The Devil's Fire (13 page)

Before he could find a local pet shop and resolve the matter, he happened upon a tavern that he did not recognize from his previous trip. It was one of the larger, more organized structures of the colony, composed of two stories. The sign outside said SASSY SALLY’S. A marvelous whiff of turtle meat was enough to divert Griffith's intended course.

He cut across the street, pushing through a crowd of pirates, and ducked through the low entrance into the tavern. Despite the bright midday sun, the tavern was dark inside. Thin traces of light seeped in through hemp-draped windows and creases in the less-than-competently-fitted planks that made the walls. Decorations were mishmashes of whatever useless trinkets the owners had acquired in their travels, ranging from shark jaws to exotic bottles to rusty cutlasses.

The present ambience was restricted to a low banter between pirates, most of them seated in pairs, some of them keeping to themselves, all of them drinking. Homely whores were diligently pawing at the loners, who in turn offered barely audible protests.

Griffith made his way through the clutter of long tables to the bar and snapped his fingers to get the attention of a portly cook. "Is that green turtle soup I smell?" The cook grunted a reply and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned with a large bowl of soup and grudgingly thrust it at Griffith, nearly spilling the precious green contents. "And a bottle of brandy, if you'd be so kind," Griffith said with a smile.

With his meal and drink in hand, Griffith ascended the perilous circular staircase to the second floor, which had rooms on one side, and a balcony on the other, open to the sunlight. Griffith walked onto the balcony and took a seat at a small table near the railing, where he was provided an un-obscured view of the colony and harbor.

Along the beach several well-tanned children ran and played, oblivious to their seedy surroundings. Two of the children pursued a scruffy dog that was more than happy to retreat into the water. The children were the consequences of reckless nights between pirates and whores, and they rarely knew their fathers. Griffith wondered if any of these brats were spawned of his crew.

He absentmindedly took a sip of soup as he watched the children, thinking on his own future offspring. The glorious flavor of the sherry-laced broth was enough to distract his brooding. It was the finest green turtle soup he'd ever tasted, and he savored every sip, nearly forgetting the brandy. When he remembered his thirst, he scooped up the bottle and attempted to pry off the cork. It didn't budge, so he placed the bottle's neck at the edge of the balcony railing, drew his cutlass and struck off the top, which spun into the air and arced downward to strike a hapless pirate on the crown his head. The pirates occupying the balcony broke into tumultuous fits of laughter. The hapless pirate glared upward, but could not discern the culprit amid so many laughing men. He grumbled a curse and continued on his path. Griffith tipped the bottle in a toast to the laughing pirates and threw back his head for a hefty gulp.

A heavy hand slapped his shoulder. "Jonathon Griffith, is it?" said a deep voice.

Griffith grasped the pommel of his cutlass. "Who's that?" he said, tilting his head.

Jack Cunningham grinned down at him. "Already causing a ruckus, I see," the larger man quipped.

"Damn your blood, Cunningham! I had half a mind to slice you in two!" Griffith stood. The two men shook hands and gave each other hearty pats on the back.

"It's lucky I'm still standing," Cunningham bolstered, "seeing as you never had more than half." And then he frowned. "And your ear isn't in much fairer shape. What a bloody mess!"

"An accident. Take a seat." Griffith kicked out a chair.

Cunningham was a tall fellow with massive bone structure. He was not the sort of pirate with whom anyone picked a fight. He had a scraggly blonde beard and curly blonde hair, all of which enshrouded his red face. He wore only black, with pistols painted the same color.

Griffith first made Cunningham's acquaintance at the wayward port of Tortuga, and the two became fast friends after bemoaning the woes of civilized society and the contrasting joys of piracy. Shortly thereafter, the two of them joined forces and pillaged the Spanish Main for many successful plunders, until they went their separate ways. Their parting had not been either man's desire. They were bound by the democracies of their respective crews. Cunningham's crew voted to travel south, while Griffith's voted to travel north, to the Atlantic.

"I trust you've seen more success than me," Cunningham said, glancing at the harbor.

Griffith smiled. "I don’t wish to provoke your jealousy."

