The Devil's Fire

by Matt Tomerlin

  Thatcher smirked. "Do you comprehend even your own actions?"

  "You refer to the girl."

  "Very astute," Thatcher drawled.

  Griffith let out a small breath of air that might have been a laugh. "I find myself. . . attached."

  "That's not out of the ordinary, Captain. She's a woman. And I'd wager that she was an attractive one before she was despoiled."

  She hasn't been despoiled."

  "No?"

  "No."

  "Yet you worry for her health? Tell me, have you even shared words with this woman?"

  Griffith feared he had revealed too much; he did not want Thatcher thinking him a romantic. "The girl is merely a possession. Like a monkey or something of that sort."

  "She's not a monkey," Thatcher stated flatly.

  "I know that, of course," Griffith said, rolling his eyes. "Nevertheless, I would be unhappy in the event of her departure."

  "When I was nine, my cat ran away."

  Griffith withered. Thatcher was obviously not taking him seriously. It was time to spell it out for him. "It is no secret that you dislike your post here, Thatcher.

  "My post?" Thatcher laughed bitterly. "Is that what you call this?"

  "However," Griffith continued, unabated, "should my latest possession perish in her sleep, I may start to question your abilities."

  Thatcher's face went a furious shade of red. He aimed a challenging glare at Griffith. "I still cherish the value of human life, if that’s what you’re getting at. Someone on this ship must."

  "Good," Griffith said, impressed with the man's sudden resolve.

  Thatcher maintained his gaze for a fraction of a second, before his eyes fluttered back to the sea. "Your pet won't die in her sleep, Captain. Nor has she anywhere to run."

  Katherine Lindsay woke three days later.

  Griffith was leaning forward in his chair with a tattered chart spread across his desk. Over the past few years it proved to be the most valuable of his charts, eluding the watery grave that several other charts had been sentenced to after proving less than useful. His left arm rested on the Atlantic and his right covered North America as he scanned the East Coast for a suitable place to moor Harbinger and gather food.

  Before he could mark any prospective locations, the girl moaned. Griffith perked up like a cat becoming suddenly aware of a bird. It was the first sound he had heard from her since freeing her from the mainmast.

  His farsighted vision was blurred due to staring at the chart for so long, and it took him a moment to focus on the bed. He vaguely made out her slender figure as she twisted beneath the sheets that she had pulled over herself at some point. She kicked the covers away, and with them tumbled the dresses that Griffith had set there. Her arm flopped out to one side, hand slapping down on the plate of food. She rolled over until she was flat on her belly. She slid the plate onto the bed and buried her face in it, gobbling the dried meat and hardtack. It was a repulsive display that Griffith might have expected from the likes of Thatcher. He assured himself that she was simply famished and that this was not the standard propriety of a British woman.

  He slowly lifted to his feet, though he was uncertain how to proceed. She provided the answer for him when she sat up and hurled the plate across the room with near the velocity of a cannonball. He ducked. The whirling plate split the air inches above his head, bouncing off of the wall behind him and crashing to the floor with noisy fanfare.

  "Bring me decent food, pirate!" she ordered in a husky voice. "Not this waterless muck!"

  "Anything else, my dear?" he quipped. Inwardly he congratulated himself for sustaining his wit.

  "Yes! A sword that I might plunge into your stomach!"

  "Should you find the means, you're welcome to try again."

  "You've removed all means," she protested, indicatively flinging an arm toward the empty hooks below the painting of the brigantine.

  "Surely you don't hold common sense against me," he laughed. "Self-preservation is chief among my priorities."

  "That is the very least of which I hold against you," she said, her eyes glazing with tears. "Exactly how long do you intend to keep me on this ship?"

  He could think of no reply that would be met with anything other than bile. He opted instead for a change of subject. "I put some dresses from your wardrobe on the bed, though you seem to have kicked them to the floor. I hope they aren't terribly wrinkled."

  "I don't want them!" she snapped.

