The Bloody Black Flag

by Steve Goble

  Spider’s fear grew. Barlow was demented, and there was no telling what he might do.

  “Blast it!” Barlow stepped away from the others and pointed his cane at the gathered men below.

  “One of you stole from me,” he growled. “One of you has taken upon himself an item that will make all of us very, very rich men. It is a brass shaft, about the size of my finger, with metal bands that spin about on it. The bands are marked with symbols in black.

  “One of you has it. And one of you can find it and bring it to me. When I hold it in my hand, I will reward the man who gave it to me. I say I will fucking greatly reward the man who gave it to me, I say—and I will devise the most ungodly fucking tortures for the man he took it from. I will disembowel him, slowly, and feed him his own guts while I scrape his balls with a holystone. I will, I will!”

  Barlow leapt over the poop deck rail and landed before his naked crew. “Mark me, while I wait for one of you to find the goddamned thing, I will kill men left and right. And I will keep killing men until I have my prize back, or until I have killed every mother’s son of you!”

  He fiddled with a key on a chain around his neck, opened a padlock, and clambered into the cabin below the poop deck, slamming the hatch closed.

  “You heard him,” Addison said, “and you know he will do it. If you are hiding that precious jewel in hopes of selling it yourself, such a thing will not happen. Barlow will rendezvous with his buyer with the thing in hand, or he will sail into port with no one alive but him and me and Dowd. Mark me.

  “You’d be better served to kill one of your mates, peg the blame on him, and claim you found the bloody thing in his belly. You’d be better off doing that than trying to keep it for yourself.”

  Addison climbed down from the poop. “Oscar, you and Peg stay over here. Cap’n needs men he can rely upon. Weatherall, gather me two more rowers. I am going back to Loon. And all of you put your damned clothes back on. You look a disgrace.”

  “Cold meat and some cheese,” Doctor Boddings said, stuttering while pulling his britches up over his pale legs and shaking visibly. His grazed shoulder was no longer bleeding. “I will carve some meat and cheese, and that’s bloody it. No cooking. Hob, boy, come help me.” The doctor picked up his remaining clothes and headed toward the galley, muttering, with a hastily clothed Hob scurrying behind.

  Addison climbed over the rail and down to his boat. Spider dressed slowly.

  “Silly bastard Barlow thinks he’s Blackbeard,” Odin said to himself. “He ain’t Blackbeard. He ain’t up to Blackbeard’s knees.”

  “Watch that talk,” Weatherall warned. “Cap’n hears any talk like that and he’ll shoot you, depend upon it.”

  “Ha!” Odin smacked his hands together. “And the inevitable comes a might sooner, then? Ha!”

  Weatherall turned to Spider, who shrugged.

  “I do not cower for William Barlow,” Odin said. “He ain’t Edward Teach. I shipped with Teach. I saw Teach fight. I saw Teach drink flaming rum and breath fire. I saw the devil, and his name was Ed Teach.

  “Barlow wants to be Teach, but he ain’t,” Odin continued. “I ain’t scared of Barlow, and he knows it. Ha!”

  After snatching up his clothes from the hot deck, Odin sauntered off, laughing loudly.

  “I wonder if that man is demon-haunted,” Spider asked of no one in particular, “or if he just sees too much to take any of it seriously?”

  Weatherall spat. “If this situation is funny, I swear I do not see it.”

  Spider answered, “Amen.”

  The sun was touching the horizon, everyone was hungry and angry, the sails were all furled, and no one had set a course or ordered anything.

  If ever a vessel was cursed, Spider thought, this is surely it.

  17

  Few men slept. Spider heard one man snoring in the dark and crowded hold, but the others sighed audibly or muttered to themselves, indicating prayer or deep thought. No one knew where to turn, or how to keep from being Barlow’s next victim.

  Plymouth Dream had become a ship of the damned.

  Thunder grumbled somewhere in the distance, and the ship rolled with the swells. Spider could tell the ship was underway at last, even though he’d never heard Barlow bellow any orders or set a course. Addison likely had signaled from Loon to move on before the threat of storm.

