The Devil's Tide

by Tomerlin, Matt

  "It's like to be a rough night," said Billie Dowling, one of the few pirates not afraid to speak to her. Billie was the younger brother of Ranger's master carpenter, Avery Dowling. She didn't care much for Avery, who her first day aboard had unnecessarily threatened dismemberment if she touched any of his tools. Billie, on the other hand, seemed genuine enough. He couldn't have been more than twenty, but his teeth were already mottled brown, and the whites of his eyes had gone yellow. The dark skin on his shoulders and arms was blistered and peeling. "The storm is catching up at last. Best get below, as that cannon won't offer much shelter."

  "Thank you, Billie," she said, meaning it. "No rest for you?"

  "I fear I'd wake at the bottom of the ocean."

  Kate wished Billie luck and descended into the hold. She found her bed, which was a hammock set between two bulkheads. She rolled into the hammock, and it swayed dizzyingly. Her head was swimming with wine. The creaking of the hull filled her ears. Several crewmen that she couldn't see in the dark were snoring loudly in their bunks. A few of them were awake in a corner, playing a game of dice. She heard Fat Farley laughing boisterously at a joke. Did that man never sleep?

  Heavy lids quickly closed over her eyes.

  When she came to, the hold was immersed. Crates were floating around, knocking into each other. Her back was resting in the water, which was level with her hammock. She jerked upward in shock, smashing her head against the ceiling, and tumbled into the water. Her body twirled, and she thrashed her arms and legs. The water was black. She swam up . . . and hit the floor. She spun around, placing her feet flat on the ground, and projected herself upward. Her head emerged from the water, and she gasped hoarsely. She looked around, crates bobbing in and out of view, until she found the main exit. Water was cascading down the stairway, lit from the opening above. Was it daylight already? Had she slept that long?

  She swam for the exit, making her way through the maze of floating crates.

  A slender shadow split the light.

  Kate clutched of the larger crates.

  A foot appeared on the first step, and then another. Slender legs came into view, and then fully curved hips that arced into a thin waist, and then small breasts with black nipples. She was completely naked, her wet skin faintly tinted in green. She was tall and lean, like a well forged cutlass. She continued her descent, stepping into the water without hesitation.

  Kate blinked the sting of salt out of her eyes, struggling to focus on the woman's face. She saw black hair, as short as a man's, elegant lips that were neatly pursed, a thin nose, and sharply arched eyebrows. Her eyes were closed. She continued her methodical descent, following the steps into the water until her head vanished beneath the surface.

  Kate scanned the water, but it was impenetrable. She was about to swim the opposite direction when two blue orbs materialized, impossibly bright, illuminating everything beneath the surface in otherworldly cerulean hues. The naked woman was crouched three feet from Kate's legs. The orbs were her eyes, blank and passionless, and they were transfixed on Kate.

  She woke with a start, twisting in her hammock. She sat up, looking around. The hold was not quite flooded, but water was streaming down the steps from the main entrance. Large puddles had collected on the floor.

  She heard men shouting at each other above, footsteps thudding rapidly along the deck. Someone loosed a high-pitched shriek, or maybe it was the wind gusting through the hold. A crash resounded from above, bowing the planking just above her head. Ranger shuddered violently, and Kate was nearly thrown from her hammock. Water seeped through a crevice between planks, pattering her chest. And then the water darkened. She looked down.

  Her shirt was drenched in blood.

  HORNIGOLD

  "Get to safety, you fool!" Hornigold bellowed. "That man's already dead!"

  The surgeon either hadn't heard Hornigold or was deliberately ignoring him. The fool was scrambling through a wave as it cascaded over the deck, stubbornly trying to get to a deckhand that was pinned beneath a fallen yardarm. If the pool of blood that spread from the man's compressed torso was any indication, he was well beyond saving.

