The Devil's Fire

by Matt Tomerlin

  "No, you fool," Bart spat. "Because the successful pirates were nobodies, like you and me. They were smart enough not to make names for themselves. They kept to the shadows, kept their mouths shut. Men like Hornigold want the fame and the fortune. You can't have both, my friend. The smart ones, we'll never know their names, and that's the way they like it."

  "Maybe them not smart," Bastion suggested with a shrug. "Maybe them just lucky."

  Bart ground his teeth. "Luck's got nothing to do with it. A real man makes his own luck."

  "No," Bastion said, shaking his head ardently. "You cannot make luck. My father told me this."

  Bart pushed himself angrily off the bulwark. "Well then your father was a bloody idiot! You really don't know anything, do you?"

  When Bastion regarded him with a raised eyebrow, Bart flung his hand contemptuously through the air. "You've gone and sullied my jovial mood," he said. "I must recover it from the bottom of a bottle."

  Bart left Bastion standing there staring dumbly after him. His anger slowly waned as he zigzagged through several sleeping crewmen sprawled about the deck and made his way below. He found a dozen men in a corner of the hold, huddled around a few candles, passing around a large jug of rum. He squeezed between Andrew Harrow and Fat Farley, seated on a long crate. Harrow, the ship's boatswain, slapped Bart on the back and handed him the jug, which had a third of rum left in it. Bart eagerly tipped the jug and took a huge swig.

  "Slow down, Barty," Farley chuckled.

  Bart righted the jug and handed it back, wiping his lips. A bubble of air climbed his throat and a massive belch popped from his lips. "I needed that," he said.

  "Have another," Francois Laurent, one of Ranger's gunners, grinned. "We're fully stocked."

  "For now," Bart said. "A few more nights like this will make short work of it." But that didn't stop him from taking another swig, and another, and another. Soon the bottle was empty, and Francois stumbled across the hold to fetch another. As Bart groggily watched him disappear into the dark, he saw something. Just before the candlelight's reach faded into the pitch darkness of the hold, a bare foot was dangling from a crate. He scaled the leg to a vague, slender figure sitting in the dark. Even in the shadows, her hair shone red. Her hand rested on a bottle of her own, which was half drained. Black linen breeches hugged her hips, fastened tightly around her thin waist by a black belt. She wore a man's white shirt with ruffled sleeves. The shirt was loosely laced at the neck, revealing her cleavage. Her eyes were shadowed by her hair, but her mouth seemed to be smirking.

  "She's been there all night," Farley whispered in Bart's ear. "She just watches us. Gives me the creeps, she does."

  "Why isn't she snuggled up with Hornigold?" Bart said. The sentence seemed to take minutes to escape his mouth, and he heard himself slur the words. The rum was doing its job.

  "I reckon the captain is asking hisself that very same question," Harrow replied. The rest of the men chuckled, but not too loudly. They glanced nervously at her, as though they didn't want to offend. Bart winced in revulsion. What kind of pirate was intimidated by a woman?

  Francois returned with a new bottle, filled to the brim. He sat down, popped the cork, and stole the first gulp. He offered the bottle to Farley, but Bart snatched it first. He took a swig and then dropped it in Farley's lap. He felt their eyes on him, but he didn't care.

  He aimed a finger at the woman in the dark. "Has anyone had a go at her yet?" He said it loud enough for her to hear.

  Everyone suddenly shifted in their seats, glancing anxiously at each other. The woman didn't react. Her fingers lightly drummed her bottle of rum in dawdling succession.

  "Don't think so," Farley answered under his breath.

  "Reed said the captain said he wants her unspoiled," Harrow whispered.

  "Unspoiled?" Bart said, curling his lip. "That's a downright aggravating choice of words!"

  "Not so loud," Farley said, holding a hand out flat and lowering it in a hushing motion.

  "And why not?" Bart snapped, gawking at Fat Farley.

  Farley's mouth fell open, but he had no answer.

  "That's what I thought."

  Harrow's hand fell on Bart's shoulder. "Bart, that's enough."

  "That's enough?" Bart shouted, standing at once. The crewmen pulled away as he stumbled between them, knocking over one of the candles with his heel. It rolled against a crate, flame sizzling out as the wax spilled over the wick. "Have you forgotten who we are? We're pirates! There is no 'enough' for the likes of us!"

