for convenience. One thing the town had in abundance was warehouses, and a big-time smuggler without storage space available would soon be out of work.
“Awright,” Stede Pickering called out to Marley’s men. “You came to work, so get your backs into it!”
*
Otto Seitz refrained from heavy work whenever possible. He might not be the boss in fact, but being second in command still had its privileges. He got to supervise when there was sweaty work to do, and only joined in on the bloody bits when he craved some excitement. Now, he hung back while a hand-cranked pulley system started raising nets out of the Banshee’s cargo hold, each net supporting wooden pallets, which in turn held crated merchandise.
Seitz found Stede Pickering against the starboard rail, smoking a pipe that looked like ivory or scrimshaw, with some kind of nautical motif etched on its bowl. Joining the captain, careful not to crowd him, Otto got right down to business. “So, you think you’ve seen our Georgie boy somewhere before?”
“I’d wager on it,” Pickering replied. “Faces stick in my head.”
“I’m guessing that he hasn’t been a member of your crew.”
“No guessing there,” said Pickering. “I’d have to be a total idjit to forget a man I’ve sailed with, wouldn’t I?”
Ignoring that, Seitz said, “You would have seen him in a port then. Somewhere you put in for cargo or supplies.”
“Well, you can bet I didn’t see him floatin’ on a raft at sea. Although …” The captain puffed a little cloud of smoke and squinted through it, toward the Gulf of Mexico.
“Although … ?”
Pickering shrugged. “Nothin’. Likely, I’ll work it out after we sail. The ocean helps me think.”
“But in the meantime …”
“This boy worries you, I take it,” Pickering suggested.
“I’m just curious about him,” Otto said. “Guy shows up out of nowhere at the perfect time. Next thing you know, he’s friends with everybody.”
“Not with you,” said Pickering.
“I like to know my friends a little better. Find out where they come from, what they did there, this and that.”
“I’ve got a gold doubloon that says you don’t know ever’thing about the boys you call your friends, much less this George Revere. We’ve all got secrets, Mr. Seitz.”
“I know enough about the others,” Otto said. “But this one, he’s a cipher to me.”
“And you don’t like mysteries.”
“Not when they might come back to bite me.”
“Alas, I’ve told you all I can, at least for now. I’ve definitely seen him somewhere. If it comes to me before we sail, I’ll pass it on.”
“I’d rather that you didn’t tell the boss we talked about this,” Otto said.
“A little secret is it?”
“I don’t want to worry him, in case it turns out being nothing.”
“Leave his mind at ease, you mean.”
“If possible.”
“And maybe deal with it yourself.”
“May not be necessary.”
“But you hope it will be.”
“Did I say—”
“You didn’t have to say it, laddy. It’s as plain as plain can be.”
“Well, anyway. If you can think of anything about him, I’d appreciate it.”
“And you’d show me that appreciation … how?”
“What do you want?”
“Not sure yet, but I’ll think on it.”
Marley called out to Seitz just then, hailing him from the cargo hatch. He left Pickering at the rail, smoking, uncertain whether he had said too much or if the captain would run straight to Marley with the details of their conversation. Moving toward the hold, he realized that Pickering had not responded to his plea for confidentiality, but Otto didn’t want to double back and press his luck, making an issue of it. If Pickering did squeal, then Otto supposed that he could weather any minor squall it caused, considering the time he spent with Marley.
“Sorry to interrupt your little chat,” said Marley when they stood together, watching two stout crewmen crank the windlass hoisting cargo into daylight.
“No problem,” Seitz replied.
“Something I ought to know about?”
“Just jawing,” Otto told him. “Nothing special.”
“Well, in that case, maybe you could fetch the wagons up and start to get them loaded.”
“Absolutely,” Otto said, hearing the edge in Marley’s tone. Frowning, he went to do as he’d been told.
*
Off-loading cargo from the Banshee took the best part of four hours. First came wooden crates with TEXTILES stenciled on the top and sides, each heavier than Ryder thought mere bolts of woven cloth should be. He took it that the gold coins and assorted gems were hidden in the boxes, adding weight, and while he kept an eye out for a Customs agent, none appeared to check the Banshee’s manifest. It made him wonder whether they’d been paid to stay away, or if the sheer volume of cargo moving through the port of Galveston made checking every ship impossible.
He’d make no judgment on the Customs men in his report, Ryder decided, if he didn’t catch them with their hands out or collaborating in some other way with Marley’s gang. Meanwhile, he helped unload the clipper, lugging crates from deck to pier, along the gangplank, and securing them in Marley’s waiting wagons. On his first pass, Ryder caught the horses watching him, placid as he increased the burden they would have to haul away.
He counted eighteen crates before they started taking off the ganja, bagged in burlap, each sack weighing thirty pounds or so. The plants carried a smell of fresh-mown grass about them, as he hoisted each across his shoulder and proceeded down the gangplank toward the second wagon. Ryder guessed you’d have to chew or smoke it to receive the kick Parsons had mentioned. In their present form, sacked up, the plants succeeded only at inspiring him to sneeze.
When they were nearly finished, Ryder saw a couple of policemen coming down the wharf, both armed with pistols and with billy clubs, one of them twirling his club on a leather thong that looped around his wrist. Neither of them resembled those Ryder
had left unconscious on the street last night, and both were wearing badges in their proper place.
Hoisting a sack of ganja to its place inside the second wagon, Ryder watched the coppers draw Marley aside, followed by Otto Seitz. The four of them conversed, briefly, none glancing Ryder’s way before a roll of currency changed hands. It was his first glimpse of a bribe in progress, and while Ryder could not read the numbers on their badges, he had memorized the faces of both officers before they ambled off the dock and out of sight.
One more round-trip onto the Banshee’s weather deck, and they were done, both wagons loaded. Ryder loitered on the pier and watched as Marley paid the captain, then shook hands with him and turned away. Seitz lingered for a moment longer, said something to Pickering, and then followed his boss to join the others.
“Okay,” said Marley. “Now we only have to stow the merchandise. Ed, you and Harry drive the wagons. Take a couple of the boys along to help unload them at the warehouse.”
Parsons turned to Ryder, nudged him with an elbow to the ribs, and told him, “You’re with me.”
Ryder responded with a nod and mounted to the wagon’s high seat, letting Parsons take the reins. Behind them, Harry Morgan and another member of the team, Bob Jacobs, rode the second wagon trailing them. Ryder let Parsons navigate, watching for street signs as they rolled through town and counting blocks between those that appeared to have no names. It took them twenty minutes at a walking pace to reach a warehouse labeled TIDEWATER STORAGE in faded blue paint on a parched white background. Two men he didn’t recognize were waiting by the open double doors, and Parsons greeted them by name—Johnny and Lee—before he drove the wagon through to the interior.
Inside, the warehouse seemed more spacious than it looked from streetside. Roughly half of it was filled with crated merchandise, stacked up in chest-high rows that ran the full length of the building. Ryder had no chance to examine any labels, but assumed that most of them were tagged to keep a casual observer from suspecting what might lie within. If so, it seemed that Bryan Marley had a sizable supply of contraband to move.
