The Fiddler's Gun

by A. S. Peterson

  “The price,” he brought down biting pain as he stressed his words, “of mutiny!”

  Pain.

  “The price . . .”

  Agony.

  “Of MUTINY!”

  Blood.

  Fin forgot reason, forgot life, forgot herself. The world existed only as the terrible, gnawing, pain and agony of the whip. She saw Knut crawling away and disappearing into the hold. Somewhere inside she was glad of his escape, then the thought drowned in blood as her flesh tore again.

  Creache foamed at the mouth and flung his words about the deck as he rained down his fury on Fin. The crew watched in horrified silence. They had no leader to oppose him. They were broken. Some wept and cried out for mercy. Some grinned malice at the spectacle and saw only Creache’s lawful and terrible justice. Topper quivered in helpless anger at the helm. Creache had won. His control was complete; he did as he wished, unhindered.

  The tails bit again. Fin groaned in torment. Her thoughts were two: relief that Knut was spared, and anger—anger that at long last, God had finally abandoned her for certain. In her mind she screamed and railed against the choosing that left her bloody beneath the lash. When the tails rose from her back again her shirt caught in the barbs and it tore away. She lay bare-breasted and bloody in the sun.

  The blows stopped. All was silent. The apocalypse of her sex washed over the ship.

  Creache kicked her over onto her back and confirmed the unveiling, the final naked shame. He stood speechless, hovering over her. Then his eye caught sight of a crumpled and bloody piece of paper lying in the ruin of her shirt. He seized it and looked at it hungrily. His eyes darted from the drawing on the Gazette to Fin, then back again.

  “Damn your soul!” He spat on her.

  Long years past, Fin had cursed her parents for their betrayal and often she had cursed Hilde’s rod and staff, but always she held out scant hope that God in heaven would hold for her a place where all others had turned her away. Now naked, bled, and found out on the floor, she cursed God at last and despaired of all hope save one. Her mind turned to Peter, who alone remained. She clung to him like a rock and begged for shelter in his arms.

  Creache raised his arm to loose again the tails upon her, but the blow never fell. Huge, hairy fingers reached out and stayed Creache’s arm. Fin opened her eyes and saw in blood-washed vision that Creache, sputtering for words, now shrunk in the shadow of a giant form towering over him. Jack. Knut appeared from behind him and dropped to the deck beside Fin.

  “I found the key,” he wept to her.

  Jack’s fist descended like a boulder tumbling down a mountain, and Creache crumpled to the ground.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Fin opened her eyes in the warm rocking of a lantern’s light. She lay upon a soft bed of down. Her back was well bandaged and sore. Around her, a table and chairs, shelves, cabinets, and other accoutrements all looked vaguely familiar. The table dominated the center of the room and was laid up with maps, a compass, and a sextant. She was in the captain’s cabin. It was Creache’s lair, but somehow the air whispered safety, not savagery. She looked around, confirmed she was alone. Her last memory was the fall of the lash, pain, blood, and something else. Jack. She sat up and winced as the bandages across her back tightened and prickled at her wounds. Creache was gone. She could sense it, as if the air were suddenly cleared of a stench long-smelled.

  Sounds drifted through the walls: the gentle creaking of the ship, the soft splash of the sea, laughter from on deck, and the reassuring bark of Jack cursing and calling orders in the wind. There was a new white shirt laid on the table along with breeches and her old leather vest and boots. She eased herself out of the bed and dressed. Pain trickled across her back. She grimaced and walked outside.

  The main deck was basked in the dying light of evening. Away to the west, a wavering sun slunk into the sea, spreading long, fading shadows of timber and tackle upon the salt-crusted ship. No one took notice of her. She leaned wearily in the crook of the open door and felt her spirits lift. Creache was gone. For the moment she didn’t care how. She simply breathed in the clean air. The wind was light and the Rattlesnake, in no hurry to tack a quicker course, drifted south on whatever wind the weather offered it.

