The Fiddler's Gun Page 16

  Knut’s voice floated up from below, calling her to dinner. Fin called back and descended to the world at hand.

  While the Rattlesnake prowled north along the coast, the crew passed the time talking up the change of occupation. Some men were ecstatic about the prospects of a privateer’s life, often to the point of bloodthirst. Bill Stumm, for one, became an intolerable braggart about all the British he intended to kill and how. Others, like Jack, didn’t care for the business at all and meant to follow orders as necessary but had no intent of violence if it could be avoided. The two opinions formed an unspoken division in the crew—those who relished the captain’s Letter of Marque like a lusty treasure on one hand and those who eyed it warily on the other. Fin was torn. She had no reservations after she’d thought it over, but the company was much better on the conservative side of the issue. She liked Jack and looked up to him. She had the feeling that Tan looked forward to the challenge of privateering but he was cautious and sided with Jack. Knut had no position, of course, except that of staying out of trouble, which to him meant staying clear of Bill and his ilk. “Don’t think Bill likes me none,” he’d say, often to himself. Fin didn’t care for Bill and the company he kept either, so it was just as well she kept her thoughts of privateering to herself to avoid the risk of alienating the few friends she had.

  Since she’d bested Bill in Philadelphia they had not spoken, and he harbored a festering dislike for her. Knut was right about one thing: Bill was trouble, and staying clear of him was good counsel. Wherever there was discord on the ship, Bill was sure to be at the center of it.

  Five days after leaving Philadephia, the Rattlesnake spotted the first prize of her new career: a small merchant ship bound for Boston and flying British colors. Creache stood at the rail and peered through his spyglass, grinning like a tiger. The ship was several miles off yet, and he ordered the Rattlesnake to come around and close on her from the windward.

  “Mr. Wagon, payday is in front of us. Load the guns and arm the crew.” He snapped the spyglass closed.

  Jack turned to the crew and shouted orders, “Topper, take your crew and see to the guns! The rest of you, to the armory!”

  Every man on deck jumped to life and headed below. Men followed Topper to the gundeck or Jack to the armory. Fin ran to her berth and pulled out the violin case. Her heart thumped inside her chest like a war drum. She lifted the lid and stared down on the fiddle. She remembered how it sang in Bartimaeus’s hands. She had been afraid to pick it up since leaving Georgia, afraid she wouldn’t remember how to play it. It wasn’t the fiddle she’d come for, though. Fin could hear the other thing calling to her, whispering for her to pick it up. She moved her eyes and there it lay, crouched in its case, smiling up at her—beautiful, wicked, laughing. Betsy.

  Through the walls, Fin heard Jack yelling. She heard the clang of metal and the beat of running feet. Topper was shouting orders, loading the cannons. Fin grabbed Betsy, thrust it into her belt, and ran for the armory. Tan was there, issuing musket balls and powder. Fin took what she needed and grabbed a rusty cutlass.

  “Know how to use that thing, do you?” said Tan. The other men were sweating and dire with worry, but Tan had a grin on his face that Fin sensed could break into laughter at any moment. At first she thought he was making fun of her, but she was wrong. His grin wasn’t a mockery, it was an exultation, a challenge thrown in the face of violence and whatever peril they might face.

  “I can manage,” said Fin with confidence, then she turned and ran up onto the deck. The captain was at the helm staring at the British ship with greedy eyes. The other sailors arranged themselves along the rails. They loaded muskets and stared around at each other with worried looks. Fin looked for Knut and found him port astern peering down the barrel of a pistol as if it was a spyglass.

  “Give me that, Knut,” she said and snatched it out of his hands. Fin quickly loaded it and handed it back to him. “Know how to shoot it?” Knut nodded. “Good—careful where it’s pointing though,” she added.

  Fin turned to her own protection. She stuffed Betsy full of musket ball and packed the barrel, then stuck it into her belt and looked around. The other sailors had finished loading weapons and were, one and all, looking intently at the British ship as it drew closer.

