Blaggard's Moon (57 page)

“Now!” someone shouted, and in an instant five or six in the crowd had Imbry by the arms.

“Treachery!” he shouted, struggling against his attackers until a club came out and struck him from behind, across an ear and a cheek, thudding like it had hit a sodden sandbag. His knees buckled.

“The Conch!” Calls came from above, from aboard ship. But sailors at the rail only watched, dumbfounded, unable to make sense of the scene. The crowd was swarming around their captain. But they were friendly. Right? They were always friendly. They'd disarm anyone fool enough to try to attack Conch Imbry. And if they didn't, his guards would.

And in fact two of Conch's guards did manage to fire their weapons, but they were quickly overcome as well. In the commotion Mazeley somehow wriggled free and slithered through the crowd. He nearly got away, too, until someone recognized him. Then another club went up and came down hard, a direct crack to the skull. Mr. Mazeley crumpled.

It was Sleeve who recognized the danger, and was the first to fire from the deck. His musket shot took down a bystander. But almost immediately, answering gunfire came from the dock. Suddenly the entire crowd was armed, more than thirty pistols came out, aimed, and fired. Pirates fell from the railings, slumped down on the floorboards. Without a command or a commander, the pirates rushed the gangway, intent on going to their leader's rescue. But the citizens rushed up at the same time, jamming their descent.

More gunfire erupted from the deck of the
Shalamon
, as now the sailors aboard began to understand the full extent of the danger, and the damage being done. Conch and Mazeley were gone, hustled from the docks, taken who knew where? But even as the sailors opened fire the dock was swarmed. Hundreds of people came running now, pouring from the streets, from behind buildings, from within shops and taverns. All of them were armed. Most of them began firing on the
Shalamon
. Pirates who jammed the gangway dropped where they stood, and then as the press grew worse from crewmen behind and citizens in front, they stood where they should have dropped, dead men packed and jostled together like a fishmonger's barrel on a market cart. Citizens below now pulled bodies away from the gangway, shooting or stabbing those cutthroats not already shot or stabbed. And then they began to push upward, to board.

The pirate crew took cover. The docks were jammed now, crowded thick with shouting, shooting, saber-waving men and women. Those aboard who dared risk the storm of musket fire to raise up their heads saw leather lashes tied to many arms. Red feathers everywhere. And still more coming. Thousands of them.

“Looks like the city's all turned Gatemen,” Sleeve said, aghast.

“More like the whole world,” Mutter answered.

And standing on a rooftop, looking down from behind a jutting façade, was Runsford Ryland, assessing his own handiwork. But he took little pleasure in seeing his plan play out. He couldn't help but wish he'd done it while Wentworth yet lived. And after he'd thought about that for a while, then he couldn't help but think about how much harder it would be to maintain his shipping kingdom now, without the chief of pirates on his side.

By the time the initial volley of musket and pistol fire slowed, the pirates understood their peril.

“Shove off!” one shouted.

“Jet the gangway!” another called.

“Cut the lines!” added another.

“Wait! We can't leave the Conch!” Spinner Sleeve shouted, waving his pistol.

“Throw that one overboard, and leave 'im!” The cutthroat who shouted this was pointing his sword at Sleeve.

“We'll come back for him, then!” Sleeve decided quickly.

In the lull, others loaded grapeshot into the muzzles of the cannon, but they quickly drew more fire from the docks. Only three cannon shots
were fired before the dark ship
Shalamon
drifted away from her moorings, but each cut a wide swath of destruction. Small arms fire was traded in great waves of smoke and crackling flame. Sailors fell from the rigging as others climbed to take their place, sure that their lives depended on their work. But somehow sails were dropped and the
Shalamon
fled, flying with unusual grace for so big a ship.

The Gatemen on the docks all cheered their newfound victory. They had been prepared to overrun the ship, but they were unprepared to crew another, and pursue.

The forecastle went silent. Sleeve swore once, but made no further comment.