  Spider wondered whether drifting idly so long would allow the phantom frigate to catch up to them again. Dream had eluded the frigate before, but it was unwise to push that kind of luck. It was good to be riding the wind at last, and the ship’s rhythm told him she was picking up speed.

  Above, listening at the hatch, Dowd alternatively crouched and paced, guns in hand. Barlow had told him to arm himself and to kill any man who strayed from the hold, or who seemed to be plotting with others.

  Spider hung motionless in his hammock, trying to see a way forward and trying to ignore the stench of men and Elijah’s ungodly perfume spray. Barlow’s madness had cast a pall on an already bleak voyage, and while shared danger had opened the way for Spider to glean information from other crewmen about Ezra’s death, he could no longer profit from that. Quiet conversations now would be seen as whispered conspiracies, and the captain likely would shoot on sight—and every damned man aboard knew it. No one was going to tell Spider anything.

  As for Barlow being Ezra’s murderer, Spider was now quite convinced that was impossible. Barlow lived by impulse and did not care a fart for what any man thought of him. If Barlow had seen a reason to kill Ezra, he’d have simply shot him and been done with it. He would not have walked up to him and clubbed him by surprise, nor would he have tried to conceal the deed. He would have claimed the act and used it to instill more fear and obedience in his crewmen.

  Spider could not let go of the notion that the captain’s missing bauble might somehow be at the heart of Ezra’s killing, though. The rumor of Ezra’s witch blood seemed a very likely motive, but here was another. Perhaps Ezra had somehow seen or heard something related to the thievery.

  So, Spider thought, what can I deduce about the theft? The person who took it had to have known its worth, and thus probably knew what it actually was. Spider had heard Barlow’s description—a small brass cylinder with revolving marked rings—and still had no idea what the bloody thing might be. The description sounded like a navigational device, perhaps, but he could not imagine such a thing being of any real value. Whatever it was, the thief likely knew it.

  That put Addison and Dowd at the top of the list of theft suspects. Barlow had said they knew what to look for, and so they presumably knew its value. Did that make them key suspects in Ezra’s death as well? Spider wondered.

  Of the two, Addison seemed a more likely murderer than Dowd. Addison had balls of steel and seemed to show no fear of Barlow. Dowd shared a spot in Barlow’s trust, but did not take part in nearly as many conversations with the captain, nor did he join Barlow and Addison in all their private talks. Dowd seemed deferential, whereas Addison often gave the impression he should be in command.

  There were points in favor of Dowd as a suspect, though. Addison carried pistols at all times, and Dowd did not. Addison, if Ezra gave him reason, could simply have shot his man and no doubt could have devised a ruse to justify the killing. The man who had calmly smiled as Barlow’s pistol ball whizzed past him likely would not balk at improvising a lie or two.

  Dowd, with no pistol, would have been compelled to use a knife, or a handy chunk of wood such as a belaying pin, if he’d decided to slay Ezra. Dowd might fear Barlow’s wrath in a way Addison did not, and thus feel the need to make the death seem accidental.

  One more point against Addison as the killer and the thief who’d taken Barlow’s mystery item—Addison had been aboard Loon when the theft was discovered. How long could the thing have been missing before Barlow noticed? Was it likely that it could have been absent for days? Probably not, Spider decided. Given the thing’s apparent value and Barlow’s mistrust of
his men, he’d likely have checked on the mystery cargo several times a day. That meant it had been stolen in the night, while Addison had been in command of Loon.

  Dowd, on the other hand, led the overnight watch on Dream. He could order men about and clear a path between himself and the object; Dowd would have an easy time sneaking around the ship in the dark of night.

  Spider tried to envision possibilities in his mind, Addison slowly rowing across the night-shrouded waters, stealing aboard Dream, and absconding with the precious brass cylinder. Bold as Addison seemed to be, Spider could not imagine him pulling off such an enterprise, not without help, anyway. Dowd stealing across the night-shrouded deck seemed simpler, more plausible.

  Could Addison and Dowd be working together, plotting to overthrow Barlow and usurp his prize? Could Ezra perhaps have heard the two men colluding?

