The Devil's Fire (23 page)

"I've had it with his stench," Livingston said. He whirled on Thatcher. "Count your days. The first island we come to will be the end of you."

"No!" Thatcher screamed. He looked past Livingston and pleaded to Griffith with outstretched hands. "Don't desert me!"

"Desert you?" Livingston laughed, stepping in front of Griffith. "Your quarrel be with me now, Thatcher. You’ve killed one of the crew, and I’ll see you dead for that."

Thatcher felt dizzy. The walls of the hold seemed to stretch away from him and Livingston seemed to grow as tall as
Harbinger
's mainmast. Hot beads of sweat streamed down his temples and cheeks.

Griffith's voice was distant. "He's our surgeon, Edward."

Livingston's voice was thunderous. "He's a murderer! I see no use for a surgeon what kills his patients!"

Griffith stepped around Livingston and fixed Thatcher with a piteous gaze that reminded him of Norton's words: "You look on me as one who stands over a grave."

After Griffith and Livingston left the hold, Thatcher sat in seclusion, attempting to regain control of his body, which was trembling so violently that he thought it might fall apart. His mind spun endlessly with dreadful images, each more gruesome than the last. It was not until he looked on the corpse of Norton that his shivering ceased. The tranquility of Norton's lifeless face cleansed Thatcher's mind of its reeling. It was a face he had seen on many corpses, and until now it had meant nothing to him.

The shot had carved a clean hole in the center of Norton's forehead. His hair rested in a sticky mass of blood and brain matter, where his skull had ruptured. Thatcher closed Norton's eyes and did not look at him again. Shortly thereafter, several pirates descended into the hold and carried Norton's body aloft.

They did not spare a glance at Thatcher; as far as they were concerned, he was dead already.

Thatcher wandered the deck for six days, as would a man who strolls about a dream, with not a care or fear in the world. And whenever his thoughts were of death, he recalled the tranquil face of Norton, and a smile came to his lips. His time on Earth was nearing its end, he knew, and he looked often to the sky above and lost himself in its cerulean brilliance as he pondered what waited for him beyond.

However, on the sixth day his bliss escaped him as he gazed on the lush green island that bore his fate. He crumpled to the deck and was overcome with a dread more terrible than any he had ever endured. The face of Norton and the sky above brought him no comfort; he feared that he would remember neither.

There is nothing beyond this,
he realized.
As horrible as this life is, it’s all I have.

Somewhere behind him, he heard the discordant laughter of Livingston.

The little island was bordered with white beaches and its hilly center was densely packed with dark trees. The late afternoon sun cast a serrated pyramidal shadow over the eastern beach where the pirates boated to shore.

Katherine had insisted on going, but Griffith was strangely hesitant. She pressed on and finally he admitted, "There will be a duel." To that she offered only a shrug; she'd seen these pirate duels before, and though they were bloody she wouldn't let anything prevent her from escaping the confines of the ship, if only for a day.

As the boat was rowed toward the beach, she peered anxiously over the edge until she glimpsed shallow sands through the lucent waters. When the keel slid ashore, she hopped out ahead of the others and set her feet in the cool water. She smiled as the soft sand slid between her toes.

Griffith leaped into the water behind her, along with several others. He left a man aboard and ordered him back to
Harbinger
to retrieve another group. He then took Katherine's arm in his and they started onto the beach.

A group of crewmen that had arrived earlier had settled on the beach with a pile of supplies. Griffith took blankets, poles, and a sheet of hemp. Katherine followed him to a secluded area beneath a cluster of palms and he dropped the materials there. "I reckon you won't have any trouble pitching a tent," he told her, and then he left to meet the next arriving group.

She spent the better part of two hours pitching the tent, and in the end she was suspicious of its fortitude against a strong wind. Still, it looked as good as most of the other tents that had sprung up along the beach during that time. She found a log and dragged it to the opening of the tent for a seat. She didn't realize how exhausted she was until she sat down.

The blue of the sky deepened. The island foliage flushed red at the edges and splintered the rays of the declining sun. The tip of a coned shadow fell from the highest point of the island and stretched far into the sea. It was not long before the shadow faded entirely and the island was blanketed in the dusky afterglow of twilight.