  He felt as if a fist had been driven into his gut. He had been certain that the dresses would ease her pain, yet she dismissed them with not even a glance. Was there no pleasing her? She was fortunate to be alive, let alone possess such splendorous garments. She should have been thanking him, not hurling plates and insults at him. And for what? A fool of a husband who had carried her into a lion’s den?

  He swallowed his disappointment and adopted an obliviously pleasant smile. "You look to have recovered nicely, Miss Lindsay."

  A fleeting look of shock betrayed her. She immediately suppressed it and regained her composure. "You learned my surname from my husband before you murdered him!" She choked on the last three words, tears spilling over.

  Griffith suddenly wanted to be anywhere on the ship other than his cabin. He needed an excuse to escape and collect his thoughts.

  "I want to go home," she moaned, her voice failing her.

  "You must be thirsty. I'll fetch some water." He made for the exit.

  But he halted at the door, realizing that he had left his pistol on his desk, beside the chart. He hastily returned to the desk and picked up the weapon by the barrel. He flipped it once in the air and caught the grip, then stuck it in his sash.

  As he started to leave, he realized he hadn’t given his name. "I'm Captain Jonathan Griffith."

  "I don't care what your name is," she sobbed. "I'll not relinquish mine."

  "I don't require it, Katherine."

  This time she didn't bother to restrain her surprise. Her eyes widened into saucers and her lips quivered. Her defensive wall crumbled to pieces before him, and he knew then that this delicate creature was not the fiery demon of his nightmare. "How do you know my name?"

  "Your husband provided it," Griffith said, and closed the door behind him.

  The cool breeze that met him on the main deck coursed a bracing chill along his spine and straightened the hair on his arms. "Any problem can be fixed into a plan," he reminded himself.

  NATHAN

  From the forecastle deck, Nathan stretched his gaze past the bowsprit to the world he had once called home.

  Harbinger was moored in a secluded estuary situated somewhere between Chesapeake Bay and Cape Hatteras, and boats were being readied for transport to the sandy shore. Nathan hadn't set foot on land in six months. He couldn't remember what standing on a motionless surface felt like. He worried that his ill-adjusted legs would falter and he would fall on his ass and all around him would share a laugh at his expense.

  He remained emotionally sore from the humiliating incident at the mainmast, and the crew did nothing to ease his lament. He endured a barrage of persecutions from their malevolent tongues. He opted to keep to his American brethren, who were far more understanding of his plight, though they too had developed a distaste of Katherine Lindsay due to Nathan's regrettable experience with her.

  He spent much of his free time conjuring blissfully vindictive plots against the unappreciative girl. He wanted to make a fool of her in front of everyone, as she had done with him. But all of his plots, from drenching her in pig's blood to stripping her naked, required that she be temporarily removed from Griffith. He doubted that he would ever manage to get her away from him. She hadn't been spotted outside of the captain's cabin since being released from the mainmast. Because of her residence there, the crew no longer frequented the cabin.

  Even Captain Griffith seemed to be spending less time in the cabin. The crew's curiosity was irrevocably sparked. Nathan did not yet fancy himsel
f the height of knowledge in piratical affairs, but common sense told him that a crew should not discuss their captain in hushed tones.

  No good had come of this woman. Nathan's life as a pirate had been wholly uncomplicated before her arrival, and now he was as uncertain of himself as he was of the weather. Therefore, it was of little surprise that he took such immense pleasure from the incident that followed.

  Katherine Lindsay, dressed in a cherry pink gown, burst from the cabin. Griffith was not far behind. She was putting up quite a fuss about being placed in a small boat with "brutish pirates."

  Griffith slapped her in the face in an attempt to quiet her vociferous shrieking. This only made matters worse. She started slapping back, and he had to seize both of her arms to subdue her. He then dragged her to the bulwark, lifted her up, and shoved her over the edge. Nathan's perspective denied him view of her impact, but the sickening sound her body made when she hit the water confirmed that she had landed at an awkward angle, and brought an irrepressible grin of satisfaction to his young face.

  Griffith turned to his crew and innocently shrugged his shoulders. "Well that's one way to get a woman off your ship."