  Jack’s broad shoulders turned her way and, seeing her, he approached. “You ought to be lying down,” he said.

  “I’m all right,” replied Fin. “I’m glad you’re back.”

  Jack didn’t appear to share the opinion. He wrinkled his brow at her then took her by the arm and led her back into the cabin.

  “How long have I—”

  “Two days,” answered Jack, “and we got to talk.” He carefully guided her to a chair and settled her into it then seated himself opposite and considered her in silence.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Other than mutiny?” He raised a bushy eyebrow and leaned forward. “I’d say there’s a right lot of wrong around the ’Snake these days, not the least of what is you. If you aim to keep a berth aboard this ship, then I need to know what other secrets you’re stowing away besides the ones ’neath them clothes.”

  Fin blushed as the memory came back to her. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

  Jack frowned at her and scratched his beard. “Fin your real name?” he asked.

  Fin balked. “Of course.”

  He reached into his shirt pocket and produced the Gazette with her picture on the front.

  “This you then?”

  Fin nodded.

  Jack raised his eyebrows in a look of surprised satisfaction. “Well, I reckon that’s all right,” he said as he folded it back up and placed it on the table. “There’s to be a meeting, and we aim to decide what’s to become of the ’Snake. We was waiting on you and Tan to come around first. Some of the boys are out of sorts over your little secrets. If I was you, I’d come ready to hear some moaning.”

  “Is Tan all right?” asked Fin.

  “Knocked his noggin’ good, but he’ll mend. Anyways, you watch yourself till we find out where everyone stands, hear?”

  “What happened to the captain?” asked Fin.

  Jack regarded her in silence before answering. “I ain’t a murderer, Button. Lot of the boys wanted to see him dead, him and them what kept to him, but I ain’t one for mutiny if it can be helped, and the same goes for killing folks—especially captains.” Fin hoped to breathe relief at news of Creache’s death, and robbed of it, her face wrinkled in disapproval. She felt she ought to know better than wish a man dead but couldn’t convince herself that he deserved anything less. “We set him and the rest adrift. Bill Stumm, Hatch Calloway, a few others. Like as not, the storm caught them and made a murderer of me anyway.” Jack didn’t like the situation. He despised the disorder of it, and it wore on him. Beneath his beard, his face looked like a rock that had been beaten against and bore new cracks yet to be weathered smooth by time. “Anyhow, we’re rid of him and better off. We’re damned shorthanded though, so get your rest. We need every arm on the tackle to keep her running till we can make port in Charleston.”

  Fin nodded. Jack reached to his belt and pulled out Betsy. “Think this belongs to you.” He laid it on the table in front of her. Fin felt a wave of relief. She reached out and picked it up, caressed its elegant curves. She let herself give in to its seductive beauty and was glad to hold it again. Then a tinge of the pistol’s darkness crept into her and she shuddered.

  Jack stood up and turned to leave, but Fin called out to him, “Jack?”

  He turned around and raised his wooly eyebrows at her.

  “Thank you.”

  Jack grunted and walked out onto the deck. Fin thought she saw a hint of a smile under his beard.

  Creache was gone, and Fin hoped the storm had swallowed him whole. With the weight of the captain off her shoulders, the worries of him terrorizing her home slid off as well, and she felt almost carefree. Jack said they were headed for Charleston, and Fin determined to write Peter while they were there
so he’d not worry after her.

  She placed Betsy in her belt, and walked out onto deck. It was darkening to night, and the sails were set on a starboard tack in light wind. She hopped off the quarterdeck and climbed down the ladder into the berthing area. The creaking of hammocks greeted her; everyone that wasn’t on deck running the ship was sleeping. As she walked in silence to her corner of the room, her eyes picked out the crumpled form of her fiddle case lying against the bulkhead. With a frown, she pulled it to her and opened it. The lid was crushed and splintered down the right side, the right hinge had broken off, and the top swiveled treacherously on the remaining hinge. Thankfully, the fiddle looked unharmed. She picked it up and carefully turned it over in her hands, inspecting it from scroll to tail, then, satisfied, placed it back in its bed. She pulled Betsy from her belt with a frown and laid it down alongside the fiddle. Part of her had hoped the gun was lost with Creache, but as she had many times before, she hushed that part away and was thankful she hadn’t lost it after all.

