The Fiddler's Gun Page 19

  Fin nodded.

  “Good, and should you betray me as Bartimaeus did . . . ” he put his hand around her neck and picked her up. His face turned red and he spit his words at her, “Do that and I will flay your skin and damn your heart to flame and the devil’s fancy. Now get out!” He flung her through the door and slammed it shut.

  Fin picked herself up and crawled to the rail. She vomited over the side, then sat shivering in the night air. Her mind struggled to stretch itself around what had just happened. Creache and Bartimaeus. Knut told her when she joined the crew that the captain had suddenly sailed for Savannah and stayed ashore for weeks before she came aboard. He must have heard news of Bartimaeus’s execution and come sniffing for his gold. And now he expected her to help him find it. But there was no gold. Bartimaeus never had two coins to rub together. The only belongings he had were Betsy and his fiddle. If he had gold then he’d long since spent it. And if she took Creache to Ebenezer, to the orphanage, he wouldn’t find it. He’d kill her.

  “Button? You all right?” asked a voice in the darkness. She pulled herself to her feet and turned around. Topper was peering at her in the moonlight.

  “I’m fine,” she lied.

  “Get up to the nest. Captain takes a nasty dislike to sailors sitting around on the watch. Get up a’fore he see’s ye.”

  Fin didn’t answer. She turned away and climbed up to man her watch and wait for the dawn.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Knut sat quietly beside Fin’s hammock fingering the hasp of Bartimaeus’s fiddle case as if he were trying to work up the courage to open it. He hadn’t noticed she was awake. Fin smiled as she looked him over. His back must burn like fire, she thought, but at least he was up and around.

  “Morning, Knut.”

  He jumped nearly out of his clothes at the sound of her voice. Then he seemed to remember that he’d been thinking about the fiddle case and frowned.

  “Sorry, Fin. I wasn’t stealing. I dreamed you was playing on a fiddle.” He raised his eyebrows at her. “I like music,” he said as if it explained his entire thought process.

  “I was playing while you were asleep. You didn’t dream it.” She frowned. “I haven’t played in a long time.”

  Knut considered the case again. “You should play more,” he announced, then stood up and turned away.

  Fin watched him go in sad wonder. He was right. She should play. Turn it beautiful, Bartimaeus would tell her.

  She leaned over and opened the case. Betsy’s dark absence greeted her, dominated the space inside. Part of her was glad to be rid of the weapon. She wished she could forget it, wished she could forget the way it felt when she pulled the trigger. But the absence called her attention to it, reminded her of all she would rather put out of her mind.

  Trying to push away the thoughts of her bloody past and dire present, she plucked the fiddle from its nest. Beneath it lay a small, folded piece of paper. It was the Gazette from Philadelphia. Georgia War Woman. Murder. And Creache was taking her back there. Even if she somehow stopped Creache, the British would hunt her down like a fox if they got word of her return. The desire to play ran out of her. She replaced the fiddle, and closed the lid.

  On deck, the sun was bright and the sea chopped in a light wind. Fin looked for Tan and spotted him on the poop deck conversing with Topper. She walked over and pulled him aside.

  “I think it’s time you started my lessons.”

  Tan smiled. “Let’s go get you a blade.”

  The art of the sword turned out to be hard work and often painful, as the nicks and cuts on her hands and arms bore witness. Tan chose an elegant rapier for Fin to wield and she found it much lighter and easier to handle than the typical cutlasses she used on their boarding affairs. He ordered the men to keep clear the quarterdeck so they could fence, and the crew crowded around the empty space to watch.

  Tan was a harsh teacher. He didn’t fight light or below his skill to accommodate his student. He gave her all he had, and Fin rose to it. That isn’t to say Fin had any notion of what she was doing; she certainly did not. But as with most anything else, she was a fast learner. Tan smiled each time he bested her, and his smile spread wider as Fin’s frustration grew. He’d gleaned Fin’s feisty nature and taunted the best effort she had out of her. She growled and cursed and scowled and always got back up to have another fence with Tan’s tiger grin. She threw herself into the learning powered by all the frustration, rage, and fear she had for Creache and her impending homecoming.

