A Bottle of Rum

by Steve Goble

  “If I see him, my knife will get wet.”

  Soon, they came to a pair of stone pillars flanking a wooden gate, which was closed but looked as though one good kick would knock it to splinters. A broad wooden beam, weathered and cracked, spanned the two pillars at the top. A couple of eyehooks beneath the beam indicated there once had been a sign hanging below the beam, but there was no sign now.

  They walked past the gate. “This must be Pryor Pond. It looks just as our apothecary said,” Spider muttered. “Let’s continue north, see if we can spy anything beyond the wall besides trees and squirrels.”

  Five more minutes of reconnaissance revealed nothing new about their destination. They had not reached the northern extent of the walled property, but Odin’s leg seemed to be stiffening.

  “We can go on to Battramsley if you like, Odin. Perhaps there’s a healer there, seeing as you were too foolish to ask the fellow this morning for a poultice or some such.”

  “I did not trust that man,” Odin replied, grimacing. “His eyes looked like glass beads, by God, and I think all the fumes got into his head and stayed there.”

  “His mind and body did seem to be in a couple of different places, aye. Are you for Battramsley, then?”

  “No, Spider John. I am for getting this fool quest done and then getting back on a good ship, bound for anywhere. All this walking ain’t right for a sailing man.”

  “Aye,” Spider said, eyeing the woods and peering beyond the stone wall. Truth was, Spider preferred the sea as well. You could see danger coming from a long way off on the water. Not so here, where the wall and the oaks, standing or fallen, gave ambushers plenty of cover. And he had other reasons for haste; he clutched the pendant beneath his shirt and silently asked Em to forgive him for tarrying.

  “Let us go storm this fortress.”

  12

  Once they regained the gate, Spider ran a hand across its worn surface. “This is in bad shape, this gate. Lacked paint for years, plenty of rot.” A gentle push revealed it was locked. “We could just bust through it, but I suspect that would be unwelcome.”

  “I don’t care. Ha!”

  Spider moved to his left and jumped up onto the wall. “Don’t know why they need a gate, really, with walls you can jump over.”

  “Gates are fancy, Spider John.”

  “If you take care of them, aye,” Spider said, his carpenter’s disdain evident. “I am wondering if the rest of this place is in such a state.” He plopped down on the other side of the wall. Odin followed, with a groan. “If anyone shoots at us, you are moving slow, Odin.”

  “So I shall shoot first. Won’t have a problem then, will I?”

  “Maybe it won’t come to that.”

  “Aye, maybe this good gent Oakes will just take us to Hob, say he’s sorry for snatching the fool lad for whatever foul reason he did that, and send us all on our merry way with bellies full of beef and beer. Ha!”

  They ambled up a dirt road, avoiding deep wagon ruts when they could, and watched the trees for signs of peril. Birds flitted between branches. Spider patted his weapons for the tenth time to be sure his hands could find them at need.

  “Have you thought on what we’ll say, Spider? Or do we just kick through the door and start fighting?”

  “We’re looking for work, we are,” Spider answered. “Sailing men, looking to get off the broad sea, heard in town that Ambrose Oakes has hired such before.”

  “Will Half-Jim be a problem?”

  “We will know soon enough,” Spider said, halting. “That’s him, up there. And whatever else, do not call him Half-Jim.”

  Spider pointed up the hill ahead ofthem, where a man had emerged from behind a tall oak. A wide grin flashed pale yellow, surrounded by dark beard, and a gold earring caught snatches of sunlight that fought through the canopy of trees. Tall he was, leaning on a crutch propped beneath the stump of his left arm. His right hand clutched a large flintlock pistol. At the midpoint of the crutch, a holster contained another pistol. The man’s right leg ended in a wooden stump no better maintained than the gate by the road.

  “Well, I’ll be damned and dangled,” the man said, dipping his head slightly. Spider noticed a small knife tucked into the folds of Half-Jim’s battered tricorn. “Spider John Rush! Keep your hands away from any pretty knives you’ve got, son. I recall how well you throw those damned things!” The man gave out a sharp whistle, and soon Spider could hear movement elsewhere among the woods.