  No, no, no, Spider told himself, covering his eyes and berating himself for being a fool. The biggest obstacle Addison and Dowd would face if they wanted to supplant Barlow was the captain himself. It would be far easier to simply murder Barlow in his sleep than to steal his damned cylinder. If Addison or Dowd was making a play to rule this floating den of brigands, there was no need to steal the thing and leave Barlow alive.

  Damn! Each time Spider’s mind charted a course, he ran aground. It seemed unlikely he could avenge Ezra at all unless he simply burned both ships, killing everyone aboard.

  That plan was no good, of course; it would deprive him of the one thing he wanted most. He would look Ezra’s killer in the eye and make sure the bastard knew Ezra was being avenged. Spider would not land a surprise blow on his target. He would not burn the son of a bitch in his sleep. He would kill him face-to-face and tell him why.

  It would be the closest thing to justice Ezra Coombs could possibly receive on an outlaw sea.

  Somewhere in the darkness of the hold, Odin told a tale to no one in particular. “It was a shark, an ungodly large shark, thirty foot if it was an inch,” he said. “Come up on to larboard of our boat, bearing down on us, and us out of musket balls. It came at us like a comet, blazing in the water, would’ve shattered us, certain. Ed Teach stood up, pissed on it and cursed it, and damned if it didn’t sink. Never saw it again. Ha!”

  Spider envied Odin whatever fantasy world he was living in.

  Spider flicked an insect out of his hair and scratched his chest. His fingers snagged on the leather cord under his shirt. He pulled Em’s pendant free. It was dark in the hold, but his mind could see it well enough; he’d looked at it a million times.

  What would she think of his cold-blooded intent? What would she think of the many bloody deeds he’d done merely to survive in a world of thieves and outlaws? Perhaps, he decided, it was merciful that she did not know.

  And though he knew himself unworthy, and doubted he’d be heard on that account, Spider uttered a quiet prayer.

  18

  The storm threatening in the night never materialized, but gray clouds clamped a lid over the sea and gentle rain fell across Plymouth Dream. Bloody, muddy trickles worked their way across the tilted deck to the starboard scuppers. Hob found Spider a decent hat, which now sat atop the kerchief on his head and kept the rain from his eyes. Plymouth Dream was under topgallants and catching a decent breeze out of the east, and the ship rolled and rocked on big swells.

  It looked to Spider as though the rain would be with them for most of the morning, but no gale seemed to be brewing.

  Spider thanked Hob for the hat, then asked quietly, “Cap’n give you any trouble last night?” Hob slept on the floor in the officers’ cabin, where he could serve Barlow at his whim.

  “He just sat and drank through the night,” Hob said. “Glowering at nothing and saying not a word. It was more frightening than his rants, I swear. Doctor was afraid to move, just laid there praying quiet.”

  “Aye,” Spider said, watching Barlow brood near the wheel on the poop deck. The captain stared off into the sea, watching Dream’s wake, no doubt thinking murderous thoughts.

  “I saw something, night before last,” Hob whispered. “I don’t know if it means much, but . . .”

  “This is not the time,” Spider said, mindful of Barlow’s every move. “Cap’n may see us. Run along, lad, and don’t stop to talk to anyone too long. Cap’n will see that as conspiracy, do you see? We shall meet up once he goes below.”

  “Aye, Spider,” Hob said before running off.

  Spider strolled across the rolling deck and sat on the tool chest, wishing he had not used up all of his pipe tobacco. Men around him worked, or pretended to work, without talking or singing. Loon strayed behind Dream, off her port stern, just beyond shouting distance. A bleary-eyed seaman flipped the hourglass and rang the ship’s bell, then trotted off to head below.

  “Come about, south by southwest, smartly now,” Barlow grumbled, and the men of the watch slowly put his command into action. Loon followed suit shortly after, and the gap between the vessels grew a bit.

  Amidships, where the mainsail blocked some of the rain, Doctor Boddings stood with Tellam, and the two of them peered at the surgeon’s open New Testament. Both men held their heads bowed as Boddings intoned in a low voice, “Jesus, our Lord and Savior, do lift from this vessel the curse upon it and deliver these, your poor souls, to safe harbor, if it be thy good intent.”

