A Bottle of Rum

by Steve Goble

  Bill shook his head. “I know nothing . . .” The light from the lantern on the ground gave him a spectral appearance, heightened by his wide, fear-struck eyes and quivering jaw.

  “Think, man, because if your damned head is empty I might as well cut it off.” He pressed the knife a bit closer and moved it just enough to make a tiny incision.

  Bill winced.

  Spider stared hard into Bill’s eyes, and watched the man’s resolve slowly die.

  “We had a rendezvous arranged,” the carter said, “not even a fortnight ago, and a fellow paid us well to forget about it.”

  “What fellow, and why?”

  “A stranger,” Bill said. “Bonnymeade set it up, and arranged for us to talk. The man said he had personal business with the smugglers, and he paid us handsome to stay away. I got the feeling he had a score to settle, the way he said it.”

  Spider tightened his grip on the man’s collar, and Bill started talking a lot faster.

  “Anyway, he said we could come in later and collect the merchandise and he held to that, too, left it right there where we could find it. So we did not lose anything on the deal. There were bodies, though, shot and stabbed, it looked like. Might still be there. I won’t go back to that cove, not a place where men died. Haunted, probably.”

  “What was this man’s name?”

  “I told you, a stranger. I do not know his name, and doubt he would have told me true anyway. That is all I know. Tom made all the arrangements, really. He talked to the stranger, told us we’d best cooperate, so we did.”

  “What was this fellow’s business with the smugglers?”

  “I do not know, I told you! He worked for someone else, though, I know that, because Tom said.”

  Spider tightened his grip on the knife’s hilt. “Who was his leader?”

  “I swear I do not know! I swear! I swear! I swear!” The man was almost crying.

  Spider growled. “And what of this man, then, the one who made the deal with Bonnymeade? Tall? Short? Beard? Long hair? What did he wear?”

  Bill gulped. “Well, he was missing most of his left arm, and his right leg below the knee.”

  It was Spider’s turn to gulp. “Say that again?”

  “He was missing an arm and a leg.”

  “This man, was he taller than you?”

  “Aye,” Bill answered. “By a good bit. And he hobbled about on a crutch, but he still had fight in his eyes, like he could whip anyone he pleased.”

  “He had an earring, I’ll wager,” Spider said, quietly. “On his left ear.”

  “Aye, a gold skull.”

  A gold skull.

  Spider backed away but kept the knife between himself and Bill. “Did you hear that, Odin?”

  “Aye, Spider.” Odin spat. “It means nothing to me, though. You know the bastard?”

  “Aye,” Spider answered. “That has to be Half-Jim Fawkes. I sailed with him a while back, under Bent Thomas, before he went off on his own with one of Bent’s sloops. Nasty sort, and clever, and tough as old Doctor Boddings’ plum duff. I always wondered what happened to him, where he went.”

  “Well, then,” Odin said. “He sounds like he might put up a better fight than Bill and his useless friend here. We might need more than knives and chair legs to deal with such as that.”

  “Aye,” Spider answered. “I will bet these gentlemen have some weapons, since they have dealings with unsavory smugglers and pirates and the like.”

  Bill shook his head, but Spider chuckled. “Odin,” he pointed, “yonder corner is dark. No lanterns there. Good place to store powder, I reckon.”

  “Aye,” Odin replied, heading to the spot Spider had indicated while Spider twisted the knife in the air and Bill looked nervous. Out of the corner of his eye, Spider noticed Odin limped a bit.

  The sound of a trunk being opened filled the cavernous barn. “Ha! Flintlock pistols, four of them! Wadding and powder, too, and balls aplenty. And a couple of dirks that need sharpened. But we’ve armed ourselves with worse.”

  “Get it all, friend,” Spider said. He put as much menace into his expression as he could and leaned toward Bill. “Now, what shall I do with you?”

  8

  Odin, carrying their newly acquired weaponry in a burlap sack, rushed upstairs to collect their meager belongings, while Spider explained to Aggie that they were leaving. He also had questions for her.

