A Bottle of Rum

by Steve Goble

  Daphne clapped her hands and leaned toward Ruth. “What was it like? Stabbing him? While kissing him?”

  Ruth looked disgusted. “What goes on in that mind of yours?”

  “Oh, you all speak so casually of death and murder!” Mrs. Fitch covered her face. “It is all too much!”

  “So, we’ll call the mystery of Raldo’s death solved,” Spider mused. “But we still have the others to ponder. One of them is this, Ruth. Were you trying to tell me something when I was on that goddamned table, with the goddamned bird ready to swoop onto me?”

  “Only that Fawkes was aware someone was following him, and I knew it was Odin, so I thought I would tell you that your friend was in peril. But I had no chance.”

  “Aye,” Spider said. “Thank you. Now, just what were you up to in the sitting room when . . .”

  “I just wanted to know what you were up to,” she said, though she averted her eyes. “I knew you had a secret, Spider John. You are always sneaking about and noticing things. I knew you had some motive for coming to Pryor Pond.”

  “You weren’t spying for Fawkes?”

  “No.”

  “Or for Oakes?”

  “No. I had no reason or purpose for what I did, other than to learn what you were really trying to do.”

  Spider grinned. “How did you select that particular method?”

  She smiled briefly. “Because it works. It certainly worked on you, Spider John.”

  Their gazes locked on one another for several heartbeats, and Spider felt a stirring

  Forgive me, Em.

  Hob paid particular attention to the whole exchange, Spider noticed, and the lad moved a little closer to Ruth.

  “Aye, then,” Spider said, “that little mystery solved, let’s consider the big one. Who killed all the people in those graves? I think I have it sorted out.”

  “I was not involved, nor was Michael.”

  “Perhaps not, Missus Fitch,” Spider replied. “I cannot prove so one way or another, anyway, but it does not matter, I reckon. As I said, I am not a judge. I still like to reckon it all out, though, if I can.”

  “So who killed them, then?” Hob rubbed his hands together. “Was it Fawkes? I did not like that son of a whore.”

  “It was not Fawkes,” Spider said, “although he brought the poor bastards to the killer. The killer was Ambrose Oakes.”

  Mrs. Fitch was aghast. “The man who fought so to keep the patients alive? I’ve seen him stay up through the night, battling for them!”

  “He fought to keep them alive long enough, you mean.” Spider stopped pacing. “He wasn’t trying to wave death angels away. He was showing them their prey.”

  Hob scrunched up his nose. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Spider said, “that Ambrose Oakes needed to know right when his patients would die, so he could be there with them when they expired. And once they were in the throes, so to speak, he was willing to stay with them until that very final breath.”

  “What?” That came from Ruth.

  “The master of Pryor Pond thought he could thwart the Lord’s will.” Spider held his hands out, palms upraised. “He called himself a delver into forbidden knowledge, or something like that.”

  Hob looked puzzled. “How?”

  “The master convinced himself he could conquer death, by trapping a man’s soul in a bottle at the last breath. Maybe he thought he could store the soul, heal the mangled body, and somehow put the soul back later. It was some plan like that.”

  Mrs. Fitch clasped her hands and closed her eyes in prayer. Ruth shook her head slowly. Michael stared at him.

  “That is not possible,” Ruth said. “Could he really catch souls? Could anyone?”

  “I do not know,” Spider said. “But Oakes sure to hell thought that he could, and he didn’t care much how many times he had to try before he did. I saw the whole thing when he cut off that man’s leg. He had hoses, jars, clamps, all set to trap that soul when it fled. He collected some blood, too, just in case the soul was in that. He told me all about it. Well, he did not admit to killing them, but he did kill them. I am certain of it.”

  “That is monstrous,” Mrs. Fitch muttered.

  “Aye.” Spider scratched his chin. “But he could not force himself to wait for chance. You can’t expect luck to hand you dying men at convenient times, not if you have to have a lot of gear rigged up and so on, so he took to killing young men. Slowly, so he could control it, like a cap’n being set for a change of wind.”

  “Lord,” Ruth said. Daphne leaned forward, eyes widening along with her smile.

  “So,” Spider continued. “He took to killing men, young strong ones because he thought those souls might be best, might be strong enough to survive in a goddamned bottle. Do you remember, Odin, when we signed on? Oakes said he might have a use for me—the young one, he said—even if we were spies.”

  “Aye,” Odin said.

  “That’s what he meant, that he might try to harvest my soul.”

  “Ha! He’d have to wrestle the devil for that!”

  “Aye,” Spider said. “So he killed men to grab their souls. But he’s a fat coward and he needed to time things proper, so he used poison instead of a knife or a flintlock. That way, he could be standing ready when the poor bastards expired.”