  As she reached to close the ruptured lid, she noticed that down the right side of the box the velvet lining had torn away. A strange thing caught her eye. What lay beneath the torn lining wasn’t wood; it was something quite different. She squinted in the dim light of the lantern and wondered what was behind the tear. She took hold of a hanging piece of lining and tugged it gently away to get a better look. The velvet tore easily down the length of the box and exposed an old parchment sealed between the liner and lid. Near the edge, letters were scribed upon it: Bartimaeus Gann. Fin’s heart quickened. She tore away the rest of the liner and the parchment fell into her hand. She turned it over and gaped in wonder. It was a crude map. There were boxes drawn on it, buildings perhaps, and a river, and roads, but no writing to label them. At the top was written only Bartimaeus’s name, and the words:

  Standing here I laid me down

  Me spoils, me heathen crowns,

  To sleep in sacred earth redeemed

  Beneath the tower without a sound.

  Fin couldn’t make anything of it. She turned the paper this way and that trying to find sense in the shapes and lines. When she turned it upside down, the forms drawn on it snapped into place in her mind. It was the orphanage, the dining hall, the chapel, the orphan house, the road into town, the Savannah River; she knew it all. But what did it mean? She studied the map closer and found a small circle drawn in the foyer of what would be the chapel, a mark maybe? Before she had time to consider it, she heard someone approaching and quickly folded it and placed it back in the case.

  “What you looking at, Fin?” asked Knut from behind her.

  “Nothing. Just about to lay down is all,” she lied. Fin stood up and turned. “You did it, Knut! You saved Jack, and me too.” Knut blushed red as a beet and kicked at the floor as Fin reached out and pulled him into a soft hug. “Thank you.” Knut hesitantly returned the embrace and Fin let out a yelp. “Ow!” She’d forgotten her back was still in shreds. Knut muttered embarrassed apologies. Fin kindly shushed him and bid goodnight.

  In the morning, the scant crew went about the daily chores of the ship, solemnly considering the events of the past days and their consequences. Fin refused to allow her injuries to hold her back from doing her part, and now that the crew all knew she was a woman, she intended to let no one give witness of her doing less work than any man aboard. If anyone wished to take issue with having her aboard she ensured it wasn’t because she lacked the ability or gumption to get the ship’s work done. She and Knut climbed aloft to check lines and sail, mending them as necessary, then swabbed the hold and took a shift at the pumps. Fin felt as if she was naked under the eyes of the crew. Some looked at her with narrowed eyes as she passed, and few spoke to her or replied when she greeted them. Art Thomasson frowned and walked away in reply to her cheerful “good morning.”

  Not all the crew was suspicious, however. Knut seemed to find no reason to act as if anything had changed at all, and indeed, as far as Fin was concerned, nothing had. When she waved at Topper from the quarterdeck, he smiled heartily and greeted her with more cheer than she’d seen him give out in a long time. Jack didn’t seem to have decided just what he thought of her yet, but she suspected that the uncertainty itself was proof he’d come around in time. When Tan at last came stepping up on deck, Fin feared to discover whether or not he’d be cross with her. She avoided his eyes and turned her back to him, not wanting to see the same look in his face as Art had given her.

  “Can’t say as I ever had a lady save my hide before,” said Tan from behind her. She breathed relief at the levity in his voice as she turned around.

  “It’s Knut did the saving, not me,” she said. Behind her, Knut blushed like a timid schoolboy.

  “My thanks, Tommy,” said Tan with pained grin.

  Knut shook his head without lifting his eyes and muttered, “Was Fin’s idea, Tan. But I dropped the key.”

