The Butcher's Daughter, page 7
I stared at Hunter in disbelief, unsure of whether he was bluffing or serious about his barbarous threats. And then I saw the stark cruelty in his eyes. I had never seen this darker side of him before. This was something new and unsettling for me. He was back somewhere in the New World again.
“Capt’n Mary,” Shaw called out.
I turned and found Shaw kneeling over the man with the red birthmark on his face, the man with Efendi’s knife still sticking in his throat. Shaw held a piece of paper up to show me.
“What is it, John?”
“Best have a look at this,” Shaw replied.
“My God,” I blurted out as I read the document.
“What is it, Mary?” Gilley asked, looking over my shoulder. “This cannot be!” he exclaimed after perusing the document for himself. He looked at me, confused. “This is a writ signed by the High Sheriff of Dublin commanding these men to take you into custody. But these men were here to kill you, not arrest you.”
“Writ, what are you talking about?” Hunter asked crossly.
“That man with the birthmark,” I said and pointed, “was sent by the High Sheriff of Dublin. These are the queen’s men!”
“Impossible!” Hunter declared.
Gilley handed the writ over to Hunter.
“I don’t understand,” Hunter said as he read the writ. He let the document fall to the floor and turned towards our prisoner. “I’m done playing with you. Speak or I’ll gouge out an eye. You can pick which one. Gilley, Efendi, hold this bastard down.”
“Alright, alright,” the man mumbled.
“What did you say?” Hunter asked.
“Bugger me, alright!”
“Louder you scum-sucking dog!”
“Alright! Alright! On your word, before God, you’ll not harm me if I talk - swear it.”
“On my word,” Hunter replied coldly, “before God, I’ll harm you most painfully if you don’t talk - I swear it. Those are my terms!”
Hunter rested his sword on the man’s shoulder while Gilley and Efendi lifted him to his feet and held him firmly. The man broke down in tears. He started sobbing like a child.
Hunter patted the man’s pockets down and found a purse full of coin, too much coin for a common laborer. “You don’t look like one of the sheriff’s men to me. And you didn’t come to arrest anyone. You came here bent on murder. So tell me, who are you?”
“My name is Joseph Gwinn.”
“Who employed you?”
“I work for no one. I’m a simple farmer.”
Hunter smashed his fist into the man’s nose without warning. I heard the snap of bone.
“Ugh! What did you do that for? You broke my fuckin’ nose!”
“For lying,” Hunter replied evenly and tossed the man’s purse in his face. Coins spilled out across the floor. “Your nose is but the first of many bones I’m about to break. I don’t know any farmers with this much coin. And, if indeed you are a farmer, I’ll wager your farm is not far from Youghal.”
When Gwinn said nothing, Hunter moved his sword from Gwinn’s shoulder up to his left ear and slowly started slicing. Drops of blood trickled down Gwinn’s neck.
Gwinn winced; he stared at Hunter in horror. “Alright! Alright! Stop, stop! I beg you. Aye, near Youghal. I have a small farm near Youghal. We’re all from Youghal except for Flint. The Dowlin clan hired us. We was told to find Capt’n Mary and bring her back to Youghal. The devil take me if what I say an’t so.”
“Who told you?”
Gwinn looked down at the man with the red birthmark. “Flint, the High Sheriff’s man, the man lying over there who carried the writ, he was here to arrest the woman and bring her back to Dublin. But our orders were different. We was told to bring her back to Youghal.”
“Whose orders?”
“Two brothers. They call themselves the Twins.”
“And what was Flint arresting Mary for, on what charges?”
“Piracy.”
“Piracy?”
“Piracy, that’s all I know. That’s what we was told.”
“And what do you suppose the Twins wanted with Capt’n Mary?”
“They didn’t say, leastwise not to me.”
Hunter backhanded the man hard across the face.
“Fuck, what was that for?” Gwinn cried out. “I’ve told the truth.”
“That was for being stupid,” Hunter answered.
