Blaggard's Moon (39 page)

Damrick's eyes flashed.

“Well,” Windall explained, reacting to the look, “It might have been quite awkward to be spotted on his grounds late at night, if I hadn't bothered to announce myself to him. So I had to stop in.”

But that's not why Damrick's pulse had quickened. “Jenta's mother…worked for you?”

“Yes. For many years.”

“Doing what?”

“Shayla was a household servant.”

“A household…” he shook his head, as though trying to clear it. “I thought she was…you know. Born noble, or something.”

“Who, Jenta?” Windall eyed Damrick carefully. “I didn't realize you'd met.”

“We've met.”

“Well, the royalty rumor has been going around in Skaelington. Runsford may have started it, actually. Wouldn't put it past him. But no. I can assure you that Jenta grew up in the cellar of my home. Her mother had a bit of bad luck with the girl's father, and found herself with few choices. It was Ryland moved them both to Skaelington, promising a better life.”

Damrick turned to look out over the sea. He saw nothing but Jenta, ascending a gangway, waving from a carriage. Those eyes, so sad and worldly, now meant something completely different. The girl was not at all what she seemed. Even at that first dance.

But then, perhaps that meant she was not out of reach, either. He raised his telescope, scanned the horizon. Wind flapped at the canvas and the bosun called out orders. Timbers creaked and waves dashed themselves against the hull. The burning wreckage of the
Widows Might
grew larger as they approached. But Damrick saw only Jenta's face; heard only Jenta's voice.

…This time, you will come find me?

Runsford Ryland's desk was covered with ungainly piles of books of accounts, contracts, and notes. He had pored over the history of the small fleet he'd entrusted to his son, and now he stood, leaning heavily on the dark, polished walnut. He hung his head.

“Sir? Is there something I can do?”

Runsford raised his head slowly, looked at his assistant. “Yes.” He looked with empty eyes at the bustle of his office through the plate-glass windows that surrounded him.

“Sir?”

Ryland nodded. “Have my yacht made ready. I'm sailing to Oster.”

“When, sir?”

He turned on the man. “Just as soon as my yacht is ready! Now, go!”

It was one week later when the three rogue Ryland ships unloaded their
goods in the Port of Oster, south of Mann. Though they'd seen many ships on the horizon, some certainly pirates, and several followed at a safe distance, no more had attacked Damrick and the Gatemen. Wentworth's little fleet arrived intact, and without another shot fired.

Now sugar, tea, and coffee were hoisted up from the holds, swung out onto the docks, accompanied by the grinding of chains, the screech of gulls, and the shouts of deckhands and shoremen. Chests of gold coin were carried under heavy arms to the local bank, where it would be divvied up among merchants whose goods had been sold in other ports.

News about who had accompanied and protected these ships, and what famous pirate they had defeated, spread quickly. Within hours, the piers and docks were filled with citizens come to welcome conquering heroes just in from glorious victories at sea.

“I guess they've heard of the Gatemen up here in Oster,” Hale Starpus commented, looking down from the quarterdeck onto the crowd. People held up the flags of Nearing Vast, and even a few crudely made, crimson-stained flags of the Gatemen, swords crossed in a ragged “V.” The people waved, they clapped, they chanted.

“Damrick should see all this,” Lye marveled.

“Aye,” Hale answered. “But the boss don't like to come out much.”

Lye watched Hale, saw no apprehension. His eyes drifted back over the crowds. “You know he don't like a fuss. Makes 'im nervous the pirates'll come after us in port again, I reckon.”

“I reckon he's right about that.” Hale rubbed his hairy cheek with a knuckle. “What do you s'pose he does in there by hisself?”

Lye shrugged. “He thinks.”

“About what?”

“About plannin'.”

Hale considered that, looking back toward the cabin. “That's a whole lot a' plannin', then.”

A fiddle player jumped up onto a dock post below them, facing the crowd. A smattering of applause met his short effort to tune up.

“He gonna sing one of them songs about the Gatemen?” Lye asked.

“Maybe. There's some still spreadin' around, I hear.”

“I think Slow Slim's kinda squashed most a' that.”

The fiddler tapped his toe, nodded his head, sawed his bow, and began singing. Very soon the crowd was clapping along with the lively rhythm, some even singing snatches of the words.

Young Damrick, he got angry

When they let ol' Sharkbit be,

So he took a pint of whiskey

And some pistols out to sea,

And he boarded
Savage Grace

Just as pleasant as you please,

Said right to that pirate's face,

“You're a comin' back with me!”

Here the crowd cheered as the fiddler played a tuneful bridge. Then he began another verse:

Ol' Sharkbit shook his fist now

And he told his men to shoot,

But Damrick had four pistols

And a fifth one in his boot.

Four pirates fell in order,

Then he made the others dance;

And Sharkbit, he boiled over

When his cutthroats soiled their pants!

The crowd crowed their pleasure.

“He didn't make no one dance,” Lye informed Starpus. “No one messed his britches neither, that I saw. That's all made up.”

“Folks seem to like it, though,” Hale noted.

Sharkbit pulled a knife to slit him,

But young Damrick pulled his gun;

Those pirates all yelled “Get him!”

But ol' Sharkbit was outdone.

Yes sir, Damrick pulled the trigger,

And there's no need to explain

What happens to a blaggard

When a Gateman takes his aim!

A great cheer arose, and then a smattering of calls for Damrick himself.

“Not much mention a' yours truly,” Lye muttered.