  “All right, boys,” shouted Jack, “do this right and no one gets hurt. All we got to do is scare ’em good. Just ’cause you boys got guns, don’t mean you got to go firing ’em, hear?” Fin hoped it would be that easy. Jack walked to the hatch and called down, “You ready down yonder, Topper?” A muffled voice called back and Jack nodded. “All’s well, captain. We’re ready.”

  Creache smiled.

  “Loose a cannon across her deck, Mr. Wagon,” he said.

  “Aye aye, sir” said Jack. “All right, Topper, send her a hello from the ’Snake!”

  Once again a muffled voice answered from below. Fin glanced at Knut and saw he had his fingers plugging up both ears. Then Topper sent his greeting. FOOM! The ship shook and smoke poured out of the portside gunwale. A cannonball stabbed a hole in the British ship’s mainsail and splashed into the water on the far side.

  Creache threw up his spyglass and peered through it. Jack turned to the captain, awaiting orders. The rest of the hands on deck stared at the prize and clutched the rail, white-knuckled.

  They were close enough to make out the sailors on board the other ship now and could read her name as written on the stern, the Whistle. Fin studied the ship and saw men about the deck, working in the rigging, taking in sail.

  “They’re stopping, they are,” said Jack, half to himself, half to the crew.

  “Take in sail and prepare to board,” ordered the captain.

  The crew jumped into action and brought in the sails. Art was at the helm and aimed the Rattlesnake up alongside the Whistle. Jack called for grapplers. On the portside, men brought out hooks and hurled them at the rail of the Whistle to pull her in close. The crewmen of the ’Snake were silent and kept one hand on their pistols while they tended tackle and hooks with the other. On the deck of the Whistle, its captain paced the quarterdeck while his men stood about. Fin was surprised to see they looked more curious than scared or angry.

  There was a dull knock as the two ships bumped together, and Jack ordered a plank laid across the rails. Creache walked across the plank and hopped down onto the deck of the Whistle, followed by Jack.

  “I demand to know what this is all about!” said the captain of the Whistle.

  “About? This is about money,” said Creache and smiled. “I am Captain Tiberius Creache, and I hereby claim this vessel and her cargo.”

  “Are you mad?” balked the Whistle’s captain.

  “Indeed,” said Creache. “But my state of mind bears little influence to our present situation.” He produced a document from his coat and waved it in front of the other captain’s nose. “This Letter of Marque grants me leave to seize any British ship and cargo that I so choose—mad or not,” said Creache with an evil smile. “Therefore, if you would—what did you say your name was?”

  “Burleson. Captain Burleson,” said the man amid his obvious fluster.

  “Very good. Captain Burleson, if you would please order your men to transfer your cargo to my hold, we shall keep this transaction civil.” Creache looked pleased with himself.

  “By God, I will not!” protested Captain Burleson. Creache’s eyes narrowed to slits. He drew his pistol and leveled it at the man’s face.

  “Much like my madness, I assure you that God is of no relevance to our situation. If you insist, however, I will arrange for you to discuss it with him personally. Then, by God, I will have your hold and scuttle your ship.” Creache little more than whispered it, but even the waves seemed to have hushed. Every ear heard him and fingers all around crept closer to trigger and blade. “Choose, captain, before my madness makes up its own mind.”

  The Whistle’s captain stood quivering for a moment then spoke decisively. “Do as he says! O
pen the holds!” His men paused, considering whether or not he meant it, then they hesitantly began to obey. Creache didn’t move. The barrel of his pistol never wavered from the other man’s face. For over an hour, they stood staring at each other, Creache occasionally smiling and chuckling to himself.

  The Whistle’s crew transferred their cargo and stores to the Rattlesnake, while Fin and the rest of the crew stood at the rail with guns ready, making sure no one stepped out of line as the hold was ladened. The tension was thick as fog. Fin was consciously aware of every drop of sweat on her face, every slap of the waves against the hull, every breath of the men around her. Knut, beside her, shifted from foot to foot in nervous agitation.

