Pirates & Ghosts Short Stories, page 77
“Not much instruction there,” said Dr. Livesey as he passed on.
The next ten or twelve pages were filled with a curious series of entries. There was a date at one end of the line and at the other a sum of money, as in common account-books, but instead of explanatory writing, only a varying number of crosses between the two. On the 12th of June, 1745, for instance, a sum of seventy pounds had plainly become due to someone, and there was nothing but six crosses to explain the cause. In a few cases, to be sure, the name of a place would be added, as ‘Offe Caraccas,’ or a mere entry of latitude and longitude, as ‘62° 17’ 20”, 19° 2’ 40”.’
The record lasted over nearly twenty years, the amount of the separate entries growing larger as time went on, and at the end a grand total had been made out after five or six wrong additions, and these words appended, ‘Bones, his pile.’
“I can’t make head or tail of this,” said Dr. Livesey.
“The thing is as clear as noonday,” cried the squire. “This is the black-hearted hound’s account-book. These crosses stand for the names of ships or towns that they sank or plundered. The sums are the scoundrel’s share, and where he feared an ambiguity, you see he added something clearer. ‘Offe Caraccas,’ now; you see, here was some unhappy vessel boarded off that coast. God help the poor souls that manned her – coral long ago.”
“Right!” said the doctor. “See what it is to be a traveller. Right! And the amounts increase, you see, as he rose in rank.”
There was little else in the volume but a few bearings of places noted in the blank leaves towards the end and a table for reducing French, English, and Spanish moneys to a common value.
“Thrifty man!” cried the doctor. “He wasn’t the one to be cheated.”
“And now,” said the squire, “for the other.”
The paper had been sealed in several places with a thimble by way of seal; the very thimble, perhaps, that I had found in the captain’s pocket. The doctor opened the seals with great care, and there fell out the map of an island, with latitude and longitude, soundings, names of hills and bays and inlets, and every particular that would be needed to bring a ship to a safe anchorage upon its shores. It was about nine miles long and five across, shaped, you might say, like a fat dragon standing up, and had two fine land-locked harbours, and a hill in the centre part marked ‘The Spy-glass.’ There were several additions of a later date, but above all, three crosses of red ink – two on the north part of the island, one in the southwest – and beside this last, in the same red ink, and in a small, neat hand, very different from the captain’s tottery characters, these words: ‘Bulk of treasure here.’
Over on the back the same hand had written this further information:
Tall tree, Spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to the N. of N.N.E.
Skeleton Island E.S.E. and by E.
Ten feet.
The bar silver is in the north cache; you can find it by the trend of the east hummock, ten fathoms south of the black crag with the face on it.
The arms are easy found, in the sand-hill, N. point of north inlet cape, bearing E. and a quarter N.
J.F.
That was all; but brief as it was, and to me incomprehensible, it filled the squire and Dr. Livesey with delight.
“Livesey,” said the squire, “you will give up this wretched practice at once. Tomorrow I start for Bristol. In three weeks’ time – three weeks! – two weeks – ten days – we’ll have the best ship, sir, and the choicest crew in England. Hawkins shall come as cabin-boy. You’ll make a famous cabin-boy, Hawkins. You, Livesey, are ship’s doctor; I am admiral. We’ll take Redruth, Joyce, and Hunter. We’ll have favourable winds, a quick passage, and not the least difficulty in finding the spot, and money to eat, to roll in, to play duck and drake with ever after.”
“Trelawney,” said the doctor, “I’ll go with you; and I’ll go bail for it, so will Jim, and be a credit to the undertaking. There’s only one man I’m afraid of.”
“And who’s that?” cried the squire. “Name the dog, sir!”
“You,” replied the doctor; “for you cannot hold your tongue. We are not the only men who know of this paper. These fellows who attacked the inn tonight – bold, desperate blades, for sure – and the rest who stayed aboard that lugger, and more, I dare say, not far off, are, one and all, through thick and thin, bound that they’ll get that money. We must none of us go alone till we get to sea. Jim and I shall stick together in the meanwhile; you’ll take Joyce and Hunter when you ride to Bristol, and from first to last, not one of us must breathe a word of what we’ve found.”
