The Buccaneers Page 8

  Horn's blue eyes stared at the compass. He didn't even bother to glance at the land. “I know a place,” he said.

  Abbey laughed scornfully. “I'm sure you do.”

  Butterfield reddened. “Mr. Abbey!” he said.

  “Well, didn't he steer us to a place where half the crew might catch the fever?” said Abbey. “Didn't he steer us to that dead men's ship? Didn't he have the helm when the Apostle found us?”

  “That's enough!” shouted Butterfield.

  “He's a Jonah, I tell you.”

  “Now listen, Mister Abbey.” Butterfield pointed a finger at the gunner. “My ship is leaking, my cargo's going to ruin, half my crew are sick as dogs, and if Horn knows a place where we can get this repaired, that's good enough for me.”

  Abbey turned to me. “Tell him, John. Tell him what I dreamed.”

  “The devil take your dreams!” shouted Butterfield. And he too appealed to me. “John, are you willing to let Horn lead us?”

  Why it was put on my shoulders, I didn't understand. Perhaps the captain was having doubts of his own, for it was true that Horn had always steered us to our troubles. Wherever he took us, bad luck followed, as though he had the devil for his shadow. I looked at Horn, and he seemed very sad, so melancholy that I almost pitied him. But I dreaded to think where he might take us next, and I let the gunner have his way. I said, “ Iknow a place. And it's right over there.”

  “Where?” asked Butterfield.

  I lifted my hand, surprised to find the lantern still dangling from it. I pointed vaguely toward the east. In truth, I had no idea what lay among the islands there, but I was sure I could look at the charts and pick a spot. And I decided I would rather do that than follow Horn to his choice.

  “Come below,” said Butterfield. “You and Abbey, come below.”

  We went down to the cabin and found it so gloomy that I saw only then that my lamp was still burning. Poor Mudge huddled on the captain's bunk, and the light that I carried fell across his face. The rash had spread over his yellowed skin, which was so bright with sweat that he looked like a great, oozing slug. And he moved no more quickly than that as he raised a hand and mumbled something at us.

  There was a bucket on the deck beside him, a sponge floating on the surface. He groaned most pitifully.

  “Maybe he wants his decks swabbed down,” said Abbey.

  I stepped closer, hoping to help. I lifted the lamp, and Mudge mumbled more loudly.

  Butterfield was bent over his table, his back toward me. “It's frightfully dark in here,” he said. “But the light sends swords through his eyes, the poor soul.”

  “Oh,” I said, chagrined. I took the lamp to the table, and Mudge settled back into a restless sleep.

  “So where's this island of yours?” asked Butterfield.

  We stared at a maze of little islands, each one as foreign to me as Siberia. I had hoped to see a place where the water was shallow and sand-bottomed, sheltered from the trades. But that hope was dashed on the instant, for Butterfield had chosen a chart that showed all of the Caribbean Sea, and the islands were no bigger than peas.

  “Just point it out,” he said.

  I moved my hand across the chart. “Now, let me think.”

  “Come, come. We're not as far to the south as that,” the captain said. “Here's where we be.”

  He put his finger on the chart in the curve of the Leeward Islands. The lamp made a huge, black shadow behind it. And I saw with dismay that my hand hovered over a spot nearly half a thousand miles away.

  I moved it quickly north, up the chain of islands. But I could see it was no use; I couldn't hope to pick a spot. We would have to go wherever Horn might choose.

  But Abbey came to my rescue. “I know where the lad is thinking of,” he said. “It's here.” He touched a big finger to the tangled islands just east of our position. “It's called Culebra—isn't it, John?—and it's as fine a careenage as you'd hope to see.”

  I looked at him, his face shadowed in the lamplight.

  “Yes,” I said. “That sounds right.”

  Butterfield laughed. “You surprise me, the pair of you,”

  He said. “I didn't think you'd carry your game as far as this.” He lifted the chart, and underneath it was the one I'd hoped to see, showing the islands in all their detail. “Now, where's this Culebra?”

  Abbey pointed it out, and it was a wonderful island with a deep and sheltered harbor, and beaches on the western shore, all ringed by coral reefs.