Each of the men who attacked us carried purses fat with coin. None of us could tell for certain who had given the order to kill us. We did not know if Gwinn and his mates from Youghal had been duped by the High Sheriff’s man into killing us or the other way around. Against his will of course, we put Gwinn on one of O’Malley’s ships bound for Italy. Uncertain of whether he had come to Westport to arrest me or to murder me, I could not kill him. By the time he reached the shores of Youghal again, if he ever did, we would be far away. As for the dead, we took their bodies out to the bay, weighted them down with stones and dumped them without prayers, without the proper burial rites due the dead. Their souls could burn in hell for all eternity for all I cared. I gave their blood money to Shaw and his boys.
None of us were so naïve to think that this would end the matter. I had no means to fix the writ and it would not be long before the High Sheriff of Dublin realized he was missing one lieutenant and eleven deputies from Youghal. And once he learned that his man had disappeared in County Mayo, the High Sheriff would send more men to Westport to investigate matters further. After we disposed of the bodies, I summoned my officers to my great cabin for a council of war, for war was surely what we were now fighting.
Gilley was the first to voice his thoughts. “This complicates matters greatly. Piracy? For killing off a rival and seizing his ship before he did the same to us? How absurd. ‘Tis a gross injustice, an affront to the laws of God and nature. And no doubt his high and mighty lordship in Dublin will add murder, even high treason against the Crown, for our supposed perfidies now. Sweet Jesus, how did it come to this?”
“The Twins,” Hunter offered softly. “They pay and pay well to have friends in lofty places. Mary, I suspect you’ll not want to hear what I have to say. But it must be said. I’m sorry, Mary. The Twins have won. Not even Westport can keep us safe. Europa, the East, is closed to us and there is nothing North or South. With both the Twins and the English as enemies, we’ll only lose more ships and men if we stay and fight. In the jungles of the New World there is a snake the Spanish call the cascabela muta, the silent rattle snake. Its venom is very deadly. This particular serpent strikes quietly, without warning, and slithers off into the jungle unseen. Its victims never see it coming. Its victims never see where it goes. We must be like the cascabela muta. We must disappear and leave no trace.”
“Disappear into the New World?” I asked. “And I pray you will tell us what the devil we would do there?”
“Unless you fancy sailing to Japan or China, aye, the New World. King Philip has imposed stiff taxes on all trade in the Americas, as did his father before him, King Charles, to help pay for all his ships and men. Smugglers do good business the Caribbean. The island of Trinidad is a particular favorite safe haven for smugglers and pirates alike. Smugglers bring manufactured goods in from the Europa kingdoms for Spanish and Portuguese settlors, folks who don’t care to pay the king’s high taxes, and then turn about and sail back to Europa with cargo holds stuffed full with tobacco, spices, sugar, wood, chocolate and the like. We could do the same.”
“But you have just now warned us of the dangers of continuing our trade in Europa,” Green said.
“We’ll need,” I said, answering for Hunter, “to approach the O’Malley clan. We’ll need them as a partner, a secret partner. If we decide, one and all, to sail for the New World, we’ll need to find ourselves a base somewhere in the Caribbean. Perhaps we can use Clew Island as our port-of-call here in the Old World. We ship raw goods from the New World to sell to the O’Malleys and then sail back to the Americas with whatever manufactured goods the O’Malleys will sell to us. Profits will be smaller. The hazards will be greater. Our voyages across the vast and grim Atlantic will be long and perilous. It would seem our days of ease and plenty have come to an end my brothers. And James, I will admit you are right. For now the Twins have won. But this great matter between us is hardly settled.”
I took a moment to search the face of each man. And then, in accordance with our Ten Rules, I put the matter to a vote.
“What say the rest of you?”
All but one of my officers voted to make the Caribbean our new home.
“Spit it out, Tom,” I commanded. “What vexes you? Why do you withhold your vote?”
“I’ll vote and I’ll vote in favor of the Caribbean on one condition, well, perhaps on two conditions.”
“Oh?” I asked, confused.
