by Steve Goble
a
BOTTLE OF RUM
ALSO BY STEVE GOBLE
The Bloody Black Flag
The Devil’s Wind
a
BOTTLE OF RUM
A Spider John Mystery
STEVE GOBLE
Published 2019 by Seventh Street Books®
A Bottle of Rum. Copyright © 2019 by Steve Goble. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, digital, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or conveyed via the internet or a website without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover design by Jennifer Do
Cover illustrations © Shutterstock
Cover design © Start Science Fiction
This is a work of fiction. Characters, organizations, products, locales, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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Printed in the United States of America
This one is for Tom Williams, even though he suggested calling this book “Beyond the Lowering Sun,” for some damned reason
1
AUGUST 1723
“Pirating wasn’t so bad, Spider John,” Odin said, his voice hushed as he lifted a small wooden horse from the board. “Maybe we could go back to that. Remember? We could walk about on the deck in the fresh air, instead of sulking in the shadows and hurrying from one doorway or alley to the next, like fucking rats hiding from a cat.”
He plunked the knight—a nicely carved bit of wood Spider hoped to replicate one day if they ever got a chance to stop running for their lives—onto the board. “Ha!”
They sat in the darkest corner of the common room, drinking and playing chess as though they had never been cutthroats on the Spanish Main, as though the king’s men were not seeking them, as though the gallows would never claim them. For a few moments, Spider John Rush had even felt a bit defiant, sitting here drinking among landsmen. But they were, after all, staying to the shadows and keeping their heads low to hide their faces. And Spider still took care to keep his maimed left hand, missing the small finger, away from spying eyes. He himself tended to notice small details, and he did not need anyone remembering encountering a buccaneer, shorter than average, missing a finger, and traveling with a frightening one-eyed son of a bitch.
That would not do at all.
They were still pirates, even though they were trying to flee that life. If they were caught, the Admiralty would not care about their current intentions or declarations of remorse. The Admiralty would judge them by the bloody things they’d done in the past and listen to some preacher read from the Bible while the executioner looped nooses over their cursed heads.
“Aye,” Spider answered, muttering in equally quiet tones and waving away a bit of curling candle smoke that stung his eyes. “We were as free as the fish in the sea, you and me and all the other lads, except the fish could swim right into any civilized port they chose and we could not. And we were only free until we ran out of food, or fresh water, or we needed a new mast or new sail, or a few new hands to replace the poor souls that lost their lives the last time we ran out of such things. Then we went and found someone who had what we needed, and we took it from them—and sometimes we took a lot more.”
Spider inhaled deeply from his pipe and blew a great cloud into Odin’s ugly face. The old man blinked his one remaining eye, and Spider continued. “And then we went back into hiding on the Spanish Main and drank heavy in hopes we’d forget what we’d done. And now we sit here, hiding our faces from anyone who might be on the hunt for an ugly mariner and his much smarter and handsomer shipmate.” He sucked at the pipe again. “Not so free, I reckon. Not free at all.” “Aye,” Odin muttered. “It was a rough life, I grant you that, but we had fresh air and sun. Do we have the better of it now, Spider John? Are any of the fellows in here waiting for us to leave, so they can follow us and rob us? Has the lady back in the kitchen sent for the authorities, because she thinks maybe we are suspicious gents?”
“She is a fine woman, Odin, truly,” Spider said. “She’ll not turn us in, though we look rough and talk rough. She’s dealt with us fairly, I say. I doubt I can say the same for her husband, though. He’s the type might sell us to the Admiralty, proof or no.”
Spider understood his friend’s feeling. He did not feel free sitting in a Lymington tavern, either. Luck and circumstances had landed them here, not thought and planning. He always felt more at ease at sea, where he could see enemies coming across the waves and prepare, and where he always had a crew of men on his side who had no more wish to die than he had. Strength in numbers, old Bent Thomas had always preached.
Here, it was just Spider and Odin. Here, a sneaky bastard with a dirk could easily step from an alley and slit his throat. That’s why he’d taken the seat against the wall, and that’s why his right hand dropped to his belt every thirty heartbeats or so, to make sure he could find his knife at the first sign of trouble.
The shipmates ignored the noises around them—although Spider remained alert for the sounds of press gangs outside—and they were careful not to meet anyone’s gaze. That was easy enough, until the tavern owner bellowed from the table he shared with a tall ruffian Spider had seen here a time or two before. All eyes raised when Thomas Bonnymeade bellowed at a scraggly gent who approached, hat in hand, and asked a question.
“Agatha, for the love of God, come tell this man the price of a pint and a sausage pie! I am engaged here!”
It was an impressive roar, the only real talent Spider had ever seen the man display in their short time here at the Crosskeys.
The man who’d interrupted Bonnymeade and his mean-looking friend stepped back and bowed, then turned around to look for the owner’s wife.
Bonnymeade and the ruffian went back to their quiet discussion as Spider watched them. Bonnymeade scratched mutton-chop whiskers and breathed like a fat seal giving birth. The other man had the darting eyes of a thief, and the odor of a stable clung to him.