  In a last ditch attempt to get the surgeon's attention, Hornigold drew his pistol and aimed at the sky. In his years of captaining, he had learned that nothing commanded attention like a gunshot. He pulled the trigger, but the hammer clacked without firing. The powder was soaked through. He angrily threw the pistol at the surgeon, but he missed his mark by a few feet.

  Hornigold could only watch in horror as the surgeon's feet were swept out from under him by the wave. The current carried him screaming across the deck, legs and arms flailing. For an instant, his eyes, insane with terror, met Hornigold's. And then the surgeon was dashed against one of the starboard cannons, his head splitting like a watermelon on the cascabel knob. His limp corpse slipped through the gunport and tumbled over the side of the ship, lost to the roiling sea.

  The surgeon had been a recent addition to the crew, and Hornigold couldn't even remember the man's name. Copernicus Ryan, the boatswain, had recommended the surgeon a month ago, but Hornigold had been too busy to get to know him. He was glad he hadn't spared the time. How many more will die, he wondered, without that idiot around to provide proper medical attention?

  Bastion, who had been securing the foresail, leapt from his perch and scrambled toward the cannon where the surgeon had vanished. "Back to your post, sailor!" Quartermaster Reed bellowed from the bow, his arm wrapped around a swivel gun for support. Bastion skidded to a halt just short of the cannon, staring dumbly at Reed. He started to turn back when a massive wave raised Ranger's bow high into the air. Bastion was lifted off his feet as the ship crested the wave and slid steeply down the backside. Bastion touched down, his ass taking the brunt of the damage. He rolled over, moaning as water splashed over him.

  The long bowsprit plunged into the black water, shuddering on impact. The jib topsail snapped free, taking a three foot long splinter of the bowsprit with it, and whipped back toward the deck. Two deckhands were quick enough to duck, but a third man never knew what hit him. The sail catapulted him over the side as it swept past. Another man without a name lost to the sea, thought Hornigold.

  The topsail arced on its tether, the long splinter of bowsprit still attached. Reed released the swivel gun he had been clinging to and leapt out of the way as the sharp piece of wood shot toward him like a spear. But he was too late. He was sliced nearly in half, from crotch to shoulder, and then dragged across the bow and smashed against the railing.

  What remained was barely distinguishable as human, let alone any semblance of the man Hornigold had once called friend. Entrails spilled from a gaping torso, slipping through exposed ribs. The legs were splayed in opposite directions, one foot missing, the other twisted downward at an impossible angle. The head was pulverized, face raked clean off, skull smashed in. An eyeball dangled from an open socket.

  Hornigold fell to his hands and knees and retched. Ranger collided with another wave, but the sound was distant and inconsequential. As Hornigold's vomit was washed away, he barely recognized the man he saw mirrored in the water. The ripples hyperbolized his scowl. A stream of blood swirled into view, darkening his face. The rain was heavy on his back, weighting him down. His joints ached. His elbows quivered. He wasn't sure if the water was rising or he was sinking. It wouldn't be such a bad way to go, he thought. I'm so tired of all of this.

  Woodes Rogers had promised him security, and Hornigold had considered himself fortunate to be spared the gallows. He had thanked Rogers profusely, befriended him, and eagerly rushed out to sea to hunt his former friends. They saw it as a betrayal. They called him a coward. And he knew they would murder him given the chance. Now he was a pirate again, and his circumstances were no less precarious. Except his enemy was neither pirates nor a noose; it was the sea herself. It didn't matter whether he served the crown or ambition, he would be claimed by the sea either way. He knew that now.

  We're not me
ant to be out here, Hornigold realized for the first time in his life. So far from land, on tiny floats of wood. Every time we venture out, our odds of success decrease, until the odds abandon us altogether. The dangers are too great, and those that survive are made evil by the horrors they see. And who can blame them for that? Certainly not I. What pardon did Woodes Rogers truly offer in sending me back into this hell? I am bound to it no matter what I do.

  And then, with that sudden realization, it all stopped.

  Complete silence.

  Patches of blue materialized in the water. Hornigold tilted his head, looking up.

  The clouds were breaking.