“There is,” Fox quickly interjected, “nothing in any of the Rules of Ten that allows such nonsense.”
“I challenge anyone to show me,” Gilley quipped, “where the Rules forbid a vote with conditions attached!”
“It an’t legal!” Fox protested loudly in jest - or maybe not. “There’s a parliamentary decorum we must all observe. The vote is aye or it is nay. It is not aye only if you make me the bloody king of England!”
“Parliamentary decorum, is that Greek or Chinese?” Gilley asked laughing.
“It means…”
“Auck, never you mind what it means, Alby,” Gilley said, cutting Fox off and clearly quite pleased with himself. “You’re just jealous ‘cause you didn’t think to do it first.”
I shook my head. “Oh bloody hell Tom, very well. This argument is making my head spin. Name your price and the rest of us will vote whether to accept your terms or not. And if we don’t, be forewarned: we’ll toss you and your conditions over the side! If I’m to hang for piracy then, by God, I should have some fun and play the pirate before the queen’s men slip the noose around my neck!”
The mood was light and all around the table my officers, even Fox, chuckled.
“Thank’ee kindly, Mum. Well now, let me see. My first condition is this: as God is my witness, and as each of you can attest truly, I’ve abstained from all strong drink for these past few years thanks to Mary. And I’m a better man for it. I’ll not deny it. Even so, I want to taste this sweet wine I hear folk talk about made in the West Indies from exotic fruits once we reach the islands.”
Hunter howled and slapped the table with his hand. “Gilley, you old fool. You can get West Indies wine at half the taverns here in Westport! Most likely there’s a bottle or two stashed away somewhere on board the ship!”
“Stale or watered down, maybe. No, no. I want a bottle from one of those islands where folks make it fresh. I want to sit underneath one of those coconut trees in my bare feet and sip it slow. Just a bottle or two. After that I’ll swear off all strong spirits again. Now and then a man’s got to live tall!”
“My God,” said Hunter. “This old fool is serious. And what is this second condition of yours, Tom?”
“Ah, now how appropriate you be the one to ask me, my good Capt’n of the Guns. My second condition is this: before we sail, I want to hear the rest of your story, all of it.”
“An excellent choice in terms, Tom,” I said. “James?”
“Oh, very well,” Hunter replied with a sigh. “Let me see. Aye. The crew of the Inca and me were marooned on some small island north of Trinidad after our boats gave out and we were lucky for it because the French aren’t shy about cutting-up Spaniards they find on the open water. We had no Caribbean wine as I recall Master Gilley, but we did not lack for food or water and we bided our time until a Spanish freighter bound for Seville happened by and rescued us. I fell gravely ill on that cruise, beset by tremors and the sweating sickness for a time. Sewn inside my jacket was a French letter of safe conduct, a letter I carried with me just in case I fell into the hands of the French while pretending to be in the service of the Spanish. A sailor searched my clothes looking for anything of value while I was laid low and helpless. He found the letter. The fool couldn’t read so he took the letter to the ship’s master. Bad luck for me. After the master read the letter he clapped me in irons and promised to turn me over to the tender mercies of those demonic priests of the Inquisition once we reached Spain. I knew my life was forfeit. But good fortune had not deserted me altogether. A storm, a horrific storm of brutal strength, the likes of which I had never seen before and pray to never to see again, overtook us, tossed our ship savagely about for days. Matters took a desperate turn. The master ordered every hand on deck, including me, to work the sails and rigging. I must confess the Spaniard knew his tradecraft. By some miracle the ship weathered the deadly storm. Most of the crew survived. But the storm had carried us far north, had carried us up to the east coast of Ireland, and the master decided to put in at the nearest port to make repairs and to rest his weary crew. The nearest port was Wexford. Good luck for me. That was when I decided it best if the Spanish and I part ways. I waited for nightfall, slipped over the side and swam for shore. I caught a knife in the back for my trouble though. You all know my story from there…”
“I understand your arrangement with the French well enough, James,” I said. “But I am a bit hazy on what you were looking for in the jungles of New Spain?” Hunter, I knew, was not a man who would set off into the wilderness of a strange and hostile land on a whim or without good purpose.