  “A man missing an arm and a leg? Yes, such a man did talk with Thomas,” she said, filling a traveling flask with rum. “A couple of times. I do not know why, for I was chased away when they were together. But it was business talk, I’m sure. You know,” she said, “I do not think Tom liked him. I think that man maybe even scared him a little.”

  “Did you notice if the man had any baubles dangling from his ears?”

  She nodded. “Just one, a horrid little gold head, like a skull.”

  “That fellow is named Half-Jim Fawkes, I am certain of it, and he likes to scare people. He and his lads took my young friend away,” Spider said. “Maybe pirates have taken to running press gangs, too. Manpower is lacking these days, with all the hangings. Whatever business Fawkes is in, it is sure to be ugly. Are you certain you overheard nothing?”

  She handed the flask to Spider. “Take that with you. No, I did not hear Thomas and this man Fawkes discuss anything. I can tell you Thomas was nervous afterward. But I know no details.”

  Spider tucked the flask into his belt. “Damn.”

  Aggie’s eyes widened. “Bill . . . What became of him? Did you and your friend . . .” She dragged a forefinger across her throat, her eyebrows arching in question.

  “We hog-tied him and tossed him into a horse stall. He will live. His mate will live too, but he has a broken knee.”

  “He fell,” said Odin, arriving at the base of the steps with their old sea coats in his arms and two leather sacks strapped over his shoulders. “He was a clumsy lobcock. Ha!”

  Spider noticed Odin was still limping.

  “Did you get hurt?”

  “Not bad,” Odin said.

  “So, no, we’ve done no murders, then,” Spider told Mrs. Bonnymeade, “yet haste is called for. Thank you for housing us, and should I get my hands on your husband’s killer, again, I’ll do such justice as I can. And I’ll find some way to get word to you, because I suspect we won’t come this way again.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  They headed toward the door after donning their coats, purloined from the stores of Fiddler’s Dram before their hasty departure, only to be halted by Mrs. Bonnymeade’s sudden exclamation.

  “Wait!”

  They turned to look at her.

  “Mister Kegley! He knew the lame gentleman, that Mister Fawkes!”

  “He did?” Spider glanced at Odin, who hung his head the way a man does when he finds out he’ll have to do his chores after all rather than settle down with a pint.

  “Yes, he did!” Mrs. Bonnymeade wrung her hands together. “I remember! He came in for an ale and some boiled potatoes and we got to talking the way we do, and, well, a man with such hideous injuries as your Mister Fawkes does not come to the Crosskeys every day, so I mentioned that and he said, he being Mister Kegley, of course, he said that he had seen such a man at his shop, not infrequently!”

  “Is that so?” Spider grinned. “Where might we find your Mister Kegley?”

  Odin groaned. “We attacked a couple of gents this morning, Spider John. They might be describing us to the authorities this very moment. And some people here think you killed this woman’s husband. Hell, we should grab the first ship we can find, and to hell with where it is bound!”

  “Since when do you run from a fight, Odin?”

  “Well, I just don’t want them to hang you, Spider! Ha!”

  “Aggie, where can we find Mister Kegley?”

  “Why, he’s the apothecary. His shop is close by, go left from the door and his shop is on the right-hand side.”

  Spider gulp
ed, remembering the sting of sticky fluid in his eyes and a fight with Little Bob Higgins in the darkness. “Aye, I know where that is. I’ve done some business there, recently. Odin, let us go speak with this apothecary.”

  Odin peered out the window. “There are a couple of big gentlemen with cudgels headed this way, Spider.”

  “That might be the watch,” Mrs. Bonnymeade said. “They carry those big sticks.”

  Spider bowed. “Missus Bonnymeade, Aggie, I mean, might we depart through the kitchen?”

  9

  “ You don’t get to fuss about how I smell ever again, Spider John, Ha!”

  Within three heartbeats of entering the dim shop, the sharp mix of chemical scents prompted a new sting in Spider’s eyes, and he relived for a moment the battle with Little Bob that had sent him rushing to douse his head in the horse trough. He’d never smelled anything like it, not even after sharing forecastle space with men who had not bathed in months. He’d never smelled anything like this even in the rat realm of the orlop.