  The storm had claimed four men in less than five minutes, and just like that it was over.

  Hornigold balled his hands into fists and pushed himself to his feet. He wiped a hand across his wet mustache, sniffing as he took in the devastation. The sails were in tatters, and the topsail jib was dangling over the side.

  Hornigold helped Bastion to his feet, setting him against the cannon that the surgeon had collided with. The blood was mostly washed away, save for a few bits of brain dribbling down the cascabel. "Are you alright?" Hornigold asked him.

  "I think so, captain," Bastion rasped between a fit of coughs. "Reed?"

  Hornigold shook his head.

  "Him deserve better," Bastion said with a woeful shake of his head.

  "It was a fast death," Hornigold said, sniffing hard. Salt went down his throat, and he struggled not to cough.

  "Him deserve no death at all."

  "The sea has no regard for what we deserve," Hornigold replied. Reed had told him that a long time ago, after a very young deckhand had been crushed while careening the ship. The deckhand had been scrubbing the keel when a tidal wave washed over the beach, pitching the ship in the sand.

  Hornigold figured he should be used to death by now.

  "Someone got to clean that up," Bastion said, staring at the bow.

  Hornigold refused to look that way again. Someone else would have to worry about that mess. He patted Bastion on the shoulder. "Don't stand until you've recovered your breath, and maybe not even then. You've earned your share today. The foresail would look even worse if not for your diligence."

  "Thank you, captain."

  Hornigold left Bastion's side and started aft. Fat Farley and Francois Laurent were securing a cannon that had come loose. They glared at him as he passed. He noted no reverence in their manner, only blame. They started whispering to each other. He had convinced them to come along, promising riches beyond their wildest dreams. They would never need to work again, not for Woodes Rogers and not for themselves. They could disappear and live out the rest of their lives, as all pirates dreamed. How many have actually succeeded? Hornigold knew the percentage wasn't favorable, but he had promised his men they would be the exception to the rule. Had Jonathan Griffith promised his men the same? Those men were all dead now, and Hornigold sought to claim what was theirs.

  With thirty-eight men, Ranger had little more than a token crew, but that was the most he could muster on short notice, and it meant more shares for everyone. He would have sailed with less if he could have, but he had needed all the help he could get, and he would have said anything to get them to come along. He had convinced himself that the ends would justify the means. He knew he might lose a few. He knew he might lose everyone, including himself, but he'd been presented with one last chance at freedom. He hadn't realized how much he hated what Woodes Rogers had turned him into until Kate Lindsay offered a way out.

  In sync with his thoughts, she climbed from the hold. Her red hair appeared first, the very same color as the blood that swirled in the water beneath Hornigold's feet. She was drenched from head to toe, translucent shirt clinging to her breasts, stained with blood.

  She chooses a fine moment to emerge from safety, thought Hornigold.

  "What happened?" she said, looking mildly concerned.

  "Are you wounded?" he asked, indicating her shirt.

  "It's not mine. What happened?"

  "What do you think happened?" he muttered gratingly. "The bloody storm overtook us. My quartermaster is dead."

  Lindsay flinched when she looked at the bow. "Was that him?"

  "Yes," he replied, not looking.

  "I'm sorry."

  "For what?" he chuckled cynically. "Do you control the weather as well as a man's ambitions?"

  Lindsay stared at him blankly. Was she purposely unreadable, or was there nothing there to read? Hornigold decided he didn't care and brushed past her.

  The next two hours felt like days, though the sun hardly moved in the sky. The storm was small on the horizon and rapidly fading. It was suddenly very hot, and the damp wood started to stink. Before Hornigold's clothes could dry, he began to sweat profusely from the humidity.

  He put several men to work on the bow, first to clean up the ruin that was Reed, and then to repair whatever damage they could. He set his best sailmakers to work on a new jib topsail, though it would be difficult to secure with a diminished bowsprit. Most of the others attended to the flooded hold, bucketing water over the side. A large crate of rum had toppled into the water, every bottle within shattering on impact, and the smell saturated the hold. "I'm drunk off the stench," Billie Dowling said, and everybody laughed.

