“Okay, you got another deal, outlander,” Jones said, then reached into his pocket to withdraw a small piece of wicker, the dried reeds woven into a very complex pattern. Holding it up to the southern sky, he maneuvered it around until aligning several stars through holes in the material.
“Head that way!” he said, pointing. Listening for the approaching storm, Ryan added, “And we better hurry.”
Chapter Twelve
The sun was a blazing ball of fire above the sea, the storm clouds only thin slashes across the azure sky, the golden rays streaming through to sparkle off the ocean waves.
Standing near the wheel, Captain Bachman mopped the sweat from his face and straightened his wicker hat. The shade it created helped some, but not much. The air felt as hot as a forge, and it was hours until noon. But it was always this way after a storm. As if the world was born anew.
The pirate ship Gibraltar was quiet, the slaves working down in the hold, the decks scrubbed, the rigging tight. They had already hauled in a load of fish from the drag nets, and some of the crew were sitting on barrels gutting the fish and separating the meat into one bucket, the inedible scales into another and the guts into a third for the slaves. They’d be delighted over fresh food. Bachman knew his men considered him a little soft on the slaves, but even a horse worked better with food in its belly. Same with people. That was just a fact of life. Whips couldn’t make the dead walk.
“Ahoy the deck! Man overboard!” the lookout in the crow’s nest hollered to the deck. “Off the port bow!”
The crew dropped the gutted fish and rushed to the gunwales for a look. A bosun rose from his wicker chair and cocked back both of the hammers on his duck-foot blaster. Bachman approved. Good man. Trust nothing, and stay alive. That was the motto carved into the bow of the Gibraltar.
Walking to the edge of the quarterdeck, the captain lifted a predark eyeglass lens from his vest pocket tied to a piece of string. It still frightened him a little that it didn’t seem to work for anybody else. Only him. A gaudy slut had once suggested that human eyeballs might be different. It sounded reasonable until he caught her trying to lift his blaster when they were fucking. Drove a knife into her ear, and finished the job anyway.
Closing an eye, he held the lens at different distances from his face until he could see wreckage floating on the water, what looked like a piece of a ship’s deck. A man was sprawled facedown on the sodden wood, the toe of one boot dipping into the waves.
“Red Blade!” the captain shouted, tucking the lens away. “Send a skiff to rescue the bastard.”
A man at the railing guffawed. “Davey brought us a nice new slave!”
“Mebbe,” Bachman said warily. “Let’s talk to him first before dress his hands in shackle.”
Pulleys squealed as the skiff was lowered, and Bachman had a mental note to flog the crew for not greasing the metal. In a battle, that could cost the ship.
Standing at the bow, Red Blade shouted orders as the skiff was rowed over to the flotsam and hauled the unconscious man aboard. The bosun watched from the bow of the Gibraltar, his blaster tracking everything. Occasionally he would look over the other side of the ship, just in case this was a ruse to divert their attention.
Minutes later, the lifeboat was hauled back into position, and the curious crew laid the wounded man on the deck. His face was a battlefield of acne scars, tattoos covered most of his skin and there was a scabby wound on his arm. He was carrying several weapons, which Red Blade took and tucked into a wide leather belt.
“He got da same,” a sailor said, tugging on the belt. “Must be one of us.”
“Could be,” Red Blade agreed in a growl, a thick white scar crossing his neck from ear to ear.
Bachman walked over and studied the man for a minute.