The Fiddler's Gun Read online

  The pitch and roll of the ship turned the world on its end. Fin stumbled, first one way then the other, one moment trotting downhill, the next struggling up, occasionally being thrown headlong into a bulkhead. She’d been in rough sea, or so she thought, but nothing she’d experienced had prepared her for the spinning world of a ship caught up and laid to the mercy of a real storm. The sounds echoing through the hull made her shudder. The timbers shivered and screamed, and she feared at any moment the hull would give way and the hungry sea would come rushing in to devour them all. Again and again, monstrous waves drove into the ship and the entire vessel trembled. Fin could neither sleep nor find shelter for her mind in other things. The storm consumed her thoughts. Madness, Topper had cried to the captain, and madness it was, for no man sane would cast himself willingly beneath the hammering fist of nature.

  Topper called down for a furling of sail. Art Thomasson chose a handful of men and climbed up into the gale to meet the order. When they opened the hatch to go out, the entire hold filled with the howl and bluster of the storm. Through the hatchway Fin could spy nothing but a great blackness, even though she knew the hour must be noon or soon after. She thanked God in silence that she wasn’t called upon to the brave the deck.

  After a time, the men that had gone up returned shaken and tired.

  “How bad is it?” asked Fin.

  Art made a vain attempt at squeezing the water from his shirt. “Worst I seen since—hell—since a long time. The ’Snake’ll weather her. Topper’s at the helm, and he’s been blown far and worse. It’ll be a sign of sweet Jesus hisself if Tan see the sun again. Creache still got him chained about the mast, and the waves are like to rip him apart if they don’t drown him first. Got him chained ’round backwards where he can’t even hold on or keep his feet.”

  “Damn Creache’s heart!” called up a sailor from the shadows.

  “Watch yer bleedin’ mouth if you don’t want the same thing,” protested one of Bill’s men. “Tan’s gone mutinous with Jack and he’s getting no more’n he asked for.”

  The sailor sitting next to Fin stood up and spat on the deck. “Creache is a murdering swine, and what you call mutiny, I calls fair justice!”

  Bill’s man jumped to his feet and puffed up his chest. The two men circled one another and narrowed their eyes, each quietly daring the other to speak another cross word or turn his back.

  Before violence could come of it, a voice came yelling up from the bilge. “Get to the pumps a’fore we’re swimming in the berth!” It was Bill yelling from below where he was guarding Jack in his cell. Art and a sailor named Sam Catcher took the first shift, and Fin was glad of the timing. Had Bill not sent up his yell when he did, the situation would have come to blows.

  The storm continued to batter the ship without mercy. Twice more, men braved the deck to secure the sails and tackle, and twice Fin was thankful she wasn’t called to the work. Two hours later, Art and Sam climbed out of the bilge looking and smelling like drenched rats. Fin breathed a sigh of relief when they pointed a finger at her and Knut, indicating it was their turn at the pumps. They descended into the bowels of the ship to work, and Fin was glad to have something to do. As they entered the bilge, she saw Bill propped comfortably against a bulkhead trying to sleep. Next to him was a door with a chain running through the handle and a lock to fasten it. Jack was inside.

  The bilge pumps were spread out along the floor. They were made of two parallel sets of baffles and long wooden handles along the top to work them back and forth. Knut and Fin sat opposite each other. The water was deep enough that they were submerged up to their elbows while sitting. Fin pushed her handle down with a squeesh and Knut’s handle went up with a creeak. Then Knut bore down and Fin’s handle rose. So began the long rhythm and song of the bilge. Squeesh, creeak, squeesh, creeak.

  The smell of the room was nauseating. A bilge was a place never dry and forever in some state of rot. The walls were covered in mildewy slime, and the pungent, musty smell kept Fin on the verge of passing out as she breathed deep of it in her work. Worse, they didn’t seem to be making any headway against the ever-spilling water. The storm’s beating constantly replenished whatever volume they pushed out with the pumps.

  Squeesh, creeak, squeesh, creeak.

  “You tired, Knut?” she asked, barely whispering. The words anchored her mind, stopped it from floating.

  “I reckon,” shrugged Knut. Fin shook her head at him. Knut lacked extremes, unless extreme apathy for his situation counted. Creache had broken his mind, but Knut was a mystery to her even in that knowledge. Fin’s arms burned from the work, and all he did was “reckon.”

