“You seemed hotly flushed, mistress. Are you well?” Pip asked as they lowered Cady to her feet.
“I’m fine,” she said thickly. “It felt like I was in there a long time.”
“You were. Night is fallen,” Bowditch confirmed. “And the Magistrate Granville was most skeptical,” he said. “He did not care for the tale we told of your demise in the battle with Le Sournois.”
“He thinks you flew away!” Pip marveled, but whether at the stupidity of the idea or the boldness of the escape route, Cady couldn’t say.
“And no one said otherwise?” she asked.
“A bosun of Quarrel’s complement may have had such a fancy,” Bowditch admitted with a wry smile, “but the gaffer disabused him of the notion with a timely application of a belaying pin to the back of his skull.”
“I see,” Cady said. “So what now?”
“Now, we are bid to confer with Captain Garvey,” Bowditch said. “Boston is no safe harbor for you, mistress. You may wish to consider alternative courses before you commit to the westerly heading.”
Garvey received them in his cabin back on board the Herald. Her transfer this time was much less exciting. Both ships were anchored a short distance from the docks, and Bowditch led Cady over a wide plank from Le Sournois to the Herald. She wore an overlarge and hooded oilskin, in which she was indistinguishable from any other member of the crew. The gangplank was much wider than any she recalled from the black-and-white pirate movies she’d watched as a kid with her dad, but it was still a nerve-racking passage, shuffling across the gap between the ships. The walkway tilted and dipped like the balance ball she’d been unable to master at Pilates, and it did not help that Pip scooted ahead of her, as fleet-footed and nimble as she was awkward.
“Your long hours of lodgment in the barrel have robbed your good legs, mistress,” Lieutenant Bowditch said, gently taking her by the hand and leading her across. “Perhaps you might allow your fair eyes to contemplate my own much less convenable appearance, ma’am?”
It helped, a little, and she covered the rest of the distance in a nervous shuffle.
Bowditch lifted her to the deck of the Herald on the other side, smiling. “Of course, I did not suppose to imply your legs were not good,” he said with a shamelessly straight face. “They are most excellent legs indeed.”
Cady was almost as unsettled by his flirting—was he flirting?—as she had been by having to walk the unsteady plank in the dark.
“Uh. Okay. Thanks,” she said.
But Bowditch had already turned away, striding off toward the hatchway at the rear of the main deck that led to Garvey’s cabin. Cady decided she’d misread him. It was difficult to translate any real nuance when she felt like she was speaking their version of English as a second language, poorly learned. Around her, a dozen or so of the ship’s crew busied themselves at repairs and maintenance, working by lamplight. But of the dozens of men aboard the Herald when she’d joined the ship at Salem, there was no sign. Ashore, she guessed, drinking and whoring. As you do.
There were no members of the pirate crew anywhere to be seen. Their leader, Quarrel, had been freed from his bonds at the mainmast, although ‘freed’ was probably the wrong word. He was doubtless wearing irons in some cell on shore. She tried to pick out details of the harbor town she’d seen on the way into port, but full night had fallen and with it a concealing shroud of total darkness that hid colonial Boston from casual observation. Straining to pick out some detail, Cady realized with a warm flush of embarrassment that she was looking the wrong way. Even turning from the seaward side of the Herald to search out the mainland, she was lost until she finally spied a single, small firelight high above the water in a tower somewhere off to the southwest.
Or what she thought was the southwest.
It was as hard to get her bearings in the dark as it was to understand the crew when they yammered on in full sea-dog mode.
Having locked in on that watchtower, Cady was able to pick out a few more points of light scattered here and there across the headland; but only a few. The town slept, shrouded in the primal night.
She had never felt more isolated.
Bowditch held aloft a small lantern within the companionway leading to the captain’s cabin. His expression was mild but otherwise unreadable.
“Where’s the rest of the crew?” Cady asked as she ducked under cover and dropped her hood.
“Mostly paid off and ashore, drinking their prize money,” Bowditch said. “The governor’s office issued a promissory note for the value of the French ship and its cargo. We have restocked some of our store from the same. Come, we have fresh mutton and kedgeree.”
Cady wondered what fresh hell might be contained in a steaming serve of kedgeree.