  At last, the transfer was complete. Jack turned to the captain and nodded. As quickly as he had drawn it, Creache holstered his firearm and smiled widely at the captain in front of him.

  “Thank you for your generosity, captain, and good day.” Creache turned and trotted back across the plank. Jack followed and barked orders to loose the Whistle from her hooks. Creache disappeared back into his quarters and the Rattlesnake eased away.

  Fin looked back and saw the crew and captain of the Whistle standing stone-still on deck. They looked positively boggled. Fin smiled. Maybe the privateer business wasn’t as bad as she’d feared. The seizure had gone smoothly, no blood drawn, and now they had a full hold of imported goods to sell for profit. Mad or not, Creache may indeed make them rich. Jack ordered the arms returned to the armory and soon the sails were full again, and the Whistle dwindled into the horizon.

  In the following days, Creache set his sights on seven more unwary merchant ships, and each time he managed to seize the cargo without the loss of a single life or even a drop of blood. The men couldn’t have been more pleased and scuttlebutt aboard began to claim that Creache might not be such a sore captain after all.

  When they moored in Philadelphia again, two weeks after the Whistle, they had a hold full of imports from Britain to unload. For two days they wheeled ’round the capstan to lift up the ill-gotten fare and wheeled it ’round again to lower the crates to the wharf. Fin, too small to offer significant help at the capstan, fetched and delivered their take to warehouses up and down the waterfront. After Creache paid the Congress its share, the take was so large that he easily made good on his claim of riches by paying each sailor his due in bags of coin so large that Fin thought she’d have to spend half of her’s to even lift the sack. She bought some well-fitted boots, new trousers, a cedar sailor’s trunk, and a leather vest that better concealed the secrets beneath her shirt. She ate well and drank well and spent money, for which she had little use, on frivolous things. And she took time to write, to tell Peter she was safe and sure.

  In late April, they had news of the Revolution. George Washington had chased the British out of Boston. Thomas Payne published Common Sense, and Fin bought a copy just like myriad others and steeled her will with its denouncement of monarchy and justification of democracy. The Americans were at war, and Fin felt she was moving in earnest toward the end of her sojourn.

  The advent of open war raised the stakes for the Rattlesnake, however. The Royal Navy was thicker along the coast, and the Rattlesnake’s reputation as a menace to the Crown grew with every ship she seized.

  In late fall, they got underway from Charleston and prowled the coast along the Carolinas in search of a prize. Long days passed without sighting a target, and the crew grew restless in the downtime. Fin lay in her hammock on the gundeck, lazy in the heat of the day, while Tan and Jack sat nearby playing cards and Knut slept, leaning against the bulkhead. Bill and several other sailors had gathered at the far end of the deck. They were laughing and discussing their plans for the next port call.

  “Button, don’t never play cards with Tan,” grumbled Jack. “He cheats.”

  Tan looked at Fin and rolled his eyes. “You can’t stand another man to have good luck can you?”

  Jack harrumphed. “Don’t start with me, Tan. I’m right—and you know it.”

  “You mean about me cheating or about Creache?” asked Tan

  “Hmmph, both.”

  “What about Creache?” asked Fin.

  Tan put down his cards turned so he could face her. “Jack’s got himself all worked up like a woman because he thinks Creache’s luck is due to run out.” Fin opened her mouth to protest his comment about women but remembered herself and snapped it closed. “Now, you’d think our fair and hairy first mate here might congratulate his crew for such a job well done.” Jack was patiently ignoring him. “But you’d be wrong. He prefers to think the only reason we’re still safe and unbloodied is the good captain’s run of luck.”

  “You done yet?” asked Jack.

  “Can you believe that, Fin? Just another superstitious sailor.” Tan had a big grin on his face. He enjoyed teasing Jack and drew it out for all it was worth.

