Peter Wicked

by Broos Campbell

  “Hang him up to what?” asked Bob. “They ain’t nothin’ to hang him to.”

  “Fetch a basin, I tell you!”

  “You fetch a basin.”

  And so it went while the pig wasted its blood in the sand.

  Simpson took off his hat and tugged his forelock, British man-o’-war fashion. He was soaked from head to toe, as if he’d tried to wash off the stinking gore that still clung to him. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” he said, “but Mr. Horne sent me to say as we have finished searching and burying the dead.”

  “Thank you. Go aboard the schooner and shift your clothes.”

  “If it’s all the same, sir, I’d like to come with you. Be a shame not to see ’em off proper.”

  “You didn’t know them.”

  “They was someone’s mates, sir.”

  “Very well.”

  I walked back up the beach with Tomahawk’s prayer book and read over the grave. The men stopped what they were doing to gather around—most of them to catch their breath as much as to show respect for the dead, probably, but they stood properly silent with their heads bared. It was more of a sendoff than some tars got.

  The wind had fallen into confused airs, and the smell of the fresh pork that Doc was roasting down the beach distracted somewhat from the ceremony.

  The pig’s last meal put no one off, fresh meat being fresh meat. After all had eaten, I took Horne, Simpson, and Hawkins aside to look over what they had gleaned from the bodies.

  “There wasn’t much on them, sir,” said Horne. “They were stripped down to their smalls. But look at this.” He held out a length of tarred rope. “Their hands were tied with it.”

  “Yes?” I examined the rope. It was tarred hemp, same as in any ship I ever been in, except for the blood.

  “Tell him, Simpson,” said Horne.

  “See the white yarn, sir, wove amongst the tarred stuff? Well, it’s red with blood now, aye, but it was white when it was fresh. That’s rogue’s yarn. White rope has a strand of tarred stuff in it, likewise. The Royal Navy uses it to tell who’s been stealing of H.M.’s cordage. They does up their canvas with a colored yarn for the same reason.”

  “Could they have gotten it out of a Royal dockyard or a British merchantman?”

  “No, sir. Paint, spars, anything you want, even guns for the right price. But sail-yard dockers—them’s the buyers of swag stole out of dockyards—they don’t traffic in cordage or sails. That’s nobbut a way to get nicked. And it didn’t come from no merchantman. Strictly Royal Navy stuff, that is.”

  “Mr. Horne, you say they were wearing smallclothes?”

  “Yes, sir. Knee-britches and white vests, most of them. Five of them were rougher looking and wore trousers.”

  “The ones in britches were King’s officers, and the others were foremast jacks, and the cutter is Royal Navy. I bet she was the same one we saw the Clytemnestra in chase of.”

  “Is it our business, sir?”

  “Aside from being piracy? Piracy is every navy’s business. But it’s got plenty to do with our man Mèche, I guess.” Lord, I hoped not. “You get back to your painting and have O’Lynn and Kennedy come to me.”

  Bob Wilson and his mate set up an awning for me on the carronade platform. I listened with half an ear while they discussed the relative merits of the different ways of getting their task done. “That’s no way to stretch an awning!” said Bob. “Gwan if it ain’t!” said his mate helpfully; “throw a hitch over that there bollard!” “What bollard?” “That bollard.” “If you ain’t the ignorantest thing ever,” said Bob, shaking his head; “I pity you, truly I do. That’s a bitt, not a bollard!” “It ain’t!” “Is!” That was the high point of it, but they got it done at last, and at last I was out of the reach of the bird bombs. It was shady and breezy, pleasant except for the smell, and I would’ve been happy if I could’ve gotten one of Uncle Jupe’s whiskey juleps.

  Horne and his crew had gotten the Tomahawk’s hull above the waterline painted a brilliant blue and were starting in on the yellow trim. When I squinted a bit I could see her as a merchantman. If we struck her topgallant masts and let a line hang over the side here and there, we could look like some decent bait.

  O’Lynn and Kennedy waded through the shallows toward me. Kennedy stared at me like I was a Protestant at High Mass or something, pale beneath his sunburn, but O’Lynn spoke in his ear and urged him along. They stopped at the base of the platform with their hats in their hands and squinted up at me.

  “Come on up here,” I said. “Sit down in the shade and talk to me.”

