Cap'n Jethro

by Lee Reynoldson

  “Maybe not, but I’d have paid what I owe.”

  “You can pay now. I won’t be greedy, give me half of your treasure.”

  “Half? That might not be possible my love see . . .” Jethro’s eyes widened in shock. “No, Frenchie! Don’t shoot.”

  Instinctively Imelda spun round, both pistol’s raised to meet the attack. Jethro ran for it before she realised she’d been duped. Head down, he zigzagged away. There was the distinctive crack of a pistol shot. The whistle of lead flying overhead.

  Damn if this wasn’t turning out to be a bad day for a good Englishman. He knew Imelda wasn’t one to be put off, but couldn’t share his treasure. He could try to explain, but time was against him. If Imelda followed him to Sharkey’s so be it. He’d deal with that. But first he had to get to Sharkey’s.

  He didn’t even give himself time to flinch when Imelda fired her second pistol. The shot flew past his left ear. He cursed the day he’d gifted her those fine pistols and gave thanks to the Good Lord he’d never taught her how to use them.

  * * * * *

  Shagnasty shouldered his way through the doors of The Strangled Parrot, weaved past the patrons and made his way to the rear of the noisy, stinking, drinking den. He hovered at the table of one Mutinous Matthews, a sour faced weasel of a man. Matthews brushed aside a straggle of lank greasy hair with the leather covered stump of his right hand, turned his dark soulless eyes on Shagnasty and pointed with his stump to an empty chair. Uneasily, Shagnasty slipped into the seat.

  “What be it then, Shagnasty?” Matthews said. His voice soft and mellow, his face hard, the look in his eyes cold.

  Shagnasty leaned across the table full of the importance of his message. “It be news, news of an old friend.”

  “Who be it, Shagnasty? Who be it?”

  “It be Henderson.”

  Matthews wiped flecks of spittle from his lips. “Cap’n Henderson?”

  “Aye, that be him.”

  “What, Cap’n Jethro Henderson?”

  “Aye, that be him an no mistake.”

  “Cap’n Jethro Henderson as some call ‘Fair-cut’?” Matthews asked as he scratched at his stump with his dirk.

  “Aye, that be him.”

  “So it be Cap’n Jethro ‘Fair-cut’ Henderson? You be sure of that, Shagnasty?”

  “Aye, I be sure of it.”

  “Would that be the same Cap’n Jethro ‘Fair-cut’ Henderson that sailed out of Plymouth?”

  Shagnasty nodded enthusiastically. “It be Cap’n Jethro ‘Fair-cut’ Henderson who sailed out of Plymouth port.”

  “So,” Matthews said gesticulating with his dirk. “It be that self same Cap’n Jethro ‘Fair-cut’ Henderson of Plymouth, that everyone in this ‘ere town knows it’s death to mention in my hearing?”

  Shagnasty nodded again. “Aye, that be hi— urk.”

  “Good,” Matthews said and withdrew his blade from Shagnasty’s chest. “I likes to keep abreast of these ‘ere comings and goings.”

  Matthews scratched at his stump with his bloody blade. “Slurpy!” He shouted at a sagacious old sailor. “Fetch me best hook. Cap’n Jethro’s treasure is ours for the taking, but his life, that I’ll share with no man. That be mine and mine alone for the taking.” With that he kicked Shagnasty’s corpse to the floor and howled as only the truly mad can.

  * * * * *

  Normally Piss-Pike tried to sneak into Sharkey’s to filch some tasty morsel. Walking in like an honest customer was a new experience. Charcoal embers hazed the small fish shop with heat waves. Cooked mackerel filled the place with their sweet smoky aroma. Piss-Pike’s stomach gurgled.

  Sharkey was at his cook-fire, a shallow iron tray filled with embers. Above it fish hung and smoked slowly. He took fish from a barrel of brine and with quick, clever hands, gutted them then hung them over the fire. He was a rotund old sea-dog with a shock of white hair growing round his otherwise bald pate. His features and eyes were somewhat porcine, but there sparked an obvious intelligence and a forceful will. Both of which he brought to bear on Piss-Pike.

  “Oi. What have I told you, you little guttersnipe. This ain’t no home for waifs an’ strays now fu—”

  “But I got coin, Sharkey. Honest.”

  “You honest? Get out of it.” Sharkey gutted and hooked another fish. “Go on, get!”

  “But, Sharkey it’s true. I’ve got coin.

  Honest earned, too.”

