The Devil's Fire

by Matt Tomerlin

  Livingston and Griffith finally hefted themselves over the bulwark and raised their cutlasses. Nathan fell between them, exchanged a nod with each, and then joined them in a charge. The second of Gregory’s killers broke away to intercept Livingston and Griffith. The first got to his feet and, now doused in Gregory’s blood, continued toward Nathan. Strangely, Nathan lost his fear. Perhaps the presence of Griffith and Livingston calmed him. He held his cutlass high above his head and bellowed a war cry at the top of his lungs. The Spaniard skidded to a halt, but his feet were too far ahead of his body and he fell flat on his ass. Nathan got on top of him, placed a foot on his belly, and plunged his cutlass into the man's left eye socket.

  Livingston spun about the deck like a tornado, his cutlass whipping this way and that, impaling the chest of one man, slicing the throat of another. He wedged his blade so deep in one Spaniard's skull that it wouldn’t come free with any amount of tugging. Seeing a chance to bring this monster down, another Spaniard raised his sword and charged. Livingston released the grip of his sword, letting the body fall away, drew a pistol from his sash and blew a hole in the charging man’s head.

  Griffith was a different story altogether. He picked his victims one at a time and took them apart with several precise jabs of his blade. His efforts seemed lazy in contrast to Livingston's, but he was no less efficient, and he was exerting far less energy. Every stroke of his cutlass was met with the flesh of an enemy.

  Four of the Seven came over the bulwark next, led by the tallest, who was gritting a cutlass between his teeth. The Spaniards nearest them were unable to suppress their fear. They ran, and the blacks pursued like giant shadows. The tallest caught his prey first, hacking away at his skull.

  "Toss a granado in the hold!" One-Eyed Henry shouted to whoever would listen. "There be a whole nest of the bastards in there!"

  With Livingston and Griffith presently engaged, Nathan grimly concluded that he alone was the man for the job. However, of the two of them, Gregory was the one who had brandished granado shells. Nathan scuttled around a group of clashing pirates and Spaniards and came to Gregory's body at the barrel of the capstan, carefully stepping around his guts. He rummaged through his dead friend's pockets and produced two iron granado shells and matches. He scraped a match against the edge of a granado, lit it, and then used its sparkling fuse to ignite the other.

  He stood and glanced about for the hold. His eyes found Henry, who was pointing frantically, and he followed the carpenter's gesture until he rediscovered the hold. "Get rid of those before they blow!"

  The hold was just beyond Griffith, who was dueling Spaniards as they came out of it. Nathan glanced at the granados. Their fuses were burning down too quickly and there was no way he'd have enough time to move around Griffith. He pulled his arm back for a swing and hurled both granados in a perfect arc over the captain's head. He turned and covered his ears and trusted that the bombs would find their target.

  "Get down, mates!" Henry shouted.

  The explosion rocked the deck. A shrill ring pierced Nathan's ears, and for a long while he heard nothing else. He looked around and saw many men with their bellies pressed to the ground. A black cloud of smoke blossomed from within the hold, expanding and roiling as it engulfed the sails above.

  Griffith and Livingston were the first to their feet. They cut down many of the Spaniards before their enemies could get back up. The pirate crew followed suit. No mercy was given. Several Spaniards offered their surrenders, flailing their arms pitifully. They met their makers instead.

  Six of the Seven were now accounted for; Nathan could only assume that the seventh man, who was not present, had died back on Harbinger. The tallest of the Seven managed to get behind one of the Spaniards and twist the man's head very slowly, until it made a horrible snapping sound. Unfortunately, another of the Seven met his death on the edge of a blade before the battle was done, and now they were but five.

  When only one Spaniard remained alive on the deck, with the pirates closing around him in a circle, Livingston marched right up to him, drew the last of his pistols, and shot the man between the eyes, dashing his brains along the deck.

  Griffith looked to the smoking hold and then to One-Eyed Henry. Henry indicated Nathan with a nod. Griffith stared at Nathan, aghast. Nathan could only read the movement of Griffith's lips, as his ears were still ringing, but he was certain Griffith said, "Good boy."