  “And I remember how well you can fight, Jim Fawkes. I did not come here looking for a fight, though.”

  “Why did you come?”

  “Need work,” Spider said. “The sea is not too friendly these days. My mate and I could use a change, as it were.”

  “They told a different tale on the road, Jim.”

  Spider glanced behind him and saw that the stranger from the road had joined the company. He casually aimed a musket at them.

  “Is that right, Stingo?”

  “Aye,” the man said. “Told me they were for Battramsley, but kept their tongues still as to any purpose. And they are armed. So, I followed them here, at a distance, and tied my horse to a tree and snuck up once they headed onto the grounds.”

  “Well done, Stingo. You must be sober today.”

  Spider turned back to Fawkes and shrugged. “It’s poor policy to talk overmuch with strangers on the road. Aye, Jim? I did not see reason to tell him any truth.”

  “I believe you’ve spent far more time on the decks of a sea raider than on any road, Spider John, but aye, silence is golden, they say. Pirates looking for a place to hide out, eh?” Half-Jim spat. “Thinking to elude the king’s justice, are you?”

  “Perhaps.” Spider indicated his friend. “This is Odin, a shipmate. Nobody knows knots and sheets better, I’ll wager, and few can best him with a sword or pistol.”

  “Is that true?” Fawkes looked Odin over, and seemed unimpressed.

  Spider continued. “And you know my skills with wood and”— he nodded toward the weapon Fawkes held—“with gun and blade, if matters should come to such. I heard in town the gent that owns this place had hired seamen, so here we be.”

  “Here we be.” Half-Jim continued smiling but did not lower the gun. “Where in town?”

  “An apothecary, his name is Kegley. We did some trade in his shop, spoke of the sea life, and he mentioned some seafaring men come to him from time to time, buying materials for the owner of this place.”

  Fawkes grinned. “Did you come here looking to find me, Spider?”

  “No,” Spider answered with a shrug.

  “Because there are some who might want to track me down, might hire a gentleman such as yourself to hunt me and gut me.”

  “We sailed with Bent Thomas, you and me, long enough for you to know I am not one to go hiring on as an assassin.”

  Fawkes nodded. “So you’ve said. But I’ve seen you fight damned hard. And I have left more than a few angry men in my wake. Some of them might have hired someone to track me down.”

  “You can check my purse.” Spider said. “Empty as ever.”

  Fawkes grinned.

  “I’ve fought when I had to,” Spider said. “And I’ll take work where I find it. But I am not here for blood. I was told of a wounded sailing man working here, but whether it was you or no, I had no thought. Half the men I’ve ever known on the sea are injured. Tough work. I never felt no love for you, Jim, it’s true, but I never had reason to hate you, neither. You did your work, fought as hard as anyone, and never cheated me as far as I know.”

  “Fair enough,” Half-Jim said. “Whatever become of Bent Thomas?”

  “Lamia went down in a storm, and I presume the cap’n with it,” Spider said. “A devil-spawned storm, it was. Me and a friend was lucky to get to land, near Boston. My friend died after. Ain’t seen anyone else from Lamia since then, neither, so I figure they all died, by the sea’s doing or by the noose.”

  “Dangerous work, sailing.” Half-
Jim sighed. “Stingo, fetch your horse up to the barn and sit a spell, grog if you like. Reward for paying attention to these gobermouchs. Then get your ugly hide back to the road.”

  “Appreciated, Jim.” Stingo lowered his musket and headed back toward the gate.

  “Do not imbibe too much,” Fawkes growled. “You are known to do that.”

  “Aye.”

  “As for you, Spider John, we’ll drink a tot to the memory of Bent Thomas and his lads, later tonight by a nice fire. Unless the master wants me to shoot you. Then I’ll drink alone.” His grin returned.

  13

  Three more men emerged from the woods, each from a different direction and each with a flintlock at the ready. One was black, with a face heavily tattooed with dots that resembled nail holes. His bright eyes darted back and forth, and gave the impression they never missed a thing.