Spider looked up from the chessboard, drank the last swig of rum in his small leather flask, and glared at the tavern keeper. He had already developed an intense dislike of the lazy proprietor.
“Scallywag has not done a lick of work since we arrived,” Spider whispered to his companion.
“Well, he’s got his wife to do it all. Ha!” Odin’s one eye went wide, and he leaned his ugly, ancient face out over the board. In the dancing candle-flicker the crusty scars left by the long-ago blast that had claimed Odin’s right eye gleamed a fiery red. Spider, despite the growing friendship between himself and this old man and shipmate, shuddered. When looking at Odin, Spider could not help but think of witches. That thought always stirred up memories of his dead Gram, hung near Salem after a witchcraft trial, and of his dead friend, Ezra, whose own family had been tarnished with a reputation for devil dealing. Odin himself had never made any witch claims, of course— the old bastard had never revealed any family history or even his real name to Spider—but the scarred face, limp and thinning gray-white hair, and long thin fingers conjured witch thoughts in Spider’s mind.
Odin hemmed and hawed for a moment, then pointed at the knight he had dropped on a central square. “Have you noticed my little hors
e, Spider John, all ready to gallop and stomp your puny king? Pay attention to the game. We’ve wagered a bottle of rum, remember, and I am powerfully thirsty.”
“Neither of us can pay for a bottle of rum, Odin.”
The slam of a door caught Spider’s attention. Predictably, Thomas Bonnymeade’s hollering had brought his wife scurrying from the kitchen, a platter of beef and bread in her hands. “Who is it, then? Oh, sir, hello. Have a seat if you please, and I will be back in just a moment. And you’ll have a jack of ale for your wait, on the house.”
Her husband glared at her, but Mrs. Bonnymeade ignored him. The entire time she spoke, she kept moving toward a corner table where three men rolled dice. They suspended their game briefly when they caught the aroma of roast beef. Spider caught it, too, and his belly rumbled a bit.
The newcomer found an empty table and sat alone as Mrs. Bonnymeade placed the platter before the dice players. “Here you go, gentlemen, hot as can be.” Then she hastened to arrange a meal for the new customer, instructing the girl in the kitchen, while her husband continued his conversation with his surly companion.
“Bastard sits and talks to comers and goers all day, while she cooks and cleans and does everything else,” Spider said.
“Aye,” Odin said. “And are you not hoping to get back to your own lovely woman in Nantucket and make her do the same for you? Ha!”
“I am not so lazy,” Spider said. “But I’ll duck out of washing the clothes, by thunder!”
Odin laughed. “Bonnymeade reminds me of some cap’ns I have known, loving to bark but not sullying their hands with any labor. Are you going to play or ought I just topple your goddamned king now?” Spider’s gaze returned to the board. He had been studying its construction of oak and maple more than the game itself, with the eye of a ship’s carpenter. He hoped to create a box and board Odin could keep and carry, and so his attention had been on the carved pieces and the box the set had been housed in, with its elegant little drawer for all the pieces and the ornate royal figures carved into its top. Spider had no doubt he could replicate the box and the drawer, but he envied the artistry of the master carver who had engraved the figures into the lid, and the steady hand that had brought the black and white figures arrayed on the board to life. One day, when he wasn’t running from the law or dodging cutlasses and musket balls, he’d produce such treasures himself, while Em brought him jugs of small beer and Little Johnny asked him to impart such skills to him.
One day.
Spider shook those thoughts off and focused on the game. His lack of attention to tactics had put him in a sore spot. He reached for the rum, remembered his flask was empty, and growled. “I think you cheat, Odin.”
“I think you let your mind wander,” Odin said, grinning. “You always have too much in your thoughts, Spider John. It all gets tossed about, flotsam drifting across your brain.”
“Aye.” Spider tried to focus on the game. Half a minute later, he glanced up as Thomas Bonnymeade’s companion left the tavern, allowing some of the night’s chill to enter as he passed through the door, and the fat innkeeper finally moved away from his table, fingers drumming on his rotund belly. The man headed upstairs without a word to his wife, who brought Spider and Odin some cheese and bread.
“Mister Davies and Mister Hughes,” she said, addressing them by the false names they’d given her rather than the names they’d sailed under as pirates, “this is for you, and I am sorry it took so long.” She placed the platter on the table, then fixed the scarf that kept her gray hair under control. “I hope you enjoy this. The beef is all gone, I’m afraid, but we’ve another roast on the spit if you can wait.”
She picked up Odin’s empty jack. “Another ale for you, sir?” She glanced at Spider. “And did I see you dribble the last from your flask?” “Aye,” Spider said. “But you know we can’t pay.”
“Codswallop,” she said, laughing. “Mister Davies, you did such a fine job on those stairs, they don’t even creak under my man’s weight. You spoke true, Mister Hughes, when you said your friend was a master carpenter. Food and board is yours until you find a berth somewhere, don’t you worry. I’ll return with ale and rum in a blink.”