“Livesey,” returned the squire, “you are always in the right of it. I’ll be as silent as the grave.”
The Game of Games
Jeremy A. TeGrotenhuis
The night had begun with shooting dice for rounds of drinks, which had progressed into a card game, which had drawn the eye of the soothsayer. Gribb’s men were by that point drunk enough to brawl. As the soothsayer settled his old bones and smoothed the rumples in his patchwork cloak, Shift-Eye and Scrawny – the two midshipmen on either side of the empty chair the soothsayer had claimed – glared at him. They were on the edge of knocking his head into his ribcage, but the soothsayer’s voice lulled away their anger.
“Strong sailing men all,” the soothsayer said, “you have crossed and re-crossed every corner of the sea, yes? Seen many things. Known many secrets. Yet are you well paid? Enough for this rowdy liquid meal, perhaps, but enough for the life you long to lead? Are you respected? Perhaps feared by those you conquer, but not respected, not truly.”
As the senior officer present, Lieutenant Gribb’s hackles rose. The man was goading them into melancholy, reminding them of the dissatisfaction suffered by all navy men. Suffered by all men and women in the world, Gribb expected, but felt most keenly by the miserable, directionless sort who so often take to sea. In the verve of drunkenness Gribb pounded his fist on the table.
“Do you mean to stir up sedition? We’re loyal men here, one and all!”
“If you say otherwise I’ll string yer guts for rigging!” roared Cudge, the saltiest and longest serving of the lot.
“Aye!” peeped Ensign Runter, who had lied about his age to join the navy. “And we’ll crack your skull off for a piss pot!”
The soothsayer ignored Runter and fixed his gaze on Gribb. His bright eyes were red around the pupil, but clear as gin.
“Oh no, lieutenant, no,” the soothsayer said. “Not sedition. What I offer is an opportunity. A game with infinite stakes, and the prospect of infinite winnings.”
Silence settled on them. The Game of Games was a rumor, whispered in every seedy inn of every port town and harbor a ship might drop anchor. A game of infinite reward, and infinite risk. A man who drew the Sun might become a god, but the Skull brought instant, gruesome death. There were other cards, it was rumored, with greater or lesser gifts and penalties, but these were the two that concerned Gribb in that quiet moment while he and his men sat in drunken contemplation of their terrifying opportunity.
“Well boys?” Gribb said at last. He was becoming paranoid that the men might think him a coward if he let one of them speak first. “The opportunity of a lifetime, eh?”
The men exchanged glances. Scrawny and Shift-Eye nodded, then broke into matching grins. They were a fun-loving sort, the first to break out dice in calm seas.
“Aw Squall God’s hoary arsehole,” snarled Cudge. “What’ve I got to lose?”
“Your life, for one thing,” snapped Quimby, the young second lieutenant. The thin mustache he insisted on wearing wiggled on his upper lip. He jabbed a finger at the soothsayer. “And if not that, then this one will take every coin in your purse, and your clothes besides!”
“Don’t be a bore, Quimby!” Gribb said. Not that Quimby was wrong to be cautious. But Gribb wasn’t about to admit that a young officer had matched him drink-for-drink only to keep a clearer head.
“Yeah! Don’t be a fart!” squealed Runter.
“See!” Cudge threw his arm out toward the little ensign, and barely missed bashing him on the ear. “Even wee Runter’s game!”
“I assure you,” said the soothsayer, “I’ll not lay a finger on any man of you, nor on any of your possessions. You play against fate itself, and against your own willingness to draw.”
“Probably isn’t the real Game of Games anyway,” muttered Shift-Eye.
“Perhaps not,” Gribb agreed. “At least let us see the cards and the field, before we decide whether or not to play. If it is all a jest, we’ll be none the worse for wear, eh? And we’re all able-bodied fighting men, are we not?”
The men voiced hearty confirmation that they were indeed able-bodied fighting men. Also that they were not in the least bit afraid of this little, wrinkled, strangely dressed man whose voice had a lulling cadence to it but who surely couldn’t be much of a threat to the six of them – they being, of course, able-bodied fighting men.
“I still say it’s some sort of trick,” Quimby grumbled.