  Mrs. Fitch shuddered. “So, he hired Fawkes and these brigands to go out and snatch other brigands so he could kill them?”

  “Aye,” Spider said.

  “Why not just kill Fawkes and his men?”

  “That would spark mutiny, and Oakes worried about that. You can’t hire men and kill them one by one. They’ll fight back. Little Bob and the rest of that lot who came swarming over the fence in the dark proved that, didn’t they? Pirates, they will take care of their mates, they will, but you can pay them to go rough on some other bastards, and that is just business to them.”

  Spider resumed pacing. “I think Oakes sent his hired pirates to the village first, to grab young men there. I think that may be why he hired Half-Jim, to get him some subjects for this damnable business. He did not want to kill his patients, right? Families paid for their care. It would have been like tossing money overboard.”

  Spider sighed. “Capturing people in the night tends to cause a ruckus, though, so Oakes took another tack. Probably it was Jim’s thinking on this, because Half-Jim knew the sweet trade and smuggling and all that. It would not have been too much trouble for him to find Tom Bonnymeade, who knew all the smugglers and all the merchants in Lymington, and arrange the ambush on your gents, Hob.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Hob said. “They hit us hard and fast, too. They were already hiding when we came ashore!”

  “Aye,” Spider said.

  “Your Aggie said Tom was a fair dealer, too smart to turn against his blokes,” Odin yelled from the wagon bench.

  “He wasn’t turning on his own people, remember.” Spider shook road dust from his hands. “He was just turning on Bonny’s crew. And she was off somewhere far away, but Half-Jim was right here close, with guns and knives. I do not think it would have taken much for Tom Bonnymeade to strike a bargain with a fellow as persuasive as Half-Jim Fawkes. Bonnymeade probably reckoned it was better to piss off a cap’n across the sea than an evil old salt right in front of him.”

  “Monsters,” Mrs. Fitch muttered. “Monsters!”

  “Aye,” Spider said. “Anyway, they thought to find some smugglers and take them off-guard. They would be the perfect fellows for what Oakes had in mind. Aye? It wasn’t the same as capturing men in town. No one was likely to notice some pirates who go missing.”

  Odin cackled. “Except their shipmates, by thunder!”

  Spider nodded. “Pirates form strong bonds, sometimes. Little Bob and the rest thought to at least avenge their shipmates.”

  “All the shooting and yelling I heard,” Hob said.

  “Aye.” Spider continued.

  Spider felt the wooden wheel, trusting his fingers to c
onfirm what his eyes told him. “I will be honest. I do not rightly know who in the house helped Oakes and knew what he was doing, and who didn’t. I don’t rightly care, either. I just wanted to find Hob.”

  “And you did,” the lad said.

  “We just went to where all the goddamned trouble was, and that is where you were. Ha!”

  “Aye, Odin. It was a fine plan. Wheel and axle seem fine, don’t know how. That was a mighty thump you gave us.”

  “The goddamned horses did it!” Odin yelled.

  “My God. My God. My God.”

  “We’ll get you away from all this, Missus Fitch,” Spider assured her. “The wagon seems shipshape, which is a damned good thing because I haven’t got any bloody tools, have I?”

  Spider longed for a stiff drink and a full pipe. “Ruth, my friends and I plan to find a ship bound for the colonies. Do you want to sail with us?”

  “You’ll not tell the authorities about Raldo?”

  “No,” Spider said. “We have absolutely no intents to speak with no authorities.”

  “None at all,” Hob said. “The sea for us!”

  Spider gave Hob a stern look before returning his attention to Ruth. “Sail with us.”

  Sail with me, he meant.

  She considered that. “Possibly, I may. You stand by your friends, Spider John, come what may, and it seems they stand by you. I am not accustomed to that. Maybe you and I can be friends, too.”

  Hob’s eyebrows rose at that, and his gaze settled on Ruth. Spider reckoned the lad was trying to figure a way to get the weather gauge on her, and that theory was quickly confirmed. “Spider’s got a woman, and a child, in Nantucket,” Hob said. “He loves them both very much.”

  Aye, lad, Spider thought. Woo her, if you will. I should not pay her too much attention. I’m going home to Em. If she is still there, waiting.

  “Well,” Ruth said, without a hint of disappointment, “That is a fine thing. And I would not mind a voyage to the colonies. I have family in Virginia.”

  “It is settled, then,” Spider said.

  “Not many ships will take a woman, though, not as crew. And I have no means to pay for passage.”

  “Nor do we, but we might find a way,” Spider said. “We learned a few tricks from the notorious Anne Bonny.”

  He walked up front. Odin was breathing hard and clutching at his knee.

  “Are you hurt, Odin?”