  “You've been there before?” asked the captain.

  “Yes,” said Abbey.

  “Very well,” said Butterfield. “Go and tell Horn to steer for Culebra.” He got his rulers out and marched them to the compass rose. “Tell him to steer nor'east.”

  Horn met me at the deck with one of his long and burning looks. “Well?” he asked. “What's it going to be?”

  “Steer nor'east,” I said. “We're going to Culebra.”

  I saw his jaw tighten. “Whose idea was that?”

  “It's the captain's decision,” I said.

  “Is it?” asked Horn. “I would have thought it was Roland Abbey's.”

  How he guessed that, I couldn't imagine. But I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

  “I'll steer to Davy Jones if I'm told to,” said Horn. He turned the wheel and began to bring the Dragon round. “And if you ask me, Mr. Spencer, that's just where we'll be going.”

  Chapter 13

  SHOW NO QUARTER

  We came upon Culebra from the south, just as dawn was breaking. Ahead, and off our beam, the big Atlantic swells hurled themselves against the reefs with enormous spouts of creamy froth. And all around us was a deep and throaty roar, a silver mist of spray.

  It was a small island, dark and mysterious, a hunch of green spotted by six pale hills, steep-sided and round, like the warts on the back of an enormous toad. In the spray and the dim of the dawn, it somehow bore a sense of ill-fortune, a feeling of misery. I couldn't rid myself of the thought that a tragedy had happened here, that the trees and the hills remembered a horror, that the island— somehow—was waiting for us.

  The current ran fast, ebbing to the east, sweeping us closer to the off-lying rocks and the wild spouts of shattered waves. We had to turn, and turn again, to keep ourselves on course. And every time we turned, the island seemed to slide to the east, as though tempting us to chase it.

  On the wind came a smell of weeds and poisoned rock, of surf on battered shores. It was a thick, foul odor, and Butterfield hunched his shoulders against it. He held a spyglass, which he rapped on his palm. “I don't like this,” he said. “It seems an evil place.”

  “Evil it is,” said Horn. “That's Davy Jones you're smelling.”

  “It's a rookery you're smelling,” said Abbey. “That's all that is.” He was our pilot, but Horn was the helmsman. And it was clear to us all that Horn knew the waters well. He met every surge of current, every breaking wave, a moment before they touched us.

  “You've been here before,” I said.

  Horn nodded. “Yes.”

  “Many times?”

  “A few.” He turned the wheel, and the Dragon rocked in a swift eddy. “These were Kidd's islands. He buried his treasure somewhere here, then sailed up to New York with just a few chests of gold, hoping to buy his freedom.”

  Abbey smirked. “You tell us, Spinner,” he said.

  “It's not a yarn,” said Horn. “It's the truth I'm telling you. We took the longboat to every cay and every island, and the sun burnt the oarsmen to cinders. Aye, there's treasure here, and death as well.”

  “Go on!” cried Abbey.

  “You watch for that black ship,” said Horn. “You're as likely to find her here as anywhere.”

  Abbey laughed. But there was no gaiety in it. “Then we're more likely not to find her here, aren't we?”

  “Enough!” said Butterfield. He stepped between the pair, as though prying them apart with his spygl
ass. “If you've really been to Culebra, Mr. Abbey, please tell me: what will we find?”

  “Water,” said the gunner. “Good, fresh water, sir. A place to careen the ship, and timber if we need it. A place to let Mudge and the others get ashore before another hour passes and another sack of sugar goes to ruin.”

  Butterfield scowled at the shore. “It seems a most unpleasant place.”

  “But safe,” said Abbey. “Safe as houses.”

  I saw what he meant. The rocks and reefs that made our approach so treacherous would protect us once we had passed them. They would stand guard like watchmen, and let us see any vessel coming in our path.

  “I vote for Culebra,” I said.

  Butterfield smiled. “When did seamen get the vote?”

  “I mean we don't have much choice,” I said, blushing. “We can stand off the harbor and—”

  “I know what you meant.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I think you're right, John. Let's carry on, shall we?”

