The Golden Minute

by John Birmingham

  The Herald, struggling south, plunged up and down a long wave train heading north, giving Cady the strong impression that they weren’t really going anywhere. She could see another ship, the captured pirate vessel she supposed, off to the right. The other craft was also striving to make headway against the sea. The long, almost regular fetch of the waves was very different from the violent disorder of the storm at its height and Cady found she could move around with a little more ease if she timed her steps to the rhythm of the swell. Dozens of sailors were busy repairing the Herald’s multitude of scars and injuries; so many hammers and axes and saws at work that it sounded like a busy lumberyard or building site, except for all the singing. The sailors labored hard at remaking their home after it had been so badly damaged, and they chorused an apparently endless round of sea shanties while they worked. A few of them spied her when she appeared. Some pointed, a couple even smiled and pumped their fists.

  They looked only marginally less monstrous than Quarrel’s pirates, but she returned each friendly gesture in the hope of reinforcing whatever connection they felt.

  Not too close a connection, she hoped. Some of these guys looked…

  Well. Horny.

  They look really fucking horny, Cady thought, and just about over making do with sodomy and salty biscuits.

  She hurried to catch up with Pip, who moved with a natural grace despite the rise and fall of the deck. He led her back up onto the raised platform where Garvey shouted orders at such speed and volume in his thick vernacular that Cady had no hope of following. The captain was heavily bandaged, and one arm rested in a sling. His enormous hat was missing, replaced by a three-cornered cap that more closely resembled the style worn by his officers. It was, she thought, sort of Napoleonic. Beside him stood Bowditch, who was also engaged in his own barking chorus of orders, instructions, and free-flowing nautical abuse. His injured arm was heavily strapped, but he seemed otherwise untroubled by the cut he’d taken in the fight. Two new men wrestled with the Herald’s wheel, half of which was missing, along with a couple of yards of wooden railing on both sides of the ship. It looked as though a wrecking ball had swung through the wheel deck, or poop deck, or whatever the hell they called it.

  Far from brooding and fuming, however, Garvey appeared to be in high spirits, and his mood lifted further when he saw Cady.

  “Mistress Smith!” he boomed and bent forward, sweeping off his hat. “Mr Bowditch and more inform me of your heroical essence when fair balk’d beneath a mass of Quarrel’s villains. Though you be a fair and frail one, I hear tell you have yet killed them as loathsome toads impaled on a skewer.”

  “Er… Thanks. I guess,” Cady replied, nervously casting her eyes over the gap in the shattered railing. At times the Herald leaned so far over that she could have stepped directly into the ocean.

  Bowditch saw her apprehension and stepped forward to steer her to an unbroken length of wooden railing at the front of the raised deck. She grabbed onto it with unconcealed relief.

  “Thank you, Captain,” she said, raising her voice to be heard over the wind and sea, and the clamor and noise of the ship’s many carpenters. “I’m sorry that I wrecked your map holder.”

  Garvey was a moment understanding her, but his eventual braying laugh assured Cady he didn’t give much of a fuck about the leather case she’d fashioned into a weapon.

  “I saw your industry myself,” he said. “The curs for-hewed by length of sawtooth chain, such a feat of invention to make a boatswain blush.”

  Cady shrugged and managed an uncomprehending smile.

  “So you got Quarrel? Your pirate captain?” she said, looking to move the conversation away from her feats of Lara Croftian ass-kickage.

  Mr Bowditch pointed down the length of the ship, and following his gesture Cady saw a man tied to one of the big mast poles up the front.

  “His head price will pass twenty-five pounds,” the first officer said.

  “Awesome,” Cady said, but mostly to herself. She could see they were coming up on land, two or three islands, or headlands maybe. It was hard to say. Spared death by drowning or murder she was free to contemplate the future again. Hundreds of years of it.

  “If I might, mistress,” Captain Garvey said, interrupting her thoughts, “I would hear tell of this strong tincture by which you undid our attackers.”