  “Leg hurts like hell, I was shoving my foot against the board trying not to fly off when we rolled down that fucking road! I hate horses! I hate them! They did not pay a damned bit of attention to any fucking thing I told them! And I don’t know why I let you drag me all around after Hob. And you owe me three bottles of rum, Spider John! Hell, four bottles! And you owe me at least as much, Hob, goddamn you!”

  “I owe you for coming to rescue me, certain,” Hob yelled back. “And I pay my debts, Odin. You know that, so goddamn you, old man!” Spider laughed. “Well, seems we are on familiar waters, snarling at each other and all that.” He wandered back toward the rear of the wagon and peered through the blunderbuss hole. “All this rum talk, though, reminds me of a thing that just nags me. I have question for you, Miss Daphne.”

  She smiled. “I shall answer truly, sir! I no longer lie, though my family doubts that, I am sure. But I wish to be your friend, like Ruth, and I want to sail away with you, too, so ask me your question!”

  Spider looked her directly in the eyes. “Girl, did you know there was poison in those special bottles of rum, the ones set aside for the patients?”

  Daphne giggled. “It was our little secret, mine and the master’s!”

  Spider shook his head slowly. “Good lord, what in the bloody hell are we going to do with you?”

  THE END

  Historical Notes

  While genuine pirates Anne Bonny and Ned Low figured strongly in the plot of this book’s predecessor, The Devil’s Wind, Half-Jim Fawkes and his crewmen are entirely fictional. So are Ambrose Oakes, Ruth Copper, the Bonnymeades, Daphne and all the rest.

  Lymington, however, is a real English city that notes a real smuggling past.

  Of the two chantey snippets presented in this novel, the one in Chapter 13 about sailing “beyond the lowering sun” is my own, but the one in Chapter 23 is a real song that was popular in colonial America. Variations are found with the titles “The Bold Soldier” and “The Valiant Soldier.” There is a lot of gunplay and swordplay to be found in those old songs, by thunder. I first ran into this tune at Contemplator. com, where brief audio clips of very old songs can be enjoyed. The bouncy, lively tunes with lurid, violent lyrics pair well with bourbon or thick, dark beer.

  Afterword

  I hope you’ve enjoyed reading these Spider John stories as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them. It is hard for me to believe this is the third one already.

  I still recall the day I looked at Deven Atkinson, singer for the garage band that puts up with my bass playing, and said, “I have an idea: Pirate murder mystery!” The look in his eyes told me I was, indeed, on to something.

  It was a weird, untried idea, though, and I never would have brought it together without a great crew. There are many, many people I need to thank for helping me bring these stories of Spider John Rush and his piratical friends to life.

  My agent, Evan Marshall, saw potential in these tales and decided to help me find a publisher. He also provides great editorial advice and helps me navigate the uncertain waters of the publishing business. Thank you, Evan.

  Dan Mayer has the editorial helm at Seventh Street Books, and has saved me from one or two excesses in the course of writing these novels. I can get carried away, and Dan reins me in (but not too much). I am thankful for that, too. Thank you, Dan.

  I need to thank many, many writers out there who have welcomed me into the fold and inspired me with their own works. There are too many of them to mention them all here, but a few have gone above and beyond in their support: Andrew Welsh-Huggins, Susan Spann, Lori Rader-Day, Nicholas Guild, and Mark Pryor (for whom Pryor Pond in this book is named, as I attempt to repay a debt. If you have not read his Hugo Marston novels, I really think you should.). I’ll sail with any of you. Thank you.

  Friends, too, have propped me up and listened to my thinking out loud. Tom Williams and Ty Johnston have provided inspiration, and I doubt these stories would have come to fruition had it not been for our many, many discussions of adventure fiction over the years. It is such a joy to know people who read the same kind of books you read. Thank you, gentlemen and comrades in arms.

  My kid, Rowan, fills me with love and always appreciates a good adventure. Ro won’t let me use the Xbox, but otherwise the kid is always in my corner and is quite proud of Dad. Thank you, Rowan.

  Most of all, though, I thank Gere. My lovely bride puts up with much. She listens to my plot problems, reads my rough drafts, suggests improvements and makes sure I have time to write. More than that, she believed I could do this before I believed it myself. Thanks, beloved.

  And thank you, readers, especially those of you who come to say hello at book events or send me kind words on social media. You make the tired eyes and hair-pulling and chair-sitting all worthwhile. I hope this latest adventure entices you to come along for the next one, and that we get to share many, many more.

  About The Author

  Author photo by Jason J. Molyet

  Steve Goble is the author of The Bloody Black Flag and The Devil’s Wind, the first two Spider John mysteries. A former journalist, Goble now works for a cybersecurity and digital investigations firm. He lives in rural Ohio.

 

 

 
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