  “Piss-Pike, there’s nary an honest man in this whole godforsaken port and you but a child are more devious than most.”

  “I know, yet I’ve never outwitted you and that’s to your credit, Sharkey, ain’t it.”

  “Aye, reckon,” Sharkey said. Boyish pride played across his face till he caught himself in his folly and corrected it with a frown. “Oh flattery’s yer game is it? Well that won’t work.”

  Longingly, Piss-Pike stared at the fillets of mackerel that had crisped to perfection. He imagined three on a platter with warm bread, melted butter and a flagon of ale. His stomach growled, a loud angry growl. Sharkey grinned.

  “If I show you coin you’ll serve me?”

  “If you show me coin all the whores in Freeport will turn saint quicker than a vicar turns to sin.”

  The copper penny that Grimm gave him would buy breakfast. The silver that Imelda gave him would breakfast him like a pirate-king for a week. But Piss-Pike wanted to make Sharkey choke on his jibes, so he fished out the Doubloon.

  It worked. Sharkey stared at the coin. “Now if you’ve earned that honest, boy, there’s a tale I’d never believe the telling of.”

  “Well it’s true. Frenchie gave it me.”

  “For what?”

  “For bringing him news of Cap’n Jethro.”

  “Cap’n Jethro!” Sharkey’s mouth flapped open and closed in a way that Piss-Pike found most satisfying. “What news? What of him, boy? Tell me and no games.”There was an edge of urgency in Sharkey’s voice that Piss-Pike had never heard before. “He’s in Freeport. Can I have some fish now, Sharkey. Please.” Piss-Pike held out his coin.

  “You stupid boy. The Cap’n here and you only tell me now, I should—”

  Sharkey stopped. His eyes widened and bulged. His mouth gaped. He grunted as a cutlass tip burst from his chest. When the blade was pulled clear Sharkey fell forward onto his chopping board. Blood ran from his mouth and pooled on the board around a gutted mackerel.

  Terrified, unable to move, Piss-Pike held his coin out. Zachariah stepped over Sharkey, cutlass in hand. “I’ll have that young ‘un.” He took the coin from Piss-Pike, then struck out with a savage backhanded blow that rocked the boy’s head back. Zachariah stepped behind him, wrapped a burly arm around his neck and squeezed.

  Piss-Pike kicked out in panic, knocked over the cook-fire and sent embers scattering. Flames sparked in the straw covered floor. He tried to

  prise the arm that throttled the life from him, but all his efforts got him was a cruel laugh from Zachariah and a more violent throttling.

  Piss-Pike knew he would die. He wished he’d eaten first. He so wanted one of Sharkey’s mackerel. He was always hungry and thought it uncommonly cruel that he should die hungry. Hell if I’ll die hungry! Piss-Pike pushed his chin under Zachariah’s arm and bit down all the time thinking of sweet, tender mackerel.

  * * * * *

  The scene that greeted Jethro, as he padded into Sharkey’s, shattered his comfortable memories of the place. Flames danced across tables, chairs and floor. A thick cloud of smoke hung in the air. Oblivious to the fire, a muscle-bound pirate and a half-starved boy fought.

  Jethro ignored this. The sight that took his heart was that of his old friend, Sharkey, sprawled across his fish-board in a pool of blood.

  If Zachariah had seen the look on Jethro’s face he’d have let go of Piss-Pike and run. As it was he saw nothing and only briefly felt an explosion of pain as Jethro’s axe buried itself hungrily in the back of his head.

  “That, you murdering whore
son,” Jethro said and levered his axe from the pirate’s skull, “be a fair cut.” He stepped over the dead pirate, ignored the boy and went to his friend.

  When he rolled him over and saw the cruel cut that bubbled with blood and air Jethro knew Sharkey was done for.

  Sharkey however wasn’t convinced. “I’ve had worse.” He tried to focus on Jethro’s face, gave up, closed his eyes and instead put his hand on Jethro’s shoulder.

  “Your treasure…”

  “Hush now, Sharkey. Rest.”

  “Rest? I’m dying fool, not tired Listen.” He coughed, a hacking rack that sent globules of blood spurting from his chest. “Your treasure . . . with my Dorothy . . . safe.” One last bloody bubble rose and burst from the wound. With that, Sharkey died.

  “You saved my life,” Piss-Pike said, his voice a scratchy crackle.

  “Did I, lad?” Jethro said, looking at Sharkey.