“I thought you fell into the drink and missed it anyways,” Hale offered.

“Most of it. So maybe it's better this way.”

Very quickly the entire throng began chanting Damrick's name, demanding he come forth.

“I'm not going out there,” the head Gateman told his two lieutenants, as they stood in his cabin. He was lying on his bunk, head and shoulders against the bulkhead. He needed a shave and his hair was mussed. He looked like he hadn't slept. Books were scattered about, some open. A quill stood up in an open inkwell beside several sheaves of foolscap covered with a careful, precise hand. A lamp and two candles burned, adding a soft haze to the direct light from the single open porthole.

“Listen to 'em!” Lye pleaded. “They started out happy, but you keep not showin' up. Now they sound about to turn mean.”

“So are they for us, or against us?” Damrick asked.

“For us, a' course,” Hale answered.

“Then why would they turn mean?”

Hale shrugged. “They just need someone to cheer on, I guess.”

“Well, I don't feel like being the man they cheer on today.”

“Ye don't care what they think?” Lye asked, stumped.

“No. And I don't know why you do. They left you out of their song completely.”

“You heard it?”

“I heard it.” He glanced up at the porthole.

“Well. That's true, they did. It was a good song, though. Spite a' that.”

“I'll tell you what I care about, gentlemen. I care about those in the crowd who won't get angry just because I don't come take a bow. I care about those who believe in what we're doing, and will back us no matter what happens. I wouldn't give a chewed plug for a thousand crowds who cheer and sing songs when we're successful, and then disappear when we need them.”

“But Damrick,” Lye tried. “That was Mann. This is Oster. These are simpler folk. They only want to thank ye.”

The crowd's restlessness grew into another chant.
Damrick! Dam-rick! DAM-rick! DAM-RICK!

“If you won't go, then I'll go wave at 'em,” Lye said. “Maybe they'll think I'm you, and go home.”

“Go, then.”

Damrick listened from inside his cabin as the chant turned to a great, raucous cheer. Then it suddenly died down amid calls of “Speech! Speech!”

“This won't go well,” Damrick predicted.

Hale nodded. “Lye gets flustered, people lookin' at him.”

After a moment's pause, they heard a faint voice, followed immediately by cries of “Louder!” and “We can't hear!”

The brief silence that followed ended with a shout from Lye Mogene. “I ain't Damrick, blame it all!”

Boos rained.

“He's an honest man,” Damrick said pleasantly.

The chant was gone, but the rhythm returned. They stamped their feet and clapped in unison. It was a threatening cadence.

Lye burst back into Damrick's cabin as the cadence on the docks grew darker.

“How did it go?” Damrick asked, unable to keep the corner of his lip from rising.

“Not so good,” he panted. “I think they still want you.”

“All right, go give them this message. Tell them it's from me. Say, ‘Damrick sends his thanks to you all. He will meet each one of you, one by one, as you either swear allegiance to the Gatemen's cause, or come against him in battle.' ”

Lye's eyes went wide. “I can't say that.”

“Why not?”

“It ain't what they wanna hear. They don't wanna swear nothin'. They just want to cheer ye.”

“Tell them I'll meet them, one at a time, as they either swear to follow the Gatemen or meet us in battle. If they don't want to do either, then I'm sure they'll never see me. Now go. Do it.” Damrick's eyes were hard.

Lye's shoulders slumped as he left the room.

Hale and Damrick heard boos, then heard the boos die down, and then heard Lye's voice.

“Damrick says thank ye!”

A smattering of applause.

“He says he'll see most of ye face-to-face sooner or later, if ye want to foller him, or if ye decide to fight against him. But that's it. He ain't comin' out, so quit yer bellyachin'!' ”

Boos and threats rose again. Then they died down as Lye shouted, “Wait! Wait!” Amid mostly silence, Lye shouted, “That last bit about the bellyachin', that was from me, not him!”

And then the boos began again, but halfheartedly. They died away into grumbling. And by the time Lye returned to Damrick's cabin, his face redder than usual, the docks were quiet.

“Nice work,” Damrick told him.

“Ahhhh,” was his only reply.

At the back of the throng were six men who had not joined in the rhythmic demand for a glimpse of Damrick Fellows. They stood on the ragged stoop of the harbormaster's office as the crowd thinned. Two of them were deep in conversation. One of them, tall, gray at the temples, slightly round at the middle, spectacles pinched onto his nose, faced the other. It was Runsford Ryland, dressed in the white slacks and blue jacket of a captain. He made his points into the shorter man's ear. The shorter man stood with thick arms crossed, facing the crowd, watching the ship, apparently ignoring the harangue. This one wore no hat, and under his short-cropped hair could be seen several washboard rows of wrinkles that ran across the back of his scalp, behind his ears, above his neck. These wrinkles were not from age, just a healthy excess of flesh, both fat and muscle. He appeared to be somewhat less than persuaded. Flanking these two were four more men, four well-dressed and well-armed bodyguards. They also ignored Ryland's lecture.

“It's my ship,” Ryland insisted. “He's a dangerous man. I demand that you come aboard with me.”

Finally, the shorter man replied. “Demand all you want. You want him arrested, you need a warrant.”

“I don't want him arrested. Not yet, anyway. Have you heard nothing I've been saying? I…want…your…protection! I need to speak to him, to find out whether he needs to be arrested. You can go aboard without a warrant, Sheriff, to protect citizens and their property,” Ryland insisted. “That's what lawmen do.”