Cunningham shook his head in disgust. "Fools! Did I not tell them that the Atlantic was the proper route?"

"Indeed you did," Griffith nodded.

"I need a new crew," Cunningham sighed. "They'll damn me to the depths if I don’t quit myself of them. They're a gay lot, but not a brain among them. Forged as a whole, perhaps a quarter of a brain, if that's not too generous an estimate."

Griffith nodded to the harbor with his chin. "I don't see Jennings' ship, though I might have missed it amid all the others."

"He's gone on the account," Cunningham remarked disconsolately. "No doubt he'll return with riches beyond my wildest dreams."

Griffith laughed and offered his brandy. Cunningham shook his head. Griffith nudged the bottle closer. Cunningham broke into a smile and accepted the brandy. He took a big swallow.

"This place has become huge," Griffith said, looking on the colony.

"It won't last."

"How's that?"

"Word has it the Brits are growing tired of constant reports. Providence is set betwixt two major lanes, eastward and westward, hence its weight. How long do you think they'll allow us to persist in our occupation?"

Griffith laughed. "Let's see them fit one of their warships in that harbor without her keel halting her dead in her tracks."

"What makes you think they'll only send one?"

"They won't spare two warships on a little island in the Bahamas. They've got better things to do, and far greater worries, mark my words."

Cunningham took another gulp of brandy. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve handed the bottle back to Griffith. "I wonder if someone once said the same of Port Royal."

Griffith stirred his spoon in what remained of his turtle soup. "A different situation, what with the earthquake. Bad luck, it was."

"Aye," nodded Cunningham. "Everyone has their share of luck to contend with. Most of it bad. Rumor has it they're sending us a governor."

"Then I place great pity upon that man, whoever he may be."

"Woodes Rogers is the name on everyone's tongues."

Griffith allowed himself a small chuckle. "I've read his book. You know the one? Found it on a British merchantman. The man is little more than a glorified pirate and not much of a writer either."

"Never happened across the book," Cunningham said. "Wouldn't read it even if I did. We've already got a governor, you know. Ol' Sawney in his fort."

"I'm amazed he's not dead," Griffith said, happy for a change in subject. Sawney was always good for a laugh.

"Very much alive, in fact."

"Where's he find his food?"

"A couple of Porter's men saw him fishing a while back. They took note of his fishing pole, which I'm told is finely crafted, and ran after him to steal it. Old man ran off on his skinny legs faster than any rabbit and they never caught up to him. He climbed a boulder and yelled his triumph down at them. They're calling him Governor Sawney now. Crazy old coat mistook their sarcasm for sincerity and now he fancies himself the true governor. Imagine that! He came out of his fort last week and took to the streets, proclaiming new laws to banish pirates. Called us an infestation. Never struck the old man who he was preaching to. I sent some of my boys after him, but he's so damned fast that they couldn't catch him either. Not so sure anyone would kill him if they ever managed to catch him. I think everyone likes him, in a way." A shadow passed over Cunningham’s face. "Well, maybe not Teach; not sure he likes anybody, not even his own mother."

Griffith straightened his back. "Edward Teach?"

"Aye," Cunningham nodded slowly. "I met the man once. He tried to impress me by drinking rum spiced with gunpowder, after setting it ablaze. Shame he didn't blow himself up. He's a repulsive man, and his beard is indeed very black."

"I've heard he sets it on fire," Griffith said.

"I've heard that too. Scares the living hell out of his victims."

"I'd imagine so."

"I don't usually give to gossip," Cunningham said, inclining his head, "but he might have sliced up one of the whores at a brothel not far down the street. One of my crew saw him there. Teach accompanied the lass upstairs and came down shortly after. Not long after that they found her in one of the rooms with her throat opened up. They say the floor was flooded with two inches of her blood." Cunningham shook his head, staring off into the ocean. "It's the sea that does these things to men. No other explanation for it. Happened to one of my boys. He went off one day and took his cutlass to my boatswain, Harkins. You remember Harkins?"

"Aye," Griffith said. "He's dead?"

