“That queer ring he’s wearin’, d’you see it? I only seen one like it afore. It’s on the flipper of the scoundrel who almost sank us this evenin’. You know,” he said to the others, “I think I was wrong. This one ain’t no stowaway, he’s a blinkin’ spy.”
“No! I stole the ring.”
“Oho! Then you hold no brief for Ebenezer Falcon?”
“None at all.”
“You wouldn’t grieve none, or pour ashes on your head if, by some unexpected but nat’ral nautical accident at sea, the Old Man came to a sudden and tragic end?”
“No.”
“Or mebbe”—he leaned forward, touching flame to Kentucky burley in his potbowl pipe—“if you was the cause of that?”
“Hold your tongue,” sighed Cringle. “We must keep our heads. Rutherford is on our side.”
“Yes,” I said quickly. “How can I help?”
“Right, how kin you help? He’s driftwood, this one. A fugitive and a vagabond. He’s got nothin’ to lose. If we poach this ship, you, Mr. Cringle, or Fletcher there, or that bedswerver Josiah who got more wives than a Mormon elder — it’s plain we’ll swing for piracy. The brokers Falcon works for will have us hunted from Chesapeake Bay to the South China Sea. Our wives’ll be widowed. Our sisters, poor darlin’s, will have to go out on the twang to turn a coin. And our wee li’l ones? They’ll be orphaned, I tell you, or sold to the workhouse. But suppose he done it? Suppose we tell ’em a stowaway done in the skipper? Well, what abaht that? Huh? Once we reach New Orleans the rest of us kin sign on to other ships, and Calhoun’ll go his own way, like he’s always done, believin’ in nothin’, belongin’ to nobody, driftin’ here and there and dyin’, probably, in a ditch without so much as leavin’ a mark on the world — or as much of a mark as you get from writin’ on water.”
I said, “Now, just a minute—”
But the others were nodding. One said, “That could work, Mr. Cringle, if you’d take the helm—”
“And,” said another, “maybe the captain’s share of the cargo’d be spread amongst alla us. You could see to that, couldn’t you, sir, seein’ as you’d be captain when we got home?”
“Yes, I’d see to that.” He was rubbing his forehead, breathing deep through his nose. One nostril whistled, clogged by something best left unsaid. He took out his handkerchief, pressed a finger to one side of his nose, and blew. “But what about Calhoun?”
“What abaht him?” said McGaffin.
“Does he get a share?”
“Aye, if he does like I said. It’d prove where his loyalties lie. For once in his life he’d be doin’ somethin’ useful.” He looked sideways at me. “You ever cut a man’s throat, Calhoun?”
“Oh, all the time.”
“Leave him be.” Cringle blew again. “Nothing says we have to harm the captain. I’m not a bold man, but I despise him as much as all of you do. Mutiny”—he turned to the boatswain—“doesn’t bother me either. God knows, to be a Yank is to be mutinous. The goddamn country was born out of rebellion. But, to be fair, Falcon’s carried us this far safely.” He paused bleakly, folding his handkerchief. “That counts for something.”
“Give him a launch, then.” Fletcher stroked his long-chinned face. “I say put the bugger and a few provisions in a gig when we go by an island. Most likely he’ll land on his feet thataway, knowing him.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’ meself,” said a boy in the back, a carpenter’s mate generally quiet who brought this out only after stoking up the courage to speak. Their eyes coming his way made him color. More softly, as if taking back what he’d just said, he added, “Maroon him?”
McGaffin made a contemptuous snort. “Aye, and knowin’ the Old Man, he’ll come through, raise another crew, hoist the Jolly Roger, and track every one of us down. Naw, I don’t like it.”
“But it’s fair,” said Cringle. “At least he’ll have a chance. That much we owe him.”
The boatswain disagreed, but saw each man shift to Cringle’s side. “All right. If that’s how you want it. But I don’t see nobody volunterin’ to put him in that launch.”
Fletcher turned his head away; a few others looked at the floor.
Quietly, a catch in his voice, Squibb said, “There are seven of yuh.”
“Sure, Josiah, and twice as many blokes who’ll take his side, like Meadows, once the shit hits the orlop ceilin’.” McGaffin bent his brows deeply. “You’d have to disarm the bugger first, or draw him away from the rest, get him alone somehow, or when he’s sleepin’. Trouble is, he sleeps light. You all know that. And his cabin’s got more fykes and infernal traps than I seen red men lay down. Naw, he ain’t got this old and ugly and evil by bein’ stupid, not on your life.” For a few moments he sucked his pipe, blowing columns of smoke that collected in layers on the floor at his feet. Then: “Calhoun?”
“What?”
“You nicked that ring, you say?”
“That I did.”
“From where’d you nick it?”
“The Old Man’s cabin.”
There was silence, a collective shock commingled with suspicion, as though maybe they thought I was lying. Which I was. As a general principle and mode of operation during my days as a slave, I always lied, and sometimes just to see the comic results when a listener based his beliefs and behavior on things that were Not. But don’t judge me harshly; it was one of the few forms of entertainment bondmen had. However, if I’d known where this lie would lead, I’d not have said a word.
Cringle leaned forward. “You were inside? You got past all those locks? All those latches?”
“Yessir.” That much at least was true.
“So,” said McGaffin, “if he broached cargo once, he kin do it again. This time, though, let him unload grape from the captain’s guns when he’s out, dampen his powder, disconnect all them security wires, and our lads kin slip in as easy as you please. Mebbe Squibb kin put a li’l somethin’ in his dinner.”
“No.” The cook shook his head. “I believe in what you’re doin’, but don’t ask me that.”
McGaffin spat a string of tobacco onto the floor. “Josiah, you make me sick. You know that?”
“Say what yuh want. I ain’t doin’ it.”
“Half a mo’, guvnuh. Wot day we talkin’ ’bout?” asked Fletcher. “Needs to be soon, I’d say.”
“Tomorrow at six bells,” said McGaffin. “See, we find some bothersome task to keep Falcon aft, somethin’ he’ll need to supervise, like overseein’ the blacks when they’re brought up to give ’em air — he’s allas there fer that — then Calhoun has the time he needs. We kin put Falcon over the side that night. Cringle kin make sure we’re the ones on evenin’ watch tomorrow.”
Fletcher’s lips burst open in a goatish laugh. “Tell the others he fell overboard.”