  “Amen,” Tellam said softly. “Amen.” Then the tattooed man looked upward, his eyes locked fiercely on Spider.

  Spider whispered his own amen and glanced skyward, determined not to let Tellam’s menacing glare bother him.

  Spider wondered how long it would be before they reached Jamaica. They had to be fairly close, but he was no navigator, and Barlow was not one to tell his crew much of anything. They had been sailing about two weeks, he reckoned, more than ample time for the journey, but Barlow’s Bermuda ruse and all the tacking aimed at throwing off the frigate’s pursuit had added days to the voyage. They had never been becalmed, but seldom had they seen a ripping good wind, either. Dream, thus far, seemed to have plodded along on most of her accursed trip.

  Spider was ready for it to end.

  He wanted to unveil Ezra’s killer and kill the bastard in time to jump ship and find a new berth in Jamaica. He would leave life beneath a bloody black flag behind. Hop aboard a northbound vessel, work his way back to Nantucket and Em and little Johnny. To hell with being scared of law officers and jailers. To hell with being afraid of the noose, or the stake of fire. He would live ashore and enjoy peace and quiet and love and good meals for as long as he possibly could, and he would deal with danger if and when it came. The worries of a former pirate on land could not possibly be as terrifying as this damned life, and he would have Em, at least for a while, if she would have him.

  Would she? He didn’t know.

  Barlow clambered down to the main deck, cane perched on his right shoulder. He turned slowly and looked with wild eyes at the men around him. Spider stood and stepped slightly to his left, where a boom and the mizzenmast sails would give him partial cover.

  “Well, lads, I see no one has seen fit to bring me my fucking prize.” He held out his left hand, palm up. “Is it here?”

  No one said a word.

  “Is it here? Is it in my fucking hand?”

  Barlow whirled and stuck his empty palm near Weatherall’s face. “Do you see a goddamned fucking brass cylinder in my fucking hand, fiddler? Do ye?” The captain’s dark irises looked small, surrounded by the whites of his eyes, and there was a fat gob of spit hanging in his brown beard.

  For a moment, Spider thought Weatherall was going to strike the man, but the sailor remained calm. “No, sir.”

  “No?” Barlow turned swiftly to confront toothless Dobbin. “I say, do you see my fucking pretty sitting here on my fucking hand?” Raindrops spattered on his empty palm.

  Dobbin shook his head slowly and trembled. Spider thought the man might be crying, but it was difficult to be certain in the rain.

  “Well
, I do not see it, either. Damn me if I do.” Barlow whipped the cane from his shoulder and raised it above his head to point toward the sky. He spun it in slow circles, clockwise, while he turned his body widdershins. He held his empty palm forward.

  “Would any of you sons of whores like to produce my pretty brass device, and place it right here in my empty hand, while we still have enough fucking men aboard to fight and sail this fucking ship? Would you?”

  Barlow spun faster and whipped the cane about in a bizarre dance. “Would you?” He was screaming now, his words almost incomprehensible, spit flying from his mouth. “Would you?”

  Then he stopped.

  “Well, then,” Barlow said quietly. He pointed at someone at random; it was a young man named Smith, who had uttered nary a word since Spider had come aboard. “Seize him up, if you please.”

  A handful of men responded, as Spider knew they would. Men who feared that the lash might land on their own backs would not dawdle if another might bear the whip instead. Smith tried to fight them off, but it was a futile gesture.

  “Bind him to the shrouds, lads. Hob, fetch me my cat.” The captain pulled a gun free from his belt.

  Hob ran off to comply. Spider winced as Smith was tied to the ropes and his shirt was ripped from him. Spider had seen this before, had endured it before, and he never wanted to see it happen again.

  By the time Smith had been secured—without a curse or even an indignant glance at Barlow—Hob had returned with the cat-o’-nine-tails, a short oak handle with nine whips dangling from it. Barlow returned the gun to his belt, hung the cane from his forearm, and took the dread whip from the cabin boy. Barlow looked at it, leered at it, and ran the thick, knotted cords of it through his fingers. He whipped it through the air, laughing. The horrible device whisked the air and cracked with a chorus of wicked snaps.