Ed Gorman - Cast In Dark Waters

Washed by the morning foam-capped tide, the sun-scorched beach lay choked with driftwood, seaweed and the usual spattering of bodies. Sailors slept off last night's drunk in the sands, and a few of the harlots had made their love-nests near the dunes. The scavengers would be along soon hoping to find booty that had been lost over the side of ships in weeks past, brought up by the current and the storms. They'd also rob whatever dead they found.

At the far end of this stretch of beach, Crimson spotted two bloated corpses that had been dragged up past the reef and torn to tatters by the rocks. One dead man looked as if his legs had been devoured. Sharks most likely, but there was always talk of islanders who still practiced cannibalism. Dismembered bodies like that one only served to fuel such gossip and rumors. The islanders had many tales of ghouls and evil spirits. She had a few of her own, as well.

At last, she watched an attractive couple disembark from the Hopewell's skiff. Both were middle-aged and dressed in the somewhat foppish finery of the British royal class. They must not have been in Virginia for very many years, Crimson thought. Maycomb wore a blue silk coat, extra leggings, and a three-cornered hat tipped far back; the wife with an organdy dress of cerulean and a roseate scarf flapping in the morning breeze. Being aboard a pirate ship surely hadn't taught them much about being inconspicuous. But Maycomb did carry a sword and a firearm out in the open, and she had to admit that he carried himself with a refined demeanor that demanded a certain amount of respect.

She met up with them at the end of the pier, careful to keep watch on who else might be observing her business. You never knew who wanted such information or who might be trying to sell it. Maycomb must've gotten a description of her from that rigger on the Yardarm, for he appeared to know her on sight. He removed his hat and gave a bit of a bow, a gentleman even in these parts. "Lady Crimson?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Maycomb."

"I'm so glad you were still in port," he said. "It would have been a dreadful shame to come all this way for naught."

"It might possibly still be so," she said.

Lady Maycomb let out a mournful cry, more like a bird than a woman. "Oh please, dear, don't say that. We've traveled so far to meet with you and gone through such travails. Those abominable men and that detestable boat. And our situation is grave. This concerns our-" She would have continued but her husband hushed her with a gesture.

"I'll listen to what you have to say," Crimson told them, "and if I think I can help and it's worth my while, I'll tell you how much it will cost you. I don't haggle and I won't argue my points. That's the fashion in which I do business. You either agree or find yourselves someone else."

"Excellent," Maycomb said. "Then let us repair to a hotel and have some dinner and libation. That damnable ship has worn us to the very bone. I need whiskey. A cask of it."

~* ~

There were three opulent hotels in Port of St. Christopher's, and they were more refined and secure than one would expect in a cove of pirates. The reason, Crimson knew, was that most major countries had dispatched sub rosa agents to work with the privateers. There was loot each nation wanted stolen and it fell to these representatives to procure vessel and buccaneers, and to give them a list of exactly what was to be stolen from any particular ship. It fell to port officials to keep these delegates, operatives, and other important subjects safe lest they create a political tinderbox. Sometimes one could find sanctuary in the most unlikely of places.

The principal hotels had an air of European luxury and were designed to handle a dozen different languages and tastes, from the Slavic to the Mediterranean. Crimson took the Maycombs to the most lavish and expensive one, L'Hotel D'Avignon, in hopes of seeing just how freely the couple parted with their money. Maycomb was already known by the managers, who always kept an ear out for the names of the wealthy who might be traveling this quarter of the world.

They sat in an elegantly appointed room filled with exquisitely appareled travelers. The pirates kept away from places such as these; few had the gumption to cross boundaries that might bring down the wrath of more than one nation at a time. Assassins stalked these halls and kept watch on the envoys of enemy republics. She listened to four languages she recognized and two she'd never heard before.

Instead of whiskey they ordered wine and several dishes of small game and puddings, then sat in a dining area so extravagant that Crimson actually found herself growing a tad embarrassed. It was something she hadn't felt since she was a child, and its unfamiliarity made her almost heady. She sipped the Superior Claret and waited for them to begin their story.

Elaine Maycomb, wrapped in her gaudy pink scarf and with eyes puffy from exhaustion, tried hard to remain composed. There was a stoic tilt to her chin but she was having difficulty maintaining it, on the verge of going into a swoon. Maycomb, with a skull full of vipers, took no notice of his wife's fatigue. He'd already had enough wine to flatten three men but wasn't affected. She knew the type of troubles it took to keep a man sober after so much liquor. He hadn't even begun slurring his words yet, which proved he had great command over himself, at least in this. They'd been on ship for days with a ruffian crew, and Crimson wondered why Lady Maycomb didn't retire to a comfortable bed and let her husband carry on in these matters alone.

Crimson set down her glass and pushed her plate away. "It's not often easy for those who seek to engage my services to relate their histories and predicaments," she said. "But that's the only way we can do business. I won't go leaping into deep waters without knowing why or what might lie in wait for me. And if you lie about these circumstances and I find out about it-and I will-you'll be sorry you ever ventured off your tobacco farm."

"You've quite austere conditions, considering you're a pirate," Maycomb said with a haughty tone.

"You're right, but that's my way."

"So I've been told."

Elaine Maycomb sensed the possible conflict here and interjected. "It's about our daughter. She's only nineteen and unversed with the world and its complexities. Her name is Daphna."

"What about her?"

"She-well, she, you see-"

"Yes?"

A silence overtook the table and lengthened until Crimson nearly slid the silverware onto the floor just to hear the clatter. Maycomb steeled himself and said, "She attended finishing school outside of London. Late last autumn she met a man named Villaine."

"I've heard of him. A privateer who sails mostly along the merchant lanes outside of Cuba."

"That is so, as we understand it. Apparently he often returns to Westminster where he keeps up some of the veneer of his previous society life. Like so many of these freebooters, he once held a position of office among the Queen's Navy before he turned his energies to marauding."

"Piracy is a near noble calling compared to tenure in the British Navy." Crimson should've held her tongue and not interrupted the man as he related his story, but the subject caused her grief whenever it was brought up. "That war cost the Empire a lot of good men, however you look at it. Between those that've died and those who've run off, I'd hope old Queen Anne is vigilant enough to stay her hand from other foolish skirmishes."

"It's my hope too."

"Pardon my outburst. Continue."

Maycomb crossed his knife and, fork in his empty plate and glanced over at the other men in the hall smoking after-dinner cigars and pipes. He licked his lips for the taste of it, and Crimson was surprised he didn't have a tobacco pouch. Someone must've stolen it aboard the Hopewell. The smoke drifted and twined across the crystal chandelier, and she thought of her nightmare again, the vapored breath breaking against Tyree's chin.