Katherine watched as pirates gathered firewood and prepared birds, pigs, and turtles for dinner. Fires burned late into the night, soft pillars of smoke reaching high into a boundless sea of twinkling stars.

Katherine's stomach started to growl. She ignored it at first, and then it growled all the louder. She was not in a very sociable mood and she had hoped that Griffith would bring her a plate of food, but his present whereabouts was a mystery. As she forced herself to her feet she became aware of the soreness in her legs from kneeling for so long.

She slowly made for the barbecues. Many pirates nodded to her as she passed by; she had become something of a celebrity due to her talent with ropes. They did not expect much of women, and were therefore easily impressed by one who accomplished even the simplest of their many tasks.

Several of them beckoned her to their various circles to try their meals, and she politely declined. Most of the meat was charred black from lingering in the fire for too long.

A whiff of something sweet drove her along a trail, and she followed it all the way to One-Eyed Henry's camp. The carpenter was pouring a steaming concoction of rum and coconut juice on turtle meat. He handed Katherine a pewter plate and said, "Take what you can handle, but don't go stingy in your portions, thinly lass." Katherine heaped as much meat onto her plate as would fit. Her eyes proved larger than her stomach, and she finished only half of the delectable meal, which was as fine on the tongue as it was to the nostrils. She thanked Henry profusely and headed back to her camp.

She crawled into her tent and collapsed in the blankets, her belly bloated and her lips smacking of coconut and rum. The soothing sound of waves spilling gently over the beach quickly sang her to sleep.

She was stirred early that morning when Griffith returned. He carefully fit himself into the blankets, trying not to wake her, and she made no sign to let him know that he had done just that. He wrapped an arm around her and was lightly snoring within minutes. She had a difficult time getting back to sleep, for he stunk of sweat and soil, and he lacked the usual brackish fragrance that she had grown fond of. Briefly she wondered what he might have been doing so early in the morning, but sleep claimed her before she could further contemplate.

When she woke, Griffith was gone. She sat up and rubbed her droopy eyes for a long time. She thought she heard a voice, but it was obscured by a wave breaking over the shore. She listened until she heard another. And then she heard two voices, and then three, and then came a roaring volley.

She crawled from her tent and stood up and stretched. On the beach a ways off there was a huge gathering of pirates. It looked to her as if the entire crew was there. They were shouting and cheering.

Someone said, "Might as well put the gun to your own head, Thatcher!"

"Will he stink so fierce when he's rotting?"

"Can't be worse!"

Katherine's breath caught in her throat. She forgot her waking drowsiness and dashed forward. She pushed through the sweaty crowd of pirates until she came to the forefront, where she bumped shoulders with Nathan Adams. He had a grim look on his face, and she tapped him twice before he noticed her.

"Oh," he said. "Hello, Miss Katherine."

She squinted against the glare of the bright white sands and saw Livingston, Thatcher, and Griffith. Griffith had his hand on Thatcher's shoulder and was quietly saying something to him. Livingston was inspecting his pistol. Griffith handed Thatcher a pistol and a cutlass. Thatcher accepted them with a miserable nod.

"Oh no!" Katherine exclaimed. "They can't do this!"

"It's done," Nathan glumly replied.

"But that awful brute will kill him!"

Nathan fixed her with a stern glare. "And you'll be next if you don't keep quiet. Livingston's mad, I tell you. Even Griffith isn't for this."

"Then why does he allow it?" she said, tears in her eyes. "He's the captain, isn't he? He can stop this."

"Quartermaster's got more say than captain."

She shook her head. "What could Thatcher possibly have done?"

"Killed a pirate is what he did."

"Not Thatcher!"

"Yes Thatcher. Put the poor fellow out of his misery. The right thing he did, but Livingston wouldn't have it."

Before anything more could be said, Griffith took a step back and raised his arms and said, "Go!" Katherine watched in horror as Thatcher and Livingston started pacing.

"This can't be happening," she said. Everything about it was wrong. She dug her fingernails into her arm to assure herself that she was not still asleep in her blankets, having a terrible nightmare.

She did not wake.