  Fin looked over her shoulder. Bill was still propped against the bulkhead at an angle that, miraculously, the storm did not seem to overturn while he snored. There was a small window at the top of the door he guarded. She peered at it, trying to see Jack within. Only darkness looked back. Then as the lantern next to the door shuddered with a wave, its light led her eye to Bill’s belt. There, twinkling like a star, was the key.

  Fin turned back around. “Knut?”

  “Yeah?” he reckoned.

  “We’ve got to rescue—” She cast a nervous glance back at Bill, then lowered her voice and leaned in close to Knut. “We’ve got to get Jack out of there.”

  Knut looked over at Bill with a frown. He considered it for a moment then shook his head. “Captain might get sore about it.”

  “Knut, listen to me. When this storm is over, the captain is going to kill Jack, and probably Tan too.” She studied his face; it was still frowning. “You’ve got to help me, Knut. You don’t want Jack and Tan to get killed, do you?”

  Knut slowly shook his head.

  “Keep working. It won’t do much good to save Jack and lose the ’Snake. Soon as the storm lets up, we make our move.” Fin nodded assurance to Knut and then returned to the squeesh creeak of the task at hand.

  Having spoken her intent into being, the long time afterward gave her plenty of opportunity to mull over the consequences. If they were caught, the captain would see to it she got the same as Jack and Tan. She knew there were a good many men aboard that sided with her, but she doubted they’d be easily moved to action bereft of Jack and Tan’s leadership. The captain would win a swift victory among the crew if he could dispose of them quickly. Without leaders, the followers would soon fall back into line.

  If Fin could get Jack free, however, they had a mutinous chance. The men would follow Jack. They’d follow Tan too. But he was beyond her reach, chained to the mast in full view of the captain. Creache had to be stopped, stopped from exacting his cruel sentence on Jack and Tan, stopped from ever again beating Knut like an animal, stopped from reaching her home, Peter, the orphanage.

  This time Fin had choices.

  They were taking on less water now. She could tell by the way the water sloshed to and fro across the room that the waves were losing their former fury. The storm was letting up. Fin looked across at Knut, who had said nothing since his earlier reckoning. He looked troubled, scared.

  “It’s time, Knut,” Fin whispered. “Wait here.”

  Fin looked back at Bill; he was still snoring. She stood up carefully. Her back burned from working the pump for so long, and it felt good to stretch it out. She stepped away from the pumps, moving delicately so that her feet would make no splash in the shallow water. If she could get the key from Bill’s belt without waking him, things might go smoothly. The ship rolled without warning and she pitched to the side, flailing for support. Knut gasped behind her. Her hands found wood. She barely caught herself against the bulkhead, nearly falling headlong to the floor at Bill’s feet. Bill shifted his weight from the wall to the door behind him, but didn’t wake. Fin swore silently—now she would have to move Bill to get the door open. She knelt down in front of him. He still showed no sign of waking. The key was tied to his belt with a small length of cord. Fin took a deep breath and flexed her fingers to wake them up. She took hold of the c
ord and gently tugged the tassel. The knot slipped with ease, and the key dropped quietly into her waiting palm. Fin breathed in relief. Now she only had to get Bill out of the way.

  Fin slunk back to where Knut waited at the pump and pressed the key into his hand.

  “Listen to me, Knut,” Fin said. “I’m going to lure Bill up into the berth. As soon as he’s out of here, you’ve got to unlock that door and get Jack out.” In the back of her mind, memories flashed by, memories of her and Peter playing practical jokes on the sisters or on Danny Shoeman and his friends. This was no different. It was just a game, and she’d played it a hundred times before. Only this time if it didn’t go as she planned, there’d be more to pay than a few extra chores after dinner. “Knut, do you hear me?” she shook his arm. “Do you understand?”

  Knut nodded, or maybe he was just shaking in fear. Fin wasn’t sure, but she didn’t have time to wait and find out. She smiled at him then turned and stood up. She faced Bill and squared her shoulders. She was done letting others make choices for her. Starting right now, she was making her own. Jack and Tan had done right by her, looked out for her, and she couldn’t stand by and let Creache murder them. Mutiny be damned. If crossing Creache was mutiny, then Fin held it as virtue.

