The Devil's Fire

by Matt Tomerlin

  They did not spare a glance at Thatcher; as far as they were concerned, he was dead already.

  Thatcher wandered the deck for six days, as would a man who strolls about a dream, with not a care or fear in the world. And whenever his thoughts were of death, he recalled the tranquil face of Norton, and a smile came to his lips. His time on Earth was nearing its end, he knew, and he looked often to the sky above and lost himself in its cerulean brilliance as he pondered what waited for him beyond.

  However, on the sixth day his bliss escaped him as he gazed on the lush green island that bore his fate. He crumpled to the deck and was overcome with a dread more terrible than any he had ever endured. The face of Norton and the sky above brought him no comfort; he feared that he would remember neither.

  There is nothing beyond this, he realized. As horrible as this life is, it’s all I have.

  Somewhere behind him, he heard the discordant laughter of Livingston.

  KATHERINE

  The little island was bordered with white beaches and its hilly center was densely packed with dark trees. The late afternoon sun cast a serrated pyramidal shadow over the eastern beach where the pirates boated to shore.

  Katherine had insisted on going, but Griffith was strangely hesitant. She pressed on and finally he admitted, "There will be a duel." To that she offered only a shrug; she'd seen these pirate duels before, and though they were bloody she wouldn't let anything prevent her from escaping the confines of the ship, if only for a day.

  As the boat was rowed toward the beach, she peered anxiously over the edge until she glimpsed shallow sands through the lucent waters. When the keel slid ashore, she hopped out ahead of the others and set her feet in the cool water. She smiled as the soft sand slid between her toes.

  Griffith leaped into the water behind her, along with several others. He left a man aboard and ordered him back to Harbinger to retrieve another group. He then took Katherine's arm in his and they started onto the beach.

  A group of crewmen that had arrived earlier had settled on the beach with a pile of supplies. Griffith took blankets, poles, and a sheet of hemp. Katherine followed him to a secluded area beneath a cluster of palms and he dropped the materials there. "I reckon you won't have any trouble pitching a tent," he told her, and then he left to meet the next arriving group.

  She spent the better part of two hours pitching the tent, and in the end she was suspicious of its fortitude against a strong wind. Still, it looked as good as most of the other tents that had sprung up along the beach during that time. She found a log and dragged it to the opening of the tent for a seat. She didn't realize how exhausted she was until she sat down.

  The blue of the sky deepened. The island foliage flushed red at the edges and splintered the rays of the declining sun. The tip of a coned shadow fell from the highest point of the island and stretched far into the sea. It was not long before the shadow faded entirely and the island was blanketed in the dusky afterglow of twilight.

  Katherine watched as pirates gathered firewood and prepared birds, pigs, and turtles for dinner. Fires burned late into the night, soft pillars of smoke reaching high into a boundless sea of twinkling stars.

  Katherine's stomach started to growl. She ignored it at first, and then it growled all the louder. She was not in a very sociable mood and she had hoped that Griffith would bring her a plate of food, but his present whereabouts was a mystery. As she forced herself to her feet she became aware of the soreness in her legs from kneeling for so long.

  She slowly made for the barbecues. Many pirates nodded to her as she passed by; she had become something of a celebrity due to her talent with ropes. They did not expect much of women, and were therefore easily impressed by one who accomplished even the simplest of their many tasks.

  Several of them beckoned her to their various circles to try their meals, and she politely declined. Most of the meat was charred black from lingering in the fire for too long.

  A whiff of something sweet drove her along a trail, and she followed it all the way to One-Eyed Henry's camp. The carpenter was pouring a steaming concoction of rum and coconut juice on turtle meat. He handed Katherine a pewter plate and said, "Take what you can handle, but don't go stingy in your portions, thinly lass." Katherine heaped as much meat onto her plate as would fit. Her eyes proved larger than her stomach, and she finished only half of the delectable meal, which was as fine on the tongue as it was to the nostrils. She thanked Henry profusely and headed back to her camp.

  She crawled into her tent and collapsed in the blankets, her belly bloated and her lips smacking of coconut and rum. The soothing sound of waves spilling gently over the beach quickly sang her to sleep.