  “What shall we be talkin’ of, then, sor?” said O’Lynn when they’d sat down. They didn’t look near as comfortable as they might’ve, sitting in the shade while their shipmates labored in the sun.

  “Ask Kennedy what ship he was in when he got pressed.”

  They gabbled at each other, all throat-hawking grunts and rolling R’s. “He don’t know what you mean, sor,” said O’Lynn.

  “Yes he does—tell him to look at me. Now ask him again.”

  “Wilhelmina, he says, sor, a Dutch fly-boat out of Bonaire, carrying salt to Rotterdam.”

  “Ask him what he knows about this.” I held up the bloody strand of rope.

  Kennedy jerked away from it, babbling.

  “He says he don’t know a t’ing, sor.”

  “I think he’s a deserter from a British man-o’-war cutter. Tell him I think he helped kill his officers and bury them in that pit.”

  Kennedy wept, shaking his head no, no, no. He spoke urgently in Gaelic.

  “Himself was pressed out of the Wilhelmina last year,” O’Lynn translated, “and became a foretopman in the Shearwater cutter, sor, of fourteen guns and a crew of seventy. That’s a guess, sir, of how many was left after . . .”

  “Right. Go on.”

  “He says they were bound from Barbados to Jamaica, sor, when they saw a sail here in the cove, which was presently discovered to be the Sofie’s Aunt. Can that be right, sor?”

  “Suffisant. Go on.”

  He listened to Kennedy some more. “They’d seen her before, on the Dutch side of Saint Vincent. Martin, the master—her skipper, he means—sent Agnell aboard of her there to check her papers and spake with her captain—”

  More musical Irish gabbling. It was like watching a man singing as his world tumbled down around his ears. Then: “Captain Martin there had been suspicious of the American before but hadn’t been able to prove anythin’, he says, but when they saw her again at such an out-of-the-way place as this, they stood in to see what was about. Martin guessed she was a freebooter, and so it was he had the arms chest opened as they went in. A grand mistake, that was. It was for some time the people had been discontent, and they fell into an evil mutiny right here in the offing. The American captain was unhappy about it. But Agnell said they had struck a bargain, and he would hold him to it.”

  Mutiny was one thing. But murder on such a scale was something else again. My heart dropped, and I wondered what to do.

  “What was the bargain?”

  “It wasn’t our man’s place to know, sor, but he says them’s Agnell’s very words, sor: You’ve struck a bargain, and I’ll hold you to it. Kennedy thought there would be a fight.”

  “They killed their officers over a couple of buckets of paint?”

  “No, sor. Besides the Negroes, sor, there was gold, too, a great chest of it.”

  I looked at Kennedy. “O’Lynn, did he see this gold himself?”

  Kennedy listened to the translation and then shook his head.

  “Scuttlebutt was there was a chest in Shearwater’s glory-hole, sor. Agnell had the officers carry it up the island, there. He made them bury it, and then he and his mates killed them.”

  “The gold is under the grave we just consecrated?”

  “You mean read the words over? Aye, sor.” Kennedy talked some more, and O’Lynn said, “The American had hove her cable short, an’ cut an’ run when the killin’
begun. As soon as Agnell was done, he followed after.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “He don’t know, sor. I think ’tis the truth, for he’s after swearing it on a Babble.”

  “And his mother’s grave, too, I expect.”

  “Oh, no, sor, just a wee Babble will do.”

  “There were maybe two dozen men in that pit, most of them gentlemen. More of the crew had to’ve stayed loyal than that. So where are they?”

  “They bargained to be taken someplace where a ship might call. Agnell left Kennedy and Jeffers here—Jeffers it was whose head was bashed in—he left ’em here to ‘guard the stores,’ as they said, sor, meanin’ they might never be found, or perhaps later killed at leisure if they didn’t care to take a chance in the yawl. The killin’ fit had passed on the crew, and no doubt they’d not take a hand in more morders—but Harrison an’ them others might oblige. The blackamoor cook was ashore when the horror begun, which is how he came to be left behind.”

  “He helped in the killing?”

  “Oh, no, your honor.”

  “What happened to Jeffers?”

  “Harrison did that because he refused to swear his loyalty to Agnell, and Kennedy here stabbed Harrison.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Harrison thought they ought to bloody their own hands or die with the others.”