  “The name’s Piss-Pike.” He rubbed his throat, cleared it with a cough. “Dorothy? Would that be Sharkey’s sister?”

  Gently, Jethro laid Sharkey down. “His sister, yes.” He folded Sharkey’s arms across his blood smeared chest.

  Piss-Pike prised his doubloon from Zachariah’s grip. “She lives on Dead Man’s Drop don’t she?”

  “Yes.” Jethro lifted his gaze from Sharkey to look at Piss-Pike, but the boy was gone.

  All Jethro could do now was leave his friend to the flames. There was no time for anything else. He had to get to Dead Man’s Drop. He had to get to his treasure.

  * * * * *

  Jacky Boy had followed Jethro through the streets. He’d watched him tangle with Frenchie and then the whore Imelda. He would’ve loved to stop and gut the whore, but there wasn’t time. Maybe later. He’d watched happily when Jethro axed Zachariah. He’d never liked the man. He’d risked creeping in, crawling low on his belly, hid behind a table and old Sharkey had given the game away. Jethro’s treasure was with Sharkey’s sister.

  That was all he needed to hear. Quick and quiet he crawled from the burning fish house, then pelted back through the alleyways until he almost ran down Mr Grimm, Mutinous Matthews and his man, Slurpy Jones.

  “Well, Jacky Boy?” Grimm said.

  “The treasure…” Jacky Boy took deep sucking breaths. “Dead Man’s Drop.”

  “Make haste lads,” Matthews said and set off at a fair pace. “For ‘tis a glorious day to get rich.”

  Jacky Boy caught his breath and dashed after Matthews and the others.

  * * * * *

  Frenchie watched them run then stepped out from the shadows. If Monsieur Jethro cares nothing for his honour perhaps he cares for this treasure they speak of. He sheathed his sword and stalked after the pirates.

  * * * * *

  Imelda finished reloading her pistols, stuffed them into her garters, hitched her skirts and followed Frenchie. The fop was no fool. He’d find Jethro and his treasure and, when he did, she’d be right behind him.

  * * * * *

  Piss-Pike padded after Imelda. He prayed his stomach wouldn’t growl and give him away. He cursed his luck. He’d been there at Sharkey’s, but how did everyone else know about the treasure? A Peddler’s pox on them all. He might not be the first to it, but he swore he’d thieve himself a share of the treasure. He’d never go hungry again.

  * * * * *

  A mile out of Freeport, the headland, known as Dead Man’s Drop, juts out to sea — a lonely finger of land that ends in the cliff face that gave it its name.

  The trail that led Jethro there was crowded on either side by a dense growth of palms and underbrush. Both trail and trees ended near the tip of the headland. In this clearing, slumped dangerously close to the cliff’s edge, was one isolated shanty shack. Dorothy’s hut. Orange flames licked its walls and black smoke billowed from its windows, door and roof.

  Crouched behind a palm tree, sickened by what he saw, Jethro knew his situation was hopeless. Mr Grimm, Matthews and two pirates crowded round the body of Sharkey’s sister. He took all this in without thought. His gaze fixed on one thing. His Treasure. His little Treasure. His daughter Gracie.

  Gracie stood, impossibly small, next to the pirates. She shivered and clutched a raggedy, one-armed doll to her while her gaze darted between the pirates and her dead guardian.

  Jethro drank in every detail. She looked so like her mother, except for her hair. She had the same mane of crow-black hair as him. For the first time in his adult life he felt weak, lost. Impotent rage seethed in him. He gripped his axe and belaying pin tight. He wanted to charge Matthews, but knew that course of action would only end with him and his daughter dead.

  Distraught, Jethro crumpled into a heap at the foot of a palm. “My Treasure, my little Treasure.”

  “That’s your treasure!” The voice soft and scratchy came from above him. “A stupid little girl.”

  Jethro rolled to his feet, axe at the ready. The waif from Sharkey’s fish shop, Piss-Pike, shinned down the palm tree. “You mean you come back, you crossed Matthews, for a girl. Ugh.”

  Jethro quelled the urge to give the boy his second throttling of the day and instead watched his daughter and the pirates who surrounded her.

  “What now?” Piss-Pike said.

  “It won’t take long for them to work out who the child is.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then they’ll either use her to get to me or . . . “ But he said no more. He closed his eyes and let his weapons slip from his hands.

  “What will you do?” Piss-Pike picked up the axe and belaying pin.

  “As long as she lives, I’ll do what they tell me and if, well if . . . then I’ll send as many of them to hell as I can.”

