Blaggard's Moon (53 page)

Damrick spoke calmly. “We didn't have the men take on Conch Imbry in a straight fight.”

“Well, we didn't wait for 'em to show up, neither. Did we?”

Damrick turned hard eyes on his lieutenant. “Are you accusing me of something?” There was a threat in his voice.

Lye lowered his eyes, groused under his breath. “I din't think ye wanted to hear it.”

“ ‘I guess everyone dies somehow. Might as well cash out doing the world some good.' Those are your words.”

“Well, if I do got to die, I want it to be while doin' the whole world some good. Not just…” he wagged his head toward the door leading downward, “
yer
whole world.”

“We can't die,” Damrick said. “We're going to take down Conch Imbry. The priest said so.”

“Is that what he said? We cain't be kilt?”

Damrick watched the Mumtown harbor approach. The black clouds were almost overhead now. The temperature was dropping, carrying the scent of rain and the crackling air of the storm that would be upon them in minutes. Lightning fired now, and thunder pounded. Finally Damrick said, “You may be right. I'm getting tired of killing.”

“Oh Lord, don't tell me that. Not now.”

Damrick didn't look at him.

“Okay, here's what we do,” Lye said earnestly, holding out a hand to demonstrate. “We go blast a few Cabeebs, break Wentworth out. Then we kill the Conch. Right? After that, why, ye can get tired a' whatever ye want.”

Damrick smiled. “After.” He pulled one pistol, checked the load, then
pulled the other. Satisfied, he put them back in his belt and pulled his hat down snug. “Yes. After.”

The docks were built close along either side of the inlet, so that they lined a long narrow path of water that led deep into town. At the end of that narrow path was a rocky cliff, and on top of that cliff was Castle Mum. And on the rampart of Castle Mum stood Conch Imbry. With him were his new recruits: Smith Delaney, Spinner Sleeve, Nil Corver, Mutter Cabe, the two Trum boys. All were there, fresh from their prison cell, along with a dozen crewmen the Captain had brought along just for this purpose. Each of the new men had been given their own pistols back, and a musket courtesy of
Horkan
Meeb. Conch also took his place, armed, on the parapet. Cabe, Corver, and the Trums manned a cannon. Four other cannons were manned by Conch's other men. Sleeve and Delaney stood side by side, muskets at the ready.

“The ship is called
Success
,” Conch instructed. “She's a sweet little sloop. Woulda liked to own her myself. Shame to mangle 'er all up.” He paused, staring down at the docks. “And that's her right there.” He pointed. “When the shootin' starts, start firin' and don't quit 'til she's sunk.”

“Who's aboard?” Sleeve asked with a hungry grin.

“Don't ye mind about that. You jes' sink 'er to the floor.”

“Yer enemies are my enemies, Cap'n!” he exulted.

“Who's to start the shootin'?” Mutter asked.

“Ye'll see when ye see. Then commence to firin'.”

“Not a berth to be had.” Damrick noted.

“No,” Lye agreed. Their mainsail was struck, and they were drifting slowly. A few rain drops spattered here and there on the decks. The end of the navigable water was in sight, and still they had found no place to moor the sloop. “Everyone's gettin' in out a' the storm, I reckon.” He scanned the docks. “Sure a lot a' people watchin' us, though.”

They were silent for a moment. From ships, from docks, from moored boats, from houses along the shore, many silent eyes followed them, and they seemed to be joined by many more even as they watched.

“Why are they standin' outside with the rain comin'? Ye think they recognize Ryland's ship?”

Damrick shook his head. “They aren't looking at the ship. They're looking at us. Conch's already here.”

“Uh-oh,” Lye said.

Damrick followed Lye's line of vision. The thunderstorm was upon them. Lightning flashed, and a crack of thunder rumbled down the little pathway from the bay. But Lye wasn't looking at the sky.

“
Shalamon
,” Damrick said.

