Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) (4 page)

5

Reardon’s Mark

Off-Shore of Kavo Zile

“Absolutely not!” Captain Josiah Reardon said, slamming his fist down on his charting table. His Irish accent was so thick, it had always been difficult for Finkle to grasp every word. “I’ll not have that whore of a witch anywhere near me ship.”

“But Captain…”

“I’ll no’ have it, I tell ye. ‘Tis hard enough convincin’ me men to sail in these Caribbean waters, what with all these voodoo goin’s on around here. But ta actually bring a mambo bokor aboard me ship? I’ll have a mutiny on me hands ’fore dawn.”

Finkle stared at the young captain, barely thirty years old, and already showing the ravages of ‘too long in this world.’ There were prematurely graying hairs speckling the corners of Reardon’s temples. The crow’s feet deeply cut into the corners of his eyes revealed a predisposition to laughter, but the heavy lines across his brow showed an equal amount of worry. And why shouldn’t there be? The young man had already lived more in his short life than most men Finkle’s age. A smuggler from Dublin, he’d been in and out of trouble with British authorities for years before receiving his letters of marque from the French. It was through the French that Finkle had first learned of the upstart Irish captain, and it was through the scientist’s French connections that introductions were made. Reardon had agreed—with a few conditions—to allow his vessel to be used for their expedition.

Of course, the captain had held his own reasons for agreeing to help. With lofty ambitions, he had his eyes set on obtaining letters of marque from the Continental Navy and to earn a princely booty for wreaking havoc against the Royal merchant fleet that had sullied his name, while he served in the official navy. There was no better way to prove himself than by leading his ragtag crew of men—both patriot and cutthroat—as well as Finkle’s own group, to the dangerous jungles of the Caribbean and Florida for their prize.

“And it’s not just the witch, sir,” the captain continued. Finkle decided to let the man vent before presenting his own side. “You cost me a good man in poor William. He’d been with me for the last three years, and was loyal as they come. And on top of it all, ye bring a disease-ridden corpse into the hold of me ship! What were ye thinkin’, man?”

“I told him as such, Captain,” Greer, who’d been sulking in the corner of the captain’s cabin since they’d arrived, finally spoke up. “But he was much more interested in criticizing and berating me in front of the men than listening.”

Reardon glared at his quartermaster in silence for a few moments, and Finkle knew he was trying to decide how to respond to that. He and Greer had served together only a short time. They’d apparently never been friends, but Greer was a trusted crewman. The captain, however, had never wanted Greer as his quartermaster on this expedition. He’d had his own man for the job, but the French outfitter, Jean Francois Torris, who’d supplied the
Mark
with its sixteen eight-pounder guns, had insisted on Greer, to pay off a debt. Greer had never let Reardon forget that he was the captain’s second choice, and he had been a thorn in the captain’s side the entire trip from France to the Caribbean. The quartermaster, therefore, was one thing on which both Reardon and Finkle could agree.

“Captain, if I may,” Finkle said, setting his tankard down on the table and leaning back in his seat. “First of all, you have my sincerest of apologies for the loss of young William. From what I saw of him, he was a good man, and will certainly be missed. I’d offer to replace him, however, as you know, I’ve become a bit of an abolitionist in recent years. Freed the few slaves in my possession, and would find it distasteful to purchase another for you. However, I will be glad to make reparations for your loss in other ways.”

Captain Reardon waved the issue away, then nodded for him to continue.

“Secondly, the…witch, as you call her, and the corpse are inextricably linked. One will do us no bit of good without the other.”

“What good does a corpse do for us anyway? That’s what I’d like to know!” Greer was now standing, pointing a long, double-jointed finger at Finkle’s face.

“Greer! Sit down!” Reardon barked. The quartermaster immediately complied, and the captain returned his gaze to the older man. “He does, however, make an excellent point.”

“He does. But what he doesn’t realize is that I believe that the man resting in your hold below is not, in fact, dead.”

“What? He is as desiccated as an Egyptian mummy, sir.” Greer was back on his feet, a look of incredulity across his face. “You would have us believe he is just taking a wee nap then?”

“I had a chance to speak privately with the witch doctor as we made the trek back to shore last night,” Finkle said, keeping his eyes fixed on the captain. “And while gaining a straight answer from her is no easy task, I managed to glean some tidbits of truth from her honey-dipped tongue. Lanme Wa is supposedly not dead, but is indeed, only sleeping. Now hold on. I know the very notion sounds mad, but from the stories I’ve read of the man, it’s not beyond the impossible. After all, if you believe at all in the prize we seek, you can’t believe this impossible either.”

“But from Greer’s account, the man has succumbed to putrefaction.” Captain Reardon paced back and forth behind the chart table. “I could buy this immortality business if he just appeared to be sleeping.”

