Authors: George Bryan Polivka
“Doesn't look like much, does he?”
“Nope. He was never much account before, what I hear.”
“So you know Damrick, do you?”
“Sure. He was always a quiet lad. Serious boy. He wasn't ever a fighter. More studious, y'know. Brainy sort. Funny how he turned out.”
Mazeley looked at the man's apron, the food stains on it. There was a faint odor of ale about him. “Which one's your tavern?”
“Slow Slim's Pub.” He put out a hand. “I'm Slim Dubbin.” Mazeley shook it. “Pub is just around the corner.”
“I suspect there'll be some celebrating at Slow Slim's tonight.”
Dubbin beamed, leaned in, spoke softly. “Damrick and his men are comin' around later. He wants it a secret, so don't tell. But stop by. I'll introduce ye.”
“Thank you. I may just do that. But did Damrick get off the ship? Or is he still aboard?”
“Oh, he got off first, dressed as a plain sailor, helped tie her off.” Slow Slim tapped his head. “He's a smart one, that boy. Pirates around, they say, and he's not makin' many friends with that bunch. Can't be too careful.”
“I guess that's right.”
“Hey, you be careful now yourself. And don't tell anyone what I told you. You never know who's listenin'.”
“No, you don't. But you can count on me. Thanks for the invitation.”
“You're welcome.”
And he wandered off before Slow Slim thought to ask his name.
That evening, Slow Slim's was anything but. Everyone in the city knew by now that the
Calliope
had returned victorious, and even without knowing their whereabouts, people came to the docks to celebrate with the now-fabled Gatemen. Many found their way to Slow Slim's by accident. Many more had heard rumors.
Damrick and his men entered the pub from the back alley, in secret, and by nine o'clock braided leather armbands and red feathers filled the back room. Toasts were made and drunk in private, and it was meant to end that way. But by ten Slim's place was jammed with chanting, hollering patrons who banged on the doors to the back room, wanting to offer their congratulations. Alarmed, Damrick ordered his men to take off their armbands and remove their feathers, and head back to the ship a few at a time. He led the way, disappearing into the night. But fewer than half the Gatemen followed.
“Them's all friendlies, Damrick. What're ye worried about?” Lye asked, looking back longingly over his shoulder.
“I gave my orders.”
“Aw, don't be too hard on 'em. They ain't used to bein' praised to kingdom come. And this ain't exactly a regular military outfit.”
“They have their orders,” he repeated. He looked to Hale Starpus, lumbering along with the pair. “Isn't that right, Mr. Starpus?”
“That's right, sir.”
“Well they ain't gonna be happy with ye, not lettin' 'em celebrate what they done.”
“Their happiness is not my concern. I'd like to keep them alive.”
Lye went quiet. Finally, he muttered, “Well, ye'll have to patch things up in the morning with 'em, that's all.”
But by morning there would be little left to patch up.
Slow Slim flung wide the doors to the back room well before eleven, and well-wishers flowed in to toast the Gatemen. Among them were friends and relatives, delighted citizens, the curious, and a quiet handful that fit into none of those categories. Rum and ale flowed. Gatemen tied their armbands back on, or had them tied on by admirers, and they
replaced their red feathers, many with the single goal of assuring they could drink for free.
The quiet few grew into a dozen. And then a score. And suddenly, with no warning, the gunfire began. It lasted less than a minute, a sudden storm of black powder roaring red, yellow fire belching from under coats, under tables, gray smoke in sudden clouds, choking the room. Men cried out, swore. Bodies crashed through tables, chairs, windows. Women screamed, ran, fell to their knees with their hands over their ears. When the echoes died away and the bystanders had evaporated into the night, a haze that smelled of sulfur drifted across the bodies of twenty-two Gatemen lying in pools of their own blood. Slow Slim lay dead on the floor, musket at his sideâthe price paid for attempting to stop the onslaught. A dozen of Conch's men looked for signs of life among their enemies, and extinguished it wherever they found it.
“Come quick!” a voice shouted up from the dock beside the
Calliope
. “There's shooting! The Gatemen are under fire. Come help! Quick!”
Fifteen Gatemen grabbed their pistols and headed toward the gangway. Damrick stood in their path. “Your orders are to stay aboard,” he told them. His eyes were dull and lifeless.
“You gonna sit up here and let your own men die?” one of them asked, incredulous.
“Slow Slim's was a trap. And so is this.”
“Trap or not, we gotta help.”
The others called out agreement.
Damrick looked from face to angry face. “Your orders are to stay here,” he said quietly. “This ship needs protecting.” And then he walked back to his cabin.
Lye Mogene and Hale Starpus followed Damrick, trying to talk sense into him. The rest clattered down the gangway, headed back to the pub.
Inside Damrick's cabin, the two men spoke as their leader checked his loaded pistols. “This is wrong, Damrick.” Hale was angry. “They stood by you, you gotta stand by them. You're the leader a' this outfit. You got a reputation.”
“And you've got two minutes,” he told them. “Put the cannon overboard. We're leaving the ship.”
“Yer runnin'?” Lye asked, blinking widely.
“It was a mistake to gather the men together.” He looked up at them, sadness deep in his eyes. “We outfoxed the pirates at sea, but they've
beaten us badly here in port. It won't happen again.” He stood. “Conch and his men will be here in force in less than five minutes.” He tucked his pistols into his belt; one in the front, one in the back. “After they've murdered all the men who just took their bait, they'll come here.”
“Bait?” asked Starpus. “What bait?”
“Who do you think that was shouting up from the docks? One of ours? Ours were already dead.”
“How do you know that?”
“Get your things, gentlemen. Throw the cannon overboard. Then get to the ship's boat, seaward side. We've got maybe four minutes. And those are orders I suggest you obey.” He walked out the door, his duffel over his shoulder.