  “You did good, mate. I’m indebted to you both. Next time see if you can hurry it up a little though. Storm nearly ended me,” he said and laughed. “And Fin, you didn’t really think you were fooling anyone, what with the pretty face and all?”

  It was Fin’s turn to shade red. “You knew?” she asked.

  “I knew there was some reason I liked you, and God knows I like a lady a world better than I like most fellas,” he said with a chuckle. “Except for old Knut here.” He slapped Knut on the back.

  Tan seemed his old self, and Fin was glad of it. When she’d seen him last, chained to the mast and bleeding from the head, she was afraid he’d die, or have his wits knocked out like Knut. All he had to show for the bloody wound, however, was a small gash on his forehead that had been stitched up neatly. She related the fight with Bill and the confrontation with Creache at Tan’s behest and answered his questions about it all as best she could. She didn’t let on about the map. Creache was eliminated and no one was looking for the gold now; no one needed to know.

  With the ship running in good order despite the shortage of hands, Fin, Knut, and Tan spent the rest of the morning laughing and enjoying the clean air until, just before noon, Jack sounded his whistle and called all hands to the quarterdeck. Everyone bustled out of hatches and holds and away from whatever they had been working at and gathered close around. Once all were present and quiet, Jack cleared his throat.

  “Morning, boys,” he bellowed, and a round of greetings muttered back at him. “Reckon we got us a ship!” Laughter and cheers went up. “Now we got to figure what to make of her.” Heads nodded all around. “Here’s the way I see it. The bloody British got a bounty laid up for our heads, and if word gets out what happened to the captain, we’re like as not to get a bounty laid up by the courts in the colonies to boot. If that happens, if word gets round of mutiny, then that means but one bleeding thing: we’ll be branded pirates, one and all.” He paused so it could sink in. Creache had made privateers of them, but that was legal in the western Atlantic—legal to the colonies and Congress anyway. Out and out piracy was another animal altogether, and it usually ended with a sailor swinging on the gallows’ howe. A dark silence hung over the assembly as the men weighed it.

  “Now I ain’t one to mutiny, less’n it’s got to be. And likewise, ain’t one for pirating. So here be my thoughts. Right now we’re still privateersmen, and no one can say otherwise. The captain rarely poked his head out his cabin, and we can go on letting folks think he’s in there yet. We keep right on. We trade sugar, silk, and whatever else in what ports the English ain’t infested, and in the othertime, we can lend a hand to the war and see we don’t get caught at the wrong end of the winning. But mind ye, boys, we be pirates as sure as Blackbeard hisself so far as British eyes can see. So I’ll hold no man to the work what ain’t willing to get his neck pulled in a noose.”

  Fin considered it along with the rest. To her it seemed the same as things had been since the captain first claimed his Letter of Marque in Philadelphia, trading where it was convenient and lightening the loads
of British merchants whenever they could to fill out their own hold. The difference now would be in not having to worry after the captain’s madness, which made the entire affair seem quite a lot more appealing. The prospect of throwing in with the colonials to help win the war was certainly agreeable to Fin.

  Jack pulled a scroll of parchment from his coat and rolled it out on the deck. He barked at Knut to fetch him a quill and ink from the cabin, and Knut returned with it quickly. Jack took the quill, scribed a circle in the center of the parchment, and wrote inside it. When he finished, he moved the quill outside the circle, turned the parchment at an odd angle, and signed his name along the outside curve. He stood and cleared his throat.

  “Never thought I’d find myself signing one of these damned things, much less writing it, but here I am. No man that don’t sign will be thought less for the lack, and we’ll bid you farewell in Charleston if that’s your mind.” Jack backed away leaving the quill, ink, and parchment lying on the deck in the center of the assembly.

  Fin gave Tan a confounded look and asked, “What is it?” in a quiet whisper.

  “The Round Robin,” was his answer. “Our intent is writ in the center, and every man that’ll abide it signs round about. That way if any one finds the vow that ought not, none can say who signed first, nor who was the leader. All take equal share in its record of mutiny.”