"The dog cut him to ribbons. Just hacked away until you wouldn't know what Harkins looked like if you were judging by his face. Never seen anything like it and I don't care to ever see anything like it again. We marooned the dog on an island and didn't bother to give him a pistol to do himself in with. Figured it the best revenge to let the elements take him. Normally I wouldn't do something so vicious, but it was the crew's will. I can't say I didn't take a small bit of pleasure in it, ashamed as I am to admit it."

"No sense feeling bad for that." Griffith lifted the bottle for another sip of brandy and was surprised by its lightness. He peered inside to find it empty. He frowned and set the bottle aside.

He looked to the beach. A single child remained, making a sand castle. The boy seemed perfectly content by himself, without the company of his friends.

"So simple for them," Cunningham said, his gaze fixed on the same boy. "Not a worry in the world."

"I'm close, Jack," Griffith heard himself say.

"Close to death, maybe."

"Could be," Griffith shrugged. "It’s worth the risk."

"I’m not so sure," Cunningham replied, still watching the boy.

"I feel it on the horizon."

"Of course you feel it, Jon. We’ve all felt it. That’s why we’re out here slaughtering innocents, and not just them, but ourselves. How many of your crew have died? I can’t remember, personally. Can you?"

"Men die," Griffith said, keeping his frustration in check. Cunningham had always lacked vision. "Whether it be by my hand or their own, men will always die. There are no innocents at sea."

"Does that make you feel better?"

"I feel nothing. It’s not a justification, only a simple truth."

"Your truths conveniently relieve your guilt."

"I have no guilt," Griffith said. "You mistake me for you."

"I mistake you for a human being."

Griffith stood abruptly and adjusted his shirt. He had grown weary of this conversation. "I am close, Jack. Closer than I’ve ever been. When next we meet, I will have that which is mine."

Cunningham offered an infuriating smirk. "Then go, Jon, and take that which is not yet yours."

It was late in the afternoon when Griffith returned. He opened the door just long enough to drop a kitten inside, and without word slammed the door closed. A moment later, a timid pirate entered carrying a little wooden box of sand. She instructed him to put it in the corner.

The gift might've touched her heart had it been presented by any other man, and with any degree of ceremony. The animal proved an immediate aggravation when it squatted in the wrong corner and did its business. The rancid stench was unbearable, and the kitten spent a long time scratching around the mess. "You little idiot," Katherine scoffed, and pointed to the sandbox. "The sand is over there."

The kitten was a tortoise shell; a trio of colors belonging only to females, dominated by black fur and mottled with orange and creamy highlights. Her massive round eyes were stretched wide at the lids by skin pulled taut over her little head. The kitten meowed incessantly as she scampered about the cabin, head tucked low to the ground. She would occasionally glance up at Katherine, sniff the air with a bobbing nose, and then continue her explorations.

When Katherine grew tired of the little animal’s pointless and methodical trekking, she said, "I'm not giving you any food, if that's what you're searching for."

The kitten looked at her with those stupid round eyes and screeched a reply.

"What?"

Another meow, this one louder and longer.

"I don't have any food for you."

The kitten darted forward. Katherine backed away as the furry little animal bounded toward her with startling velocity. She instinctively thrust out her foot and kicked the kitten sharply in the ribs. The animal went somersaulting into the air, momentum propelling her against a wall.

Katherine instantly suffered a devastating pang of guilt. She rushed over to the kitten and dropped to her knees beside it. The kitten sprang to its feet and started to bolt, but Katherine seized it by the waist. The kitten warbled a protest as Katherine lifted it into her lap. "I'm so sorry, little one," she said.

The kitten put up a large fuss for so tiny a thing, with surprisingly powerful muscles beneath her furry exterior. Katherine inferred from the animal’s fierce struggle that it was not badly injured. After a while, the kitten stopped fighting her embrace and settled into her lap. It started to purr.

The door opened and Thatcher cautiously stepped in. "Hullo, Miss," he said with an awkward smile.

She smiled. "How can I help you, Douglas?"

He seemed astonished that she hadn't forgotten his name, and it seemed to take him a moment to remember his purpose for entering. "The captain wishes me to look on the beast. Seeing as I'm no veterinarian, I protested loudly. To no avail, as always." He gestured to the kitten. "I see you’re acquainted."