  Cady’s heart plunged with the bow as they rode over a giant green roller coaster of a wave. She’d been kind of hoping this wouldn’t come up. But how could it not? Her little tube of mace had turned the fight, and dozens of the crew had seen her use it.

  She sighed.

  There was nothing for it.

  Cady reached into the hidden inner pocket of her filthy sheepskin jacket and pulled out the Sabre. All of the men on the wheel deck stared at the small black tube as though she had fetched a snake out of her sleeve.

  “I would not warrant that such a trinket could unman, even one of Quarrel’s starveling cowards,” Garvey said, his face a study of furrowed disquiet.

  “And yet I saw them howling as though hot irons did brand their eyes,” Bowditch said.

  “I do not doubt it,” Garvey said. “A score of men have told me so.”

  Cady wondered where this was going. They were still a long way from landfall, and if Garvey or some superstitious idiot suddenly decided the only explanation was witchcraft, she would be fucked beyond all hope of unfucking herself. There were fewer than a dozen shots left in the tube, and she didn’t doubt that somebody would cut her down before she squeezed off more than one or two.

  “Does your ship have pumps, Captain Garvey?” she asked, desperately hoping that they’d been invented by now.

  “The bilge pumps, aye,” the skipper replied. “I have a dozen of Quarrel’s men chained to them now. They keep us and themselves afloat. But I do not see how…’

  Cady smiled, relieved.

  “The principle is the same,” she said. “Water under pressure looks for release. I will be honest, Captain Garvey, I do not understand how anybody could craft a pump so tiny that it can sit in a vessel this size.” She held up the Sabre again. “But I paid Lord Jeffrey Bezos of the Amazon a golden simoleon for it and would consider it a bargain at twice that price.”

  She offered it to Garvey again, and this time he took the tiny weapon. Carefully.

  “Think of it as a pistol,” Cady warned. “It is always loaded. It is always dangerous.”

  “Wise words, mistress.”

  She could see he was fascinated by the design, the materials, the otherness of it.

  “This Bezos… ?”

  “A great trader.”

  “In the land of Amazon?”

  “It is far from these shores.”

  “And you have been there?”

  “I have spent much time there, yes,” Cady said.

  Garvey returned the Sabre.

  “Does this Bezos deal in more than dainty armaments for willsome ladies?”

  “He sells everything you could imagine and much that you could not,” Cady said, deliberately pushing the discussion onto the solid, material subjects of markets, trade and potential profit, and away from dangerous conjecture about seemingly magical weapons. “When I am reunited with my husband, Captain, perhaps we could discuss a venture. The House of Smith is ever in need of reliable men and ships.”

  Too much?

  No, it wasn’t. She could see both Garvey and Bowditch already totting up the imagined riches they could make from just one trip to a new marketplace. They were probably already scheming to cut her out of the deal.

  “Mistress, I had intended that we would part in Boston,” he said. “Having delivered you safe upon my promise to Captain Bradbury. But peradventure we may accompany each other a little ways yet?”

  “Sure,” Cady said. And then, with more certainty, “Surely yes, we shall.”

  The fuck did she care what this guy thought? As long as his imagination didn’t run to her performing barrel rolls on a f
lying broomstick, she was happy to let Garvey’s greed get the better of him. And if she was being honest, she still needed him, or Bowditch, or somebody, anybody, to help her navigate the next day or so.

  She had a handful of silver ingots, a half-empty can of mace, and not a fucking clue about what to do next. Smith had both watches. Only he could get himself back here to save her.

  And if he didn’t?

  Cady would need to get the hell out of Boston before word came down from Salem that she’d escaped.

  And then?

  The only option she could think of was catching up with Mary and somehow turning her sketchy memories of high school history classes into… what?

  She had no fucking idea.

