The Fiddler's Gun Read online

  “You all right, Fin?” She turned and Knut was looking at her with a worried face.

  “Just thinking about home,” she said with a tinge of sadness.

  “Don’t remember my home,” said Knut.

  “Don’t remember? How can you not remember your home?”

  “Don’t know. I forget lots of stuff. Reckon that’s why they call me Knut.”

  “You said they called you Knut because it was short for Knuttle.” Fin looked at him curiously. Knut thought about it for a moment while scratching his ear.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot,” he said. He shrugged and gulped down the rest of his drink while Fin shook her head in amazement.

  After another round of drinks, Fin began to ease into the company. The men laughed and told sea stories and poked fun at one another, and soon she was laughing easily amongst them and wishing she had more to add to the conversation. They passed the hours in comfortable fellowship, and even Knut seemed to relax eventually, though he never spoke.

  Men poured into the tavern until the entire space was jammed with the drinking and the drunken, and as the hour grew late a man shouted for attention and banged a stool on the floor. The singing stopped and people wheeled around to see what the commotion was about.

  “Quiet! Quiet please!” The man was in military uniform and held one hand in the air, calmly attempting to call the room to attention until the din of the day’s leisure quieted and all eyes attended him.

  “What in bloody hell are you dressed up for?” called a voice from the crowd.

  “For those of you that don’t know me, my name is Robert Mullan and this is my establishment you are enjoying.” The man smiled and a great many mugs raised and sloshed about in salute.

  “Cheers to the master of the house!” they called and drank. Mr. Mullan waited patiently to regain the attention of the room.

  “I have here some business that I should like you to attend,” he said and cleared his throat. “The Continental Congress has ordered the formation of two battalions of marines, and they have seen fit to award me a captaincy. I have been appointed to persuade such men as are hardy seamen and fearless in battle to cast in their lot with my marines to seek our fortune on the high seas of this new War for Independence.” The crowd wasn’t impressed, as evidenced by the chorus of boo’s and various thrown objects that found their way through the air to Captain Mullan. Undeterred, the captain calmed the room again and continued. “I beg you, hear me out! Only yesterday, I spoke with a man who cast in his lot with a privateer who promised him only his share of what British fare they fouled. I offer that same promise of equal share in loot and booty, in addition to the many benefits of service to the Congress, including monthly pay, provisions, and clothing.” Around the room eyebrows lifted as the quiet of thought encroached.

  “If we throw in with you, we get paid to kill British and still get a privateer’s share?” shouted a man on the far side of the room.

  “Aye, indeed. A corps of marines to harass the British trade, nettle their navy, and be an angry thorn in the side of King George until he leave us be.” This brought nods, murmurs, and a smattering of cheers. “Those that would aid the cause and cast in with me make your way up to place your name.”

  To Fin’s surprise, Ned Smithers and Fred Martin stood up from the table. Jack’s eyes popped wide, and he slammed his fist down hard enough that the cups on the table jumped into the air like startled frogs.

  “Sit your arses down!” Jack growled at Ned and Fred.

  “Now look here, Jack—” said Ned.

  Jack slammed his hand onto the table again. “SIT!” he bellowed. Fred started to sit back down, but Ned glared at him and he stopped mid-sit, not certain where he wanted to end up.

  “Jack, that sounds like a right good offer to me, and you got to admit that Creache ain’t been on the right side of the business stick lately. Not that none of us took much of a care for him to start—”

  “You two listen here, and listen good,” Jack interrupted. “I don’t give a damn what this fancy officer is offering. The ’Snake ain’t gonna lose the two of you to it. We’re working a slim crew as it is, and I’ll be buggered if I’m gonna let you walk away. I’ll knuckle you cold, carry you back, and chain you to a cannon if I got to.”

  “Jack’s right, Fred,” said Art Thomasson. “You ain’t never been one for fighting anyhow. Quit fooling around and sit back down.”

  Fred eyed Art and Jack in consideration then looked at Ned for guidance.

  “Come on, Fred. I’m tired of Creache’s ill temper. This has the sound of a good turn to me. But if you stay or come, I’m out all the same.” Ned turned to Jack with rising determination, “You can have the ’Snake, Jack, right along with the serpent at her helm.”

  “By hell, you will not!” snarled Jack.

