My dear:
Evil follows me. Those voices. I dare not write too much, lest the shuffling things see and read and know. I cannot sleep. I cannot rest. They come for me after dark.
They come for me!
All is ready for mutiny. The crew are shot through with foulness, even the good now mutter and cast their dark glances upon me. Their minds and hearts have been corrupted and I am alone. They plot against me. They hate me.
My dear, this voyage will destroy me. The crew will mutiny. The officers lead them to it. Only Swope stands by me. And even he does not know, as I know, the certainty of our doom. The voices have told me. All is lost.
But I will not be lost alone. I will not surrender this ship. If they will take me down, I will take them with me. And the voices.
The voices.
*****
It was a few days before Ana worked up the courage to approach Ah Balam about the incident with Red. She brought Dras along with her; the lanky youth's irrepressible cheeriness helped her confidence.
They found him lazing by the bowsprit one afternoon, spitting listlessly over the side. He scowled as they approached.
"Got nothing. Get away."
Ana seated herself on a coil of cable, leaning against the endless roll of the deck.
"Mr... Balam. We, um wanted to ask you..."
Ah Balam scowled so fiercely Ana leaned back and looked up at Dras for support. The youth swallowed and tried a friendly grin.
"Lady wants to ask a question, Balam. Stop being such a freak and listen, will you?"
With a grateful smile, Ana plunged back into her attempted interrogation.
"Now, Mr. Balam, I wondered what the point of that little episode the other night was. I very clearly saw you, um, BITING a seagull. Was that a, a ritual of some kind? What were you doing, exactly?"
Ah Balam smiled, revealing teeth filed to sharp points. His dark skin bore deep pockmarks and a dirty fingernail scratched at a pimple just beneath his lower lip.
"Yaxche. I called upon Kinich Ahau to bring us safely home."
Dras shivered. Dark eyes watched Ana lean forward curiously.
"What is Yaxche? I don't understand."
Ah Balam spat again.
"Islander. Savage. Your people root like pigs. The Lords of Yaxche watch over the faithful. The civilized. They protect us from the Demon Lords of Xibalba. Xibalba grows stronger. Xibalba rises. The Demon Lords are restless."
Dras considered the man with pointy teeth who called himself civilized.
"That sounds great. Thanks for that forecast."
*****
Black couldn't watch the flogging of Lieutenant Davis. The poor man's screams followed him into his cabin, however, and Black found himself below, on the gun deck, watching Aqbal the gunner train some of the younger crewmen in running-out procedures. The short, rotund black man wiped at his forehead as he shouted at the boys, barking out the sequence of commands over and over again.
Black watched, fascinated, as the gun crew performed the strangely ritualized actions of mopping, loading, priming, and running out the big eighteen-pounder at each round of commands. Aqbal watched his students with sharp eyes and snarled at the slightest mis-step, but once the exercise was completed he grinned with real warmth.
"Well done, lads. Tell Dras I said a ration for you each. Off with you."
As the boys scurried off, eager for their tot of rum, the gunner turned to Black.
"Mister Black. What can I do for you?"
"Mister Aqbal. You keep your guns in fine order, sir. Fine order."
Caution tugged at the older man's eyes. He stuffed his hankerchief in his shirt and folded stout arms across his chest.
"What can I do for you, Black?"
"Well, Mister Aqbal, I'm by way of being a keen sort of amateur ballistics engineer."
"Are you then."
"Yes, sir, I am. I thought that what with the action so likely to come upon us..."
Black watched the gunner's face carefully and noted the quick glance up to where Davis still cried out under the cruel hiss of the lash, the careful reassembly of features and the even stare.
"...I mean, of course in our privateering career as we encounter enemy vessels."
"Of course you did. What else could you possibly mean?"
Black smiled. "I see I am dealing with a gentleman of understanding."
Aqbal smiled back. "Understanding everything, Mister Black, except your purpose here."
Black pulled a sheaf of notes out of his sleeve.
"Have you made any study of explosive effects, Mister Aqbal? I have here some designs for anti-personnel explosives that I think might prove desperately useful in days to come..."
*****
Quinn made his way with practiced nonchalance across the dark, heaving interior of the ship. Faces watched him, half lit by swinging lamps, and voices all around murmured unpleasant secrets.
The Ascot Marine was an unhappy ship. Quinn wasn't the most experienced sailor aboard, but he had no doubt what was happening around him. Resentful and distrusting of the captain's unpredictable temper, the crew worked in sullen silence, only presenting the barest minimum of discipline. Lieutenant Davis, who seemed an honest enough man, suffered from constant public ridicule at the captain's hands, while Lieutenant Fulcher curried favour among the men while fawning to the captain whenever the deranged man in charge of the ship made an appearance.
But there was something else. Quinn had become aware of a fear that passed over men's faces when they looked to each other. He'd noticed how nobody went anywhere alone. How nobody even whispered a word of what was happening to their captain.
Stormy Jack sat at a ramshackle table with a few other old dogs, dicing without enthusiasm. The elderly Scot looked up as Quinn approached.
"Kiss off, arse-wipe. I don' know and I don' want to know you."
Quinn smiled and showed the flask in his hand, silently thanking Dras -- the cook's assistant and guardian of the rum. Jack's eyes widened at the sight and he nodded.
"Very well then, young fellow. Sit yourself down. What can old Stormy Jack do for you, then?"
"I understand you encountered some of our crew before. Before you joined up on this voyage."
The old man's eyes went narrow and angry.
"Who told you that? Who says I did?"
"I heard it around. Is it Horse? Where did you meet Horse, Jack?"
Quinn offered the flask. For a second, fear warred with thirst on Jack's face, but the old man snatched the little bottle and gulped a few raw swallows. He wiped his mouth and looked around as Quinn yanked the flask back.