  She was stirred early that morning when Griffith returned. He carefully fit himself into the blankets, trying not to wake her, and she made no sign to let him know that he had done just that. He wrapped an arm around her and was lightly snoring within minutes. She had a difficult time getting back to sleep, for he stunk of sweat and soil, and he lacked the usual brackish fragrance that she had grown fond of. Briefly she wondered what he might have been doing so early in the morning, but sleep claimed her before she could further contemplate.

  When she woke, Griffith was gone. She sat up and rubbed her droopy eyes for a long time. She thought she heard a voice, but it was obscured by a wave breaking over the shore. She listened until she heard another. And then she heard two voices, and then three, and then came a roaring volley.

  She crawled from her tent and stood up and stretched. On the beach a ways off there was a huge gathering of pirates. It looked to her as if the entire crew was there. They were shouting and cheering.

  Someone said, "Might as well put the gun to your own head, Thatcher!"

  "Will he stink so fierce when he's rotting?"

  "Can't be worse!"

  Katherine's breath caught in her throat. She forgot her waking drowsiness and dashed forward. She pushed through the sweaty crowd of pirates until she came to the forefront, where she bumped shoulders with Nathan Adams. He had a grim look on his face, and she tapped him twice before he noticed her.

  "Oh," he said. "Hello, Miss Katherine."

  She squinted against the glare of the bright white sands and saw Livingston, Thatcher, and Griffith. Griffith had his hand on Thatcher's shoulder and was quietly saying something to him. Livingston was inspecting his pistol. Griffith handed Thatcher a pistol and a cutlass. Thatcher accepted them with a miserable nod.

  "Oh no!" Katherine exclaimed. "They can't do this!"

  "It's done," Nathan glumly replied.

  "But that awful brute will kill him!"

  Nathan fixed her with a stern glare. "And you'll be next if you don't keep quiet. Livingston's mad, I tell you. Even Griffith isn't for this."

  "Then why does he allow it?" she said, tears in her eyes. "He's the captain, isn't he? He can stop this."

  "Quartermaster's got more say than captain."

  She shook her head. "What could Thatcher possibly have done?"

  "Killed a pirate is what he did."

  "Not Thatcher!"

  "Yes Thatcher. Put the poor fellow out of his misery. The right thing he did, but Livingston wouldn't have it."

  Before anything more could be said, Griffith took a step back and raised his arms and said, "Go!" Katherine watched in horror as Thatcher and Livingston started pacing.

  "This can't be happening," she said. Everything about it was wrong. She dug her fingernails into her arm to assure herself that she was not still asleep in her blankets, having a terrible nightmare.

  She did not wake.

  Thatcher had been nothing but kind to her, and she had come to realize that he was not a pirate; merely a man of unfortunate circumstances. Whenever she looked on his sad face she hated herself for the moments of pleasure she had taken from this voyage, and lately those had grown far too many.

  "We have to stop this," she said to Nathan.

  One-Eyed Henry grasped her arm from behind. "Sta
y your anger!" And then, more quietly, he said, "There's naught to be done. Livingston isn’t one to be trifled with. He’ll kill you just as swift."

  "Do you fear the man, Henry?" she shot back with a glare.

  Henry released her arm. "I give advice, that’s all," was his humble reply.

  Thatcher and Livingston reached ten paces each. Thatcher spun with speed no one thought possible of his cumbersome body. Livingston turned at his leisure. Thatcher fired. Livingston jerked. He glanced downward. Thick droplets of blood spotted the sand beside his right food. His face reddened. "You’ve shot me bloody shoulder!" he cried.

  "I didn’t mean to," Thatcher murmured absurdly.

  "No, you surely meant for me head." Livingston aimed his pistol at Thatcher's head. "Allow me to show you how it’s done, Thatch."

  "Please, no!" Thatcher protested, dropping his pistol and shielding his face.

  After a pause, Livingston grinned sadistically. "No. It's blades for the two of us." He threw the pistol into the sand and drew his cutlass with the arm that still worked. "Someone give Thatch a sword!"

  No one obliged.

  Katherine leaned into Henry. "Give him your sword."