Ham sighed. “Many of you gents remember that day, those of you who sailed with the Conch. But not all know what happened ashore in Skaelington, in those dark days that followed. So I'll tell you now. Conch Imbry was put in prison. And though he swore he'd never see a trial, he did. Sheriffs, judges, jailors, men with big houses that previously had been bought, footing and trim, by bribes paid out by the pirate king suddenly could not be tempted by his gold coins. They say Runsford Ryland grew poor in those few weeks. But his plan held, and so did Conch's chains.

“ ‘I paid ye good wages all my days,' Conch complained to the judge after the verdict was read to him. ‘And this is all the loyalty it buys me?' But the justice brought his gavel down. Within a week of his arrest the Conch was marched up a gallows before a cheering throng. The very population, politicians, police, and public alike, who had sung his praises all those years, those who danced whenever he played a tune, and played a tune whenever he danced, now sang songs to his demise.

“Some women wept, but more wept with joy that their children would not grow up in the pirate's thrall. And those children quickly learned new games, replacing Round-the-Monkey with something they called Pirates-and-Gatemen. And in this game, the pirates always lost, dying dramatic deaths, or getting themselves hanged.

“ ‘To blazes wif ye all!'

“Such were Conch Imbry's final words. And then he looked to Mr. Mazeley, standing to his left, a noose around his neck as well. He shrugged, the doors beneath them creaked, and both men fell through the gateway of the doomed, dying together at the end of a hangman's rope.”

A long moment of silence filled the close space, the confines of the
forecastle, interrupted only by the creak of timbers, and here and there a sniff, or a muffled sob.

“Runsford Ryland was careful to give credit,” Ham continued, “if not where it was due, then at least where it would do some good. In speeches and toasts on as many public occasions as he could manage, Runsford Ryland praised the heroism of his son, the first businessman to stand against the corruption and debasement that had been forced on them all by cutthroats like Conch Imbry.

“ ‘Of course,' he would say modestly during a pause in the festivities of the New Moon Ball or standing at the head table of the Great Christmas Banquet, ‘when I first told Wentworth of my idea to hire the Gatemen, he balked. He would only agree to go along if he could be the one to carry the banner, and keep his father from the dangers of Conch Imbry's wrath. That was the sort of man he was, and the sort of son.' And the whole room cheered.”

The pirates in the forecastle booed. Ham cleared his throat.

“ ‘Wentworth could not be bought,' Ryland would go on. ‘But sadly, such was not the case with Damrick Fellows, who started out so well, and should be remembered with generosity for that. I must tell you, it was only by the grace of God that I was able to escape from the good ship
Success
, before he led it and my son's three worthy ships, and all their worthy sailors, to their doom—Gatemen delivered on a platter to Conch Imbry in Cabeeb Bay.' ”

The pirates in the forecastle expressed their disgust with varied and colorful enthusiasm.

“ ‘But again,' Runsford would say, ‘let us not judge Damrick too harshly. He was, I believe, and as some of you witnessed, deeply in love with that treacherous, unfaithful woman who first caught Wentworth in her snares, then quickly tired of him and ran to the arms, or should I say the pockets, of Conch Imbry. From there she did his bidding, convincing Damrick Fellows to lead the Gatemen to their wretched demise. We must pity Damrick's weakness, for who among us has none? All the while we must thank our Heavenly Father for the good that Damrick did in establishing the Gatemen, the worthy organization it is now my privilege to lead.' ”

“Lead? Did you say lead?” a shocked pirate interjected.

“Aye,” Ham answered. “For Ryland became the Master of the Gatemen, a title he made up himself.”

Pirates growled, and various epithets arose. Even Spinner Sleeve swore at Ryland.

“What do you care, Sleeve? You hate the Gatemen,” a pirate challenged.

“True. But worse, I hate fer a snake like Runsford to muddy the name of a great enemy who we beat down in a honest battle. Weren't fer Damrick, why Conch'd sail the seas yet.”