  23

  The stream followed a winding course down a gentle fall of land through folded hillsides and open valley. Over the next half day and into even’fall, Professor Koffler proved himself a gainful trail mate, thanks to his deep knowledge of the local geographics. He now confirmed the little riverlet as Proctor’s Brook, which would run southeast for six or seven miles, passing through two small ponds, before gently curving seaward to skirt the higher ground of Salem Common and emptying into a wide inlet north of the little seaport.

  “We will have to abandon the run of water as we near settlement,” Koffler warned. “But the land has been clear-felled there and apart from a few fence-lines and sleeping milk cows we should encounter no obstacles.”

  They stood to either side of a large elm tree which was just starting to drop its foliage for the winter. The trunk was massive, providing good cover as they scouted the approach, although Smith still found himself wishing for the marvels Cady had packed. Some of those spy glasses that turned night into day would have been just the ticket for this work, but he knew not where Cady’s might be. Perhaps they lay in a field somewhere ahead? Or maybe they had been taken by the sheriff hereabouts and turned over to the inquisitors as some dread satanic instrument. It was both tempting and galling to think that his rifle and six-shooter might be out there in the dark somewhere. Why, his eyes might even have passed over them.

  The low clouds and patchy rain which had so darkened the forest gloom cleared somewhat while they followed the run of Proctor’s Brook towards the sea. Now, with their destination so close, the rainclouds thinned and parted long enough for a gibbous moon to paint faint silver light across the landscape. Here and there tiny golden jewels winked in the darkness. Cottage windows looking in on burning hearths, or maybe lamps hung to light the way home for a farmer caught out in his fields by pressing necessity. The Atlantic stood eastward as a vast absence, a greater darkness in the long night, and Smith fancied he could intuit the glow of a small settlement on the edge of that immense abyss; tavern light, or ships’ lamps perhaps, dimly pushing back the inky blackness.

  “We should pace ourselves on the run in,” Smith warned. “Wouldn’t be no fun to break a leg when we got an invite to the dance.”

  “Indeed,” Koffler said. “The ground is boggy at this time of year, before it freezes. It will make for hazardous progress in the dark. But there are tracks between the farms. If we cleave to them, while keeping a weather eye for watchmen, we should make the port in three or four hours. No working port ever truly sleeps, and they are fueled as much by gossip as by rum. We will soon know what has become of Miss Cadence.”

  The temporary blessing of moonlight was not long lived. A blustering southerly wind picked up over the next hour, bringing with it sleet and a deeper darkness. Their path from the wilderness back to civilization, however mean and rough-hewn, grew ever more difficult.

  “At least it’ll keep those Puritan thumpers indoors,” Smith said, raising his voice to be heard over the rising shriek of the storm. Both men were leaned into the wind now, which carried stinging sheets of rain directly into their faces, giving Smith to wonder if they might need to seek shelter before much longer.

  “We should press on,” Koffler said. “It might not seem so, but this is quite the boon to our cause. You are right that few will venture out in such foul weather. Although we must be wary of flash flood and lightning.”

  They struggled on, each man retreating into the solitude of his own thoughts. Smith wondered a little at what Koffler must be thinking, but mostly he kept his head down and his hat pulled low. Every now and then he heard the German call out to him over the tempest, usually to direct them back onto some path which had disappeared in the violence of the storm. Once Smith caught the professor about to stumble into a washout. The drop was easily twice the height of the man, and a black torrent raged within the chasm.

  “Thank you!” Koffler called out over the uproar.

  The worst of the storm passed within an hour, but an unrelenting misery of cold, soaking rain set in. Only the thought that to delay even a minute might see him separated from Cady again drove Smith onward. It was quite the surprise, after another hour or so, to realize he had come to accept the truth of her being here. As they drew closer to Salem, lightning flashes allowed Smith to pick out features he had noted in the few minutes he’d had to survey the place before the militia had fired upon them. A clutch of whitewashed, two-story buildings here. A windmill and a granary over there. The vanes of the windmill turned rapidly in the high wind, but the stuttering illumination of lightning strikes gave to them the illusion of standing still. A line of elms on a high hill bent before the wind and, as Smith blinked rain from his eyes, a terrible vision resolved itself from the dark and watery distance. Bodies swung freely from the leafless boughs of the greatest trees, like marionettes from the broken claws of a dead puppet master. His heart lurched grievously.