  Spider wiped his eyes on his coat sleeve and approached a table in the corner, where a bald gentleman in his middle years crumbled dried, aromatic plants into a clay jar by the light of a candle. The stained table held numerous pots, small knives, a heap of yellow flowers, a scale, some measuring weights, a well-made cabinet with many small drawers that Spider much admired, and a mouse in a wooden cage.

  “One moment, please,” the apothecary muttered without turning around to look at them. He placed a miniscule weight upon one side of the scale, then slowly scooped the contents of his cup onto the other side until he achieved something close to balance. “One moment, please,” he repeated, as though he had not already said it once. He spoke slowly, and distractedly.

  A wig hung on a peg nearby. The man picked it up, started to place it upon his bald head, sniffed it, winced, and placed it back on the peg.

  Spider looked around the shop, trying to decide which of the several stenches filling the room was the worst. Dried herbs of many varieties hung from the ceiling. A small sack hanging on a nail in the wall smelled suspiciously of dung. Open jars on shelves held fluids of every hue, and flies hovered over a crate of bones and hooves in one corner. A small bucket beneath the table seemed to be filled with urine, judging from the color and stench.

  The smoke from the apothecary’s candle fought its way through all that and gathered beneath the wide brim of Spider’s hat, seeping into his eyes and nostrils. Spider doffed the hat and waved it to clear the air.

  “There,” the apothecary said, finally turning to face them. “Well, new fellows, I see! William Kegley, apothecary, at your services.” His gaze never seemed to really fix upon one point, and his eyes were oddly unfocused. Spider wondered if the man was drunk, but of all the odors swimming about in that small room, alcohol was not among them. Spider would have bet heavily on his nose’s ability to detect a tot of rum or whisky or small beer, even in the midst of all the competing scents.

  “Is it something for those watery eyes, lad?” Kegley pointed to the scale on his table. “I am, at this very moment, preparing a concoction of fennel, which is a marvel for treating the affliction of poor eyesight, and it may serve to improve your condition, as well. I have more fennel and can easily prepare some for you, for a modest cost.”

  The druggist then noticed Odin’s horribly scarred face and gasped audibly. “Is this why you’ve come? The wounds look old, but old wounds can bring new pains. Has there been seeping?”

  “My scars are beyond help, I’d say. Ha!”

  “Poor soul,” Kegley whispered. “Whatever happened to you?” “Cannon,” Odin said. “Years ago. I nearly lost my head.”

  Kegley uttered a mostly silent prayer, then turned back to Spider. The druggist’s eyes widened when he saw the gash on Spider’s forehead. “Now that wound is not from years ago. Within a day, I should say, or I have never seen a wound. Does it pain you, sir? I could prepare a cataplasm of my own recipe. Rose oil, poppy seeds—white poppy seeds, I should say—and barley meal, with just a touch of the cow urine for its cleansing qualities, and a couple of other ingredients I should not mention, those being of my own devising. I assure you, though, it is marvelous in countering the pain, when applied directly while still warm.”

  Spider winced. “Thank you, sir, but no, healing is not what we need,” he said, while Odin went to examine shelves holding rows of candles and bottles of fluids. Spider pointed to the oily smoke arising from Mr. Kegley’s candle. “That’s the cause for my stung eyes, I think,” he said, blinking, “and leaving your shop will cure it, I reckon. My friend and I wish to ask you questions, and we can pay a small sum for your time.”

  Odin gave Spider a hard glance and placed a hand protectively over his coin purse.

  Mr. Kegley rose, and seemed rather wobbly. “I have absorbed a great many facts regarding health over the years, to be sure, and I am confident you’ll find no one in Lymington with more experience in such matters, I assure you. I will be happy to help.” It took him twice as long to say that as Spider deemed strictly necessary. The man began humming softly and turning slowly, as if seeking something.

  A cat, previously unseen, stepped across Odin’s boots. The old man knelt and scratched it. Spider moved away and held his nose against the feline odor.