It was more than five minutes later, but not much more, when a sailor climbed the mooring lines of the
Calliope
and lowered the gangway so that Conch Imbry and his pirates could pour up, searching for Damrick Fellows.
“He ran, then,” Conch said. “He din't fight. He ran.”
“It would appear so.” Mart Mazeley was looking at the vacant metal plates where the cannon were. His eyes moved to the iron furnace. A plate of beans sat atop it. Then he scanned the empty davit arms that had lowered the ship's boat into the sea. He scanned the darkness of the harbor, but could see nothing.
Suddenly Conch had Mazeley by the throat. He slammed the smaller man into the bulkhead. “Ye said he'd come. Ye said he'd fight.”
“I was wrong about him,” Mazeley managed, his throat gurgling.
“Now he's got away!”
Mazeley watched Conch's angry pupils work back and forth under the slits of his eyelids. But the unimpressive man said nothing more.
Finally Conch released him. “He
ran
. Like a coward. He let his men be slaughtered.”
“And that's where I misjudged him.” Mazeley rubbed his neck. “I took him for a man of vanity. The sort who couldn't bear the idea of losing a bar fight. But he's more dangerous than that.”
“How?”
“He's righteous.”
“What, ye mean he prays?”
“I mean he won't come to the aid of the unrighteous. Even if they're his own men. It means he has no loyalty, except to his vision of who he is, and what he's supposed to do.”
“No loyalty? He can't lead men, then. He's disgraced himself.”
“I don't think so.”
Conch's ire was rising again. “What is it yer thinkin' now?”
Mazeley continued to massage his own throat. Red fingerprints were now visible under one ear, a red thumbprint under the other.
“Speak away, I ain't gonna kill ye fer bein' wrong, or ye'd a been dead long ago.”
“I believe Damrick Fellows will rebuild the Gatemen. He'll find men who'll obey him. Men who'll share this righteous mission. Hell's Gatemen will be back, I'm afraid. And next time they won't be so easy to trap.”
“Ye shoulda shot 'im when ye had the chance.”
Mazeley looked surprised. “As far as I know, I have never seen him.”
Damrick watched the fire from across the harbor. All three men sat still in the ship's boat; none made a move to leave even though they'd already tied up to a pier in front of a darkened cottage.
“Looks like a ship,” Lye pointed out. “Don't it.”
“It's the
Calliope
,” Damrick affirmed.
“There goes yer daddy's ship, then,” Hale added. Then he looked to Damrick. “Where's yer daddy?”
“I sent him away.”
“When?”
“Soon as we moored. I figured he'd be an easier target than the Gatemen.”
“Where'd you send him?”
“Somewhere safe.”
All three were silent a moment.
“Is there such a place now?” Lye asked.
Damrick just shook his head.
“I got a question, Mr. Drumbone.” It was Dallis Trum.
“Just one?”
He spoke very slowly, as if reaching for something just out of his grasp. “If it's three men sittin' in a boat, talkin' to each other, how do you know what it is they're sayin'?”
“Now there's an odd question. You just listen to them, like anywhere else.”
“No, I mean, who listened?”
“They listened to one another.”
“Aye, butâ¦how did you know to tell us what they said?”
Ham laughed low. It was a rolling, rumbling, pleasant sound, like thunder when the crops need rain. “Ah, now you're sneaking in on the storyteller's art. Let me ask you a question. Do you know which of them three men I've ever met?”
“No.”
“Do you know who it was told me the story, so I'd know to tell it to you?”
There was a pause. “No.”
“Then are you saying you can't believe that one of those men would say such a thing as he said, to any of the other two?”
“No.”
“Then all I have to say to you, Mr. Trum, is if you want to hear the tale, then lie your head back and hear the tale, and quit your worrying about where it comes from. That's my worry, and mine alone.”
“Aye, sir.” He seemed happy to oblige.
Delaney tugged at his wrinkled shirt. He didn't know where Ham had gotten all his particulars from, either, but he didn't give it much thought. He'd sat in boats, or at least on ships, and watched ships burn. He'd seen too often the remnants of a battle, where all the anger and sweat and energy of a fight and a plunder gave way to drying blood and corpses and smoldering ruins. Those were hollow, ugly times, and if a man didn't get a little bit thoughtful, why, he likely had no head with which to think. Death always caused Delaney to do at least a bit of pondering. Much like he was doing now.
He had seen men get themselves killed a lot of different ways. But unless they didn't see it coming, which was a mercy, they all died alike in one way. They died scared. Delaney had never really thought about it, but now his mind went there, and he followed right along after. He couldn't help but know the panic in the eyes of the Gatemen, there in the pub, as they realized too slowly they were under attack, as they tried to pull their pistols, time slowing to a crawl, reactions slowed by alcohol and surprise, knowing as curses left their lips and gun barrels filled their vision that they couldn't save themselves. It was that same terror that took the pirates on the
Tranquility
. The terror he'd seen before, with men weeping, crying, even calling out for their mamas in the most piteous way. Strong men, hard men. He'd seen some go crazy with rage, which wasn't anything at all but a whole lot of panic and a whole lot of pain all
mixed together. Pirates were supposed to be rough men who laughed in the face of death like Skeel Barris did. But they were just men, at the bottom. And men were just boys who grew up some.
Delaney wiped and patted at the front of his shirt. It looked like it had been at the bottom of his locker for a year. Thing was, he thought, the longer a knot stayed tied, the harder it was to untie it, and the more kinked or wrinkled the rope or the rag became. Maybe it was the shadow of his own death approaching, and he was starting to get scared, but he felt he was about ready to try to untie a few knots. Thing was, he didn't really know how.