  Griffith's eyes focused just over Nathan's shoulder. Nathan turned in time to see the Spaniard Captain emerging from his cabin with a sword in one hand and a pistol in the other. Nathan fell out of the way as the Spaniard Captain charged. Griffith raised his sword and rushed to meet the Spaniard's charge, his mouth open in an apparent scream, though Nathan still heard nothing.

  No one moved a muscle. Not even Livingston.

  The Spaniard aimed his pistol, but Griffith was already close enough to knock the weapon away with a quick swipe of his cutlass. The Spaniard resorted to his sword. The duel lasted only a few seconds, but it felt to Nathan as though seconds were minutes. Finally, Griffith swung his sword from above in a one-handed, overhead arc, forcing the Spaniard to raise his sword in defense. With his enemy’s abdomen unprotected, Griffith drew his pistol and buried the muzzle into the Spaniard's stomach and squeezed the trigger. The Spaniard's body lurched as the bullet passed through him. He stood there for a moment in shock, a thin stream of smoke wafting out of his back. He collapsed to his knees, bloodshot eyes burning furiously.

  Griffith knelt beside the captain and leaned close. "Was it worth it?"

  The Spaniard was dead before he could reply.

  The hold was a mess of smoldering bodies and charred crates. The smell was horrific and it was difficult to see through the swirling mist. Closer inspection revealed the shattered remnants of several barrels at the heart of the explosion, and One-Eyed Henry muttered, "Gunpowder." He tapped Nathan's arm and said, "Your granados must've set the barrels alight, as they couldn't do all this damage by their lonesomes."

  Nathan's hearing had returned to him, though the ringing had not entirely faded. He wondered if it ever would.

  As the pirates passed through the smoke, they happened across a moaning Spaniard whose skin had been sheered from the right side of his face. A hole had burned so deeply into his cheek that his teeth could be seen. One-Eyed Henry grasped the man by his hair and slit his throat from behind.

  "Should've let nature do its slow work," said Livingston.

  "Nature did not toss those granados," Henry said.

  Nathan felt an infuriating swell of regret. All of this was his fault. He had helped conclude the battle, but had stolen so many lives in the process. He shook his head. It was them or us.

  Livingston let out a great sigh. "Dammit, Nathan. You've blown up all our treasure."

  Nathan had to clench his jaw to keep from spinning on his heels and giving the quartermaster a piece of his mind. He had probably saved every man on the deck from the Spaniards; what was the point of treasure if they weren't alive to spend it?

  The smoke prevented them from seeing what waited at the after-part of the hold until they were within close proximity: thirteen blackened chests. Livingston eagerly tried to open the foremost chest, but the heat of the metal latch stung his hand and he jerked away and hissed through his teeth. "Bloody hells!" he cried.

  Someone behind Nathan barked a short laugh.

  Livingston spun on the pirates. "The dog what laughs at this misfortune won't have a throat to laugh with for long!"

  "Easy," said Griffith as he walked past. He unwound the sash at his waist and wrapped it around his hand. When he opened the chest, the pirates were bathed in an unearthly glow.

  Nathan did not offer a helping hand when the chests were one-by-one transferred from the deck of galleon to Harbinger. He spent the entire time at the capstan, beside the corpse of his best friend, who would never gaze upon the treasure for which he had perished. All of the blood had left Gregory’s face, leaving n
othing but a pale face with sunken cheekbones and dark hollows around wide eyes that sightlessly reflected a cloudless sapphire sky. His fingers were gnarled about his gaping stomach, hands and arms lined with spidery rivulets that trailed from the wound.

  Somehow, Nathan managed to keep from retching. The image of Gregory’s corpse was yet another permanent addition to a grotesque gallery, hung alongside that of a blonde woman cradling her murdered husband.

  The main deck was littered with the corpses of Spaniards and pirates, but Nathan could not discern the bodies of the enemy from those of his fallen comrades. They were a soulless mass of sprawling carcasses, distinct only for the various positions in which each had fallen. However brave or cowardly their deaths mattered naught, for the survivors would recall only the treasure they had gained and swiftly forget those they had slaughtered in gaining it.