"No more. Where did you meet Horse?"
Jack leaned towards the younger man and grinned.
"Last summer it was, lad. I was a forecastle-man in the India Fortune, three days out of Barbados. We sight a strange sail, windward, and Captain puts 'er up but it's no good. Yonder sail's got the gauge on us and they means to use it. All hands make to the guns but there's not much fight in us, is there? Not when we sees the flag of Robert Bonar, the Black Bastard."
Quinn allowed another sip to wet the old man's throat.
"They come alongside and we get a broadside off but the men are afraid and it's too early, too far, and by the time we reload they're alongside. Come over the rail like demons of hell, boy. Demons straight from Hell. And that big Horse was right in the middle of them, leading them on. With Bonar next to him. And that Red son-of-a-dog, too. I heard Bonar shouting to kill us all since we'd dared to fire on them and those bastards laughed as they came."
A wizened hand clutched at Quinn's collar.
"But that wasn't the thing that chilled my heart, boy. No, not that day. It was Domino."
"Domino?" Quinn carefully detached the hand from his clothing.
"The Monsignor, he liked to be called, but he weren't no Catholic, no sir. Big black fellow like the size of that Horse, only rounder, if you know what I mean. Come aboard at Barbados, looking to disembark at Barbuda, only himself and three big casks he's ever so protective of. Walks right up on the deck, men slipping in their own blood, I seen him come up and look around like he was watching a tennis match, boy.
"I didn't wait to see what he'd do. I jumped right over the larboard rail and swam for it. Sharks were busy with my friends and a day later a Dutch trader fished me out.
"Horse and Red. They're pirates, boy. And they ain't alone on this ship, I can tell you that."
Quinn was about to respond when the shouting began overhead. A topman ran down the companionway and cried out: "A duel! Mister Black and the cook's mate are having duel!"
The gun deck cleared as the entire crew of the Ascot Marine swarmed up on deck to watch the fun.
*****
Dras grinned as Morrison came out of the armoury with the rapier. It was a beautiful weapon, all too incongruous in the hands of a mulatto cook's apprentice, but the youth took it up with obvious familiarity.
Black watched, amused, as the youngster gave a few experimental slashes through the air. The older man drew his own weapon, another rapier though not so fine as the one Dras held. He stood near the base of the mast, squinting a little against the intense sunshine.
"Boy, where did you come by such a weapon?"
"My father, sir."
Dras saluted with impish formality and the two took their guard positions. Black nodded to Captain Hancock.
"Captain, perhaps you could call en garde?"
He'd been accosted by the half-breed youth as he left Aqbal. Dras had noticed his rapier and asked if Black considered himself skilled with the weapon.
"Well enough, lad," had been Black's answer. Dras announced a certain level of skill at the fence and had asked for a chance to try out the Englishman's skill with a few passes. Black, rather excited at the prospect, agreed.
He'd been confident then, but now, watching the cook's mate relaxed stance and noting the youth's quick reflexes and grace, he wondered if this weren't a more even contest than he'd thought.
Dras tried to keep from bouncing in place. The sword was restless, shifting and twisting almost of its own accord, eager to lunge forward. Dras couldn't stop grinning. All around shouts of odds and offers of wagers rose in a good-natured chorus, and it was obvious the odds were favouring the wealthy Englishman heavily. Dras' grin grew wider.
"En garde."
At the Captain's listless announcement Dras leapt at Black, their blades clashing with a quick ring that silenced the spectators.
Fast.
Black scrambled to keep his defense collected. The youth was blindingly fast, and with such lanky agility the older man was hard-pressed to keep an appropriate distance between them. He tried a couple of probing thrusts to the upper body, only to find that Dras was not only fast enough to deflect the incoming blade, he had a damnable riposte that nearly pierced Black's skin twice.
The two duelists circled, smiles pressed on both their faces, the tips of their swords now flicking at each other in a restless rhythm as they studied each other after the first set of passes.
The lad was so fast Black nearly forgot to assess his other qualities. His technique was a little sloppy and he had no more strength to his cuts than Black, but his parries were impenetrable and his ripostes terrifying. Black studied the youth more carefully, trying a series of half-hearted thrusts, more to observe his opponent's reactions than to generate any real chances for victory.
The crowd watched in silence. Nobody had expected this much sport, this much talent to be displayed. That both duelists were experts with the rapier was clear to everyone. Topmen clambered up into the shrouds to get a better view, and the odds swung towards the cook's mate as the two circled.
Even the Captain's dour expression brightened noticeably as the contest progressed.
Dras waited. Sooner or later Black would have to open himself up, and Dras would make him pay. Memories of lessons with Uncle William and the old man's constant admonitions widened the mate's grin. Black lunged in, low. Too slow and too far. The tip of Dras' fine rapier lanced forward again and again, and each time Dras stomped forward, one-two, one-two, now high, now low, now with a beat and lunge and Black could only scramble backwards, knocking aside the thrusts with ever-wilder parries.
One flick and the tip slipped around a parry and the heart was wide open. Dras stepped forward and touched that nimble tip to Black's chest.
The entire crew exhaled. And then cheered, the sudden rush of noise sending petrels swirling up from the rigging.
"Well fought, Mister Dras."
The mulatto youth grinned and saluted.
"Well fought, Mister Black."
"There is more to you than meets the eye, it seems."
"I don't know about that," Dras chuckled, "I happen to think I look pretty fine."
Black looked around at the cheering crew and bowed in time with Dras.
"That was well done. The crew needed something to pick them up."
The youth nodded and spoke quietly.
"Ah Balam's some sort of Indian priest. Says the gates of hell are opening up."
"I think we can see them from here, lad. Stay alert."