Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) Page 3

  4

  The three men moved cautiously toward the blood-covered casket in the center of the boneyard. For the first time since entering the clearing, Finkle had a chance to truly appreciate the size of the bone markers surrounding the sarcophagus. Brushing past what appeared to be a human tibia that rose up to the old man’s chest, he paused a second to examine it. The bone was not calcified, but was bleached near-white by the sun. Finkle could see no fractures, artifacts or identifying marks of any kind. He turned his attention to the other bones throughout the clearing, all in perfect proportion to the one he now stood next to, and he wondered, not for the last time, from what manner of creature such bones might come. They must have indeed been some sort of giant race. The thought sent a chill down his spine, despite the fetid, stifling air of the jungle surrounding them.

  “Finkle,” Greer hissed, snapping him from his reverie. “Finkle, for God’s sake, man…focus!”

  Annoyed by the interruption, Finkle turned to face Captain Reardon’s whining second-in-command. The privateer captain and he were certainly going to have a word or two about his man’s behavior during this expedition. He simply would not put up with…

  Finkle’s train of thought came to an abrupt stop when he noticed something utterly unnerving about the strange serpentine loa that continued to vex them. The creature’s trio of heads had followed them to the center of the boneyard, clearly one hundred yards from the tree line, and still its tail disappeared into the shadows of vegetation beyond. It was as if there was no end to its length, and the old man wondered if the snake was truly a creature of the supernatural, as the vodou witch doctor suggested. But before he could voice his observations, the bokor spoke once more.

  “Now, messieurs,” she said, her pure white smile nearly glowing in the dim torchlight. “Remove da lid, and da ritual will begin.”

  The three men looked to each other, then to her, then to the serpent heads and back to her again. They then eyed the monstrous skull carving on the sarcophagus’s lid, and sighed resignedly.

  “Fine,” Finkle said. “Let’s get to it, men.”

  “But the moment we do, that beast will take one of us,” Greer said. His eyes were as wide as cannon shot. “The only thing keeping us alive is that the grave hasn’t been desecrated.”

  “You forget, sir, we don’ have much of a choice,” William countered. Oddly, Finkle thought the black man’s countenance had calmed remarkably well since the bokor had whispered in his ear. He moved with a greater confidence than he had upon entering the clearing, and now, as the man spoke, he did so with a more commanding presence. His voice was deep, and rumbled as thunder with every syllable. If they managed to escape all this, Finkle felt William was a man he would very much like to get to know—to find out what the witch doctor had told him, if nothing else. “The l’wa be takin’ one of us regardless. He’ll take da one most deserving of tribute. Even now, he be sizing up each of our hearts. Might as well get on with what we came here to do, I say.”

  “Spoken like a true slave,” Greer spat. But he stepped toward the sarcophagus, and took hold of one edge of the lid. Nodding to one another, Greer and Finkle grabbed hold of two corners, while William strained against both southernmost edges. “One. Two. Three!”

  In unison, they heaved at the lid and nearly leapt aside as a hiss of air whistled from the opened seal. Recovering quickly, they continued to inch the lid back and forth until it slid past the casket’s edge and fell to the ground with a crash.

  The snake lunged toward the sarcophagus, wrapping its muscled body around the length of it three times, before bringing its heads up to stare at its potential tributes again. Finkle and Greer leapt back, but William remained fixed in his position, a wry smile spreading across his face.

  What on Earth did the witch tell him? Finkle wondered. He’s so blasted confident. As if he knows he won’t be chosen.

  But the loa made no move toward any of them. Instead, it simply continued hissing and watching each of the three men with eager eyes…as did the mambo bokor.

  “I need blood to start da ritual. A tiny drop will do.” She gestured, imitating the act of running a blade across her hand, and letting the invisible blood drip into the casket. “Don’t worry now. Won’t be hurtin’ much ’tall.”

  Finkle looked to Greer, but the quartermaster shook his head adamantly. With a sigh, the scientist drew a knife from his belt, stepped to the casket and peered inside. He nearly retched at the sight. The body within had once been a rather tall man—six foot, at least—and broad in shoulder, if his decaying waistcoat and shirt were any indication. But the ravages of time had not been kind to the pirate. There was very little muscle or tissue left to support the jet black, leathery parchment of his desiccated flesh. His head was in no better shape. Although he still boasted a thick, but horribly tangled mane of dark, flowing hair, and a full, matted beard, his face was drawn, almost skeletal. His lips were so shriveled, it gave the impression of the ghastly, death’s-head grin of the old Jolly Roger of bygone years. A sword, short and stubby, and unlike anything Finkle had ever seen before, rested on the pirate’s chest. Finkle peered closer, and saw the strange engraving of Greek letters along the blade. The metal was too tarnished to make out what the inscription said.

  It didn’t matter. None of it mattered now. From looking at the shriveled body before him, he knew with disparaging certainty that they’d made this trip in vain, and that one of them would pay the ultimate price for his hubris.

  “Let it be me,” he whispered, slowly backing away.

  “Pardón?”

  “It’s my fault. I led these men here…to this fool’s errand. They shouldn’t suffer for my mistake. Let the loa take me, and let them be.”

  The bokor cocked her head at him, as if not understanding what he was saying.

  “I really must insist.” His voice was louder than he’d expected, fueled by disappointment, if not a little bitterness.

  “But mon cher, da blood hasn’t been supplied yet.”

  “What good will that do? Lanme Wa is dead! The legends were erroneous.”

  “And what’s it matter to you? It not your blood I be needin’.” She nodded over at William, who instantly pulled his knife from its sheath, sliced at the palm of his hand and dribbled a fresh puddle of blood into the dead pirate’s coffin. The moment he pulled his hand away, the serpent struck. Coiling itself around the black man’s torso, it squeezed the air from his lungs before he could even scream.

  “Stop!” Finkle cried, leveling his pistol at the python, and firing. The slug tore through the creature’s body and impacted against a nearby tree, but the serpent continued to squeeze the life from its prize, completely unfazed. The old man turned to the bokor, his eyes pleading with her. “There’s no need to kill him. Please.”

  She ignored him, and instead she moved over to the casket, withdrew a small glass bottle from somewhere under her dress and used it to scoop the spilled blood before corking it closed. The moment the blood was securely inside the bottle, the Brave Ghede streaked into the jungle, dragging poor William with it, before disappearing completely from sight.

  “Da tribute is accepted,” the bokor said.

  Greer dropped to his knees, tears streaming down his face, as he repeatedly thanked the ‘Lord Above’ for delivering him from such a gruesome fate. Finkle, disgusted with the display, whirled around to face the bokor.

  “You. Witch.” His teeth were grinding together as he struggled to contain the rage building inside him.

  “Oui?” That infernal, ever-present smile seemed to radiate out from her.

  “You gave him hope, then took it away. You lied to him. He thought he was safe, and you betrayed that trust.”

  She nodded at this, then lifted the crimson-dripping bottle up to him. “But mon cher, dis is his hope. Dis is his promise. With dis, young William will be discovering power he never before imagined. And, after our journey’s end, he’ll be livin’ once again…and far longer dan any o�
� us have ever dreamed.”

  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.