  “Why didn’t anyone stop him?”

  “Harrison was not a well-liked man, sor.”

  Which didn’t answer the question of why they didn’t stop Agnell, but some questions just got no answers. I got up to stretch my legs and try to straighten out the truth from the lies. “That’s enough for now, then,” I said. “Tell the new cook I want him.”

  Doc arrived, looking like a man trying to look like he wasn’t up to anything—but that was how he always looked.

  “You weren’t entirely honest with me, Doc.”

  “Oh, no sah,” he said to my question, “I dint kill nobody, no sah!”

  “But you knew about it.”

  “I’se jus’ a cook, Mr. Graves, you know dat. Oh, I crewed a gun or two in my time, sho’ I did—I’se a navy man, ain’t I? But I ain’t no killer, no sah. I just kep’ my head down, like dis here.” He got a sleepy, stupid look on his face. “And dey marched dem po’ gennlemen away. Dey was a argument, ’cause Kennedy and dat other fella wif da busted head whose name I dint get, dey dint wanna do it. Well, dey done it anyway.”

  “Kennedy and the other one, they took part in the killing?”

  “No, sah. Ain’t dat what I been tellin’ you? Dem other ones is who done it. Den dey come back and dey was gonna do fo’ me, too, but I went like dis here.” He rolled his eyes around in his head, his teeth chattering, and threw himself at my feet. “An’ I goes, ‘Lawsa mighty, massa, please don’ do it, I’se jus a po’ nigga cook what don’t want no trouble, no sah!’ And dey believe me, too. Sho dey did.” He got to his feet again and laughed. “Shucks. An’ den I told dem other three fools dey could get good cash money for me and Kennedy if dey was to sell us ’steada shootin’ us. But if I’d a-knowed dey was gonna take us to market in a open boat, I woulda thought of sumpthin’ else. Yes, sah.”

  “What were you doing ashore?”

  “Huntin’ turkle eggs, sah. Same as ever mornin’.”

  “Where are all the Breezes? How did Peter Wickett get ’em all to join him?”

  “Oh, he didn’t, sah. Da new fellas called her da Sofie’s Aunt. Dem ol’ ones, what call her da Breeze like befo’, dey all around on islands and in old schooners and such what we come across. Arter a while dey’s all Sofie’s Aunts an’ no mo’ Breezes. But dey’s all safe, yes sah. First he got one or two away at a time on some excuse or ’nother, and marked ’em R for run in the book, and took on new hands out of dem ships he stopped. Den arter a while he just say, ‘Get gone on dis here island,’ or skiff or whatever, ‘or you can walk home.’ Dat done it. Didn’t nobody want to take him up on dat offer.”

  “But why?”

  Doc screwed up his face in a scowl and said, “I expects you better ax Ben Crouch about dat. He act like he know somethin’ ol’ Cap’n Wickett don’t want nobody else to know. An’ dat’s all I know, suh.”

  “You were born to be hanged, Doc.”

  “No, sah, I very respectfully declines da honor.” He thumped his chest. “Dis chile gone die in bed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna catch us a mess o’ turkle eggs. Turkles been comin’ ashore at night.” He picked up a piece of planking for a shovel and headed toward the high-water mark, saying to himself, “Is dey good eggs? Oh, yes, dey is.”

  FIFTEEN

  Harrison lived longer than he wanted to. He like to talked his head off in his fever, too, as we sailed north for the Virgin Islands. “Tortola,” he said one afternoon, or “Tortuga,” or maybe it was “turtle,” which is what tortuga means in Spanish; and “one week after the new moon. Blue Peter . . . four guns . . . windward. Freebooter’s treasure, that’s the point.” With eyes that were clear but saw far beyond the cabin, he looked at Horne, who sat beside him on a stool at the chart table, and said distinctly, “We’ll know you by that.”

  “By what?” said Horne. He rubbed sweat off his lip.

  Harrison’s mouth worked, but no words came out. His eyes followed something that wasn’t in the cabin.

  “The Blue Peter,” I said. “Then four guns to windward. Is that the challenge?”

  “Aye.” Even the single word caused him to struggle for breath.

  “What’s the reply?”