  The truth was that it wasn’t just Jack: many of the crew thought it was only a matter of time before their luck ran out. They’d come away too easily from all the ships they’d boarded. Not once had the business come to violence.

  “Have you been on a privateer before, Jack?” Fin asked.

  “No. But I was on the Dancing Susan when she was taken by pirates off Martinique. It was no peaceful business, I can tell you. Half the crew was dead or bloodied before it was done. Bad business it is. Fifty men on the deck of a ship, all with blades and muskets, and every one trying to kill the other, and cannons blowin’ holes the size of kegs in the bulkheads. Bad business; worst there is. So we’re a privateer, you say? For British eyes we’re no more than pirates and thieves. We’ve been lucky. And sure as the sun goes round, lucky don’t stick for long.”

  Fin expected Tan to tease him again but he didn’t—his grin was gone. It had become suddenly quiet, and Fin looked around to see that the other men had all stopped their business to listen to Jack. Even Bill Stumm and his regulars were listening.

  “Your deal, Jack,” said Tan. Jack dealt the cards and people resumed their previous conversations.

  The schism that had been created when they’d turned to privateering had widened, and though unspoken, it was plainly written in the company the men kept. Those that had taken to the new work readily and wantonly were the captain’s men through and through, and they no longer tolerated another man to speak ill of him. Bill Stumm was their leader, and while none dared speak ill of Jack out of respect for his station as first mate, it was widely known that the captain favored Bill. Fin suspected Bill had eyes for Jack’s job as soon as opportunity provided.

  Fin, however, took it all in stride. She saw each act of piracy against the Crown as a step closer to home. She even began to look forward to it.

  As they slipped among the outer banks of North Carolina, the fears Jack had given voice to came a step closer to reality. A frigate of the Royal Navy came upon them by surprise as it slipped from behind the southern rise of an island. Jack ordered them to quarters, and before they could change tack and get the wind at their backs, the British were nearly in cannon range and testing their long nines against the distance. The Rattlesnake was by far the faster ship, and they made flight with ease, but coming face-to-face with the enemy and being the target of cannonshot made Fin’s blood chill.

  They learned to be incredibly efficient at scaring smaller ships into compliance. Some men made an art of it. Tan had the knack of giving men the evil eye, and they’d quiver in their boots just to know his stare was upon them. Art Thomasson paid a butcher in Baltimore to have blood splashed all over his clothes. He’d stand on deck as near the captured ship as he could, looking like he’d killed five men and bathed in their blood, and he’d taunt waylaid sailors with made-up stories of the men he’d sliced on the last ship to fall victim to the Rattlesnake. Jack didn’t need to put on a performance; he intimidated men by his very presence. All he needed to do was to stand near a man and look down at him to induce a panicky wave of shudders and obedience. Fin would wave Betsy about wi
th cavalier flourishes to scare the sauce out of whatever poor tar happened to be standing in front of her, and, secretly, she was coming to enjoy the heft of the gun in her hand.

  By summer they’d taken only small prizes, and the captain was determined to fill his holds before setting in to port again. When he spotted The Kingfish on the horizon he seized the opportunity.

  Fin joined Tan on the rail and peered out at The Kingfish as they approached. It was large, certainly the largest ship they’d ever attempted. The double gundecks on her sides raised Fin’s hackles. Only once or twice had the captain ever dared assail a ship that was anything more than meagerly armed, and each of those times the Rattlesnake’s twenty guns easily outclassed the ship they meant to seize. But the ship they were closing on now was not only the equal of the Rattlesnake, she was her superior, and they weren’t nearly as battle-ready as all their cannons and topside gunmen made them appear.

  The Rattlesnake was built for a crew of eighty but was manned by less than thirty. There weren’t enough men below to man the guns—but The Kingfish didn’t know that. If it came to cannonfire, they could only get off one full volley before Topper would be run ragged trying to reload. If it came to cannonfire, the Rattlesnake couldn’t win.