  Laughter comes so easily to them. How have they grown so accustomed to tragedy when I have not? He wanted to scream at them, tell them this was no laughing matter and to stay focused on their tasks, but they were a democracy again, as Lindsay had been so quick to remind him, and he had no say over their conduct.

  He retreated to his quarters. Most of the wine bottles had rolled out of his cupboard, broken shards twinkling in the variegated light that issued through the stained glass window. The wine collected in a large puddle about the shards, like a blood red ocean encompassing glass islands.

  Hornigold fell into a chair and set a hand on the table, atop a map of the Caribbean that he had been studying earlier. His eyes fell on the bright red X where Lindsay claimed they would find the uncharted island that concealed Jonathan Griffith's vast fortune. Hornigold drew a dagger from his boot and dug it into the X. The tip hit an inch short of the center. He wrenched the dagger loose and slammed it down again, and again it came up short of the mark. He angrily hurled the dagger across the room, where it slapped the ornate headboard of his bed and tumbled down, slipping behind the mattress.

  His frustration swiftly gave to exhaustion, and he slumped in the chair, closing his eyes. He knew it wasn't proper for a captain to rest while his crew was dealing with disaster, but he needed just a moment to recover his strength. That isn't too much to ask, is it? Just a moment.

  It couldn't have been more than a few seconds before he fell asleep. He dreamed of an island, lush and beautiful, with impossibly white beaches, crystal waters, and green trees bearing fat coconuts. The island was small but dense with tropical vegetation. A rainbow colored parrot flew overhead, looking down at him as it sailed toward the island. "This way," it called. "This way. This way. This way." The bird's voice faded as it disappeared into the jungle.

  The breeze was cool on his face but not cold. The sun was warm on his back but not hot. He felt renewed as energy coursed through him from the legs up. Where am I? Am I on a ship? No, I must be in the water.

  He looked down and, sure enough, found himself submerged to his waist in shallow water. He could see straight through to the white sand. Colorful seashells were scattered all around, big and small. A red crab scurried away from his foot, taking shelter in one of the larger shells. He bent down and reached in, plucking the shell out of the water. He turned it over, but there was nothing inside. He looked down at the water again. The crab materialized in the hollow from which Hornigold had removed the shell. It scuttled away, staring at him with upturned, bulbous eyes that rested on long stalks. I've been deceived by a crab.

  The island looked inviting, and he was fond of coconuts. A man could live his entire l
ife off coconuts and crab. A waterfall with a little lake at the bottom would be nice too. He was certain there had to be one in that jungle.

  He took a step forward . . . and halted when something grey darted through the water before him. He scanned the water, but he couldn't see where the grey thing had gone. And then something flashed silver in his peripheral vision, rising above the water to the right of him and then sinking before he could look at it. And then another silver flash, this time from his left. He spun in place, things shuffling in the water all around. He looked down. Dozens of grey streaks were circling his legs. A fin broke the surface. A yawning mouth with two sets of razor sharp teeth lunged at his face. He recoiled in horror . . .

  . . . And woke to a rap on his door. "Come in," he mumbled.

  Another knock.

  "Come in, I said!

  The door opened, and Dumaka, very tall and very black, stuck his head in. "Captain?"

  "Yes, Dumaka, what is it?" he said, wiping sweat from his brow.

  Hornigold had recruited Dumaka from a slave ship two years past. Dumaka learned English in under a month, and he spoke it better than most of the crew. After complaints of leakage in the barrels, Dumaka made some barrels of his own, and Hornigold instantly promoted him to cooper. The previous cooper, a middle-aged man named Jeremiah, did not take kindly to a black man stealing his job, and he drew his pistol on Dumaka later that day. The shot missed Dumaka but hit another man in the forehead, killing him instantly. Jeremiah was marooned on the next island they came to, with nothing more than his unreliable pistol for company.