  “Well, it is not medicine or healing we seek, but an old acquaintance,” Spider replied. “An old shipmate, I should say. Poor soul badly used on the sea, missing most of his left arm and a bit of a leg. Hobbles about on a crutch quite well, though, and a peg, for all that. We’ve heard he is a customer here in your shop.”

  Mr. Kegley’s smile, formed at the first mention ofpayment, quickly dimmed. “I assume you speak of Mister Fawkes?”

  “Aye,” Spider said. “Jim Fawkes, his name. Sailed with him years ago, I did.”

  The apothecary stepped back and turned to his table. He picked up a small knife and a small dish, then proceeded to scrape the dried plant crumbs off the scale. “What, may I ask, is your business with Mister Fawkes?” When Kegley turned to face them again, Spider noted he retained the knife.

  “We owe him some money,” Spider lied, as casually as possible. “We may have a chance to make right with him soon, my friend and I, that is, if we know how to find him. We hoped you could tell us where that may be.”

  “I see,” Kegley said. “He is your friend, then?”

  Spider could see the man was trying to navigate uncertain waters. “I do not think friend is quite the right word,” Spider said. “We sailed together, shipmates, and I feel I owe him somewhat, but not out of friendship. Call it Christian duty, if you need a reason.”

  “Mister Fawkes is an unpleasant fellow,” Kegley answered, his eyes watching for Spider’s reaction.

  “Aye,” Spider said. “A good reason for us to pay our debts and finish with him, I reckon.”

  “Well,” Kegley said, coughing. “He comes here on occasion, and usually in the company of ruffians.” He looked hard at Odin and Spider, who certainly looked like ruffians themselves.

  “We won’t be put off by that,” Spider said. “We won’t have trouble with those gents, in any case, as we mean to enrich Mister Fawkes a bit and then we will be on our way. What business has he with an apothecary? He was a common seaman when last we knew of him. Do his old wounds cause him pain?”

  “He has not been to sea for these last three or four months, at least. He has visited my shop on four occasions, each time to fulfill a transaction on behalf of a medical man and scholar. He brings a list. He never reads the list but seems to know its contents by rote, and, I should say, becomes quite menacing if I forget an item or if something is in short supply. His employer buys candles, beakers, herbs, opium, unguents, poultices and the like, in fair quantities. Indeed, his trade is of considerable value to me.”

  Spider rubbed his bearded chin. “Who is he?

  “He is a scholar, as I said. Ambrose Oakes. He has established a hospital, of sorts, in his home at P
ryor Pond, a home for the treatment of, well . . . I suppose one should say for the treatment of madness.”

  “Madness?” Spider looked at Odin, then back at the apothecary.

  “Yes,” Kegley said. “He operates a madhouse. He houses these poor souls and provides for their treatment. I don’t know if the aim is to cure them entirely, for that’s a rather vain hope, I should think, but perhaps he intends merely to keep them quiet and safe.” As he spoke, his gaze trailed a buzzing fly and his expression was one of fascination, as though that fly was the most amazing thing God had ever created.

  “I have not met the man, Oakes, you should understand, and gather this only from his letters and from what Mister Fawkes and his fellows have told me, or what they have said amongst themselves as I procured the sundries purchased.” He pointed toward the sack of dung, where the fly had settled. “Have you ever tried to count all the colors in a fly’s wing? Glorious!”

  Spider rolled his eyes and turned to Odin. “What business would Half-Jim have in this?” He spoke in hushed tones. “And why would they take Hob captive, and other men, too?”

  “I do not know,” Odin muttered, “and I do not wish to know, Spider John. We’ve sailed with enough madmen, you and me.” The one-eyed rigger strode toward the window. “We’ve tarried here too long, as well. You’ll remember our business of this morning? Best we get aboard a ship, and set sail.”

  “Not so soon.” Spider returned his attention to the druggist. “Where is this madhouse? We are bound there to find Jim, and could deliver something for you, if you wish, as we go to see Fawkes.” That would be a good way to gain entry, he thought.