  Creache strutted from his lair once and scowled at the goings-on from his cabin door. Fin felt his devil gaze weighing on her and took a deep wound to her right hand for her broken concentration. When she looked again, Creache had retreated to his quarters.

  Hours later, the sun sunk into the sea and Fin was exhausted. She stumbled below decks cradling hands bloodied by wayward blades and a sword arm as numb as driftwood. Her hammock greeted her with a quiet nod, and she was asleep as soon as her head found purchase within.

  When she awoke in the wee hours for her watch, she felt a little better; she could feel her right arm at least. On deck, she made out Topper’s disheveled form in the darkness and greeted him with a moan and a yawn that was mostly lost in the wind.

  “The boys tell me Tan give you a thrash today,” said Topper. He laughed.

  Fin nodded blearily.

  “Lot of boys been wanting Tan to learn ’em the sword for a longish time, but Tan never would.” Topper looked at her with a suspicious eyebrow. “So why you?”

  “I don’t know.” Fin shrugged. “He offered.”

  Topper grunted. “Reckon he’s got his reasons.”

  Fin didn’t mention the conversation with Tan about Knut. Tan was close to Knut, was pained by his transformation, and was honoring her kindness to him in the best way he knew how.

  “Tomorrow you might get a chance to show what Tan learned you. Captain’s planning to try Jack for mutiny, and some men are talking they might not like the outcome.”

  “The captain is going to try him?” Fin was confused. She expected the trying to be done by a court and judge.

  “Aye, at the Captain’s Mast. A captain is judge, jury, and executioner if need be on his own ship. You didn’t think Creache was going to let Jack off easy and ship him home to rot in a jail did you? Can’t say as I’d expect much trial though. If I know the captain, the outcome is already come in. He just aims to mete out some sentence. Keep your wits about you. Them loyal to the captain ain’t like to swap huggin’ with them loyal to Jack, if you know what I’m blowin’ on about.”

  Fin knew. The captain aimed to make an example out of Jack same as he’d done with Knut.

  “Get on to your station. That’s all in the morning, and we got the night’s work to muster. I smell a storm in the wind. See to it the ship’s tied fast.” Topper turned away and Fin turned to her work.

  Fin hadn’t seen Jack since the day Creache confined him. The captain kept Bill watching over the door to the little cell the Rattlesnake called her brig and permitted no one to speak with him. In truth, she’d all but forgotten about him in her worry over Knut and the captain’s suspicions. She felt a tinge of shame about it; Jack had been good to her. Now that he was the main topic of the ship’s scuttlebutt however, she was worried for him in earnest.

  Discussions were going on all over the ship in hushed whispers. Everywhere Fin looked, men were gathered in huddles, casting about with nervous eyes, speaking in low voices about the captain and Jack, and who would do what and when if such and such was the sentence. Some were even wagering over the affair.

  A few hours later, as the sun was still climbing in the east, Tan hopped up the steps and made a round of the deck, checking the conditions of the wind and sails. He conferred with Topper at the helm while pointing away south and west to a huddle of dark clouds and then spotted Fin against the rail and walked over. He looked over his shoulder then lowered his head and spoke in a near whisper. “How’s your arm
?”

  Fin worked her arm around in its socket and winced. “It’s all right, better than it was.”

  “Good, things could get interesting today.”

  “So I hear.”

  “Can we count you a friend of Jack then?”

  Fin was insulted that he even had to ask. The notion that she might be a friend of Creache made her skin crawl.

  “Well I’m certainly no friend of—”

  “Thought so. Just checking.” Tan’s grin parted his lips. “The captain will find him guilty, no surprise there. The punishment is what’s got everyone on edge. Captain could kill him for mutiny, and he’d be right with the law to do it. The sea’s got its own law though, I figure. Jack was doing right by the crew and ship when he crossed Creache—not that Creache cares.” Tan’s grin was gone. He looked out at the water, saying nothing.

  “What if the captain sentences him to death?” asked Fin.

  Tan’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword. He turned his head and looked at Fin. His grin was like a knife.

  “And if not death?”