  Tan reached out, put a hand on Jack’s shoulder, and whispered to him in a calm voice. “It’s their choice, Jack. Leave them to it.”

  Ned stepped away from the table. Fred made up his mind and made to follow, but Jack had different plans. He leapt up and charged after Ned like an angry bull.

  “Here we go,” muttered Tan with a sigh and a slight grin. Then he took a deep breath and charged after Jack.

  Jack caught Ned and tackled him so hard that Fin was afraid he’d be crushed like a bug. Fred, on the other hand, seemed to have lost all ability to reason. He was darting around the room, trying to hide from Jack, when he tripped and fell headlong across a table of half-soused Irish. The Irish didn’t appear to be mad at him; they actually seemed quite pleased to be given an invitation to the melee and they took to clubbing Fred about the room like a beanbag.

  While Ned and Jack were squared off and trading punches, Tan latched himself onto Jack’s back and crooked his arm around his neck, trying to choke him into unconsciousness. It wasn’t having any effect that Fin could see. Captain Mullan tried to yell over the din for order, but for all the crowd knew, he was cheering them on and it wasn’t a minute before every fist in Tun Tavern was flying.

  Fin and Knut stood back and enjoyed the show until a short, hairy man with one arm bowled them over into a tall, bald man with two arms and they were obliged to join the ruckus. Most men took Fin for granted due to her size, but they soon learned better with her fist in their eye.

  As sailors kept by long bouts of shipborne boredom do, they bloodied each other with a sort of grim amusement. Tables and chairs flew about, splintering here and there on heads or hinds, and despite all the broken knuckles and noses, there didn’t seem to be an angry man in the room, save Jack Wagon and Captain Mullan. The Irish however, far surpassed amusement and appeared to be in the throes of pure glee—much to Fred’s misfortune. Through it all, Bill lay snoring peacefully at the head of the table right where Fin had dropped him.

  Tan remained latched fast to Jack’s neck and was tossed side to side, thrown into walls and tables, and rolled over on the floor more than once, until at last he succeeded in felling the giant. Jack tumbled to the floor with a resounding thud, and Ned breathed a heaving sigh of relief that he’d managed to survive. With Jack down and out, the life quickly died out of the rest of the combatants, and soon the room was full of groans and deep breath. Captain Mullan stood at the head of the room muttering and swearing about his broken tables and disastrous recruitment meeting.

  Ned regained his breath and staggered around the room nudging unconscious bodies with his foot looking for Fred and finding only groans. Tan lay on the floor in exhaustion, and next to him, Jack lay in a tumbled heap showing no signs of waking in the near future. To Fin’s amazement and delight, the Irish had regained their table and resumed drinking while they compared bruises.

  “Fred?” called Ned, and from the direction of the Irish table came an answer. Fin looked closer and there was Fred seated among the crowd of red hair and freckles with a smile on his face as his newfound mates admired his many whelps and bruises whilst pouring him drinks as fast as he could empty his cup.

>   “Over here!” he called. “This here’s Ned Smithers. Ned, meet the O’Malleys. I can’t keep the first names straight, but they all answer to O’Malley so why complicate matters?” The men at the table erupted in laughter. Ned wasn’t particularly amused and threw a nervous glance at Jack, who was still lying in a heap on the floor.

  “Come on, Fred. Let’s throw in with the marines and find us a spot farther from Jack. He’ll be no friendlier when he wakes.”

  Fred turned his attention back to the O’Malleys and rapped his mug on the table to get their attention. “Let’s throw in with Captain Mullan there and knuckle in some British on the gov’ner’s ticket!”

  Fred hardly had time to finish speaking before the whole O’Malley gang jumped up and carried him toward Captain Mullan’s table on their shoulders, cheering and singing all the way. Ned followed after, rolling his eyes. When they reached the head of the room, Captain Mullan stopped his swearing and wasted no time showing them where to sign. As the O’Malleys, along with Fred and Ned, shuffled out of the tavern, Fin couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pity for whatever British managed to find themselves in the path of the Continental Marines.

  “Come on, Knut. Let’s see if Jack’s all right.”

  Fin walked over and knelt beside Jack. He seemed to be fast asleep and no worse for the wear.