“But what about Jenta?” Dallis Trum asked. “What happened to her?”

“Forget the woman,” Mutter Cabe intoned. “What happened to the gold?”

Enthusiastic agreement ensued.

“Ah. Well, that's what we're leadin' up to, isn't it?”

And with that, the pirate's mourning ended. After all, Conch was gone. But his gold remained.

“Mayor Runsford Ryland's heroics are well known these days,” Ham said. “For sure enough, he was appointed to that role in Skaelington. But there are few alive who know what happened to our Jenta, after
Success
was sunk. As luck would have it, I am one of those. And soon, so shall you be…tomorrow night when we continue. That's all for tonight, lads. More tomorrow if I've a mind and you've the time.”

But the next day, Ham didn't have a mind. When Belisar the Whale learned of what Ham Drumbone had promised his listeners, he had Blue Garvey whip the storyteller thirty lashes and throw him in the brig.

Ham recovered and returned, eventually. And he told many tales after that, but not a one about any Gateman, or about Jenta, or about Damrick. And after that no one heard him give the slightest shadow of a hint regarding the whereabouts of Conch Imbry's gold.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHTEEN

AUTUMN

D
ELANEY TOOK A
deep breath and almost sensed a bit of a coolness in the air. He sniffed around, but couldn't find it again—only the fetid closeness of these dank woods. Probably it was all in his head. The stars were out now. The dusky blue circle of sky above was all but black.

The drums in the distance started back up. They seemed louder, or at least more insistent. Or maybe the evening air carried the sound better. He didn't know. He also didn't much care. In fact, there was very little right now that caught his fancy. His mind had wandered and wondered, flitting along through the tale just as Ham had told it, stopping here and there to ponder things too big for him. And now he was ready for whatever came. The events after Ham had quit the story, they'd kept rolling on, of course, even without a storyteller. They were what had led Delaney here. And now, in the end, he'd got where he was going.

The details were hardly worth thinking on. He would die here, and he knew why. God had no reason to reach down and pluck him up. There would be no idea tomatoes that would grow fat and ripe in his head, showing him how to hop over to dry land. And even if he could, the Hants would just catch him and put him back. Or cut him up like they did to Father Dent. And then to Jenta.

Delaney sighed. He put an elbow on his knee and a palm under his chin. He really hoped that Hant chieftain hadn't sliced Jenta all up, like what happened to the priest. She was a woman after all. But she was good, and so she'd get whammed, and there was nothing to be done about it.

The reeds were moving again. And this time, he saw faces. It was dark, and they were in the shadows, but it was the Hants. Definitely the Hants. Their painted faces like skulls peered out of the long grasses. About a dozen of them, ringing him all round. They looked at him with curiosity and distrust. Then they looked at one another. Then one of them made an odd clucking sound. That was their leader, the only one whose face had been painted up last night. Tattooed, is what Delaney thought. Then another answered with a clucking sound. And pretty soon they were all just clucking away at one another like a bunch of crazy chickens.

“Kinda rude, ain't it?” he asked. “Talkin' in front of a man like that, and me not knowing a lick what yer sayin'?”

They suddenly went quiet, and ducked back into the reeds.

“That's better manners.” He was quiet a moment. Then he added, “Though I'd rather ye'd stay and chatted, normal-like.”

But he didn't really feel like chatting. He was just making conversation.

He closed his eyes. He pictured Jenta, with her long amber hair and sad eyes. He hoped she was okay. That chat he'd had with her, that wasn't just making conversation. That was a real, honest-to-daylight talk. That was one for a lifetime. He knew her so much better now, so much better than he'd known her back when Ham told his tales. Back then, four years ago it was, or almost that long ago, she'd been just a person in a story. But now that he'd met her, all these years later, and talked to her, she seemed different. Older, maybe. Quieter. Anyway, different than he had imagined.