  “Rise and fall . . .” He didn’t seem to notice the sweat running down his face. “Spanish . . . main.”

  “The Spanish mainland? You mean New Granada?”

  “No, you—Spanish . . .” He gathered strength. “The main. Then show the black dog.”

  “Show what?”

  “Your true colors, you black-hearted dog!”

  Horne had risen from the stool and crouched over Harrison’s hammock. I touched Horne’s sleeve and shook my head.

  “Harrison,” I said, “is this a rendezvous?”

  “Rondyvoo? My, that’s a fine word,” he said. He reached out, and Horne took his hand. “I’ll chalk it—” He gulped air and tried again. “Chalk it up . . . on the binnacle.”

  “I mean, is it a secret meeting.”

  “Aye. ‘Nice and cozy. Just the three of us,’ he says. ‘Three’s a crowd,’ says I.” He ran the back of his hand across his forehead.

  “Just the three of you?”

  “Aye. Peter Wicked will have the other one.” He fell quiet. I thought his wits had wandered. Then he said, “Him and Agnell worked it out, like, when first they met.”

  “Peter Wicked will have the other one what?”

  He clutched at the kerchief around his throat. It was knotted loose enough, but Horne untied it for him anyway.

  “The Yankee Doodle’s off to . . . to snatch a schooner or summat.” His body jerked. He shrieked like to stop my heart.

  Horne cradled his head with one hand, shushing him like a baby and mopping his face with his kerchief. “Maybe he ought to have some water, sir. I never felt a man’s skin so hot.”

  “No, the book says not to.” All my surgical knowledge was contained in a pamphlet I’d found in the schooner’s medicine chest. There were diagrams showing how to take a man’s arms and legs off, but nothing about getting a knife out of his spine.

  “It’s good, that,” said Harrison. He blinked at Horne. “What gives, mate?”

  I leaned closer. “Is Agnell expecting anyone in particular?”

  His head turned toward me. His eyes were glassy. “No. Turtle to the hat . . . freebooter’s treasure. That’s the point, I tell you.”

  “How will he know what ship he’s to meet?”

  His eyes widened, and his head wobbled as he looked around, like he’d just then noticed me and Horne and the cabin itself. He strained against the ropes that bound him in his hammock. He thrust Horne’s hand away.
>
  “What place is this?” He clasped the handle of the knife that still protruded from his belly. “Oh, Lord Jesus,” he whispered. “I’m a dead man.”

  I never did get the knife out of him. He never lost consciousness, neither, till he slipped his hawser ten leagues east of Saint Croix.

  The three fish I’d been ripening in the hold stood blinking in the afternoon sun. Four days in the dark had left them weak and filthy. Only one of them bothered to look farther than the rail, but if he recognized the bay in which we sheltered and the islands that lay all around, he didn’t show it. They all three wore shirts and sailcloth trousers of the kind that sailors make for themselves at sea, and which had been white once upon a time. They were barefoot, of course, it being the tropics, and were shock-headed and bearded.

  One had several more teeth than the others. “Now then, Handsome Jack,” I said to him. “Suppose you tell me your name.”

  “It’s Morris,” he said. “That’s Manson and that’s Jakes, and that’s all what you’ll get out of any of us till we gets summat to eat besides your filthy bread and water.”

  “Fair enough. If you want your dinner, strip down and throw them rags overboard. Mr. Horne, rig the fire engine and get these men hosed off. Then issue them something from the slop chest and see they get fed.”

  Morris exchanged evil looks with Kennedy, who stood with his hands hanging at his sides and his feet apart, like a wrestler waiting to grapple. Manson and Jakes looked at his feet, not his face.

  The Tomahawks gathered on deck and in the rigging and silently watched them rotate under a jet of warm seawater from the fire pump. When their grime had been sluiced away with the help of a lump of lye soap—an article they seemed unaccustomed to and suspicious of—and they were newly clothed in white duck trousers and blue-checked shirts, and with the grease of their salt pork still shining in the stubble on their cheeks and chins, Horne marched them one-by-one to my cabin. Sequestering myself with them was purely for show, as the helmsman stood not four feet away in a straight line and no doubt could hear perfectly well through the open stern windows. Secrets were problematic things in a vessel barely twenty paces long on deck. Peebles sat at my desk with pen and paper before him. I kept my feet.