Below deck, all was a frenzy. The cannonball had sliced through the wooden hull, injuring several of the pirate captives and their two marine guards. Vantage was lifting a shattered piece of timber off one of the marines while others unlocked the door of the brig and tended to the injured prisoners. Swift saw Abden Said hurry down from the galley, helping to treat the injured. As Swift made his way to her she was trying to comfort the one called Dread. “He has bad chest pains,” she told Swift. “He thinks something is broken."
"I'll get the surgeon."
Swift was aware that the ship was in motion, pulling back out of harm's way. He stayed below for a while longer, until he was sure the ship was in no immediate danger, and then hurried up to the bridge. Collins and the helmsman were at the wheel, struggling to head the ship further out to sea. “I've signaled Commodore Dale that we've been hit,” he said. “He's coming aboard personally to inspect the damage."
"At least they've stopped firing."
Collins nodded. “We're out of range now. These ships are no good against cannonballs. We have one named the Constitution, a much larger frigate with wooden sides seven inches thick and strong as iron. Cannonballs actually bounce off it. That's in the West Indies now, but if this mission goes on it will probably be sent here as our flagship. It can carry fifty-four guns and has a crew of four hundred and fifty, including fifty-five marines."
It was some hours before the flagship anchored near them and the longboat was dispatched carrying Commodore Dale and several others. Collins welcomed them with dignity, explaining that he was the first mate and acting captain. “You say that Captain Flace was killed by a cannonball?” Dale asked. “Was it fired from the shore or the pirate ship?"
"Neither, sir. Someone on our ship dropped it on his head."
"My God! You have pirate prisoners, don't you?"
"We do, but they were confined to the brig in leg irons at the time."
"You suspect someone in the crew? I can't believe that."
"It's hard to believe,” Collins told him, “but the captain may have made some enemies. He could be a brutal man at times."
"I'll want to see the log, especially regarding punishments.” He glanced at Swift, as if noticing him for the first time. “Who might you be, sir?"
"Alexander Swift, special emissary from President Jefferson. I am to report on this first mission against the Barbary pirates."
"Yes, I was advised that you would be aboard the Saratoga. Now let us inspect the damage to the ship."
Below deck, crewmen had already covered the gash with canvas and wood. Commodore Dale inspected the repair work carefully, running his hand along the canvas. Finally he gave his verdict. “This is a good temporary patch, but it would never stand up in battle or in heavy seas. Given that, and the earlier damage to your mast, plus the loss of your captain, I must order the Saratoga back to port."
"Yes, sir,” Collins said. “I understand."
"You will sail tomorrow for the island of Malta, where more temporary repairs can be made. Then you will return home with a skeleton crew. The rest of your men and the marine detachment will be shifted to other ships in our squadron."
Collins was in no position to disagree. “Very well, sir. I'll give you a copy of the roster. What about the prisoners?"
"We'll hold them aboard one of the ships. They may come in valuable as trade."
"We have an Egyptian woman they captured near Alexandria."
"She can come along too. We'll see that she gets home safely."
Collins turned to Swift. “What about him? Do we take him back with us?"
Dale considered it for a moment. “You can stay aboard with the skeleton crew, Mr. Swift, and sail with them to Malta for repairs, or I can put you on the British frigate Bombay bound for London. From there you should find an American ship to transport you home."
London. Alexander Swift remembered his unfinished business with Benedict Arnold. “London, sir,” he decided without hesitation.
"Fine. We expect to encounter the Bombay within a day or two. Its captain has instructions to sail close to our position as protection against the pirates."
"Then everything is settled,” Collins said.
"Everything but the killing of Captain Flace. I'll want to examine that punishment log. The killer's motive may reside there."
Swift cleared his throat. “That may not be necessary, sir. I grant that in a crime such as this, motive becomes most important. But the killer may have had a different motive entirely. I was aware that Captain Flace had especially good hearing. He was immediately aware of anyone approaching him from behind. Even if Dread or one of the other captive pirates had managed to escape briefly, they could not have sneaked up on him without his knowing it. Captain Flace appears to have been crouched down, inspecting one of the guns, when the killer dropped the cannonball on his head. It had to be someone he trusted, someone he didn't fear."
"One of the crew."
"But there's something else to consider—the motive. Would he have felt safe with a crew member he might have beaten or abused? I thought about another possible motive, and I remembered the contents of Flace's pockets."
"Nothing unusual there,” Collins said.
"No, but there was something unusual missing. I was present when Captain Flace ordered the prisoners placed in leg irons and the key brought to him. The key was not among his possessions when his body was found."
"Who would steal it?” Collins asked. “Certainly none of the crew would try to free the pirates."
"No, but suppose one of them was still free."
Commodore Dale frowned and turned to Collins. “Is it possible that one of the pirates is hiding on your ship?"
The acting captain bristled at the notion. “Mr. Swift just told us no one could have sneaked up on Flace without his knowing it. There's no other pirate here."