  “A stiff flogging. Jack can handle that himself.” Tan looked at the western sky and his eyes darkened. “Whatever he decides, he’ll have to be quick about it. Looks to be rough wind to the southwest, and we can’t afford to waste the morning listening to the captain blather on.”

  “Have you talked to Jack?” she asked.

  Tan shook his head. “We’ll hear from Jack soon enough. Run and give those boys a hand with the sails.” He grabbed her arm firmly as she was turning away. “Strap on your sword and sharpen your wits. Like I said, could get interesting.” He turned and strode away, barking orders to the deck crew as he went.

  Fin hurried to assist in reefing the sails. The men around her were those she considered friends of Jack. There were no more than a handful on board that she suspected were sympathetic to the captain. Bill Stumm, of course, was first among them. Fin could understand Bill siding with the captain; he was a raging idiot. But the other men that tended toward the captain’s way were a mystery to her. Certainly, Creache had made them all a great deal of money. Mad or not, Fin couldn’t deny that. But that didn’t seem to be the whole of their motivation. Tan spoke of the way men interpreted the events surrounding Knut’s mutiny, subsequent demotion, and battery. Some had counted their survival to the captain. She was willing to wager those men scried the current situation through the same twisted glass. The few that would back the captain aside, there ought to be an easy majority that would stand for Jack. Good odds.

  The captain’s door creaked open and Creache walked onto the quarterdeck. Tan piped out the muster on his whistle. Men dropped their business and hurried to gather around. Jack Wagon was about to be tried at the Captain’s Mast.

  The door to the hold thumped open and a lumbering goon clambered up into the light, tugging on a chain that was attached to something at the bottom of the companionway. Creache hid a satisfied grin beneath his mustache. He strutted across the quarterdeck, looking around slowly at the gathered men. The captain had undoubtedly heard the rumors of trouble among the crew. He knew most of the men looked up to and liked Jack. Surely he considered such things as he weighed crime and punishment. Fin could see which men he counted loyal by the subtle change in his eyes as he looked over the crew. He considered Topper with odium then passed to Bill and his look lightened to something of a disgusted tolerance. Bill grinned back before his gaze passed on. She saw the same story told with several others. There were no surprises. When the captain’s eyes made it around to her, there was no mistaking the disdain in his glare. Fin was proud of it. She smiled at him slightly and his upper lip curled before he moved his glaring on to the next man.

  When at last he’d appraised them enough, he spoke.

  “Bring him.”

  The goon on the steps jerked the chain in his hand. Jack was at the other end. He stumbled up the stairs squinting at the sunlight like a mole. Fin gasped. Jack looked awful. His hair was a matted mess, he was filthy from head to toe, and he stank of long confinement. She saw by Jack’s eyes that he could read the crew’s reaction to his appearance. He straightened up and set his jaw, then stumbled across the deck in small half steps and leaned against the mast in front of the captain. His body looked overthrown, but his eyes still hinted at the bear.

  Creache beheld him with satisfaction and smiled. “Jack Wagon, you are here to answer the charge of mutiny.” Creache let the weight of the word settle upon both crew and accused. “How do you plead?” Creache didn’t seem to be speaking to Jack. He looked around at the crew, relishing his command of the deck.

  Jack straightened himself up to his full height and waited for Creache to look him in the eyes. When Creache tired of smirking around at the crew and became irritated with Jack’s silence, he snapped his head toward Jack and asked again, “How do you plead?”

  Jack answered in a loud, low growl, “Guilty as all bloody hell.”

  The captain dropped his smirk, and the onlooking crew erupted in murmurs. “You admit it, then?” asked Creache.

  “Admit it? Hell, I’m damned proud of it,” Jack growled back.

  “Do you know, Mr. Wagon, the price of mutiny?”

  “I know it, aye. And I’d sooner be sent to the hungry deep than listen to another order spit from your heathen mouth.”

  The crew stirred now in earnest. The captain flicked his eyes across the deck and appraised the men. He was worried. There was no smirk on his lips now.

  “Very well, Mr. Wagon, you freely admit your guilt, and I shall grant your just reward.” Creache produced his pistol from inside his coat and aimed it at Jack. The crew erupted into shouts of protest and anger. Tan stepped forward and drew his rapier. From behind the captain, Bill and two other men stepped forward in Creache’s defense.