Spider watched her go. She was a large woman, but she expertly dodged between tables and guests and the fiddler who played softly, more for his own enjoyment than anyone else’s. Spider looked around the common room; the door to the kitchen hung a bit crooked, and more than one table wobbled badly. He could easily make some repairs to repay her kindness to wandering sailing men, if only he could afford to tarry here.
“Caw! Caw!”
Spider jumped at the sound, rising completely from his seat, and covered his face with his arms. He spun quickly, peering between his forearms for the crow or parrot or macaw that had cried out. He looked into the rafters, at every window, and on every table, but saw no bird—no sharp beaks, no scratchy talons, no dead soulless eyes.
Odin’s quiet laughter caught Spider’s attention.
“Odin, you seal-humping bastard.”
“Ha!”
“You cried out like a bird!”
Odin’s shoulders quaked. “I could not help it! If you’re not going to play chess, I must have my fun some other way. Ha!”
“I wish you would fly away, old crow.” Spider sat, scowling. His hatred—nay, fear—of birds was a constant amusement for his shipmate. Spider himself knew the terror to be unwarranted—he had never actually seen a bird do anything to harm a man, woman, or child—but that did not make the fear vanish.
If the other drinkers had noticed the prank, they gave no indication. Spider sat and glared at Odin.
Mrs. Bonnymeade hustled by, placing a fresh jack of ale before Odin and a small wooden cup sloshing with rum before Spider. He caught the aroma, sharp and spicy, and licked his lips.
“There you be, gentlemen.” Then Mrs. Bonnymeade crossed the room and climbed the newly mended stairs.
Spider took a bite of cheese and a drink of rum, then returned his attention to the game. Odin’s only remaining knight had neatly forked Spider’s king and queen. Spider glowered at Odin and shook his head. “I am not going to make you a board of your own after all, you goddamned whore-licking old pirate.”
Odin chuckled. “Maybe I’ll steal this board. It brings me luck.”
Spider moved his king to safety then watched as Odin cackled and took Spider’s queen from the board. “She’s mine, all mine! I plan to steal all your women, Spider, even the wench in Nantucket! Ha! You can keep the boy, though!”
They played on, although Spider’s heart was not in it and he stood no real chance of winning. He was about to resign the game when a cry erupted from above.
“Murder!”
It was Mrs. Bonnymeade’s voice. As the word echoed down the dim stairwell, the second syllable stretched into an anguished wail. Other sounds died: the drone of a hornpipe scratched out on the badly tuned fiddle, the rattle of dice on oak tables, the animated laughter of slightly drunken men. Spider risked one quick peek from behind the wooden cup and was relieved to see that all eyes were looking up the stairs and toward that mournful cry, and not at him. Then he lowered his gaze so that the wide brim of his much-abused hat would hide his face from any curious onlookers who might happen to glance his way. He moved the candlestick a few inches further away, too.
“Do not, Spider John . . .” Odin said, adjusting his own hat.
“Do not what, Odin?”
The old man’s reply was a ghostly whisper. “Do not scratch your damned itch to always figure out what goes on. Do not poke your ugly beak into this, do not rush to the lady’s side, do not get us involved in this.” Odin swirled his ale in its jack before taking a swig. “Remember the plan. It was your own plan after all, aye? Lay low. Pay attention to gabbing sailors, maybe head to Plymouth if we must, to find a ship bound for the colonies. Join up, pretend we’re honest men . . .”
“We are honest men.”
“Well. We’ve not been so
for long, have we? But the plan, we set sail for Nantucket, find your woman and your boy. Remember?”
Spider gritted his teeth but said nothing. How long since he’d seen Emma and Little Johnny? Years and years. He reached to his chest and tapped the pendant hanging on a leather strip beneath his grimy shirt. He’d carved it for Em, and one day he’d place it in her hand.
Other men rose from their tables and moved slowly toward the staircase, at times blocking the light from the hearth so that shadows and bright firelight alternatively leapt and crawled across the common room. Men stared into one another’s faces, asked fool questions and waited to see if someone would take command and rush up the stairs, where the horrible moaning had given way to great gasping sobs.
“Is that Missus Bonnymeade?”
“Aye! Should we help her?”
“Maybe she is drunk? I saw her quaff some wine.”
Spider winced and looked at his friend.
Odin scowled and shook his head, slowly.
“I know,” Spider said. “You are wise, Odin. It would be foolish to rush up there. But she has been kind to us.”
“She is the one wailing, so she isn’t dead.”
“Aye, but . . .”
“But,” Odin said, gritting his teeth. “It is nothing to do with us. All our crimes are in the past and far from here. This is not for us to fret over.”
Odin was correct, of course. Spider knew it. It would not do to be recognized as pirates—former pirates, Spider reminded himself— especially when the word “murder” had been uttered. He was a stranger here in Lymington, but the town was big enough that it certainly had night watchmen, and there was a garrison nearby, so His Majesty’s Naval officers could come mucking about. Whatever had happened upstairs was certain to draw official attention. He listened again for the sounds of an approaching press gang.
Spider did not want that, by thunder. They’d survived too many brushes with fate already; it was foolish to court more.