  Of the other two, Spider decided one was Spanish and one was French after listening to them exchange brief greetings with Fawkes. The Spaniard focused more on Fawkes than on the captives and carried a sabre sheathed on a weapon belt. The Frenchman, blond, aimed his gun back and forth between Spider and Odin, and smiled at the prospect of shooting one of them. He had no sword, but the fingers of his free hand hovered close to an oversized dagger tucked into his belt.

  Their gaits spoke of the sea, and old scars marked their weathered faces. They wielded weapons like experts, and stayed alert for possible trouble from other directions.

  The makeup of this small band confirmed for Spider that Fawkes had gathered his fellows from the ranks of pirates. That was the way of life on the account; men came to the sweet trade from many places and for many reasons and found unity while trying to elude the law and stay alive.

  All the drawn weapons made Spider nervous. He silently prayed Odin would not do anything rash, and apparently his prayer was answered. The old man spat, rather casually, but did nothing to provoke violence.

  Fawkes had kept his own gun trained on Spider until his cohort arrived, but now it was tucked away. He switched the crutch quickly to his good arm and growled. “Let us all go see the master,” he said.

  “These fellows are not Mister Wilson, Jim, and they don’t look like village rabble,” said the Spaniard.

  “I know that, Raldo,” Jim snapped. “But we need to take them to the master just the same. Once we get these gents to the house, the rest of you can return to searching the grounds. And I advise you to do exactly that, Raldo. Exactly that.”

  Raldo spat. “Of course, mi capitán.”

  They all began trudging up the road, Half-Jim leading the way and setting a quicker pace than might be expected, given his crutch. The man’s agility did not surprise Spider, though; he’d seen Fawkes hobble across a heaving deck in a strong gale and wield the crutch as a weapon in battle. Half-Jim Fawkes was not the sort to worry about obstacles.

  Half-Jim’s team brought up the rear, guns at the ready. They followed closely enough to improve their odds of putting a ball in their prey, but not so close as to give Spider or Odin a chance to pounce and turn the tables—yet another sign that these were experienced fighting men.

  “So, your master,” Spider said, “hires seafaring men? What’s the job?”

  Fawkes paused and turned, grinning. “If the master wants to tell you that, he will, but I’ll say this much. It’s not your skills with a hammer, nor your friend’s with a knot, that the master prizes.” He turned to continue, humming to himself. That, Spider decided, was to let them know he had no fear of showing his back to them.

  Their path was leveling off, and a large house of three stories loomed in the distance. Bars of iron on the upper-floor windows gave the entire place the aspect of a prison, and a turret on the northeast corner lifted a dark spire like a raised sword. Shingles were cracked in many places and missing in others. Spider could not tell from this distance whether an ink-black streak on the spire was a hole or merely rotted wood exposed by a heavy wind.

  “Ghosts here,” Odin whispered.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Spider said quietly, but not sounding as confident as he’d hoped. The place did have a haunted look.

  More goes on here, perhaps, than might be usual for an English country manor, Spider thought. He decided to press Fawkes a bit for information. “Who is your Wilson?”

  The wounded buccaneer laughed. “Wilson? A fool villager. He thinks we are killers and thieves. Well, we are, but he has it wrong, nonetheless. We’re not killing and thieving against the likes of him. Are we, lads?”

  “Aye,” they answered in chorus.

  “But the master will tell you more of that when the time comes, if he chooses.” Fawkes moved onward.

  “Looks like you buried something,” Odin said, pointing toward some mounds in a clearing. “A few somethings.”

  Three graves, Spider noted, shuddering. An image of Hob flashed in his mind.

  Fawkes stopped, whirled on his wooden leg as though it were a maypole, and planted the crutch into the road with such force that it almost snapped. He put his hand on the flintlock holstered on his crutch. “Sometimes, men die,” he said. “When they do, we bury them. You two should ponder that hard truth before you ask any more questions.”