  Jethro felt the cold prod of a blade at the base of his skull. There was the tell-tale click of a flintlock being cocked. He froze.

  “I do not think, monsieur, you will claim ze treasure zis day or any other day.”

  Slow, steady, Jethro turned to find himself face to face with the bayonet and barrel of a French musket.

  “Not a good time Frenchie.”

  “Catch up with yerself, Frenchie.” Piss-Pike said. “The treasure’s his daughter.”

  “How many times haz I told you!” Frenchie said. He shouldered his musket. His free hand gesticulated petulantly. His voice rose in tone and temper. “My name is no Frenchie! My name is Diddier De La Man—”

  Jethro clamped a hand over Frenchie’s mouth. He spoke low but fierce. “Damn yer honour, yer satisfaction, and damn yer ship to hell Frenchie. That’s my daughter they have. My daughter.”

  With some small dignity the French fop disentangled himself from Jethro. “Your daughter you say.” He peered past Jethro. All three of them looked at the girl. Smoke drifted around her and she coughed while the pirates argued.

  “Sir, I am yours to command.” Frenchie said with a formal nod of his head.

  “Thank you.”

  “So, what’s the plan then?” Piss-Pike handed the belaying pin to Jethro and hefted the axe two-handed.

  Jethro prised his axe from Piss-Pike. “The only thing going for us at the moment is surprise.”

  “Jethro! Jethro Henderson you swine!” Imelda crashed through the undergrowth toward them. “I know you’re here, Jethro. Show yourself, you deceiver of honest whores you.”

  Jethro would have cursed Imelda to hell and back, but no words came. Even from here he could see Matthews’ joy. Matthews seized Gracie with his one good hand and dragged her after him.

  “Yes, Jethro. Be a good lad and show yerself. After all I have yer daughter.” He hugged the girl to him.

  Imelda burst through the foliage, a look of kittenish satisfaction on her face and a pistol in each hand. Frenchie shook his head at her. Piss-Pike spat at the ground. Jethro turned his back on her.

  “What?” She asked. “He owes me -- what?”

  “Come on, Jethro Lad!” Matthews shouted, his voice edged with steel, tinged with malice. “You wouldn’t want anything ‘appening to yer
daughter would yer now?”

  “Daughter?” Imelda barged past them to take a look. “Oh.” The glint of greed faded from her eyes.

  Anger and despair roiled inside of Jethro. No time to waste on anger at Imelda and he couldn’t afford to give in to despair. No time. Think Jethro think. How can you save her? How?

  There was only one thing he could do. It was stupid and it was dangerous but it was his only choice. He must rely on honour. The only kind of honour Jethro knew. The stupid and dangerous kind. Matthews’ honour. Pirate honour. He took a deep breath, slipped both weapons into his belt and stepped out from the treeline.

  * * * * *

  Jethro marched into the clearing. Matthews glared at him with a mixture of glee and predatory hunger. Grimm stood by his side. Their men fanned out behind them. Jethro ignored them. His gaze fixed on Gracie. Matthews hook nestled delicate, but dangerous, on her shoulder. His Treasure. His daughter. Gracie. Did she even know who he was? He tried to reassure her with a smile. She looked back with his own dark eyes, but no recognition.

  “Close enough, Jethro,” Matthews said. He drew a flintlock, aimed it at Jethro’s chest.

  “Let her go, Matthews. This is between us.”

  “Oh, it be between us all right, Jethro, but you’ll stay there and she’ll stay here.” He dug the sharp tip of his hook into Gracie’s shoulder.

  Jethro watched her squirm. He saw a crimson tear of blood seep through the white of her smock. A tempest rose within him. He knew it was a storm that could cost him his daughter, so he lashed himself to the mast of his anger. “I call on the articles of piracy, Matthews. I challenge your captaincy. My axe and pin against your hook and cutlass here in the sight of the crew.”

  “I don’t think so, Jethro. You’re not in my crew and I ain’t standing on no ship. I like things just the way they is.”

  One of Matthews’ crew stepped forward. A man Jethro knew as Slurpy Jones the Welshman.

  “Well look you now, Matthews. Jethro here used to be our captain and you never did challenge him by the articles, so the way I sees it he has the right—”

  High on Dead Man’s Drop, with the sound of the sea swell hammering against the cliffs, the retort of Matthews’ pistol was a weak crack and the sea breeze dissipated the smoke before blood spurted from Slurpy’s neck.