“There is no trick,” said the soothsayer. “Nothing is decided until you choose your card.”
They filed after the soothsayer into the claustrophobic back room. Shift-Eye and Scrawny made a show of checking the room as they entered, and even crawled beneath the table, to ensure no ambush awaited them. Satisfied, the sailors took their seats.
“Now, lay the magic circle,” said the soothsayer, and he threw the cards, each one landing directly in front of a man, each coming to rest at the same angle. It was eerie, but they all had seen the same trick at many a card sharp’s table. They said as much and exchanged encouraging glances.
“Is this my card, then?” said Quimby, goggling at the back of the card in front of him as though expecting it to leap up and shave his mustache. “If I pick this up, I’m in the game?”
“No,” said the soothsayer, and then produced the sewing needle. “If you would play the Game of Games, leave life’s blood upon the table.”
Gribb stared at the needle. It was ordinary, neither carved with runes nor dripping with poison. Yet the thought of pricking his finger with it sent a wave of nausea to swirl the beer in his gut.
“I’m sick o’ all this mystical yammering!” Cudge snapped. He grabbed the pin, jabbed his thumb, and left a crescent smear of blood in the middle of the circle. “Deal me in, y’bastard!”
Slowly and with all the ceremony of a funeral the soothsayer lifted his deck, shuffled it thrice, and set it down upon the smear of Cudge’s blood.
“Draw, if you would challenge fate.”
Cudge set his jaw, drew the top card, flipped it, and slapped it down face-up. The sailors stared at the back of Cudge’s scar-seamed hand. His forearm began to quiver. His fingers arched, pressing into the paper of the card. If it were the Skull, would it wait until he lifted his hand? He waged some internal battle, but Gribb saw only the flexing of his jaw and arm, and the arching of his fingers.
“Bloody well show us already, Cudge!” Runter peeped, his voice cracking.
“I will when I’m ready, y’bastard!” Cudge growled, then, staring down at his fingers, which were going white for pressing on the card and table, he took a deep breath and lifted his hand.
The sailors craned their necks for a look at the card. Its face was a simple woodblock print, decorated with watercolors – no fancier and no more mystical than a common playing card. The illustration was of a winged serpent, colored in faded green, coiled around a horde of gems and jewelry. Though they were uncolored, the jewels seemed to glitter in the candlelight.
“The Wyrm,” said the soothsayer. “Drawn by one who will never know an empty purse.”
Cudge burst out laughing. His hands went to his waist.
“Aye? Never know an empty purse, y’say?” he cackled, shook his head, and gave the soothsayer an accusatory glare. “I knew this was all hockum. I already lost me whole backpay dicing with these louts! Never know an empty purse…my arse!”
He tossed his deflated purse into the center of the table. It landed with a clink and rattle.
Cudge snatched up the purse and glared around the room.
“Bit a’ parlor trickery is all…” he muttered. He reached into the purse, and his eyes went wide.
He sat there, hand in his purse, saying nothing, meeting no gaze.
“Well?” said Quimby, with a quaver in his voice. “What about it, Cudge?”
“None a’ yer business!” the big sailor snarled. His hands, and the purse, disappeared beneath the table, but before he could tie it to his belt Runter had snatched it. The little ensign darted away from Cudge as quick as a fox fleeing hounds. He up-ended the purse and pulled its mouth wide open. Nothing fell. Runter shook the purse, frowning. In his hands, it was empty as Cudge had claimed.
Cudge caught Runter by the scruff of his neck, hauled him into the air, and ripped the purse from his fingers. Gold rounds, silver marks, and copper chits poured from its open mouth and tumbled clattering to the floorboards.
Slowly, Gribb’s gaze shifted from the scattered fortune to Cudge’s frightened eyes.
“So it is for him,” said the soothsayer. “How shall it be for you? Which man here next wishes to tempt fate? Let him shed blood upon the table.”
They settled back into their chairs, even Cudge, though he was tense as an anchor-line in a storm and ready to bolt for the door. What did he expect? They had seen, the purse would be empty for any other man. Gribb, for one, felt suddenly inclined towards furthering his friendship with his good mate Cudge. The only thing he felt more keenly, in that moment, was envy.