  “Goddamn them all to Hell,” Smith swore, not caring one jot for the mark that would be made against his soul for taking the Lord’s name in vain.

  Koffler heard him and drew up at his elbow.

  He felt the man’s surprisingly strong grip on his arm.

  “She is not there, Smith. Remember, this is what they did here. This is why the name of Salem is a cursed appellation for an accursed time and place. Have faith. I could not be here if she did not yet live. That,” he pointed into the distance where full night had swallowed the dead again, “that was not her fate. Come, we must press on with all dispatch.”

  Smith put his head down and redoubled his pace.

  He counted himself entirely responsible for bringing Cady here, and for hazarding her life to the delusion of these grim, puritanical savages. His knife rubbed at his legs as he strode on, and the pistol he carried at the small of his back dug at his spine.

  He was glad to have them both and resolved that any man who dared stand between him and Cadence McCall was as dead as those who swung from yonder hanging trees in this godforsaken night.

  By Wu’s chronometer, which as always had reset itself to the local time with baffling reliability, they made it to the waterfront just after four in the morning. He checked the other watch: Chumley’s. Eight minutes after, to be precise. Having a minute hand to more exactly divide up the hour was a beneficence, Smith would allow, but he was extra careful with the timepiece he’d taken from the murderous Apprentice. It was, after all, loaded and cocked. A double press on the winding crown and it would all but surely wink him out of this existence and on into some novel misadventure. To that end he had secured the crowns of both again with twists of wire. Smith returned the artifacts to the bottom of a deep pocket in his heavily waterlogged twill jacket. The pocket was securely fastened with a tie, and he would not open it until he had Cady within his embrace once more.

  The docks of Salem town were not entirely deserted, but only two small ships lay up against the wharves. Smith was no sailor, and he could no more identify the class of vessel than he could write and perform a Viking opera. Each of them had two masts, although one seemed a little longer than the other. He would not wish to set out for a lazy jaunt on a placid lake in either of them, let alone brave a crossing of the north seas in deepest winter. Koffler surveyed the craft fr
om inside a narrow alley that ran between two wooden barns, which seemed almost to lean against each other like drunks in need of support.

  “Square rigged merchant traders with provision for oarsmen,” Koffler said. When Smith said nothing, he added, “Not naval vessels, then, which is good for us. We do not want the colonial authorities taking an interest in our doings.”

  “Fair enough,” Smith said quietly. “But what about findin’ Cady?”

  The merchant ships were quiet, the crews asleep. Smith assumed there must be a sailor keeping watch somewhere on deck and probably a junior officer to supervise him. It would not be so different from running a cavalry unit such as his own during the war. As Koffler had said, they would never truly sleep.

  “I don’t much fancy strollin’ up the gangplank and hulloin’ the night-watch to ask if’n they heard of a potty mouth witch with a bag full of magic toys.”

  “No,” Koffler agreed. “That would be ill-advised. However,” he went on, raising his chin a little to draw Smith’s attention to a plain wooden building farther down the wooden boardwalk, “I believe we will find someone awake and amenable to small talk in that tavern.”

  He withdrew a small leather pouch from within a pocket. A coin purse. It clinked as he tested the weight.

  “I would prefer it if you stayed out of sight, Marshal. Allow me to make inquiries and report back.”

  “And I would prefer it if’n I weren’t left to hang out like a carcass for the flies, Professor. I understand it’s best I do not show my face around these parts, but do not tarry overlong. I am as inclined to kick down the door of the Salem jailhouse and demand satisfaction as I am to persist with all of this sneakin’ about.”

  “I shall be as quick as I can, and not a moment more,” Koffler promised. “But please try not to further embroil yourself here. You have already killed enough men. We do not need further complications.”

  “No,” Smith agreed. “We do not.”