Thatcher had been nothing but kind to her, and she had come to realize that he was not a pirate; merely a man of unfortunate circumstances. Whenever she looked on his sad face she hated herself for the moments of pleasure she had taken from this voyage, and lately those had grown far too many.

"We have to stop this," she said to Nathan.

One-Eyed Henry grasped her arm from behind. "Stay your anger!" And then, more quietly, he said, "There's naught to be done. Livingston isn’t one to be trifled with. He’ll kill you just as swift."

"Do you fear the man, Henry?" she shot back with a glare.

Henry released her arm. "I give advice, that’s all," was his humble reply.

Thatcher and Livingston reached ten paces each. Thatcher spun with speed no one thought possible of his cumbersome body. Livingston turned at his leisure. Thatcher fired. Livingston jerked. He glanced downward. Thick droplets of blood spotted the sand beside his right food. His face reddened. "You’ve shot me bloody shoulder!" he cried.

"I didn’t mean to," Thatcher murmured absurdly.

"No, you surely meant for me head." Livingston aimed his pistol at Thatcher's head. "Allow me to show you how it’s done, Thatch."

"Please, no!" Thatcher protested, dropping his pistol and shielding his face.

After a pause, Livingston grinned sadistically. "No. It's blades for the two of us." He threw the pistol into the sand and drew his cutlass with the arm that still worked. "Someone give Thatch a sword!"

No one obliged.

Katherine leaned into Henry. "Give him your sword."

Henry shook his head. "Quiet."

"You bloody coward," she hissed in his ear. He winced, but did not meet her gaze.

Griffith came forward at last and stuck his cutlass in the sand next to Thatcher.

Livingston extended his blade. "Wounded or no, I'll still send you to Hell, Thatcher!"

Thatcher grasped the hilt with sweaty hands and pulled it from the sand. He lifted it into the air. The blade shimmered in the sunlight as it trembled in Thatcher’s grasp, scattering silvery shards of light across the beach. "God save me," Thatcher said, briefly closing his eyes.

Livingston charged with his cutlass held high and screamed at the top of his lungs. Thatcher raised his sword and withered behind it. His legs bent and his head sunk into his shoulders and he clenched his jaw and squeezed shut his eyes. Livingston's blade did not meet Thatcher's. Instead the quartermaster plunged it into the surgeon's stomach. Thatcher's eyes shot open and he gasped hoarsely. Livingston dug the blade deeper into Thatcher's stomach and forced the large man onto his back. Blood spurted in thin streaks across the sand as Livingston ground the cutlass into him. He tilted the blade this way and that, and blood shot up into his eyes. He blinked and persisted in goring Thatcher, who started to wail like a little girl. And then Livingston slid the cutlass out of Thatcher's belly and plunged his fist into the yawning wound that he had carved. Thatcher slapped at Livingston's arm and shrieked and wobbled and kicked his feet. The shrieks reached a horrendous pitch as Livingston wrenched a handful of Thatcher's intestine from his gut.

Hardened pirates gaped in petrified silence. Katherine screamed for someone to do something, but no one seemed to hear her. Even Griffith was frozen in place.

Katherine ripped herself free of Nathan's grip and lunged for Livingston's discarded pistol. She dove into the sand and came up with the weapon in her clumsy grasp. As she struggled to aim it, Livingston started to grind Thatcher's entrails into the sand. "Get away from him!" she screamed.

Livingston turned slowly. His face was painted in Thatcher's blood. "Put it down, little girl, or I'll gut you next."

Griffith fell out of his stupor. "Katherine!"

She didn't take her eyes off of Livingston. "I said get off!"

"I'll have you for this, girl," Livingston said with a ferocious glare, the whites of his eyes made all the worse by the red lids that encircled them. "Mark me words, you'll make worse sounds than Thatcher!"

"I'll not say it again," she promised.

"Katherine please," Griffith persisted.

"It's fine," said Livingston. He let Thatcher's intestine fall into the sand as he stood up. He did not remove his gaze from Katherine’s.

Thatcher groaned pathetically. "Someone . . . help me."

"Find your stitching kit, fat man," Livingston quipped. "See if you can put your guts back in. You have plenty of time, as that wound won't kill you for hours."