“Lucky sonofabitch!” Runter squeaked. He grabbed the needle.
“Wait!” Quimby reached across the table and caught Runter by the wrist. “Think about what you’re doing, lad! Yes, Cudge was lucky, but that deck…the Game of Games…you’ve heard the stories! What if you draw the Skull, lad?”
“If I do, I won’t hardly know it, eh?” said Runter. “But if I draw that snake thing like Cudge did, I’ll be set for life!”
“Y’can’t draw the Wyrm again, boy,” said Shift-eye. “There’s only one o’each card in the deck, I hear.”
“True ’nough,” said Scrawny. “But there’s other good cards, eh? What about the Sun?”
“You sound as though you intend to draw!” Quimby said, horrified. “Surely there must be one evil in the deck for every good! The Skull matched with the Sun, and so on!”
Scrawny and Shift-eye frowned, exchanged a glance, and shrugged.
“Way I see it,” said Shift-eye, “each time we set sail we’re wagerin’ our lives. Ship may go down and us with it. We’re all gamblin’ men either way, eh?”
“Aye,” said Scrawny, nodding sagely. “Save setting sail promises only a chance for a bit ’a pay and, if yer lucky, a promotion and a share o’ profits. This here,” he waved at the deck, “promises…well, everythin’!”
“If the worst thing that can happen is I die,” said Shift-eye, “but the best thing is I become a god…bleed me like a pig, I’ll take the chance!”
“Aye aye!” shouted Runter.
“Madness!” Quimby cried. His mustache quivered like a nervous inch-worm on his upper lip. “You don’t know what the worst outcome might be! We know nothing about this game, other than its incredible power.”
“Aye,” said Scrawny, “and I like what I’ve seen so far.”
Gribb sat drumming his fingers on the table, watching and listening to his men’s conversation. As the ranking officer present, he knew the course of action he ought to take. There would be no getting Cudge back on the ship, but it was his responsibility to see the rest of them returned to their duty. He ought to call an end to the Game of Games then and there. Honestly, he ought never to have let things progress this far. Responsibility and duty demanded as much, and he felt vaguely ashamed that Quimby, his second, had played the level head that night.
But the sight of all that gold and silver, still on the ground…
“I’m ending this now!” Quimby declared, rising from his chair, holding Runter by the wrist. “Men, the night is over. Back to the ship, on the double!”
Shift-eye and Scrawny grit their teeth and turned towards Gribb. He ought to say something – either to overrule Quimby, or to back him – but before he could speak Runter slammed his hand down on the pin. A great drop of blood dripped from Runter’s palm and splashed onto the table.
The soothsayer shuffled thrice, and set his deck atop Runter’s blood.
“Draw,” he said. “If you would challenge fate.”
“Haha!” Runter yelled, swiping a card before Quimby could protest.
The card fluttered, flipped in the air, and settled face-up on the table before an empty chair. Its face was blank. Quimby looked at his outstretched hand, curled as though it had been grasping something, and frowned in confusion. A chill worked its way through Lieutenant Gribb. There must have been a draft in the room that had caught the card and twirled it thus.
He wondered, for a moment, at the blank face of the card. Perhaps the cards were all blank, until drawn in their proper course during the ritual? The thought sent another chill up his spine. Though, after what he had seen of Cudge’s purse, he reasoned that nothing the soothsayer and his deck might be capable of would surprise him. At any rate, the question still stood. Would the remaining four of the five sailors play the Game of Games, or would they, as Quimby desired, return to ship, never knowing what their card might have been?
“Lieutenant?” Shift-eye said.
Gribb frowned.
“Mister Quimby,” he said. “If you do not wish to play, I respect that choice. No man can force another to stake his life, not even for the prospect of infinite reward. However, neither can any man deprive another of the right to make such a gamble. No…Mister Quimby, there is no mutiny in what these men do, any more than there was in the dicing and cards we played earlier, for we are all free men who freely chose the sea, and who might freely choose some other life if the opportunity presents itself to us. So, Shift-eye and Scrawny, if you wish to draw, then draw. The same for you, Mister Quimby. I deny no man his right.”