“Which is exactly why we need the woman. It was her grandmother who entombed him—at his own request—and it is the younger witch who knows how to revive him. But it will take time. More time than we have to waste upon this island.” Finkle shrugged. “What harm could come from letting her remain aboard until our next port? If she’s not revived him, we’ll set both of them off the ship, and will be on our way to Florida.”

Reardon continued to pace, considering the old man’s argument. He then stopped, and glanced out the bay windows of his aft-side cabin, looking out at the silver reflection of moonlight off the white-crested surf outside. They were still anchored, just two hundred yards off shore of the island, and the waves were slowly building, rocking the twin-masted cutter back and forth in rhythmic chops. The captain rubbed at his scruff-covered chin, obviously in turmoil as to the next phase of the plan. Then, slowly, he turned around to face Finkle, his head shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t see where the benefits outweigh the risk. That woman is trouble, with the blackest of hearts. I kin see it in her green eyes. If we let her remain on board, there’ll be hell to pay for it. I can promise ye that.”

“But I really must insis…”

A sudden commotion from above—the sound of thirty-six pairs of feet running to and fro on the deck above—broke out, cutting Finkle’s protestations off in mid-sentence. Two seconds later, there was a pounding on the captain’s door.

“Cap’n! Cap’n! Sails! We’ve got sails on the horizon, and they’re flyin’ pirate colors!”

Captain Reardon bolted for the door, and swung it open. He ran up the stairs, onto the upper deck, with Greer and Finkle following close behind. Once on deck, they met the Irish captain at the foot of the bowsprit where he already had a glass up to his right eye.

“Well, I’ll be…” Reardon handed the glass to Finkle, who brought it to his own eye to take in the large, square-rigged man-o-war sailing straight for them. “I ain’t heard of colors like that bein’ used in nearly a hundred years.”

Finkle knew precisely what the captain meant as he stared, slack-jawed, at the waving black flag with a white skeleton wearing a golden crown atop its head. Except for the crown, it was the traditional flag of the pirates of old—the kind of pirates that hadn’t been seen in these waters since the days of Calico Jack and Blackbeard. But it was the crown that sent a gut-wrenching chill down Finkle’s spine.

“The
Presley’s Hound
,” he whispered.

“What?”

“Lanme Wa’s ship. It was the name of his ship. Legends say his crew lay in wait to protect him from any who might seek him out,” Finkle said. His mouth was suddenly dry, and he felt a disturbing desire for rum as he continued to stare out at the ship that surely must have come from hell itself. “When we encountered no resistance on the island, I’d just assumed the warnings were the stuff of myth. Or that the crew had long ago died away. I never imagined we’d encounter them at sea.”

A sudden image flashed through the scientist’s mind. The strangely cloaked figures in the boneyard. Their hisses still chilled him to the bone. And he wondered if Lanme Wa’s accursed crew had been on the island after all.

“Captain.” A sailor—Spratt, Finkle believed was his name—ran up to Reardon out of breath. “That’s a frigate. There’s no way we can take ’em harbored as we are in this lagoon.”

Reardon turned to Finkle. “Would they fire on us? If they’re really Lanme Wa’s crew, and they’re protecting their captain, would they dare fire upon the ship that has him in its hold?”

The scientist nodded grimly. “He’s supposed to be immortal. To them, it’s better to sink the ship, then later dive down to retrieve him. I don’t think they’d have a bit of concern firing on us, no.”

Reardon looked out across the western horizon, then turned to Greer. “Ready the main sails.”

“Sir? What about the corpse and the witch?” Greer asked.

“Mr. Greer, we ha’ six eighteen-pound cannons, and ten swivel guns. That man-o-war has at least thirty-six cannons at her disposal. Need I repeat meself?”

Greer shook his head.

“Good, then raise anchor, and let’s outrun these brigands before they get within range.”

When the quartermaster stalked away, barking orders to the crew, Captain Reardon turned to Finkle, and sighed. “I reckon, Mr. Finkle, you need to introduce me to this bokor of yours. We may need her juju ’fore journey’s end.”

6

Finkle led the captain down below deck, and into the crew’s quarters, where a series of hanging sheets closed off the bokor’s sleeping chamber from the rest of the crew. Cautiously, Finkle tapped on a wooden beam supporting one of the sheets.

“
Oui
?
” came the soft voice of the mambo bokor.

“It’s Jim Brannan Finkle, madam. Along with Captain Reardon,” Finkle said. “We were hoping for a moment of your time.”

The ship shifted as it caught its headwind, came around and began tacking in a northwest direction. The scientist grabbed hold of the beam, readying himself for the sound of pursuing cannon fire, but it didn’t come. A moment later, the sheet was pulled back to reveal the beautiful Creole woman, now completely nude. Only her smile distracted Finkle’s eyes away from her sleek, taut frame.