  "That's the only way," said Jack Billings.

  "I thought five days at the mainmast dried the lass out," quipped Bald Ben. "Griff got her wet in five seconds!"

  "Alright, alright," Griffith said, suppressing the ensuing laughter. "Get those floats in the water so I don't have to chase the wench too far up shore."

  There was another bout of laughter, and then the men resumed their duties. Nathan was the only one who saw Griffith cast an uneasy glance over the side to make sure he hadn’t killed the girl.

  The boat's keel slid into the soft sands of the beach. Griffith was up and over the rail before it stopped moving, taking one of the oars and bounding across the beach in pursuit of Lindsay, who hadn't made much headway. She had stripped off her cumbersome cherry pink dress was now wearing only a white underdress.

  The swim had taken its toll on the girl. Griffith caught up to her with ease. He greeted her with the oar, bringing it down on her back with a sickening crack. Nathan clacked his teeth at the sound. He wanted her humiliated, but didn’t care to see a woman physically abused. She collapsed face first into the sand and didn't move. Griffith took her by the arm and dragged her away from the tide and deposited her in a shady spot under a tree.

  Nathan leapt into the water and immediately shivered from the icy chill that greeted his thin legs. Several of the men in the boat followed Nathan's lead and recoiled in much the same fashion. Livingston, on the other hand, was undaunted by the cold. He dunked his legs and pushed past the trembling crewmen, knocking one of them headfirst into the water on his way. "Has your cock never touched water?" he said, shaking his head in disgust.

  Griffith returned to the boat, handed the oar to Livingston and clapped sand off his hands, as though nothing had happened. He tossed the oar to one of the pirates and said, "Send the float back for another handful of men."

  Two crewmen pushed the boat out into the water, hopped in, and started rowing for Harbinger. It returned with the ship's carpenter, a crusty seaman with a missing eye, poised with one foot on the rail and his arm splayed across a raised knee. He had instructed everyone in no uncertain terms to call him "One-Eyed Henry." The crew gleefully obliged his request.

  "Oh Jesus," Livingston muttered under his breath, and spat on the beach for emphasis. The quartermaster despised any man whose inflated ego threatened to dwarf his own.

  One-Eyed Henry leapt from his perch and landed with a tremendous splash. He then single-handedly hefted the boat, passengers and all, onto shore with a heave of his monstrous arms.

  "That's a bloody beautiful display, mate," Livingston said to the carpenter.

  "Aye," One-Eyed Henry replied. "Where be the food?"

  "Haven't looked as yet."

  "Well let's get to it then, eh?"

  "We was figuring," Livingston said condescendingly, "we might set up camp and wait till the others make their way over 'fore we run off."

  "That's not what I was figuring," One-Eyed Henry huffed. "Me belly's hungry now, isn't it?"

  "I might help you with that," Livingston offered with a widespread grin and a light tap of his cutlass.

  "You might try," One-Eyed Henry grinned.

  Several months ago Nathan would have edged away from them, fully expecting a deadly brawl to ensue. But he knew that these two men often engaged in challenging displays of character that rarely served the benefit of either, and never gave to violence. Griffith was always on hand to step between them. While violence was otherwise unlikely, Livingston and One-Eyed Henry were wasting precious time.

  "Reassured that we all have balls, gents?" the captain quipped.

  Livingston glanced indicatively at the unconscious girl in the shade. "Not so reassured, Captain."

  "Cap'n might agree," One-Eyed Henry chuckled, "if the fiercely lass hadn't fancied a taste o' his ear. I wager there's a bit o' man in her yet."

  "Not till she's had a taste of yours truly," Livingston said.

  Everyone laughed, even One-Eyed Henry, but Nathan wasn't convinced the quartermaster was joking. Livingston smirked, stubbornly refusing to yield his vicious gaze from the carpenter. For an instant, Nathan could have sworn he saw a hint of uncertainty in the Henry’s eyes. For all his bravado, he feared Livingston, as did they all.

  Griffith cleared his throat as nonchalantly as possible. "What say we get on about our business?"