  Farley and Harrow exchanged a glance. Francois sniffed and looked down at the floor.

  "She's the reason we're here," a young blonde crewman whom Bart did not know said timidly.

  "And that affords her the right to strut about our ship un . . . unspoiled?" He sneered the last word.

  "Bastion!" Francois suddenly cried, extending a hand. "I think it's time your friend went to bed."

  Bart turned. Bastion had entered quietly behind him, standing between two crates. "I come only for rum," Bastion protested with his palms up. "I do not solve disputes."

  "Damn straight," Bart said. "That's Reed's trade, and he's not here." Quartermaster Reed generally put an end to quarrels before they had a chance to begin.

  Bart faced the woman. The room swirled as he turned, and he thrust out a foot before he fell. "The very least she can do," he said, pointing at her, "is let a few of us betwixt her thighs."

  At that, the woman gathered her rum and slid off the crate. She didn't bother to look over her shoulder as she left the room, her hips languidly swaying. Her hair glimmered in the diminished candlelight after her figure had faded.

  Bart turned to the group, spreading his arms. His right hand raked against a crate, grinding splinters into his knuckles. He clenched his teeth, but refused to openly acknowledge the pain. "She departs before I can finish," he said, blinking rapidly.

  "You had more to say?" Francois quipped with a little smile.

  Bastion sat down between Farley and Harrow, where Bart had been seated. He took a sip of rum, stared at the bottle for a moment, then fixed Bart with a very serious look. "This not a good idea. Captain Benjamin no suffer dis . . . dis . . . what's the word?"

  "Disobedience," Francois answered.

  "Yes, that one."

  "We're pirates again," Bart hissed. "What's a little disobedience among scoundrels?"

  "Bart," Farley said, finger raised. "Your hand is bleeding."

  "Shuttup," said Bart.

  Bastion shook his head sternly, his large eyes unblinking. "Captain Benjamin work with Blackbeard. Him learn a thing or two about dealing with disobedience."

  Bart gave an exaggerated shiver. "See how I tremble! You know what they call Hornigold in Nassau? The Gentleman Pirate! Not a fiercely name by any notion."

  "Bart," Farley went on, "your hand looks ill."

  "Captain Benjamin won't be happy if you kill the only person know where the treasure be hidden."

  "He's got a point there, mate," Farley said, grabbing the bottle.

  "I don't mean to kill her," Bart replied, blinking at the fat, blurry blob that had just spoken. "Maybe I'll just teach her a lesson."

  Harrow tittered. "From the look of her, I'll wager she's learned many lessons."

  "None so hard as mine," Bart said, and swiftly pivoted on his heels and made for the exit before bravado could flee him.

  "No stopping him now," he heard Francois say.

  "I'm not about to try," Farley muttered.

  Bart shouldered through many crates, which seemed to be sliding in on him. The walkway was far more cramped and difficult to navigate than when he had come in. A chicken scurried about his feet, flapping its wings and squawking. He kicked it violently, propelling the bird into a crate. The chicken landed flat, one wing twitching spastically. "Might want to cook this one now," Bart called back. "I tendered her up for you."

  He found the ladder and climbed up, raking his nose against a rung. He cursed, shaking
the dizziness from his head. Halfway up, he glanced over his shoulder. The crewman stared after him from their distant patch of light. Farley waved, his face bright red as though he was ready to burst out laughing. Bart spat at them and continued climbing.

  His hand slipped on the next rung, leaving a smear of blood. A massive splinter was jutting from his knuckle, blood seeping between his fingers. He tore the splinter free with his teeth, feeling no pain, and wiped his hand on his pants.

  He slapped both arms on the deck and wrenched himself upward. He stood, invigorated by the cool fresh air. He scanned the deck, his eyes blurring in and out of focus. Pirates were scattered everywhere, sleeping soundly. He looked to the bow, but didn't see anyone. Had she run to her captain at last, fearing the inevitable?

  He looked to the captain's cabin, set in a stairway carved in the deck. The door was shut. Bart started toward it. They were pirates again, after all, and the captain's quarters on a pirate ship was not exclusive to the captain. Bart would barge in and take what was rightfully his, and there was nothing Hornigold could do about it.