  Henry shook his head. "Quiet."

  "You bloody coward," she hissed in his ear. He winced, but did not meet her gaze.

  Griffith came forward at last and stuck his cutlass in the sand next to Thatcher.

  Livingston extended his blade. "Wounded or no, I'll still send you to Hell, Thatcher!"

  Thatcher grasped the hilt with sweaty hands and pulled it from the sand. He lifted it into the air. The blade shimmered in the sunlight as it trembled in Thatcher’s grasp, scattering silvery shards of light across the beach. "God save me," Thatcher said, briefly closing his eyes.

  Livingston charged with his cutlass held high and screamed at the top of his lungs. Thatcher raised his sword and withered behind it. His legs bent and his head sunk into his shoulders and he clenched his jaw and squeezed shut his eyes. Livingston's blade did not meet Thatcher's. Instead the quartermaster plunged it into the surgeon's stomach. Thatcher's eyes shot open and he gasped hoarsely. Livingston dug the blade deeper into Thatcher's stomach and forced the large man onto his back. Blood spurted in thin streaks across the sand as Livingston ground the cutlass into him. He tilted the blade this way and that, and blood shot up into his eyes. He blinked and persisted in goring Thatcher, who started to wail like a little girl. And then Livingston slid the cutlass out of Thatcher's belly and plunged his fist into the yawning wound that he had carved. Thatcher slapped at Livingston's arm and shrieked and wobbled and kicked his feet. The shrieks reached a horrendous pitch as Livingston wrenched a handful of Thatcher's intestine from his gut.

  Hardened pirates gaped in petrified silence. Katherine screamed for someone to do something, but no one seemed to hear her. Even Griffith was frozen in place.

  Katherine ripped herself free of Nathan's grip and lunged for Livingston's discarded pistol. She dove into the sand and came up with the weapon in her clumsy grasp. As she struggled to aim it, Livingston started to grind Thatcher's entrails into the sand. "Get away from him!" she screamed.

  Livingston turned slowly. His face was painted in Thatcher's blood. "Put it down, little girl, or I'll gut you next."

  Griffith fell out of his stupor. "Katherine!"

  She didn't take her eyes off of Livingston. "I said get off!"

  "I'll have you for this, girl," Livingston said with a ferocious glare, the whites of his eyes made all the worse by the red lids that encircled them. "Mark me words, you'll make worse sounds than Thatcher!"

  "I'll not say it again," she promised.

  "Katherine please," Griffith persisted.

  "It's fine," said Livingston. He let Thatcher's intestine fall into the sand as he stood up. He did not remove his gaze from Katherine’s.

  Thatcher groaned pathetically. "Someone . . . help me."

  "Find your stitching kit, fat man," Livingston quipped. "See if you can put your guts back in. You have plenty of time, as that wound won't kill you for hours."

  Thatcher screamed something unintelligible and rolled over.

  Katherine cocked the pistol. Livingston smiled at her. "Go ahead. Assuming a stroke of luck befalls that shot, I'll die gladly." He extended a hand to the crowd and yelled, "After she’s done with me, stick a spit up her cunt. Your next meal is on me!"

  The crowd did not cheer. No one uttered a word. Livingston gave them a foul look. "What is this?" he cried. "A pack of cowardly whores is what I see! Have you never seen a man's guts before?" With that, he leaned over and spit into Thatcher's face.

  Katherine stepped closer and aimed the pistol at Livingston's head. He moved back. "It's only got one shot," he warned. "You'd best not miss."

  "I won't," she said. She turned, pointed the pistol at Thatcher and fired. His head snapped back and his brains sprayed across the sand. The echoing report was lost in the crash of a tremendous wave. The water washed up along the beach until it touched the trickling streams of Thatcher's blood.

  "You bloody cunt!" Livingston bellowed in outrage. He lunged for her, but Griffith was on him before he could get very far. "You cunt! You bloody cunt! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!"

  Griffith wrestled Livingston to the ground. He threw a wary glance at Katherine. She lowered the gun and turned away. Pirates in the crowd started to mutter to one another; she heard her name over and over. Whether their comments were good or bad, she could not say, and she did not care.