A fatty stew of rice, fish heads and hard-boiled eggs, thanks for asking.
The meal awaited them on the map table in Garvey’s cabin. Pip served as waiter or steward, or whatever they called the guy who ladled out the fish heads and boiled sheep meat.
Sonofabitch would’ve been appropriate, Cady thought. But she kept it to herself.
“Mistress Smith, welcome.” Garvey smiled, standing as she entered the small room. His arm was still heavily bandaged, but he no longer carried it in a sling. He looked genuinely pleased to see her again.
Less pleased to see her, and looking like a giant scowl fashioned from the clenched fists of angry dwarves, was the surly little Amish motherfucker she’d last seen driving Mary Bradbury into the night.
“You’re… de Klerk, right?” Cady said.
“I represent the interest of House Bradbury,” he said in that weird Continental accent of his.
Garvey spoke, as though the man was not standing next to him.
“A mere factotum,” he said. “You must determine your own—”
The man called de Klerk, whom Cady was beginning to understand was more than just a wagon driver, rode in over the top of the Herald’s master and commander.
“My mistress and the Captain Bradbury, who most generously satisfied the price of Goody Smith’s passage from Salem, do fear their investment will bilk to naught if she should fall prisoner to Granville at this late hour. They would have you to Maine with them, there to tarry until the governor returns and puts down the madness gripping Salem Village.”
Cady didn’t understand and it showed on her face.
Bowditch stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder, pressing lightly to suggest she should sit down.
“If I might, sir?” he said, addressing Garvey.
The captain, who obviously did not care for de Klerk in the least, nodded gratefully.
They all took their seats, except for the visitor who remained on his feet and explained when Cady looked at him expectantly, “I have not time for supper and idle converse.”
Bowditch frowned openly at the man and Garvey poured himself a full measure of dark red wine.
“Mister de Klerk speaks for the Bradbury principals,” Bowditch explained after seating Cady and taking his own place. “He arrived with instructions that we should take orders to ensure your safe passage from Boston…”
“Which I am perfectly happy to do,” Captain Garvey said forcefully, directing his ire at de Klerk.
Bowditch went on, “The whole colony is in a funk over the hysteria in Salem. It spreads like the drooping sickness to Andover and Ipswich. Why, some Salem she-devil now charges Governor Phips’ own wife of treating with old Nick.”
“Ha,” snorted Garvey. “I’ve met the woman. She is a terror, but no witch. Phips won’t let this stand. He’ll hang those damned inquisitors himself.”
“Governor Phips may indeed do so,” de Klerk said quietly. “But he progresses slowly from the old country while Magistrate Granville is here now and threatening quarantine upon the colony until Mistress Smith is captured.”
“Which is why we must put to sea again before he closes the harbor,” Garvey said, slamming down his wineglass hard enough to slosh half
the liquid over the rim.
He’d envisaged himself enriched by all of the wondrous trade goods she had promised from Bezos of the Amazon, and now de Klerk was somehow snatching that away.
“Captain, if you recall your complement and make sail before the head price of your captives is even settled, it will confirm to Granville that you have reason to run. Even now he sends messengers north and south seeking vessels to blockade the harbor against just such a contrivance.”
“I do not answer to Magistrate Granville,” Garvey sneered. “With draft enough beneath our keel I take heed only of my commission from House Bradbury.”
De Klerk leaned in over the steaming bowl of egg and fish head stew.
“And House Bradbury requires that you see Mistress Smith safe to the Red Lion from whence she will jaunce to Maine beyond the ken of Oyer and Terminer.”
Cady understood less than half of that, but she did pick up the reference to the Red Lion, the lay-up point Smith had wanted them to use while they waited for the watch to recharge. Even Mary Bradbury had recommended it. No doubt it would prove to be the Grand Hyatt of its day.
“Why the hell would I get off the boat?” she said pointedly.
Everyone fell silent.
“Captain Garvey and his men have done exactly what Mary asked them to do. They kept me safe and got me here. It’s not their fault Boston turned into Fallout 3.”
De Klerk looked to Bowditch and Garvey for translation.
The junior officer shrugged.