  Something stirred above the cabin on the aft deck, a slender shadow. Her hair was unmistakable. Bart sprinted up the three steps to the deck. No pirates were sleeping here tonight; it was just him and her. She moved slowly to the aft bulwark, tossing a smirk over her shoulder. She set the bottle of rum at her feet and faced him, framed by the black storm clouds in the distance, ever vigilant on the horizon. "What took you so long?" she said.

  "I knew you wanted me to follow you," Bart slurred.

  "Picked up on that, did you? And here I thought myself subtle."

  Bart moved closer, wobbling on unsteady legs. He had overdone it with the rum, but that never seemed to damage his libido.

  "The others wouldn't have picked up on it," he said.

  "You're smarter than them," she replied knowingly. She placed her elbows on the bulwark behind her, stretching her shirt across her chest, nipples pressing against the fabric. Bart's heart thumped in his chest as he advanced.

  "You were right, you know," she said. Her voice was wincingly raspy, almost masculine, as though she had screamed too many times.

  "About what?" Bart said, pausing.

  "About ghosts," she replied.

  "What about ghosts?" he said, trying to sound casual. The ocean was moving slowly away from the ship, the sails billowing with all the haste of a snail struggling through molasses. If Bart didn't get to his business soon, he would pass out.

  "When ghosts disappear, no one notices," she said, running her tongue across her upper lip.

  He frowned, gradually recalling his conversation with Bastion. "You were listening in?"

  She laughed. It was a harsh sound, like pebbles grinding. "I was passing by and overheard."

  "You have good ears."

  "I only have the one, you see." She trailed a finger across her left temple, drawing back her hair to reveal a garbled mess where her right ear had been. Bart flinched. What had happened to this woman? "Don't look too disappointed," she chuckled. "It's only an ear. I have a spare."

  He swallowed his revulsion, pushing the unsettling image from his mind. She was still very attractive, two ears or one. It was fortunate that her hair concealed the mutilation. He supposed he could get past it.

  She curled a finger, beckoning him closer. "You'd better hurry," she said, glancing downward, "before the spirit absconds."

  He moved fast, crushing her against the bulwark. His hands fumbled at her waist, sliding down and around to cup her ass. She gasped as he squeezed her. Her wet lips grazed his cheek, her breath hot on his face. Fingernails dug into his ribs. He smashed his chest against hers, her nipples piercing his pecks. Her hair smelled like salt and sand. He licked her neck and struggled to untuck her shirt from her pants. She seized his arms and shifted her weight, turning him around so that he was between her and the bulwark. Her foot kicked the bottle of rum as she moved, and it clinked noisily as it rolled onto its side.

  "Oh dear!" she said, giggling lightly. "It's spilling. Can't have that." She held up a finger, halting him, and bent down to retrieve the bottle. She stumbled, her fingers grazing the neck of the bottle. It rolled behind his leg. "Raise your foot," she said. He did as instructed, and she reached under him. Her gaze lifted suddenly, glaring at him through the red tresses of hair that had spilled over her face.

  "What are you . . . ?" he started, scowling. Everything was moving so slowly.

  She pushed upward, her shoulder catching the underside of his foot. Her left hand shot into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and when she withdrew it, something flashed silver and red. She summoned all of her weight to shove him up and over the bulwark. The ship tumbled out of view, his legs flailed in the air, and every notch of his spine grated against the rail as he slid off. The world spun end over end, sea and ship swirling in a dizzying blur. And then he saw her looking down on him, hair burning crimson in the moonlight, face eclipsed in darkness.

  Bart's back slapped the water.

  He struggled to stay afloat as the ship sailed away from him at startling velocity; faster than he realized it had been moving. He opened his mouth to scream and sucked water into his lungs. He hacked, ejecting something dark and faintly red into the water, where it expanded in a black cloud around him. He continued to cough, grains of salt scraping his esophagus on their way out. He thrashed his arms, slapping at the rolling waves, and pain shot through his torso like a bolt of lightning. His legs started to sink, as though gripped by invisible hands. The water rose above his nose and he thrust himself upward, but the pain in his stomach was paralyzing him. The muscles in his arms were quickly growing numb and stiff.

  The ship moved quietly into the horizon, and the woman remained a shadow at the stern, watching him sink. The last thing Bart heard was a crack of distant thunder from the storm somewhere behind him.

  For updates on "The Devil's Tide" visit mtomerlin.com or facebook.com/thedevilsfire