Ralph Compton - Bounty Hunter

“But the oath remains, an unbreakable bond between men.”

The door opened and Penman stepped inside, followed by a giant of a man, a narrow black band wrapped across his eyes and tied at the back of his head. Blind Jack topped Tone’s six-four by several inches and his massive shoulders were an axe handle wide, his huge hands the size of shovels.

“Jack lost his lights when a cannon breech burst on him,” Sprague said. “But he can see more than most men, in light or in dark. Set Black Tom on my desk, Jack, will ye?”

His shoulders bent under the low overhang, the big man opened the velvet drawstring bag he was carrying and removed a skull. With unerring accuracy, he laid the skull in front of Sprague, then stepped back.

Sprague poured a full glass of whiskey and held it out toward the giant. “A drink with you, Jack, to wet your pipe, like.”

“Thank’ee, Cap’n,” the giant said. He took the glass from Sprague’s hand as easily as would a sighted man.

“You’ll witness the oath, Jack,” Sprague said. “We have a new recruit on board, Mr. John Tone of Reno town.”

“Aye, Cap’n, a tall man who’s sitting down at the moment, young, and he has a revolver with him, recently fired.”

Sprague looked at the startled Tone and smiled. “He heard your breath from where you sit and gauged your height. Your breathing is strong, so you are young and healthy. He smelled the revolver.”

“I could be a short man standing,” Tone said.

Sprague shook his head. “Jack heard the chair creak. I didn’t, nor did you, but Blind Jack heard it.”

Tone’s attention was drawn to the skull on the desk. Its entire yellowed dome was covered in a fine golden filigree depicting ships at sea and bare-breasted mermaids. The lower jaw was bound to the rest of the skull with gold wire and rubies had been set into the few teeth it still possessed.

The skull, Tone decided, was a work of art.

“Tom McGill, I presume,” he said.

Sprague nodded. “All that’s left of him. After he was shot by the Brazilians, I managed to acquire his head after it hung from their mainmast for a six-month. I needed to call in a lot of favors, but it still cost me a pretty penny.”

“And you did the gold work?”

“Had it done in San Francisco. It’s the least I could do for the last gentleman of fortune to freely sail the Seven Seas.”

“I’m sure he was a fine man,” Tone said with a straight face.

Sprague looked at him sharply, but the younger man’s expression revealed nothing. He reached into a drawer, produced a scuffed, leather-bound Bible and slid it across the desk. “Luther, administer the oath,” he said.

Penman told Tone to rise and approach the desk. “Take the Good Book in your left hand, place your right hand on Black Tom’s skull,” he said.

Slightly drunk, wholly bemused, Tone did as he was told.

“Jack,” Penman said.

For a blind man, Jack moved easily and with incredible speed. Before his alcohol-dulled senses could react, Tone’s head was bent back and the keen edge of Blind Jack’s knife was at his throat.

As though nothing unusual had happened, Penman said, “Do you, John Tone, in the presence of this assembled company, pledge your undying loyalty to Captain Lambert Sprague?”

Aware of the knife, imprisoned in the rough embrace of Blind Jack’s steel hawser arms, Tone said nothing. Penman told him to say: “I swear it.”

“I swear it.”

“Do you, Jack Tone, swear your willingness to be bound with chains, branded with irons, lashed with whips, hung by a noose or have your carcass left to rot in a cage rather than betray the sacred trust of Captain Lambert Sprague?”

“I swear it.”

“Do you, Jack Tone, swear on the skull of Black Tom McGill and the Bible to carry out all lawful orders, commands, directives, mandates, prescriptions and assignments as Captain Lambert Sprague deems necessary?”

“I swear it.”

“Now, after due consideration, if you wish to renege on the terms of your service, speak up at once, though be warned that your life will immediately be forfeit.”

The blade of the knife pressed deeper into Tone’s throat.

Penman told him to say that after all due consideration, he did not wish to renege on his sacred oaths.

Tone said the words and the knife blade was taken away from his throat. He looked around him, ready to smile, expecting the three other men to laugh, slap his back and tell him he’d been a good sport.

It did not happen.

The faces of Sprague, Blind Jack and Penman were solemn, like broadcloth-wearing bankers in church. Tone had thought the oath silly. He knew now that if he broke it Sprague wouldn’t rest until he was dead.

With great reverence, the skull was placed in the velvet bag again. The Bible got shorter shrift. Sprague picked it up and threw it back in the drawer.

He looked at Tone. “You will return to the coast tonight. I’ve arranged for you to take a room at one of my own places, a tavern called the Rose Garter. It’s better than most dives along the waterfront. The rum is good, the beds clean and the poker fairly honest. The Rose Garter is run by a man who took the same oath as you did. His name is Simon Hogg and Penman will instruct him to supply you with anything you need—food, liquor or women. And he’ll stand by you in a fight.”

“Hogg will supply your needs within reason, of course,” Penman said. “You should try to keep your expenses as reasonable as possible.”

“There speaks the bookkeeper,” Sprague said. He studied Tone from head to foot. “Until you know your way around the waterfront and my six old shipmates make their move, best you look like an ordinary sailorman. Those fine clothes you’re wearing will draw unwelcome attention.”

Sprague turned to Penman. “Find him something from the slop chest.”

He looked at Tone again. “For safety’s sake, I stay to sea as much as possible and let Luther handle my affairs on land. But I’ll be back in the Barbary Coast in a few weeks and I fully expect you to have some successes to report by then. Any questions?”

“None,” Tone said.

“A word of warning to ye, then. You’ve sworn a scared oath, Mr. Tone. If you betray any part or parcel of that oath, the punishment is to be marooned on an island with your eyes burned out and your blue guts tied to a tree.” Sprague paused, then: “Do you understand?”

Tone nodded. “I catch your drift.”

“So be it. I believe you’re a good man, Mr. Tone.

You’ve already proved you’re a hand with a gun. Now prove yourself to me.” He shook his head. “Don’t disappoint me.”

There was no note of encouragement in Sprague’s last statement.

It was a warning.

Chapter 7

John Tone sat at the window of his darkened room, staring at the street below, where the white fog twined. Men came and went, their footsteps loud on the cobbles, and from the bar downstairs a piano competed with the drunken roars of men and the high-pitched, false laughter of whores.

“Come back to bed, darlin’,” the woman said. She introduced a practiced little-girl pout into her voice. “Jennie’s getting lonely.”

Tone smiled and said without turning, “It must be a long time since you were lonely in bed.”

“You say cruel things to me, John. Why do you say cruel things?”

“I don’t know. Because you’re a whore. Why do you care?”

“Because I like you, John. You’re not like the other men I meet. You don’t beat me or try to cheat me.”

“You’re Irish, huh?”

“From Donegal. I came over on a British ship. It was terrible, bad food and storms every mile of the way.”

“I knew a girl in Ireland once. Her name was Molly and she had beautiful black hair.”