  Spider and Odin exchanged a glance. Odin’s expression said he was tired of these bastards and wanted to start some gunplay. Spider’s raised eyebrows reminded Odin they were outnumbered and were not facing off against a bunch of virgins. Spider hoped Odin understood that. The old man probably did understand, he figured, but possibly did not care.

  But Odin made no unwise move.

  “Aye, sorry,” Spider said, turning to look back at Half-Jim Fawkes. “You’ve got your duties, sir, and those don’t include answering to strangers. We’ll save our talk for your master, and see if he wants to answer. Is he a reasonable man, this Oakes?”

  Half-Jim nodded. “Wise, Spider John. Wise. And the master is a reasonable man, with limits, and perhaps so learned that he thinks he reasons more than a man can.” Fawkes grinned and exchanged glances with the Frenchman, who tapped a cross of gold hanging from his neck.

  “But your friend, he seems less than patient. I’ve allowed you to keep your fighting tools to this point, just to see what you’d do. But maybe you two had best drop your weapons here on the road after all.”

  Fuck and bugger, Spider thought. He complied, slowly, dropping his coat first, but he did not release his grip on a single weapon until he’d confirmed Odin was relinquishing his. And he let Hob’s knife drop last.

  Fawkes smiled darkly. “Raldo, gather these toys, would you? Now let’s all see what the master wants done with you two.”

  Raldo did as ordered. Spider watched the man examine Hob’s knife before tucking it into a leather sack he wore on a shoulder strap.

  They marched onward, following Fawkes, and Spider was glad the leader’s necessarily slow pace gave Odin some respite for his leg. Fawkes began humming a chantey, but not one Spider recognized. Odin knew it, though, and took up the song himself, humming along and muttering a line of the lyric now and then.

  “... And they sailed beyond the horizon,

  Beyond the lowering sun,

  They sailed beyond the lives they knew

  And then their days were done.”

  The other men ignored the music and whispered among themselves, but the occasional backward glance told Spider their discussion was not distracting them from their guard duties. They were fully prepared to fill bodies with pistol balls, and they had sharp blades to finish the job if necessary.

  The home, all good old stone and much neglected wood, topped the hill like a battered crown, its gleam dulled by time. Spider could make out more details now. They approached from an angle, and Spider could spy the west and north walls; there was a cellar entrance along the north face.

  The place was large, and they had no idea how many men Fawkes had under his command. A quick, violent raid to free Hob—if he still lived—would be impossible, Spider reali
zed. He and Odin would need time for scouting and laying a real plan.

  The land around the house was clear for a good distance, rendering a stealthy approach difficult by day or on a moonlit night. Spider imagined himself dashing across that clearing, musket balls flying around him. It was a hell of a distance to cross, and men with muskets would have plenty of time to bring him down. Salvoes from the high ground of the upper floors, or from the turret, would be devastating.

  Spider tried to peer between the bars and into the windows, hoping to see a familiar face. Was Hob working here, pressed into service under Half-Jim’s command? Or was Hob a prisoner, kept inside by steel bars and brigands’ guns?

  Or, Spider wondered again with a look over his shoulder, was Hob under one of those new-dug mounds?

  He shivered. Don’t think that way. Believe he’s alive. Believe you can get him away from here. Then do it.

  A voice, totally incongruent with Spider’s dark musings, arrested his attention. It was a female voice, child-like and tinkly as a harpsichord.

  “Mister Fawkes, have you brought me new friends?”

  14

  Spider stopped studying the house and turned toward the musical voice. He’d expected to see a girl of eight or nine. Instead, the question came from a young woman, perhaps of twenty years. She was slender and blonde and wearing a white nightdress. She held a wriggly white kitten in her arms, deftly maneuvering to prevent its escape. Her green eyes were wide with fascination as the men approached.

  Half-Jim Fawkes halted, leaned on his crutch, and held his hand palm up toward the woman. “Miss Daphne, you know you are not supposed to wander outdoors on your own. Nor are you to play with the kitten unless someone is there to keep watch on you.” Fawkes turned to Spider and whispered. “She strangled one, a week ago.”