  “Mr. Bough, consider carefully what you are about to do. I can carry out two executions as easily as one.” Creache’s voice was dangerously metered. Fin didn’t doubt he meant it.

  “There’ll be no executions, Captain. Jack done right by your crew and ship, and I can’t stand by and let you kill him for it.” Fin and several others walked up and stood beside Tan. “Most of the crew is with me, Captain. I ain’t one for mutiny—but what you’re up to is murder.”

  “Stand down, Tan,” said Jack. “I knew what I was doing when I give the order.”

  “And I know what I’m doing now,” Tan replied, then he turned his eyes back to the captain. “Either pull that trigger or put it away.”

  Creache was livid. His pistol wavered from Jack to Tan and back again as if he couldn’t decide how he preferred to spend his single shot. He ground his teeth. The Rattlesnake awaited his choice.

  Then Topper began shouting. “Man-o’-war! Port astern!”

  Every head snapped around to look and there, across the water, bore down upon them a warship of the king’s navy, a ship of the line. It was less than a league distant and running at full sail. They were caught unawares.

  “Man the guns!” cried Tan.

  “I give the orders on this ship!” the captain shouted. He cast a nervous glance over his shoulder at the approaching warship. “Turn to your duty, Mr. Bough. We’ll settle this business after. He lowered his gun. “Take Mr. Wagon back to his pen.”

  The man holding Jack’s chain tugged him toward the hatch, and with a last look at Tan, Jack followed his jailer below.

  The captain and Tan faced each other in silence. Fin held her breath. The captain would kill him the first chance he had. She was sure of it. Creache was no fool; he wouldn’t give Tan the opportunity to rally the crew. But for the moment, there were more important problems to deal with, primarily that of the eighty-gun ship crashing through the waves behind them. Tan turned to the maindeck and began shouting orders. As soon as Tan looked away, Creache motioned to Bill. Bill grabbed a pitchpole from the deck and swung it.

  “Tan!” yelled Fin, too late. The pole cracked across his head and he hit the deck like a coil of loo
se rope.

  “Chain him to the mast,” said Creache. “Like I told you—settle up later.”

  Creache shouted orders. Fin hadn’t heard him do so before and often doubted he knew how, but Creache took command without pause and no one dared question him with the Royal Navy chasing down their wake. The Rattlesnake’s sails went up, and before the man-of-war could close to firing distance they were running south with the wind.

  “We’ll not outrun her, Captain!” cried Topper from the helm. “Nor they us, but they’ll follow our wake till kingdom come.” The ships were in an even match for speed, but the British had the upper hand. They only needed to wait out the Rattlesnake. Eventually she’d make a mistaken tack. The Rattlesnake was far undermanned. The ship pressing down on them would have a full compliment of crew and could run them to exhaustion with ease.

  Creache stood astern and peered at his pursuer through his spyglass. Then he spun and surveyed the surrounding skyline. His eyes widened and he smiled. The storm hinted at in the early morning had grown dark and hungry. Billowing thunderheads towered like marble columns above a black maw of wind, rain, and wave. The sea below the clouds shunned all light and color. It frothed and boiled like the heaving breast of a drowning man, black-lipped and forsaken.

  “Turn her into the storm, Mr. Topper!” yelled Creache.

  “Madness, Captain!” cried Topper.

  “Madness to follow, says I,” yelled Creache as he grinned into the storm. “Turn your course or throw ye overboard. My way lies through the bosom of that yonder black and weeping mistress!”

  Creache may have been insane, but he was cunning. The lighter and more maneuverable Rattlesnake had a better chance of seeing the far side of the storm in one piece than the ungainly warship could hope for. Topper knew it too. He spun the wheel, and the deck lurched to port as the Rattlesnake tacked southwest. The ship rose and fell in hard chops against the sea, sending spray through the air at every fall. Fin and the rest of the crew scoured the deck to tie and stow all loose tackle and, once satisfied, all but the captain and Topper at the helm dove below to wait out the tempest. Tan lay unconscious and chained to the mast.