"You forget one person,” Swift told him. “Abden Said, the supposed prisoner we rescued from the pirates. There are historical records of women pirates, you know. She was present when Flace told Lieutenant Pitt to bring him the key to the prisoners’ leg irons. After dark she followed Flace on deck and spoke with him. When he stooped down to inspect one of the cannons she lifted the cannonball over her head and brought it down on him, killing him instantly. Then she went through his pockets and took the key to the leg irons. I suspect she planned to free the eight prisoners in an attempt to take over the ship, but there were two guards on duty by that time and she couldn't do it."
"A clever explanation,” the commodore agreed, “but you need something to back it up."
"How is this? Immediately after her supposed rescue, she told us she could not speak to the pirate Dread because she didn't understand his language. But after the shore battery hit the ship and injured him, she conversed quite well with him."
"Still—"
"Search her,” Swift told them. “She wouldn't risk trying to hide the key somewhere on the ship. She'll still have it on her."
Abden Said fought like a fury, but they found the key under her pants, tied to her thigh with a length of string.
Alexander Swift never learned of the young woman's fate. She was to be tried by a U.S. Navy court on the day he was transferred to the H.M.S. Bombay. He arrived in London during the last week in June, learning there would be a ship to America leaving in five days’ time. It took him only two days to discover the address where Benedict Arnold and his wife resided.
It was Peggy Arnold who opened the door to his knock. “You are Alexander Swift,” she said softly, recognizing him at once.
"You remember me."
"You attended our wedding as Washington's representative."
He stared at the woman in front of him, barely able to connect her with the lovely girl who was the belle of Philadelphia. “You have a good memory."
"I remember the happy days, not what came after. What has brought you here, Mr. Swift?"
He glanced around at the shabby furniture, the tarnished
dream of a life that might have been something different. “I have some unfinished business with your husband, Peggy."
"Then I fear you have arrived too late. Benedict passed away two weeks ago. He is buried at St. Mary's Church in Battersea."
Swift was stunned at the news—at the thought that he'd arrived too late for the vengeance he'd sought for so long. “What happened?” he asked—a question that took in the whole of their lives. “I thought the British had rewarded him."
"They did at first, but he loaned money to friends who did not repay him. His business ventures failed, and the government lost interest in us. My children and I are barely surviving."
They talked for a bit longer, and he declined an offer of tea, saying he must be on his way. At the door he paused and asked, “What was the date of his death?"
"June fourteenth."
He nodded, seeing some sort of symbolism in it. “The Continental Congress passed the first Flag Act on that date in seventeen seventy-seven, making the Stars and Stripes the official flag of our new nation."
"He should never have turned against it—his flag or his country,” she said with a touch of sadness in her voice. “We were both so wrong."
"I wish you well, Peggy,” he told her, and went down the steps to the street. It was time to go home.
Copyright © 2007 Edward D. Hoch
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MOTHER'S MILK by Chris Simms
Chris Simms is that rare author who can create a gripping psychological thriller even at short-story length. This is his second story for EQMM; last year his novels too started appearing in the U.S. in a series of mass market reprints by Bywater Books. See Pecking Order and Outside the White Lines. In the U.K. a new Simms thriller entitled Savage Moon is slated for 2007 release.
Just a glimpse across the graveyard at a hundred yards and he knew that milking her dry would pose no problem at all.
To an ordinary person she was a sad-looking woman in her forties, fat thighs bulging as she bent forward to replace the dying flowers before the gravestone with a fresh bouquet.
But to Daniel Norris she stank of need. The need for company. The need for human warmth. The need for someone to lavish kindness upon. So acute was his ability to sniff out and exploit vulnerability, she may as well have held a loudhailer to her lips and announced to the cemetery, “In sickness and in health, please, God, give me someone to care for."
He slid into the shadow of a moss-furred crypt and waited for her to pass. As he stood there out of the weak October sun, a breeze whispered between the graves and a shiver ran through him. The ugly clacking of two crows squabbling in a nearby yew tree masked the sound of her approaching steps, but he soon heard the crunch of gravel as her stout legs took her back towards the gates, hair dull and brown, head held up in an attempt to bravely face the grey afternoon.
As soon as she was out of sight he hurried over to the grave she had just left. The headstone was new. He sneered at her tacky taste. Shiny black marble topped by two maudlin cherubs trumpeting a silent lament to an unhearing God. His eyes scanned quickly over the inscription, letters chiselled out then painted with a layer of fake gold. Something about her babies now being with the angels. His eyebrows raised in slight surprise: He had assumed it was a husband and not young ones she'd lost. Not that it mattered to him. He knew she was alone in the world.
He studied the large and expensive bouquet. If this was the weekly ritual he suspected, she had plenty of cash to spare. He rubbed his hands together in the chill autumnal air. Wealthy widows were particularly easy to fleece.
* * * *
Several days dragged by as he eked out an existence between dimly lit boozers and dingy bookies, their floors littered with torn paper slips. A win on the dogs on Friday provided some much-needed cash for the weekend. He combed his grey-flecked hair and put his blazer on over his only decent shirt. Then he treated himself to twenty Bensons, leaving the dented tin of rolling tobacco in his hostel room before heading to the Tap and Spile.