  Nathan looked to the sky. He damned his peripheral vision for not blinding him to the galleon's morbid surroundings. He would have welcomed a batch of tears, but they did not come.

  "Lost many good men," said a familiar voice. Nathan looked up and saw Livingston standing over him, gazing across to Harbinger. His leathery pate was stained in blood. "And more sure to join them."

  Nathan opened his mouth to reply, but could think of nothing to say.

  "It's rough about your friend," Livingston sighed. "Our toll, she's high, but let me bring you some ease, boy. The Spaniards? They lost it all. Harbinger? She took it all, and lost but a few. Those be hard truths. The results be plain for all to see."

  "My friend is dead," Nathan said. His voice sounded distant even to him. "No words of yours will soften that truth."

  Livingston looked down at Gregory and smiled faintly. "Not the brightest lad you'd ever meet, I'll say that much. But I'll also say he weren't a quitter, and that's made plain by the way he went down. Not a whim of coward in that one. I wish I'd known it sooner."

  "You would have, if you’d bothered too look."

  Livingston’s perpetual scowl softened. His face shadowed with a foreign solemnity, and for a perplexing moment, Nathan thought him a kinder man.

  The moment swiftly passed, and he was Livingston again. "Mourn for as long as you need, boy. But when you set foot on your rightful ship, know that you're rich as a king. As for your friend Gregory . . . we should all die so brilliantly."

  THATCHER

  More attention was paid to the black chests that were being hauled onto Harbinger's deck by way of block and tackle than to the twenty-two dead and the eight wounded that were scattered about the main deck, awash in swaying pools of blood and seawater. When one of the pulleys snapped and a chest came crashing to the deck, the pirates showed no concern for the crewman it crushed. Instead they scrambled to scoop up the spilled jewels and coins. Just another dead pirate, and a slightly larger share for each of them.

  Thatcher held the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth as he traversed the deck. He wasn't sure where to begin. The ship's best marksman and helmsman were dead. The Musketmen were now four. The Seven were now five.

  Cannonballs had inflicted most of the damage, upon both ship and crew. The more fortunate victims, Thatcher concluded, were those who had been killed instantly. Only two men had survived the cannons. One man's arm had been ripped from the socket when a cannonball hurtled past. Another had lost a leg. The remaining injuries were bullet wounds and cuts of various shapes and sizes.

  Thatcher opted to help the one-armed man, for the one-legged man had lost too much blood to be saved. He set his canvas case down and knelt beside the injured pirate, while the one-legged man shrieked for his attention.

  "I'll get to you next!" he snapped back.

  "There won't be no blood left in me!" the one-legged man protested.

  Unfortunately, Thatcher realized, he’s quite correct.

  "Oh god," the dying man wailed. "It’s spilling out of me!"

  Thatcher ripped off his shirt and tossed it to him. "Then plug it up with that."

  "I'd rather die than see your fat naked belly!"

  "Then see yourself dead!" Thatcher spat back.

  The one-legged man grunted a laugh and then bunched up the shirt and pressed it against his stump. "I suppose it’ll do."

  Thatcher shook his head in disgust. No, it won’t do. You’ll be dead in a few minutes. Why he felt inclined to save the lives of these maimed pirates was a mystery to him. In the end, he knew that they would hold a grudge against him for what they had lost, rather than thanking him for prolonging the eternal fires they were sure to suffer.

  Thatcher was hotter than ever, and the salty red water that continuously splashed over his legs did nothing to cool him. He reached for his canvas bag and found that it had been swept a few feet away. He leaned over to retrieve it and collapsed face-first into the red water.

  The one-legged man laughed hoarsely at Thatcher’s clumsiness, and then he gave to a fit of violent, convulsive coughs. He rolled over into the water and didn't move again. Thatcher spared a moment to watch the man's stomach and quickly determined that he was no longer breathing.

  "Just as well," said the one-armed man through clenched teeth. He was an Englishman named Norton, and he maintained a paradoxically chipper expression. "Was tired of his braying."

  Thatcher retrieved his canvas bag and set it on his lap. "As was I."