“Mistress Smith oft speaks the Babel tongue of one who is tickle-footed by much travel,” he said.
“Look,” Cady said. “Long story short, I want to stay with them.”
She indicated the crew of the Herald with a wave.
Garvey looked more than pleased. Bowditch too.
De Klerk smiled without amusement. “And surely you will hang with them if you remain here until dawn.”
“Because?”
“By cause of Granville investing this ship on the morrow and breaking it apart until only splinters remain.”
“And why would he do that?” Cady asked, with a sinking feeling.
“By cause of my having a dispatch to him awaiting only my delayed return to inform the magistrate of your presence here.”
“Goddamn your eyes, man!” Garvey roared, jumping to his feet so quickly the converted map table tipped over, sending all of the bowls and glasses crashing to the hardwood deck.
“I will run you through where you stand, you waghalting rogue!” Bowditch snarled, leaping to his feet and drawing his sword from the scabbard he’d hung over the back of his chair.
Pip, the adorable mini-me of this Gilbert and Sullivan slasher flick, advanced on de Klerk with a dagger raised in each hand.
“Wait!” Cady cried out. “Stop.”
To her surprise, they did. Everyone turned to her.
“You can’t kill him.”
“Tilly-valley but I can!” Pip protested. “I will stab him in the neck and that will do for him.”
“No! I mean, no, seriously. If he doesn’t return to shore, his messenger will send the letter to Granville.”
She looked to de Klerk for confirmation.
He smiled and nodded.
“But why?” Bowditch asked, almost pleading.
“By my troth, I will speak my conscience to this,” de Klerk said. “When the little ruffian puts away his daggers.”
“You really don’t seem the type to have a conscience, but do go on,” Cady deadpanned. “Pip. Put the cutlery away.”
De Klerk dipped his head and let a smile play at the corners of his mouth.
“It is enough you know that I, like you, Captain Garvey, am obedient to my master Bradbury, and his cause being just, my obedience wipes out the crime of any disadventure in its commission.”
“His ends justify your means?”
“Precisely.”
Bowditch remained unconvinced.
“I promise you, sir, that it will be a black matter for you should you play us ill.”
“I vote you no ill, Lieutenant,” de Klerk replied evenly. “My master would wish Mistress Smith succor on her lengthy jaunce and bountiful fortune ahead. I am instructed to provide the both of them. She is hunted by the red dogs and so I throw the bone east, while Mistress Smith declines to the west.”
“I am not your bone, sir!” Garvey shot back.
“Not mine, no. But if the Captain Bradbury should wish to chew on you a little, I advise he will.”
Garvey growled and Cady felt the moment quickly coming apart.
“Okay,” she said in her loudest dominatrix voice. “Enough.”
She hurried to address Garvey first.
“Captain. I don’t know why Mary sent this pocket-Nazi errand boy, but she was worried I’d fuck up my own extraction and get caught again.”
Garvey’s expression betrayed his complete con-fucking-fuzzlement at whatever she’d just said.
Oh, yeah. No universal translator.
“Captain,” she started over. “Mistress Bradbury feared grievously that I would not long remain at liberty. Maybe she was right. If Lieutenant Bowditch was of a mind to escort me ashore and thence to this tavern, I would assure her agents that I am in good company whilst ever I am under your protection. You are a man with whom I can and will do profitable business, I am sure of it…”
Fuck. But I’m not sure anyone’s actually invented the word ‘business’ yet, she thought too late. However, from the avid and suddenly hungry look in Garvey’s eye, Cady could presume he took her meaning.
“Will that do?” she asked de Klerk.
“It will suffice. I am ordered to vouchsafe your guesting to the Red Lion and no more. Mistress Bradbury hath weld the plot from thence. A wagon north I might hazard, in train with a party of the household militia. But,” he shrugged, “I am merely the instrument of this plan, not the architect.”
“Whatever,” she said. “But first, let’s not get caught. Captain, are you agreed? Might I borrow your dashing Lieutenant for a… jaunce?”
27
They found six horses of the Wabanaki braves hobbled in a clearing a few minutes deeper into the forest. They were gouch-eared and thin but otherwise in good shape. Only three of the beasts were saddled, and those poorly, but Smith was glad of the basic tack. He did not relish the idea of a bareback ride over rough terrain all the way to Boston.
