The Devil's Fire

by Matt Tomerlin

  "You’re hurting her!" Katherine protested.

  "Aye," said Livingston. "Maybe I’ll take her as me toll for what you done to Thatcher."

  "What I did to Thatcher?" she said, appalled. "I spared his pain."

  Livingston’s face contorted in disgust. "Spared his pain?"

  "Edward," Griffith protested, "it's only a cat."

  Livingston smiled darkly. He turned and walked out with the cat in his arms. Katherine brushed past Griffith in pursuit, heading outdoors in nothing but an open shirt.

  Livingston was waiting for her at the bulwark, gently stroking the cat. "She's a feisty one," he laughed. "Got a bit of her mommy in her, she does."

  "Hand her back," Katherine insisted. She was dimly aware of several pirates ogling her, but she paid them no heed.

  "She's gotten big," Livingston said. "But still frail, I fear. You give her a name yet?"

  "No," she said, praying that conversation would keep him from doing anything rash.

  "Good." He swung the cat by the neck in a great arc and smashed its little body against the bulwark. The animal's screech was cut short as her bones shattered. Livingston discarded the corpse over the edge of the ship and clapped the fur from his hands.

  CUNNINGHAM

  On Jack Cunningham's coattails rode a chaotic torrent of churning gray clouds that had chased him since his parting with Governor Woodes Rogers at Nassau. The storm was ever-present on the eastern horizon, taunting the little ship with the threat of thunderous fury from every direction save westward. Even as the storm gained, Cunningham was not afraid; he felt as though the storm was aiding him in his newly assigned quest; pushing him toward victory.

  Abettor was a two-masted schooner with a slight compliment of thirty-two men. Cunningham set out from Nassau's harbor with a crew half as large as when he had entered. All of the crew had been pardoned of their acts of piracy along with Cunningham, and half agreed to help seek out pirates that were unaware of the pardon, or arrest those who were strictly defying it, thus acting as officers of Woodes Rogers. The others, while content to accept pardon, openly abhorred Cunningham's willingness to help Rogers, cursing him for a coward as they departed. "Like a dog," one of them called him. "An eager little pup what licks his new master's boots for want of affection." Cunningham inwardly acknowledged the truth in their bitter words.

  He had watched from the balcony atop Sassy Sally's tavern as Rogers arrived in Nassau on the Delicia, flanked by the HMS Rose, HMS Milford, and a pair of sloops. Only one pirate and his crew offered defiance. Charles Vane, a man Cunningham thought more despicable than Blackbeard, made an impressive display by setting alight a French ship he had captured. The fires touched the ships store of powder magazines and the blinding blast lit the harbor as though the sun had risen prematurely. A small cheer went up from several pirates who on the following day would surrender to Rogers alongside Cunningham. Rogers failed in withholding a smirk as a few pirates introduced themselves with flippant titles; one man even claimed presidency over a council that Cunningham had never heard of.

  Cunningham offered Rogers the firmest of handshakes and his true title: "Captain of the Abettor, sir. A fine pirate sloop she was, and now she's whatever you would wish of her." Rogers seemed refreshed by this introduction, for there had been none so honest. As he moved on to the others, many of them adopted Cunningham's honesty, and their plagiarism filled him with resent. What more should I expect of pirates? They thieve everything, even words.

  Despite a horrifically mangled jaw wrought from a gunshot wound in a past adventure, Rogers was an impressive man to behold. He wore a long jacket, breeches, buckled shoes, a cloak, and a full white wig. But his stout and unchallenged eyes were his most stunning characteristic. Instantly Cunningham knew that all the fantastic stories heralded of this man were true.

  And so he found himself outrunning a storm that snapped at the Abettor's stern with teeth of lightning. Ahead he faced the western horizon, as yet untouched by clouds, and within that opening was a dark green island with a jagged peak at its middle, reaching for the heavens.

  A familiar brigantine was moored off the eastern beach.

  The clouds followed Cunningham in and swathed the island in their impenetrable murkiness. He moored Abettor and took a boat to the larger vessel. As he came aboard and shook the hand of his old friend, lightning flashed far above.