  Livingston broke off his stare, thus ending the minor confrontation, and the men returned to their duties, which presently involved erecting tents.

  Daylight was fading fast by the time the tents were up, and a strong wind glanced off of the icy waters to sweep a wicked chill over the beach.

  Three quarters of the crew stayed aboard the ship; the rest moved to the beach, where they would spend the night after a hunt. Their mouths watered at the prospect of a large dinner, and hunting parties were formed prematurely, instead of waiting until dawn as originally planned. Dozens of men gathered water into barrels from the river inlet while several groups went in search of food.

  Nathan paired with Gregory, and Livingston opted to lead them. The two young men followed blindly as the quartermaster plunged them deeper and deeper into the unfamiliar territory, using his cutlass to slice through wayward branches that threatened to slice their cheeks or prod their eyes.

  Nathan arched his neck and glimpsed the darkening sky through the dense cover of trees. He wondered how they could possibly hunt in the night. It would have been better to wait on empty stomachs until morning. There was no sign of wildlife, other than birds that made their presence known through a wide variety of exotic calls.

  The quartermaster remained quiet and, as a result, Nathan and Gregory were careful not to disturb him with conversation of their own. Finally, after what felt like an hour, Livingston said, "Not seen a forest this thick since Annie Sutherland's cunnie!"

  "Who?" Nathan asked.

  The young pirate instantly regretted his impulsive inquiry. Livingston was notorious for boasting about past experiences to hapless crewmen who made the mistake of offering even a feeble interest. It was a testament to Nathan's poker face that he kept his eyes from rolling at what followed. "She be the last whore what I spoiled. A fine wench she were, but she's not seen another man since, I'll wager me life on that."

  "Why's that?" Nathan pressed, knowing he had no choice now but to feign interest.

  "Name a man bigger," Livingston proclaimed, seizing his crotch, "if you think you can find one, and I'll point him in her direction, so as she don't go lonely. I can't be retracing me steps on the likes of sentimentality, can I?"

  "Of course not," Nathan replied easily, though he did not understand nor care to.

  "Of course not," Livingston nodded with wide-eyed sincerity. "That’s a waste of everyone's time; worst of all mine! And wasting time is worse a crime than taking a woman to
sea. What’s your make of that?"

  "The captain?" Gregory said suddenly, as though he'd been waiting for the opportunity to offer his feelings on the issue. Nathan shot him a sniping glare.

  "Not the captain, boy!" Livingston shouted. "Plainly you’re not listening to a word I'm saying. Better you should let your friend talk for you, as usual. What madness possesses you to bring up the captain?"

  "No reason," Gregory shrugged innocuously.

  Livingston halted, turned, and brought his face dauntingly close to young Gregory's. "That be a fucking lie if I ever heard one. Give us the true reason."

  Gregory’s bottom lip quivered.

  "It's on everyone's mind, isn't it?" said Livingston. "Don’t be afraid to unveil your woes, boy! We're all alone out here."

  Nathan made his movements as natural as possible as he slowly drifted behind Livingston. He waited until Gregory looked at him and then put a hushing finger to his mouth. Livingston caught Gregory's glance and swiveled his head with near the agility and speed of a parrot. "What's that you're doing back there, young Nathan? Giving your friend some silent words? Well belay that! I'm only making certain he hasn't quarrel with our dear Captain."

  Gregory's face went pale.

  "Of course that's not it," Nathan interjected, chuckling dismissively.

  Livingston scowled at Gregory. "That true, boy?"

  Gregory’s reply was a silent, frenetic nod.

  "Well that's good," Livingston sighed. "You had me worried I’d have to settle things meself out here in the middle of nowhere whilst no one was watching."

  "The crew might wonder why we came back with one less," Nathan offered. He instantly regretted saying it.

  Livingston whirled on him. "I could say whatever I damn well fancied! I could say a big cat dragged him off, and they might gasp. I could say a flock of birds pecked him to death, and they might laugh. Or I could say I did him meself, with this cutlass." He made an up and down motion with the blade. "And mark me; no one would say a fucking word to that."