  She kicked a splash of water up at Bill. He lurched awake, spitting curses out as if he was choking on them. He looked around bleary-eyed for the source of the splash and had nearly focused on the culprit when the second flurry of water flew up into his face.

  “Come have a turn at the pumps, Bill.”

  “Button?” Bill ventured. “Button, I’m gonna crack you open!”

  “If you want to sleep, come have a throw and I’ll put you to bed like last time.” Fin smiled and topped it off with a wink. She didn’t expect she’d need much bait to reel him in. He took the lure and gulped it down as if it was the Last Supper itself. Bill charged at her, and Fin stepped neatly out of the way allowing him to trip perfectly on the pump and fall into the water. When Bill had splashed, screamed, cursed, and dripped his way to his feet he found Fin lighting up the steps and out of the bilge. Bill followed suit, so anxious to corner Fin that he slipped and tripped over his own feet half a dozen times before finally managing to climb the steps on all fours like a beast.

  In the berthing area, Fin was standing in the middle of the room, hopping back and forth on her feet with happy anticipation. Bill staggered in, dripping wet, wide-eyed, and spitting fire.

  “Damn your blood, Button. I’m going to skin you alive and take a bite out your liver so’s ye goes straight to hell.”

  Fin didn’t bother replying. She winked again as the rest of the sailors laid wagers and cheered them on. Bill charged and the blows began. Fin had forgotten how hard the big ogre could hit, but he soon reminded her. She tried to dance about the room and avoid him as she’d done in Philadelphia, but found she’d not taken the size of the ship’s berth into account; it was too small and too crowded, and Bill seemed to be able to corner her no matter which way she bounced. She landed plenty of her own blows, but each time one of his huge ham-hands fell upon her she said a prayer that Knut would hurry up and get Jack free so she’d get a little help. But blow after blow landed, and neither Knut nor Jack darkened the door.

  In and out, Fin plugged her quick, sharp jabs. Bill was bloodied at the nose and lip but, freshly slept, he showed no signs of slowing and Fin was already weary from the pumps. Another meaty fist landed on her brow and she felt a hot flow of blood stream down into her eyes. Another blow. Her head cracked back against the wall and she slid to the ground. Cheers and boos sounded around the room. Bill stood over her and spat.

  “Get up, runt. I ain’t done with ye!” snarled Bill.

  Fin was mad. She hadn’t lost a fight in ten years and didn’t aim to start now. Beneath her she felt a crunch from whatever had broken her fall. It took her a couple of hazy seconds to realize that the splintered box she was laying on had a fiddle inside. Now she was doubly mad. She willed herself to her feet, but her body was slow to obey. She faltered and grabbed a stanchion to pull herself up, then wiped the blood from her face and smeared it on her shirt. She shook her mind to rouse it and nudged her fiddle case safely out of the way before squaring off again with Bill. He was the one grinning now. Fin mustered up enough stubbornness from the deep well of it within her to smile at him before launching a new flurry of fists.

  Back and forth they traded wallops, blood for blood, bruise for bruise, and Fin began to see signs that Bill was getting winded. Those ham-fisted blows might hurt to catch, but they were hurting him to throw as well. Bill was missing. He’d toss a fist at Fin and she’d dodge it and toss a couple back as she bounced around him. He’d reorient and throw a few more, some misses, some hits, but every one of them was wearing him closer to the floor. Fin’s brain was swimming from being juggled this way and that inside her skull, but she saw through enough of the cloudy water in her vision to see that Bill was about done in. She wasn’t about to let him simply finish, though. Fin wanted to enjoy the knowledge that it was her that finished him, not just time and his own weight.

  Where was Knut? She’d been knocking bones with Bill for what seemed like an hour, and neither Knut nor Jack had come up the steps.

  Bill overthrew his last punch. Fin hammered him in the ribs as he stumbled past, smiling at the crunchy sound of a cracking rib, then planted her whole weight behind her right arm and let it fly. Fin’s blow caught him under the jaw and removed most of his remaining teeth. He landed in a grunting heap against the timber.

  Out of the corner of a blurry eye, Fin saw the doorway darken. She breathed a sigh of relief. What had taken Knut so long?