  She met the stern gaze of the tallest of the Seven. He acknowledged her with a slight nod of his bulky chin.

  "That fat, foul bastard shot me!" screamed Livingston from behind her. "Someone pry this cursed ball from out me bloody shoulder!"

  "Best talk to Henry about that," Griffith replied unsympathetically. "The surgeon is dead."

  Before noonday, Griffith spirited Katherine back to Harbinger, offering no words of dismay or comfort. She suspected that he was angry with her beyond his ability to articulate, but she cared little for his feelings. All that mattered was that Thatcher was out of his misery.

  If she'd been gifted with two shots, the second would have found Livingston's forehead. Even so, the quartermaster had done himself in. The silent reactions of the crew spoke volumes. Though they were disgusted with Thatcher's stink, no man deserved such an end.

  She doubted that Griffith condoned Livingston's actions. Griffith was a killer, but he was not a man to deal out an excess of cruelty unless it furthered his benefit.

  When they returned to Harbinger, there were but a few pirates aboard who had not been present for the duel. Griffith rushed Katherine into the cabin and slammed the door behind him.

  And then he unleashed his fury upon her.

  He smashed her so powerfully with the back of his hand that she was knocked against the table in the center of the room. He moved in for another blow and she momentarily fended him off with a thrust of her legs. He seized one of her ankles and pulled her away from the table. She landed hard on her back. He sat on top of her, straddling her.

  "You stupid bitch!" he shouted. For all his anger, there was no hatred in his eyes. He dropped his forehead onto her breast, as though exhausted. When he lifted his head there were tears in his eyes. He shook his head. "He'll kill you."

  She ran her fingers through his hair. "You won't let him."

  He chuckled sardonically. "I can't be everywhere at once, Katherine. Jesus, what have you done?"

  "Thatcher was dead already."

  "Yes! He was! And you might've let nature take its course rather than wake Edward Livingston’s wrath!"

  "That man’s wrath never sleeps. I could only quicken it. The world is his enemy, and he will kill it one person at a time until someone does the same for him. Are you blind to that?"

  "He is my friend."

  "The longer you protect me, the closer you are to becoming his enemy. He will murder you if he deems it necessary. He may have tears in hi
s eyes when he does it."

  Griffith sighed. "You did right by Thatcher. And I'd wager not a man on that beach, except perhaps Livingston, would disagree."

  "Thank you," she said.

  He gingerly touched the cheek he had slapped. "I'm sorry," he said. "You make me unwise, Lady Katherine."

  She nearly gasped, but stopped herself. Lady Katherine. Thomas never told you my name; he merely told you the name of his ship. You guessed my name from that. When first he had uttered the name ‘Katherine,’ her surprise revealed it to be true. The only thing more disconcerting than this revelation was that she had known it all along. Stupid. So very stupid.

  Instead of slipping out from under him and running as fast as her feet would carry her, she remained under the pirate captain's impenetrable gaze. Instead of spitting hateful curses and clawing his face, as she so intensely desired . . . she smiled.

  His fingers found the buttons of her shirt and slowly undid them. He slid off her trousers.

  The door was kicked open. Livingston entered. His entire right side was soaked in the blood that had poured out of the wound in his shoulder. He licked his lips when he saw Katherine, who was naked save for the unbuttoned shirt. He had a dull look in his eyes, as if drunk, but Katherine guessed that it was due to loss of blood. Please die.

  "What's the meaning of this?" said Griffith as he stood.

  "I fancy a go with your pretty lass," he growled. "She took from me the privilege of Thatcher's screams. For that I'll take me share of her cunnie. She’s good and ready, from the look of her."

  Griffith blocked Livingston's path. "That's not going to happen, friend."

  "Friend? Are we still?"

  "I would hope."

  Livingston sighed. His eyes rolled back in their sockets.

  Please. Just die.

  Griffith moved forward and set a hand on Livingston’s shoulder. "The shot is still in you?"

  "Never you mind!" Livingston snapped, shoving away his hand. He glanced down, staggering drunkenly. The cat was at his feet, rubbing against him and purring. Livingston bent down and snatched the animal by the scruff of her neck. The cat moaned.