  We shortened sail and readied the anchor. Harry Freeman took soundings, shouting his depths above a steady thrum of surf. The bottom came up from twelve fathoms to seven, then sharply to three. But Horn was unruffled, and with a touch of the wheel he brought us back to deep water.

  The harbor opened before us, battered by surf at its entrance but peaceful and calm beyond that. It was somehow sad and lonely, and we were greatly surprised to see the masts of a ship that was anchored in there.

  “A brig,” I said, squinting. “English, by the look of her.”

  “Navy?” asked Horn.

  “I don't think so.”

  Butterfield pressed his spyglass into my hands. “Your eyes are sharper than mine,” he said.

  I took it up and studied the little ship. Her yards were crossed, but not as neat as navy fashion. They were stripped of all sails, as though she had settled down for a long stay. Anchored at the bow, moored at the stern, she lay at a slant beyond the narrows, pulled by the ebbing tide.

  “Anyone aboard?” asked Butterfield.

  “Yes,” I said. Three men stood watch, one on the main yard and one by the capstan, another at the wheel with his arms spread wide across the spokes. They seemed the most idle, shiftless crew; not one raised a hand or gave any sign that he saw us.

  Then the ship was blotted out in my lens, hidden by the land again, and I snapped the spyglass shut. I was happy to think we wouldn't be alone.

  Butterfield had the anchor dropped, and we sat to wait for the change in tide. It was at least an hour away, and the Dragon rocked so uncomfortably in the swells, and the fevered men moaned so pitifully, that I made an excuse to get off her. I volunteered to row the dory in with a line I could tie to shore.

  “I can have it all ready,” I told Butterfield. “We can warp her right to the beach.”

  As always, my uncle Stanley knew what I was really thinking. “If I were young and eager, I'd be anxious to get ashore too,” he said. “Well, off you go, and if you happen to speak to that brig, give my compliments to the captain.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  I launched the dory, tossed in a coil of line, and then nearly broke my back rowing against the tide. It flowed from the harbor with the strength of a small river, whipped by the wind into quick little waves that seemed to leap from the sea and into the boat. I soon had water up to my ankles, but I kept on rowing, for it was easier than stopping. I drifted back a foot for every yard I gained, was flung to my left and then to my right, until at last I passed the narrows and found the rowing easier.

  I could see the bottom then, five fathoms down. Bright-colored fish flitted over sand that was white as silver, rippled by the current into tiny hills and valleys. I watched them as I rowed along, whole schools dashing past, dashing back, turning like a single animal. Suddenly they rose, and swarmed toward the dory. They came from either side, from ahead and behind, packing into the shadows of my little boat. There were so many fish that I could hear the ticking of their tiny fins against the planks. At first I was delighted.

  Until I saw the shark.

  It passed deep below, moving with a languorous twisting of its body. From head to tail it was twenty feet long, and in the slow twitching of its gills, in the lazy curving of its body, I saw such sinister purpose that it turned my blood to ice.

  Just as quickly, it was gone. The fish darted back into the sunbright water, and I dug in the oars to hurry along.

  Again the fish bunched at the boat. And behind me came the shark.

  It was on the surface now, its curved fin slicing through the sea, rushing up the path of ripples that my oars had made. Steadily it came, a curl of water pushed before it, faster and faster, until it seemed it meant to cleave my boat in two. Then, inches from the stern, that wicked fin disappeared. And with a thrashing of its tail, a vicious swirl of water, the shark thumped against the boat and tipped it onto its side.

  I grabbed for the gunwale, then reached frantically for an oar that was slipping through its pins. All the water in the boat weighed it down, and I feared it wouldn't come upright. Another thump, harder than before—hard enough to crack the wood—tossed the dory onto her other side. A second shark passed below the boat.

  Suddenly there were three fins circling round and round my dory. The little fish clung to her shadows. I banged my oars on the pins, trying to scare the sharks’ food away, but they only tightened below me, like children at a mother's skirt. Full of terror, my heart pounding, I rowed harder than I ever had.

  There was one more thump—at the bow, behind me. Something cold and hard scraped against my shoulder. I screamed, and raised my hands to push against it. The oars slid out and sailed away. And my arms closed on a cable, the great, thick rope that anchored the brig in the harbor.