  But something wasn’t right. Men should be cheering, slapping her on the back, muttering as they swapped money to settle bets, but the berth was deadly silent. The only sound was a muffled splashing from downstairs. She wiped the blood out of her eyes and shook her head to clear her vision. Every man in the room was silent and staring at the doorway. Fin couldn’t figure any reason they’d look at Knut like that and turned to see what all the matter was. There in the door, fire-eyed and poised to pounce, stood Tiberius Creache.

  “What in the devil’s fire is going on here?” he shouted. “I’ve just sailed you sorry dogs through a black wind from hell herself and saved your wretched skins from the wrath of King George, and here you are playing like whore-born bastards in the gutter!” He glared at them and twitched his mustache. No one moved or spoke. The faint splashes from the deck below drifted up the stairs. “Wake that dog up!” he shouted and pointed at Bill. On the floor next to him was a small folded paper. The Gazette, from Philadelphia, knocked out of the case when it broke her fall. Fin bent over and grabbed it, nearly succeeding in throwing herself to the ground thanks to her recently assaulted sense of balance. As she stuffed it into her shirt pocket, Art gave Bill a few kicks in the side. Bill didn’t budge.

  “Think he’s out for a while, sir,” Art reported over the sloshing from down below.

  “What in the name of God is going on down there?” Creache shouted down the steps in irritation at the splashing noise. As soon as he spoke it the noise stopped, timidly, as a child ceases when it finds itself discovered in mischief.

  “Bill! Get up you filthy dog. You’re to be keeping guard on that blasted Jack!” shouted the captain. Then he became aware of the implication. If Bill was up here then Jack was unkept.

  Creache wheeled around and pounced down the steps. Fin tried to snap her mind back into lucidity. What was Knut doing? He had to have Jack free by now. Then from below, the captain began to roar.

  “You! God damn your heart, I should have done with you by now! What in the blue deep are you doing?” he screamed.

  Knut’s voice floated up soft and full of trembling, “I’m looking for the key, Captain. I dropped it and—” a dull thud interrupted whatever he was about to confess and Knut cried in pain. Fin went cold. They were caught.

  “Worthless pig!” spat Crea
che. A fumbling commotion banged up the steps, and Creache passed the doorway dragging Knut by the hair.

  Fin and the rest of the crew rushed out of the berth. The sky was clear ahead of them and the Rattlesnake was running south. To the rear, the storm muttered and crackled in the distance. There was no sign of the British vessel; whatever else, the captain had saved them from that doom. Topper, drenched to the bone and looking almost clean from the storm’s lashing, stood at the helm like a tide-battered stone. At the base of the mast lay Tan upon his back, still shackled to the mast. He was coughing and sputtering, bleeding from a deep gash on his head and shivering: the storm had pounded him senseless and nearly drowned him on deck.

  Knut howled. A harrowing, animal drone issued from his mouth. The captain had dragged him to the quarterdeck and stood above him reigning down blows from a cat-o’-nine-tails. Already, blood was flowing from his arms as he tried to deflect the torment.

  “Stop!” cried Fin. She couldn’t bear it again. The captain ignored her. “Stop it!” she demanded as she ran across the deck and threw herself on top of Knut’s writhing body. “Stop it!” she pleaded. Creache stilled his hand mid-stroke and fumed at her.

  “It’s my fault. Let him alone!” Fin cried.

  “I should have known that ill-born half-wit would be in cahoots with someone,” spat Creache.

  Fin had received spankings on an almost regular basis at the orphanage. The sisters had occasion to paddle Fin so often that if a day passed and the paddle hadn’t been produced, it was simply assumed Fin hadn’t been caught. Sister Hilde spanked Fin so hard once, for throwing food at the dinner table, that Fin was sure the shape of her bottom was permanently altered from it. Paddles, switches, belts, canes—Fin had bared her tail for them all during her childhood and was quite fond of showing off the calluses she’d managed to form on her nether cheeks to prove it. But for all the paddlings in her life, nothing had prepared her body or mind for the cruel bite of the cat-o’-nine-tails, a strap of leather roughly cut into many shreds and fixed with barbs and sharks teeth to rend flesh from bone. Creache brought his arm down and the tails bit into Fin’s back. Agony wet her vision. He pulled the tails away and they bit again like fire as they tore out of her flesh. She screamed. Creache flailed at her with the cat-o’-nine-tails as he shouted and raved.