  “He’ll be sore at me when he comes around,” said Tan, sitting up and wiping his brow. “But me and Jack been friends a long time. He’ll get over it.” Tan looked at Fin with curiosity. She got nervous every time he looked at her, as if he somehow knew her secrets. Surely he didn’t, but she couldn’t shake the weight of his stare.

  “How will we get him back to the ’Snake?” asked Fin.

  Tan chuckled. “We don’t. Would take ten of us to pick him up, much less carry him back. He’ll come round soon enough. Till then, leave him lie.” Tan stood up, moved to the nearest table, and took a seat. Fin and Knut joined him as he called for a drink.

  “Knut, was I dreaming or did I see you giving a few licks?” asked Tan.

  Knut’s face turned red and he lowered his head.

  “He can take care of himself more than people think,” said Fin.

  “You don’t have to tell me. Knut was a hell of a boxer once upon a while ago. Things change though, I reckon.” Tan considered Knut, as if trying to decide what else to tell. Fin didn’t know what to make of the information. She looked at Knut, but he refused to meet her eyes.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Tan didn’t answer the question. “You two had best run along. Jack will come to afore long, and he’s not likely to be pleasant company when he does.”

  Fin decided he was right. She didn’t like the thought of being too close when Jack woke to find his crew two sailors short to the new marine battalion.

  “I’ll see you back on the ’Snake.” She smiled at Tan and then nudged Knut, “Come on, let’s go find some food.”

  They hurried out of the tavern, and Fin felt Tan’s eyes on her back as she left. They walked to the Rattlesnake in a thoughtful hush, Knut quiet at her side. Her hand made its way into her pocket to feel the small wad of paper hiding there, the Gazette, with her face on the front page.

  CHAPTER XV

  Jack’s whistle called the ship to muster. The crew groaned their way out of sleep and dozens of bloodshot eyes squinted up into the morning light. Curses ascended like prayers muttered to the rhythm and clomp of feet climbing topside. On deck, Jack’s spirit showed no signs of a hangover. He hollered and stomped as lively as ever, kicking the odd buttock into sobriety and calling down hellfire to burn away sleepy eyes. Only the black and blue of his face gave away the night’s misadventure.

  “Get up here, Button! Move your feet, Art! Where the bloody hell is that Knut?”

  “I’m here, Jack,” stuttered Knut from behind.

  Jack jumped in surprise. “Yeah, ain’t you always,” he grumbled. “Captain wants to talk to the lot of you. Someone get back down and drag Tan out of bed. Anyone seen Topper?” A few hungover sailors shrugged.

  “Seen him hanging out a window at the Scarlet Lady about midnight,” called Art. “From the look of the lass he was sugarin’ on, he’ll wish he was dead.” Art laughed and several others joined him.

  Jack muttered and fumed and chewed at his beard.

  After a few minutes, Jack was satisfied he’d gotten everyone there was to get. It turned out Topper wasn’t dead after all, just sleeping in a barrel of dried mackerel. He smelled as if he’d bathed in a whale, and taken in combination with his normal odor, the effect was staggering. Jack made him stand downwind then blew a couple of short toots on his whistle to let the captain know he was ready.

  The door to the captain’s quarters opened and out stalked the old hawk with a lecherous smile curled behind his whiskers. He walked to the balustrade and looked down at the crew gathered below. As he scanned the deck his smile melted away and he narrowed his eyes at Jack.

  “When I ask to speak to the crew, I mean I wish to speak to all of them, Mr. Wagon.”

  “Aye sir, wish I could say different, but this is all of them.” Jack wasn’t barking now, he sounded sheepish, something Fin hadn’t thought possible.

  “Perhaps you can explain to me why my crew appears to have vanished into the night?” Creache’s tone was sharp, his voice cold and angry.

  “The war is recruiting folks, and some of the men decided to jump ship.” Jack winced.

  The captain considered the situation quietly, taking time to glare at everyone present in turn. “Men that desert my crew will reap the benefit of their shallow loyalty. The price of desertion is dearly paid.” The captain’s eyes fell on Knut and lingered. Knut looked down at the deck and shrunk out of sight behind the mainmast. “I suggest the rest of you consider that.” The captain scowled down at them until he was satisfied that his threat had taken effect.