  I was so startled that I thrust it away. The dory spun past, under the bowsprit, and nudged against the brig's cutwater. I scrambled for a handhold before the current could catch the boat and sweep me out again. But the rigging was too high above me, and my hands only scratched at the planking.

  I shouted for help, but not a man came to save me. With utter desperation I stood on the dory's thwart, balanced myself as it rocked and tipped, then leapt for the rigging.

  I drove the dory under. It sank with a burble of air, then rolled upside down. And I dangled from the bobstay, staring down as a shark came flitting over the sandy bottom and, rising in a gray streak, ripped the dory in half.

  The knowledge that no man was offering to help me spurred me on to help myself. I found enough strength to swing up my legs and wrap them round the bobstay. Then I pulled myself along it, and over the rail to the deck.

  I lay on my back, panting like a dog. High above me stood the man on the mainyard, his head tipped down, his hands behind him to hold the mast. But he only stared; he made no effort to help me.

  The man at the wheel was the same. His arms still spread across the spokes; he hadn't moved at all since the first time I'd seen him. Then I rolled onto my side and saw the man at the capstan, as uncaring as the others.

  “Won't you help me?” I asked. “Won't anyone help me?” But he didn't even turn his head.

  I got up and started toward him. I staggered from exhaustion, but made it close enough so that I could see him more properly. Then the horror of what I saw made me forget my own pains. The man was dead. He was nailed to the capstan.

  I reeled away, going aft toward the wheel. I passed the mainmast and, glancing up, saw that the lookout there was dead as well, fixed to the mast by a great spike driven through his chest. I didn't bother going up to the quarterdeck, for I saw the dried blood that caked the helmsman's hands, and didn't want to go any closer than that to a man crucified to a wheel.

  Panic struck me. I felt it in my legs and in my head, a dark rushing of blood that at once emptied me and filled me.

  The brig rocked in a swirl of currents. The land slid past her shrouds and her masts, and I sensed that the tide was changing. When I whirled around toward the harbor
entrance, I saw the Dragon with her sails set, hauling off toward the south.

  “Wait!” I screamed. “Wait!” But it was futile. I could imagine Abbey and Butterfield looking over the side and seeing my dory floating past, in shards and splinters. I could understand their thinking I'd been lost to the waves or the sharks. But I couldn't possibly imagine why they'd weigh anchor and give me up as soon as this.

  A new rush of horror swept through my veins at the thought that I was now marooned on a ship manned by corpses. My own shouts seemed to echo in my head, for there was no sound at all in that wicked place. The ship was silent, and a stillness hung over the island. Not even a bird moved through the trees or the sky. The island was like a living thing—a beast with its breath the distant surf—that had risen and struck, and now lay quietly waiting.

  Suddenly into that silence came a voice, old and cracked and creaky. It came up through the deck, up from below.

  “Three fathoms down,” it said. “Three fathoms down. I'm Davy Jones.”

  Chapter 14

  AN OLD FRIEND

  The voice taunted me, calling now from right below my feet, now from the foot of the mizzen. “I'm Davy Jones,” it said again. Then came a rustling, scratching sound before it called again from behind me.

  “Three fathoms down. Three fathoms more.”

  I whirled to face it, but stared only at an empty deck.

  A screech, and an eerie, chattering laugh sounded. “Throw me a line, matey.”

  “Where are you?” I shouted. “Who are you?” My voice was swallowed by the trees and the thrum of distant surf. There was only the stillness for an answer.

  The sharks circled round the brig. The dead men stood their horrid watch. And I felt drawn to that one voice, that one life in an empty-world, for surely—-whatever it was—it was alive.

  The companion-way was open, and I went down without a glance at the helmsman. I came into a ship that seemed to have been suddenly abandoned just hours before, yet oozed the desertion of an ancient ruin. In the captain's cabin, a pipe was set out on the table, atop an open pouch of tobacco, and by a candle sat a flint. In the galley I found plates arranged on the table with knives and forks beside them, a huge pot of stew grown cold and jellied on the stove. I could see where a man had sat whittling; there was a footprint in his shavings.