During a visit earlier in the week he'd read the small sign above the door and noted the licensee was a single woman. Jan Griffiths. He'd watched her from a shadowy corner, noticing the lack of wedding ring as she pulled the pints while keeping up an easy flow of conversation with her regulars. He'd liked her dyed blond hair, throaty laugh, and sparkling blue eyes.
Now he walked into the pub with an easy roll in his step, one hand in his pocket. Confident and at ease with his place in the world. He slid his thin frame onto a barstool, nodded at her with a wolfish half-smile, then watched as she registered the expression. He knew it never failed to pique the interest of her type.
"You look like the cat who's got the cream,” she stated, a wary curiosity in her voice.
"Do I?” he said, taking the twenties from his pocket. “Just got some good news on a business deal I'm in town for. A bottle of your best champagne, please.” Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
She smiled, pleased to be filling the till so early in the evening. “I'll need to get it from upstairs. How many glasses would you like?” she replied, eyes moving to the empty seats behind him.
"Well, I'm hoping you won't make me drink it alone. So, two, please."
She smiled again, turning on her heel and looking back at him over her shoulder. “Never can say no to a bit of bubbly,” she said archly, hips swinging slightly as she headed for the stairs.
Peeling the cellophane from his cigarettes, he looked around the cosy pub at the scattering of drinkers quietly sipping their pints. A warm glow spread across his chest. “Nice place,” he said to himself, thinking he could get used to it.
She reappeared a minute later, bottle of Moet standing upright in the ice bucket in her hands. “One bottle of bubbly."
He watched as she took the foil off and then expertly prised the cork loose with a soft pop. A small gush of foam emerged and his eyes wandered to her generous cleavage.
"So what's the business deal?"
He glanced up, realising she'd seen where his eyes had strayed. She didn't seem bothered. “Oh, a new retail development in the town centre,” he replied. During his first recce round town he'd spotted a large commercial property for sale. “The one next to that big Barclays."
"On Prince's Street?” She sounded impressed. “That's massive. Have you bought it?"
"I wish,” he said with a smile. “I'm just the middleman between the vendor and the buyers. Venture capitalists from the Middle East. Still, I get my commission as a result."
She placed two glasses on the bar and he nodded at them. “Will you be mum?"
She poured them both a drink and handed a glass to him. “Well, here's to your deal."
"Thanks."
They clinked glasses and he took a large sip, briefly savouring the sensation of bubbles popping against the roof of his mouth before swallowing it down. “Delicious,” he sighed, offering her a cigarette out of the new pack.
"So where are you from?” she asked, taking one and leaning against the bar.
He reached for the cheap disposable lighter in his pocket, but changed his mind. “Have you any matches?"
She flicked him a book and he lit their cigarettes. “Wherever business takes me,” he replied. “I'll be in town for a while yet, tying up loose ends of this deal, sorting out planning permission for the shops."
"It's going to be a shopping centre, then?"
"That's the intention. My clients want retail units put in, then they'll offer out the space to the usual suspects. Boots, Topshop, WH Smith, and the like."
He took another sip, aware of her eyes assessing him, and he realised she'd have heard countless tales of bullshit across the bar.
"So how long have you been in the pub game?” he asked casually.
"Donkey's years.” She laughed. “It's all I know."
"You run a nice place here,” he said, glancing round.
She gave a small smile. “It's not bad. Business-wise, I mean. The big pubs they've op
ened in the centre have taken away a few customers, but mainly the younger ones. I prefer a quieter crowd."
He refilled their glasses. “Absolutely. Not enough places like this left."
She moved away to serve another customer and he almost drained his glass, wondering how quickly she'd come back to him. To his satisfaction, it was almost straightaway.
The allure of strangers. Deciding not to push things too early, he finished his drink and patted the tops of his thighs. “Well, I'd better be off. My clients are taking me to dinner at seven o'clock."
Her eyes went to the unfinished bottle. “What about your champagne?"
"If it would keep, I'd say put it behind the bar for tomorrow,” he replied, hinting at his return. “You have it. My treat."
"Well ... thanks,” she answered uncertainly, wrong-footed by his sudden departure.
"See you again,” he smiled, heading for the door.
* * * *
He returned to the cemetery exactly a week after he first saw her. Earlier in the morning he'd picked up a drab suit in a charity shop, pairing it with his oldest shirt and tie. Finally he'd put on a pair of battered leather shoes, pleased with the look of someone down on his luck but determined to keep up appearances nonetheless.
She appeared at eleven o'clock, making her way straight to the grave, another large bouquet in her arms. He made a rip in the paper that wrapped his bunch of cheap chrysanthemums, watching as she plucked a couple of weeds from the bed of marble chippings in front of the headstone before exchanging fresh flowers for the wilted. After standing in sad contemplation for a good five minutes, she started to turn around.
He stood up, walking over a couple of graves to make the path that would intersect their routes. Two lost souls, drifting alone in the world. As he walked with head bowed, he tried to drag up any memories that might bring tears to his eyes. God knew he'd been witness to enough pain. But the anguished weeping of so many women had all been his doing, and the images of their distraught faces did nothing to stir his heart.
EQMM, May 2007 Page 15