And so it was. Coming up from behind was the dark ship, still under sail, filling the inlet. Her canvas billowed, and she moved with amazing speed. And with her came the rain, as though she carried with her the wave of black clouds. Suddenly, the wind drove water horizontally at the sloop, and the drops came stinging.

“All hands, prepare to fire!” Damrick ordered. But not one of them needed to move in order to obey. Then to Lye he said, “How'd she hide from us?”

Lye was dumbfounded. “Rode the storm in.”

Gunfire came now with the stinging rain, peppered from plumes of smoke and flashes of yellow fire. And all those faces, all those who lined the docks watching, now brought weapons up to squinting eyes. Pistols, muskets, rifles—small arms fire ripped from shore to ship, a thousand tongues of flame lashing, an echoing of thunder to match that of the storm, rolling back up the narrow valley.

The sloop was riddled in an instant.

Stock was at the helm, and he fell first, a thud of lead into flesh and bone, a rush of breath from his chest. Then Murk-Eye went down clutching his neck at the starboard rail, shot through the throat. Four more musket balls struck him where he lay. Stock raised his pistol, fired lying on his back, and then tried to reload. But now he was hit in the arm, the hand. He lay there, looking helplessly at his pistol, trying to determine how he might get a powder packet into its barrel with only one hand, when another musket ball ended his quandary.

“Devil blast that pirate, he owns this town, too!” Lye muttered. His pistol came up and cracked, but it was a paltry reply to the downpour now unleashed against him. He ducked behind a stern rail that provided the merest cover, squeezed off one more shot, and then fell to his backside, struck square between the ribs. He dropped his pistol and turned over, crawling for the small doorway to get below. He was hit three more times before his body lay still, face down across the reddening deck.

A double-barreled pistol in each hand, Damrick fired four times in rapid succession, moving backward, also trying to make his way to the door, but he too pinwheeled to the deck. He was shot through, just below
the right shoulder. He crawled, and was hit again in the left side as he reached the open door mouth.

Now the whistle and sploosh of a cannonball drove a flume of water high into the air just off the bows. It was followed immediately by the bellow of a cannon. From the castle above, the musket shot was erratic. But the big round shot came in with deadly accuracy. A second effort exploded into the stern of
Success
, splintering it in an instant, bouncing the craft as though it had been tossed on a mammoth wave.

Damrick looked back, saw Lye Mogene's head move, and then his face turn toward him. He reached down with his left hand, grabbed Lye by the collar, and pulled. His boots scrabbled against the wet, slick wood beneath him. But Lye crawled forward until he was beside Damrick, looking at him through bloody, gritted teeth.

“Dropped my pistol,” Lye groused.

“Get below,” Damrick ordered. Then he sat up and grabbed Lye by his belt and pulled, slinging his lieutenant forward, propelling him through the open hatchway and down the stairs.

Another musket ball slammed into Damrick's right thigh. He cried out, turned over, and pulled himself forward, willing himself through the opening. He slid face-forward down the steep stairs, somersaulting onto his back near the bottom, landing on Lye Mogene.

Darkness rose as the pain overwhelmed him.

When it cleared, he saw her face.

She was heartbreakingly beautiful, dressed again in her serving gown, her hair hanging down toward him. She was not the cold barmaid of the Cleaver and Fork. She was the young woman at the docks, flowing up the gangway, rising above him, bearing the weight of the world. And now, there was something else in her. There was joy within the sadness. He reached up for her. She floated, smiling, as though under water. She took his hand, pressed it to her cheek. “Is it over already?” she whispered. “Tell me it's not over.”

He felt her tears, warm on his hand.

The crashing of another cannonball rocked the sloop, and brought him to consciousness. The ship listed badly, toward starboard astern. Jenta was nowhere to be seen. He pulled himself up to one elbow, saw Lye Mogene lying beside him on his back.

“Ye coulda kilt me, landin' on me like that.” Lye coughed softly.