“It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain.” She held out her hand, palm down, in the fashion of a lady expecting a kiss.

Reardon blushed, then seemed to gather his wits. “For cryin’ out loud, put some clothes on, lass! If me crew were to see you this way, I’m not sure I could guarantee yer safety.”

Still smiling, she glanced down at her sweating skin, spread her arms out in a freeing gesture and sighed. “But
mon Capitaine
, it is necessary for da magicks I must do to raise up Lanme Wa. On land, I go barefoot, to draw closer to da earth. But on da sea…da sea is much more powerful than da land. Da sea elevates da l’was’ might a great deal…especially with the blood magick necessary for our needs. Even so, dere should be as few barriers between me and da sea as possible. Clothing only hinders da ritual.”

“Well, at least for now, please cover yourself with a sheet or something,” Finkle said, grabbing a sheer linen sheet resting on a nearby crate, and handing it to her. “We need to go visit our pirate friend at once, and the crew cannot see you in such a state of undress.”

With a slight shrug, she accepted the sheet, and wrapped herself in it, but she kept her shoulders to her collarbone bare. She then grabbed a leather bag, decorated with an assortment of bones and sea shells, stepped out from her makeshift bedchamber and nodded. “All right. So take me to Lanme Wa, and let’s get started.”

The trio slipped through the two rows of hammocks and bunks cluttering the sleeping quarters below deck. The ship seemed to be making good speed now, and they were forced, on more than one occasion, to grab hold of the nearest beam, rope or handle they could find, to keep from toppling over as they crashed through the waves. Ninety-three feet aft, they came to the hold, and Reardon unlocked the door with his key, before swinging it open and gesturing for them to enter. Once inside, he lit a candle on a table next to the door, and lifted it to light the room.

The entire space had been emptied, save for the wooden crate Reardon’s men had used to transport the mummified remains to the ship. The three walked over to it, and the captain handed Finkle the candle, then reached down to retrieve a crowbar leaning against the wall.

“Can I open it?” Reardon asked the bokor.

She nodded her assent, and he set to work loosening the nails that held the crate’s lid. A few minutes later, the lid was pulled aside and Reardon stared open-mouthed down into the box.

“By all that’s holy…” He glanced to Finkle, then to the woman. “You expect me to believe you can bring this…this
thing
back to life? You must think me daft!”

She looked up at him, with amused, gleaming eyes. “I never said I could bring ol’ Lanme Wa back from da dead.”

“What?” Finkle wheeled around to gape at her. “But you said…”

“I said he be only sleepin’,
mon cher
. He ain’t dead. Never has been, so far as I know.” She reached down into the crate, and brushed a long, stray hair from out of the body’s eyes. The gesture was tender. Almost loving. “No, he’s not dead a’tall. We merely need to coax him awake, and he’ll be as good as new in no time.”

Reardon glanced over at Finkle, a single eyebrow raised. “Ye told us the pirate is supposed to be immortal.”

Finkle nodded. “That’s what the legends say.”

“And that he was so feared that Blackbeard hisself turned tail and ran at the sight of his colors.”

“That’s true.” Finkle glanced down at the leathery figure laying prone in the crate. “What are you getting at, Captain?”

Reardon turned his attention back to the mambo bokor. “Well, I’m curious. If this man was truly as you say, what on Earth would compel him to climb into a sarcophagus and…and turn into that?” He pointed down at the body.

The bokor continued to stroke at Lanme Wa’s tangled beard. “Because he done lived too long. Was beginnin’ to lose himself. Beginning to forget da world he come from, and forget da kind of man he was, before all this happened to him.” She lovingly began straightening the corpse’s fraying cravat, then continued. “He lost too many friends. Lost too many battles not fought with powder or steel, but with da heart. He begun to grow cold. Indifferent to da world, and dere were only two things keepin’ him grounded to his old life…a woman and a daughter. But dey were just too far away to reach, so he chose to rest in da grave ’til he could draw closer to dem dat he loved. Dat’s why he sleepin’ now. Bidin’ his time.”

The scientist and the captain stood in silence for several long moments, reflecting on what she had just told them. Finally, Finkle spoke up. “Are you telling us the man had gone mad? If he awakens, will he be better suited for the lunatic asylum than an expedition?”

“Oh, make no mistake,
cher
…when he wakes, he’ll be none too happy. But he’s as sane as any man who ever did live. Though, perhaps, sadder. And bitter. But he’s an honorable man at heart, I can tell you. His wrath will be stirred, dere’s no doubt…but once he settles down…once he learns about your quest, he’ll calm down nice enough.” Then, without further preamble, she shucked off the sheet to reveal her finely-toned nakedness, opened up her medicine bag and pointed toward the door to the hold. “Now, let me do my work in private. He’ll be waking soon enough.”