  "He was of no use minus a leg anyhow," the one-armed man continued.

  Thatcher rolled his eyes. "And what are you minus an arm?"

  "I'm a lefty is what I am."

  It was twilight by the time Thatcher was attending to the last wounded pirate. It was a minor gunshot wound to the leg, but this one had a penchant for the melodramatic. "Oh, I won't last!" he cried as Thatcher dug a surgical spoon into his leg. "Better I should strangle at the gallows than suffer another minute of this! Find me some rum!"

  Thatcher easily fished out the steel ball. He dropped the bloody shot in the man's shaky hands and told him it was a "souvenir."

  "I won't have it!" the man cried, and he tossed the ball to the sea. "I'm sure to ne'er walk again!"

  "You'll walk," Thatcher said as he slipped the spoon back into its slot. "You might have a slight limp on that leg, but you'll walk."

  "A limp, you say! Why not cut the thing off and have done with it!"

  Thatcher rolled up his canvas bag and tucked it under one arm as he stood. He gave a slight start when he saw Griffith standing before him. The man was stained as red as Harbinger's decks. "You've done a fine job here, Thatcher," Griffith said.

  "The cannons fared better. You've lost a fourth of your crew."

  "It's true," Griffith nodded. "And fine men they were. Their lives afforded us this victory."

  "Victory!" He spat the word. "Is that what you call this?"

  "You will receive your honest portion, Thatcher. We're all of us rich men now."

  Griffith smiled reassuringly and started for his cabin. The man strolled across the ravaged deck as though he had not a care in the world.

  Thatcher smirked. His share of the treasure did not interest him unless it would buy his freedom, and he was convinced that only death would part him from Jonathan Griffith. As he approached the shattered port bulwark, he found himself wishing that he had been in the path of the cannonball responsible.

  KATHERINE

  The sounds of battle had long since faded, but only in the last hour had Katherine mustered the courage to emerge from her hiding place within the hollow of the desk. The first bullet to pierce the cabin wall had sent her scrambling for cover, and she immediately felt rather silly cowering while men fought outside, but when a second bullet zipped past her ear, she abandoned pride and ducked beneath the desk. When she was certain the battle had concluded, she crawled out on all fours and peered through one of the bullet holes. After she was satisfied that Harbinger’s pirates were the victors, she lit a single candle on the bedside table.

  She wondered what would have become of her had the other ship won the battl
e. Would the Spaniards have returned her to her family? Or would they prove even worse than the pirates, and send her below decks for the crew to have their way with? Perhaps she was safer here. Griffith hadn’t so much as touched her.

  The murky hues of twilight were yielding to the black of night by the time Griffith returned. He looked affright, caked in dried blood from head to toe, black hair matted to his head, and his clothes utterly despoiled. At first she thought the blood was his, but realized that there was no way he would still be standing if that were so. "You look horrible," she couldn't help but say.

  He set his cutlass on the desk and started to take off his shirt. She turned away and listened to the rustle of cloth. "Any stray shots get at you?" he asked.

  "No."

  "You've got wounds on you."

  She glanced at the scratches on her arms and remembered that she had been cradling the cat when the battle commenced. The animal had gone ballistic, tearing away from her like a small, furry hurricane, taking pieces of her skin in the process. "The cat," she replied dismissively. "The first shot put her in a frenzy, and I suffered the worst of it. She's cowering under the bed. I don't think she'll ever . . . "

  Absentmindedly, she turned to face him as she was explaining. Her words trailed away. He had cleaned much of the blood from his face with the crumpled mess of his shirt and was presently scrubbing his arms. Lean muscles had been concealed by the loose-fitting shirts he commonly wore.

  "I’m sorry," she said, and started to turn away.

  "For what?"

  Her cheeks filled with warmth. She swallowed the girlish emotion and twisted her face. "For nothing, if you want truth. It was merely a courtesy. Something this vessel is severely lacking. I don’t begrudge you for not recognizing it."

  "You are fierce with words," he said, his eyes gleaming.

  "I have no other means," she replied, leveling her chin. She decided she would not shy from him again. She was sick of it. "Should I be silent, like a good slave?"