“We should take remounts,” Koffler said. “And ride the first string into the ground.”
“No,” Smith shot back. “Haste is needful but not at the expense of these animals. We ride them hard but not until they’re blown dead.”
The German obviously disagreed but did not press the matter.
In a few minutes they were back on the trail and riding as quickly as terrain and poor visibility allowed. When their first mounts, a pinto and a flaxey, grew tired, they stopped, switched horses and cut them loose from the small remuda. The stallions followed their chums for a short distance before giving up the pursuit. Smith and Koffler pressed on. When they saddled up the last of the string, the professor judged them to be two or three hours from the peninsula, depending on how many swollen streams they had yet to ford.
There were many. Boston did not lie far from Salem, not as the crow might fly, but they did not have the luxury of taking to the wing. Their ride consumed the better part of the day, and half of that given over to navigating storm-flooded rivulets, stony hillsides, narrow ledges, plunging ravines and sometimes impenetrable thickets of tangled thorn bush and sucking bog. Smith marveled at the fecund richness of New England’s forest life. He saw sign of moose and deer, of weasels, skunks and foxes. They crossed streams dammed by industrious beavers, and once passed a beehive at least twice the height of a man, smashed open for its honey by a hungry bear. Brooks and ponds teemed with turtle and muskrat, leapfrogs and water snakes. While swapping out the mounts that second time they both froze to hear the chilling clatter of a timber rattler sequ
estered somewhere close in the dark forest defile, giving Smith to wish most fervently for his old saddle gun, a double-barreled shotgun perfectly tuned to drown out that terrifying serpent song.
When the forest opened up and the canopy thinned out, they spied a multitude of hawks lording it over crows, jays, snow-birds and chickadees. A giant vee of Canadian snow geese passed directly overhead as they joined up with a dirt and gravel road wide enough to admit of two wagons at once.
“We are not far out now,” Koffler shouted to him over the rhythmic pounding of horse hooves.
“We should take lodgings and commence the search as soon as we get there,” Smith shouted back. “I know a quiet inn of good repute. We’ll spend your capital for you yet, Professor.”
“As it was always meant to be spent, Smith. And if you speak of the Red Lion Tavern, and fortune favors us with a kindly eye, we may yet enjoy a celebratory feast there with Miss Cadence herself upon this very eve. In her journals, she writes of lodging at that house for a week after escaping the witch-hunters at Salem and deciding to throw in her lot with the Bradburys.”
“Sir, you put the spurs to my heart with the suggestion,” Smith said. And he spoke true. The idea that he might soon be able to enfold Cadence within his arms and make safe their escape together did set his heart to beating like a hammer in his chest.
Koffler smiled at him.
“Smith, I confess myself unmanned by boyish excitement too. For me, this is the culmination of a life’s work. That I, of all of the Society’s fellows, should be the one to achieve our purpose, it is a wonderment, I tell you.”
They rode on with quickening spirits, and the first scattered farms appeared within the next hour. Mounted riders and creaking wagons soon contested the road, and Smith noticed that the deep green scent of rot and genesis seeping from the forest floor had yielded to the salt tang of the great, slate gray ocean to the east. Koffler emptied a few more coins from his purse to buy passage on a horse ferry across a river that was too wide and deep to cross unassisted. The day was late and the watery sunlight already weak when they first observed the palisades and towers guarding a low neck of marshy ground, stretching from the mainland to a considerable settlement of impressive fortification. From their elevated position, the natural boundaries of old Boston suggested the vague form of a human heart, but one jealously kept. Two hills with a store of great artillery, well mounted and manned even in this quiet time, faced toward the frontier. Smith’s soldierly eye picked out a number of other imposing batteries, built of stout timbers and rammed earthenwork. The armaments embraced a long sweeping cove onto which the principal streets of the town all led. The waterfront was overtopped by the greatest of the three hills which described the settlement’s essential geography, and on that prominence stood a great beacon tower studded all around with open portage for the gaping mouths of cannon, their polished barrels glinting in the setting sun.
The Golden Minute Page 25