“Where's Jenta?” Damrick asked. He looked into Ryland's cabin. The flooring was smooth and polished.

“She got outta that hole, and I told her to get back in or else I'd shoot her.”

“Thank you.” Damrick had shown her Ryland's secret compartment. He had made her swear she would get into it as soon as she heard gunfire. She had promised him, in front of Lye. But then, he had promised in return that he would survive, that he would come for her.

Musket balls continued to patter the hull, many now penetrating it.

“Blaggards ever' which where ye go,” Lye complained. “Ye got another pistol on ye?”

“Where's the one you used to threaten Jenta?” Damrick asked.

“I was bluffin'. Ye got a pistol or ain't ye?”

“In my boot.”

Both of them looked down at Damrick's boots. Neither made a move.

Lye coughed again, and spit out blood. “Well, one of us needs to shoot back soon, or they'll beat us sure.”

Damrick was silent, listening to the steady crack and ping of firearms. “Lye, I may have taken one too many risks.”

“Nah,” the Gateman said, one cheek rising up under a tired eye. “We did the world some good. Right?” He winced suddenly in agony, and grabbed Damrick's left hand with his right. He squeezed it hard. “I'm okay,” he said after a moment, breathing again, though heavily. But he did not let go of his friend's hand, and there was fear in his eyes.

Another cannonball smashed into the ship, down through the decking, crashing into the saloon where they lay. Debris and dust and splinters flew. The ship jarred, and listed suddenly, with a rush of air, almost a moan, accompanying it. The round had broken through the hull below. Damrick could feel the water before he saw it. He could smell it before he heard it gurgling up. Another explosion ripped through the cabin, and seawater poured in from the side of the hull.

“Can you swim?” Damrick asked. But when he looked back at Lye, his partner was silent, his eyes staring upward. A ragged piece of the ship's ribbing jutted up through his chest. “Lye Mogene,” Damrick said quietly to his fallen comrade, still holding onto his hand. “You did some good in the world, sir. You sure did.”

And then another cannonball crashed through the ceiling astern. Dust and smoke were everywhere, everywhere there wasn't already water.

Another explosion, and then another.

And then the ship's hull split open, and water poured in, a deluge now,
pulling Lye away from him, driving Damrick backward, slamming him into a bulkhead that he felt give way behind him almost immediately. And then he was engulfed in a swirling torrent of water and debris.

Success
was sunk.

Cheers rose from the freshly minted pirates on the parapet. Their first pirate battle had been a sudden and complete triumph.

“It ain't over,” Conch told them. “See them three ships out in the bay?”

Delaney squinted through the rain into the dark shadows beyond the harbor. When the lightning flashed he could make out the blurred outlines of several ships, but wasn't sure which ones Conch meant.

“They come from Oster, I'll bet my life, followin' their leader who we jus' sunk. And like as may, they're all full a' enemies. Fat shares for all, if ye take 'em down. Now, follow me to the
Shalamon
.”

“What about the sloop?” Dallis Trum asked. “Don't we get a share a' that?”

Conch turned on him. Dallis blanched, and recoiled. “Well, Mr. Ballast,” Conch said evenly, “it appears ye got some vinegar after all. Ye'll make a fair pirate yet.” He winked. “If there's anythin' left to share, then aye, ye earned it. But I doubt there's nothin' on board that sorry sack a' timbers worth half a minute's lookin'.”

Success
drifted downward in pieces. Damrick tried to propel himself in the direction of what was once Ryland's cabin. The ship's interior walls had come apart, and clothing, papers, splintered wood, swarms of unidentifiable pieces of junk floated in slow circles among the jagged edges and planes. He looked for Jenta's little steel-lined compartment. He found the flooring, but there was a hole where the box should be. It had come loose. That was good. It was designed to do that, then. Might actually float. He started to move in closer, but too much wreckage blocked his path. And he needed air. He would surface, see if the box had floated up. If not, he'd swim back down for her.