  "You bring a storm," said Griffith with a welcoming smile.

  "Seems it finally caught up with me," Cunningham replied. A crashing report of thunder buckled the knees of everyone on deck, save for the two seasoned captains.

  "Best we get inside," Griffith chuckled, "before lightning strikes us dead for our sins."

  "It’s had many an opportunity," Cunningham laughed. "Thus far we remain un-killed."

  On the way to the cabin, Cunningham glimpsed Harbinger's broken deck and bulwark. "Your deck looks affright!" he exclaimed. He had also noticed far less crew than was customary. "And your crew is scant! Have they all gone ashore?"

  "Over a third of them dead and still they're twice as large as yours," Griffith shot back cheerfully.

  Cunningham laughed through clenched teeth. There were times when he wanted to strangle Jonathon Griffith for his blithe arrogance, and this was one of those times. Still, his affection for his friend always got the better of him. He let the underhanded remark and the emotions that it inflicted pass through him.

  "Not a plague, I should hope," he said of the absent crewmen.

  "God no!" Griffith sneered. "I would not have them die so tamely."

  The warmly lit cabin was a stark contrast to the dark grays of the outside world, and so was the beautiful woman sprawled across Griffith's bed like a strumpet in a painting. She sat up with a lingering expression of shock. Apparently she was not accustomed to company.

  "Katherine," said Griffith, "this is my dear friend, Jack Cunningham."

  "Pleasure," she said with a brusque smile. She tossed a terse glance at Griffith and then whipped the sheets over her impressive mane of curly red hair.

  Griffith shrugged. "She won't bother us."

  "You've been very busy," Cunningham said. He tried to ignore nagging whispers in his head that stressed the significance of the woman’s red hair, the British accent that was evident with just one spoken word, and even her name. What is so familiar about her?

  "So," said Griffith. The suddenness of his voice cut Cunningham's thoughts in half like a knife through melted butter. "What brings you to this island, of all places?"

  "The wind," he answered with a grin.

  Griffith moved to the circular table at the center of the room and slid out a chair for Cunningham. They took seats opposite each other and crossed their legs. "I must confess," Griffith said, laying a hand carelessly atop the table, "I thought you might never leave Nassau."

  Cunningham ran both hands through his curly blonde hair. He interlocked his fingers at the back of his neck and sunk into a cavalier recline. "And yet here I am."

  "Here you are," said Griffith with narrowing eyes. "I’m wondering as to why."

  Cunningham suddenly felt unwelcome. "Have I interrupted anything?"

  Griffith raised his hand, balled it into a fist, and slammed it back down. "Dammit, Jack, I know what's happened in Nassau! Come out with it already."

  Cunningham's heart fluttered. Does he know of my surrender to Rogers? How could he find out so quickly? Cunningham had set out from Nassau immediately after Rogers made him an officer, and Abettor was no slouch in the area of speed. He could not have been outrun.

  The beat of his heart slowed as he realized he was jumping to conclusions. The most logical answer was that Griffith had probably heard the news from a pirate that escaped shortly after the HMS Rose was spotted on the horizon. There were more than a few of them.

  Griffith smirked as he watched him intently, no doubt catching the fleeting look of doubt that passed over Cunningham’s face. "You forget that we sailed the seas together and share
d many a plunder. I know you well, Jack. What are you not telling me?"

  Cunningham swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. He was acutely aware of the thick humidity of the room. He glanced at Griffith's liquor cabinet and glimpsed a long-necked bottle of wine. He wished that Griffith would offer him some, and repeatedly he moved his eyes in the direction of the cabinet as an indication of his thirst, but his old friend who knew him so well was not obliging the obvious hint. Perhaps it was too fine a vintage.

  "Those days are past," Cunningham said finally.

  Griffith regarded him narrowly. Finally he stood and said, "Would you like some wine?"

  "I thought you'd never ask."

  Cunningham had recounted in full the events of Woodes Rogers' arrival at Nassau and, with less enthusiasm, revealed his own abandonment of piracy and the present task of seeking out pirates. When he was finished, he leaned back and gulped down the rest of the wine while waiting for Griffith's response.