  “Some of you have wondered at my decision to leave Savannah so quickly and so lightly laden.” He pulled a folded parchment from his vest and held it up for all to see. “This is the reason. I have been to a meeting with a political contact and have acquired a Letter of Marque.” Several of the men raised their eyebrows in surprise; most looked confused, including Fin. “I see from the looks on your ill-educated faces that some of you have no idea what that means—which is, of course, no surprise. This letter grants the Rattlesnake license to seize any British vessel as I see fit. I may claim it and its cargo as my own, provided I pay a thirty-share to aid the Continental Congress in its war.” The captain lifted his chin and preened with satisfaction.

  Seizing and claiming sounded a lot like piracy to Fin. She glanced around at the rest of the men and saw mixed reactions. Tan was grinning from ear to ear. Jack looked troubled. Knut was busy twirling a bit of rope around his foot. Topper was still standing downwind; his eyes were closed and Fin was sure he was asleep standing up.

  “This letter makes the Rattlesnake a privateer, and it will make us very rich men. The Atlantic is ripe, and this war is the season of its harvest. I aim to reap a lion’s share. Whatever we lay claim to will be divided equally among the crew.”

  “I didn’t sign on the ’Snake for fighting, captain,” yelled Art Thomasson.

  “Fighting? Who said anything about fighting?” The captain smiled nervously. “Our quarry is the British trade, not her navy. All we need do is scare the daylight out of them and claim our reward. All very peaceable, I assure you.”

  The prospect of a merchant crew simply handing over cargo and ship without any fuss seemed slight to Fin, and Art didn’t look convinced either. Bartimaeus had been a pirate; was this how his descent began? Nonsense, she told herself. This was perfectly legal, and even if she didn’t appreciate being forced into the situation, she did like the sound of causing the British some trouble. The sooner the war was over, the sooner she’d be safe from British bounties, back home with Peter. If seizing merchant ships for Captain Tiberius Creache would quicken that
end, then she was more than willing.

  “We sail with the tide. Make ready the ship. Mr. Wagon, I trust we’ll not have any more deserters?” said the captain.

  “Not if I can help it, sir.”

  “If you cannot ‘help it’ then perhaps we will find a new first mate.” Creache looked down his nose at Jack like he was scolding a wayward child.

  “Aye, sir.” Jack turned to the crew and barked orders to get underway.

  Fin and Knut swung their way up into the rigging, and the rest of the men took to setting the Rattlesnake free of its moorings. In short time they were creeping away from Philadelphia and back toward the blue Atlantic. Fin once again forgot her worry. She enjoyed working the ship more than she could have dreamed possible, and not even her misgivings about the captain could ruin it. The ropes, the sails, the serpentine knots, even the language of the work delighted her. She cherished words like stanchion, clew, fiddle-block, gudgeon, leech, and luff. She rolled them around in her mouth and fell in love with them before she ever knew their meanings. She spent the rest of the day bouncing around the ship learning all she could from any man willing to teach. Every time Jack turned around she was working at something different. He was so used to kicking the lazy out of sailors that he hardly knew what to make of Fin’s unending delight in the ship’s work.

  By sunset, the ship was running wide open and Fin climbed up to the crow’s nest to relish the day and find some peace away from the men. She felt like she was back at the orphanage again: chores always needing done; Jack stalking about putting boot to buttock like a larger, hairier Hilde; and her hiding away above it all, trying to see what was waiting over the horizon. She missed Peter, though, and Knut was a poor substitute. Knut was a good friend, if a quiet one, but there wasn’t any fire in his company.

  Fin closed her eyes and imagined the woods near the river, Peter walking next to her, the sounds of him moving, breathing, his voice. She could see him in the moonlight as she played the fiddle, could see him rocking back and forth with the rhythm. She wanted that quiet place again more than even the sea and all its freedom. Then the memory of musket fire splintered her solace. The sounds of Bartimaeus and Betsy, the sounds of soldiers dying at the dinner table, the sounds of her life, her dreams, being torn away. “War Woman” the Gazette had named her. It sounded ridiculous, was ridiculous, but what had she expected? She killed six men. Now she was going to have to live with it. The only way back, the only way home, to Peter, to that beautiful green field in the country was to win this war. Independence, taxes, politics—meaningless. She just wanted to go home. Tiberius Creache had provided her with a way to assist in achieving that goal, a way to help win the war. She’d kill a hundred more soldiers if that’s what it took.