“My lady, I’ve satisfied most of old Tom’s condition and the hour is late,” he replied in a tantalizing tone.
“Come now, Hunter,” said Gilley. “Not even whiff of a hint?”
“Whatever the Spanish were searching for they did not find it,” Hunter answered with a sly smile.
I returned Hunter’s smile with one of my own. “The Spanish did not find it? Ah, huh. I believe you there but then again, you aren’t Spanish.”
“How true, how true,” Hunter said as he reached down and pulled off one of his boots.
We all watched in fascination as Hunter took a knife, pried a seam along the top edge of his boot apart and removed a long, oilskin pouch. After opening the pouch, Hunter let a thin metal cylinder encased in block of wax slip into his palm and when he snapped the cylinder in two, a piece of linen dropped onto the table. He gingerly unrolled the linen for everyone to see.
“A map?” I asked.
“Aye, a map,” Hunter answered. “A treasure map. I never expected to return to the New World and this ragged piece of cloth is probably worthless. Perhaps it is a hoax.”
“How did you come by this?” I asked.
“The story, as it was told to me, goes like so: A small unit of Spanish infantry, deserters most probably, supposedly happened upon a stash of Aztec gold somewhere deep in the jungles of New Spain and decided to keep it for themselves. But none of them knew how to move their wealth out of the country without being discovered. And then there was the problem of transportation. There are few roads in the jungles. Using wagons and mules to transport their treasure out would not be easy. So they decided to leave their find buried, undisturbed, until they could solve these problems later. A wayward priest traveling with the soldiers agreed to throw his lot in with them. The priest is the one who made this crude map. But, as you can see, it is a very poor map. Or so I thought at first. In fact the priest was quite a clever fellow. The map appears inaccurate and incomplete. It depicts certain landmarks, but none are in their proper, geographical location. The priest inked in the landmarks at random without proper relation to North, South, East or West. The conquistadors I served hoped that I might be able to make some sense out matters, or at least narrow down the size of the area we needed to search. We never found any hidden treasure.”
“What happened to the priest and soldiers?” Gilley asked.
“An Indian raiding party caught the unlucky bastards out in the open and slaughtered them all. The priest survived his wounds for a day or two and talked, or confessed his sins. The map somehow fell into the hands of a merchant. I suspect after stripping the dead the Indians sold the uniforms and gear to the merchant. The merchant found the map but must have thought it worthless as he later sold it off to a Spanish officer as a novelty.”
“But why have you held on to this map for so long if you believe it worthless?” I asked.
“I did not say the map is worthless, Mary. I said we found no treasure. But, while the conquistadors and I searched the jungles, I might, possibly, have stumbled upon the general location of where the treasure might be. I of course neglected to inform my Spanish amigos of this. Still the map is flawed or it is in code and the priest and the soldiers who found the treasure are long dead. We could search those jungles for ages and find nothing.”
“Why did the Spanish allow you to keep the map?” Green asked.
“They didn’t,” Hunter replied with another smile. “I made a copy.”
Efendi startled me when he bolted upright in his chair. I thought he had been napping while Hunter told his story. “Is this map of yours,” he asked, “the copy or the original, James?”
“I kept the original for myself, of course. I left the Spanish with the copy.”
“May I?”
“By all means.”
Efendi carefully picked the map up and inspected the linen against the candlelight. “The oil skin and wax have served you well. The cloth does not appear to have been exposed to water or to other liquids.”
“Why does that matter, Mustafa?” I asked, unclear of Efendi’s meaning.
Efendi smiled. “Some ink can be invisible to the eye, my lady. The writing can be hidden until agitated by a chemical or heat, or even by something as simple as vinegar or saltwater. The priest may have used invisible ink to make this map. Such techniques have been used for centuries to send messages back and forth in secret.”