  It was long before Griffith finally broke the silence. "Why is it you never took on a woman, Jack? I don’t believe I so much as saw you take refuge in the arms of a whore."

  "What has that to do with anything?"

  "Your fondness for this Woodes Rogers fellow makes me suspicious of your inclinations."

  Cunningham blinked through a flush of anger and did his best to preserve a cool tone. "I'm not here to arrest you, Jon."

  "Nor could you if you tried," Griffith replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  "I'm not your enemy."

  "That's lucky for you. My enemies are all dead."

  "And neither is Rogers."

  "That’s lucky for him," Griffith retorted, bearing his teeth. "Seems to me Rogers would make an enemy of all true pirates."

  "There are but few ‘true pirates’ left," said Cunningham. "And do you know why? True pirates sink with their ships and die with their treasures. Ever heard tale of a pirate’s retirement?"

  "Many."

  "Truly? Lend me their names and addresses, so I might congratulate them in person."

  "If they advertised their whereabouts, they wouldn’t be alive. Just because you don’t see them doesn’t mean they don’t exist."

  "I could say the same of mermaids."

  Griffith flinched. "One day someone will put a knife in Rogers' spine." And then he smiled, the strain easing from his face as he came to a conclusion. "But it won’t be me. I'll take Rogers' pardon, and I'll smile in the dead man's face as I do."

  The tension fled Cunningham’s muscles. He felt ashamed for doubting that his old friend would make the right choice. Through all their years of undaunted piracy Griffith had always been one step ahead of him, and now for the first time Cunningham was setting the path. It was an awkward role that had made him nervous.

  Griffith slapped his palms on the table and pushed himself to his feet. "Well," he said, "help yourself to spirits aplenty. My cabin is yours. I have duties I must attend to. As you said, my deck is affright and wanting for repairs. I'll return as swiftly as I’m able."

  Griffith left Cunningham alone in the cabin. Or so he thought, until the woman stirred in the bed. She had completely slipped his mind. "He leaves me with a man I do not know," she groaned.

  "You have nothing to fear from me," he assured. He poured himself another glass of wine. "Except, perhaps, a bout of drunken philosophizing."

  She sat up in the bed, her eyes puffy and her cheeks flushed. "I could not sleep through all your chatter."

  "Sleep? It's barely after sunset."

  "The clouds make it dark," she snapped.

  He could think of nothing to say, so he sipped at his wine. He glanced at her briefly and found that she was fixing him with an ugly glare. He struggled to know why her brilliant mane nagged at his mind. "What was your name?" he asked.

  "It 'was' Katherine," she coarsely replied.

  "And you're last?"

  "It was Lindsay," she sighed. "And that truly is past tense."

  The name agitated him, for it was so familiar. For the better part of an hour he swallowed entire glasses of wine, hoping to quench this undying need to rediscover some crucial piece of information that had too efficiently been locked away. Whatever it was, it had been inconsequential until now.

  And then it came to him at last. The red hair. The accent. The name.

  Katherine Lindsay!

  Here she had been all along in Jonathon Griffith's cabin, while men in taverns spoke of her as though she were legend, hoping they might stumble across her and seize the staggering reward that her murdered husband's family had promised for her. Most figured she was dead and gone by now, with a lonely grave at the bottom of the sea. Cunningham had heard those tales and never for a moment did he believe that a wellborn woman could survive among pirates.

  And yet here she was.

  "What?" she said with a raised eyebrow. A desperate look came into her eyes as she sat taller in the bed. "What is it?"

  Steadily he fell back into reality. "Nothing," he said, shaking his head. "It's a pretty name."

  The desperation faded from her eyes like a dimming candlelight. She withered and was once again the ill-tempered woman that had emerged from the covers. It was unsettling how sourly she twisted so lovely a face. "Yes it’s very pretty. A pretty name for a pretty girl."

  "That you are," he agreed.

  She laughed bitterly and retreated to her hiding place beneath the covers. They spoke not another word to each other. Cunningham returned to his wine and drank until the bottle was dry. So fine was the vintage that he went to the cabinet for more. He poured and drank glass after glass, until dizziness prodded at his brow and threatened to render him cross-eyed.

  And still his mind stubbornly fought his arduous attempts to silence it. Poor girl, he thought. Poor girl. Afraid and all alone. Her husband killed. Stuck with pirates. The sort of company I enjoy; not the sort she enjoys. Jonathon Griffith, my dear friend, has made a whore of her. Poor girl.

  When finally Griffith returned, Cunningham sprang from his chair, seized him by the collar and forced him out of the cabin and onto the deck. It was pitch black and the air was thick with moisture. Though he could see nothing in the sky, the lack of stars told him the clouds had lingered.

  "What madness has taken you?" said Griffith.

  "That woman is Katherine Lindsay!"

  Griffith balked at the stench of Cunningham’s breath. "Jesus, you reek of wine."

  "Wine and truth!" he proclaimed.

  Griffith stared at him for a moment and then burst into a painful fit of laughter. With a reddened face and shortened breath he said, "By the powers, Cunningham, I haven't the slightest notion what you're talking about. Let's take you inside where there's far less weather. Rain will fall on our heads any minute. And there's that lightning to consider."

  "Are you daft or what are you?" he slurred, clutching Griffith’s shoulders and shaking him. "You've stolen a woman with a high price on her head! Half the sailing world is hoping to stumble across her! She's known from here to Bristol! She has a high price on her head!"

  Griffith glanced nervously about. "All right, Jack, I hear you. Just keep your voice down."

  Cunningham released his friend's shoulders. "You have to give her up."

  "She enjoys her life here," Griffith persisted. "She won't admit as much, but I see it in her eyes. She is not the same woman I removed from the Lady Katherine."

  "Removed? You took her!"

  "What’s done is done."

  "She looks dismal."

  "Her pet died."

  "You killed her husband!" Cunningham boomed. The masts of the ship swayed this way and that. He couldn’t be sure if he was staggering or the world was betraying his feet.

  "I've killed many husbands," Griffith replied indifferently. "She says nothing of him with my cock inside her."

  Cunningham shook his head in disgust and gracelessly tried to turn away. He struggled to keep from faltering, seizing Griffith’s arm for balance. "Sh
e has a price on her head!"

  "Yes, you’ve mentioned that a few times."

  He squeezed Griffith’s wrist. "A high price!"

  Griffith yanked free of Cunningham’s hand and fixed him with an accusatory glare. "You want the reward!"

  It was rapidly occurring to Cunningham that this was not the same man he had known so many years ago. Bitterness had since tainted Griffith's tongue, and his eyes now burned with avarice.

  And then Griffith blinked. He smiled, and Cunningham found the face of his old friend once more. "My apologies," Griffith said. "Our recent plunder was great, but it pales in comparison to her. I’m passionate about her, in a way I’ve never been about anything. I would guard her with my life, if the need arose."

  "Plunder?" said Cunningham. The word was sugar on his tongue.

  "Oh yes," Griffith grinned. And then he tossed a conspiratorial glance about the deck. "Far greater than any mere reward, I'd wager. What if I were to bring you in on a share? Would that stay your tongue, old friend?"

  Indeed this was not the man he remembered; he was changed by his love for a woman and clearly he would do anything for her. How lucky for her, Cunningham thought, that a man should love her so deeply. Surely her dead husband had not offered such affection. And why shouldn’t he profit from Griffith's love? Cunningham was no longer a pirate, but his inexhaustible lust for treasure remained, no matter how adamantly he had tried to suppress it. What was the harm in taking one final piece of plunder and leaving two lovers to their harmony?

  "I see gears turning," Griffith said, teeth showing through his grin. "Have I gotten through?"

  It was a fair toll. Cunningham had been forever trapped in Harbinger's wake. She had assisted in several of Harbinger's earliest victories. Griffith had once suggested that Cunningham name his next ship "Abettor." Cunningham found the name amusing at the time, but now he was sick of its debasing connotation.

  A report of thunder stole away his nostalgic thoughts and rooted him firmly in the present. Griffith was unfazed by the sound; he was keenly awaiting Cunningham's reply with an intense gaze, his convivial grin spread wide. "What say you, old friend?"