It was a shouting, swearing, wine-guzzling, rum-swilling town with more powder than brains and every hand ready to grasp a blade. Murder was a small thing. A man might be stabbed and killed on a dance floor, and not a man would stop for his body, nor would the music cease to play. They'd merely dance around him. Every night bodies were found in the streets, and no man inquired whose they were or how they came to be there. It was every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost.
The black man who was one of those who would guard Diana was waiting at the door. He looked around at me. "Have you a knife?" he asked.
"I have a sword," I said, "and a pair of pistols when it comes to that."
"It is no place for either, although you may use them." From his waistband he drew a knife and scabbard. "Take this." I observed two more in that same waistband. "It is a good blade. At close quarters, in a dark place, it is better than a sword."
He handed it to me, and I tossed it up and caught it deftly by the hilt, wishing to get the feel of its weight and balance. It was a lovely thing, a two-edged blade and long, with a point like a needle.
"I am grateful," I said. "It is a lovely thing."
He flashed white teeth at me in a quick smile. "Ah, yes, suh! Lovely, indeed."
With the knife in my sash I went down the street to the waterfront where the long ships lay.
Sails furled, dripping a little from a quick shower, creaking as they rode the tide, fine, long, lovely ships, like things alive, made for speed and all lined with guns. I remembered the time long since when Yance and I had slipped aboard the pirate ship of Jonathan Delve, that old enemy of my father, and spiked his guns as the ship lay in the river at Jamestown.
The docks and beach, for many ships unloaded on the shore, were stacked with barrels and bales, mostly covered with spare sails or tarpaulins to shield them from the rain. Men moved among them, working, buying, selling, drinking. Here and there I paused to listen to idle talk, and having the gift of tongues, I recognized words in several languages. We at Shooting Creek in my father's time had men from all the world, Sakim, who spoke any language you might wish, and my father, who did a bit in several, and my mother, too, who had sailed with her father on his trading ship, sailed to India, the Malabar Coast, the Red Sea, and the far coast of Cathay. I knew a lot of words, few languages well, but the sense of many.
Yet all was not gold and excitement here. I noted a number of men missing legs or arms or hands, men with patches over an eye, with fingers missing, with faces twisted by scars. These were the casualties of piracy and the sea, those who did not go down to Davy Jones's locker or fiddler's green, who did not walk the plank or dance from a yardarm but who had been so maimed that they went no more to sea, although many an injured man did if he was a known gunner or the like. A good gunner was literally worth his weight in gold.
I stopped by one such, who sat on a bollard looking at the ships. "A fair evening to you," I said.
He was a stalwart, sun-browned man of forty-odd years, looking hard as a knot of oak but minus a leg and a hand. His eyes were glassy blue and uncomfortable to look upon, and I trusted him not even though he had but one hand.
"It may be," he said grimly. "I've no seen the bottom of a glass yet."
"You may see the bottom of several," I said, "if you've news of the Abigail."
"Ah? The Abigail, is it? I don't know your lay, nor can I make you out by the cut of your jib, but I'd say a canny man would have nothing for the Abigail. That's a cool lot aboard there."
"They are," I said, "and friends of mine. They are due to come into port, and I'd like to know when, for I am to sail with them."
"Sail? Aye, there's a good word! Once I swore I'd never off to sea again, but now that I cannot find a berth, I'd give an eye to be aboard a good ship now, with a prize in the offing. But they've no place for me." He held up the stump of an arm. "Look, man! Eleven year at sea and never more than a scratch or two, and then one ball from a Long Tom and flying wood, and I am torn to bits."
"You're lucky you made it," I replied. "Many do not."
"It depends on the view." He looked out over the water, then spat viciously into it. "I am a proud man, and one who worked hard and who fought well, damned well. Now all is gone and only to wait for dying."
"Nonsense!" I said irritably. "You've one hand and two eyes, and you look to have been a sharp man. Such a man should find something he can do, can make, can be. If you quit at this, it's because you've no guts in you."
He glared. "It is easy to talk. You're a whole man."
"Easy it is," I agreed, "but in your spot I'd not quit. There's always something."
From my pocket I took a gold coin. I showed it to him. "If I gave you a shilling," I said, "you'd buy a drink or several, but if I give you this, you could live a month on it if you did not drink. It will give you time to look about and use your head for something besides hanging those gold rings on."
"Who do you want killed?" he asked, glancing at the coin.
"I want an eye kept out for the Abigail and any report of her, and when it comes, take the word to Augustus Jayne. He will pass it to me. My name is Kin Sackett--"
"Sackett? Aye, I know that name! I knew a bloody tough man by the name once, a long time back. Saw him whip our skipper in the street. Whipped him well, he did, and easy as that. His name was Barnabas Sackett."
"My father," I said.
"Aye, you've the look of him, though taller, I think. Well, I should have sailed with him but didn't. The Abigail, is it? All right, I'll keep a weather eye out for her."
He reached a hand for the gold coin, and I slapped it in his palm. "I'd have done it for the shilling," he added. "I'm that hard up."
"I know you would have," I said, "but look about, see what you can find. There's many a berth ashore for a man who kens the sea. So find it."
So I walked away from him along the shore, and it was not until then that I realized it was almost dark. Shadows had found their way into the streets and lingered there, waiting the chance to rush out and engulf even the alongshore.
It was time I was getting back, but a sound of music drew me, and I went up the shore toward a place where the sailors were, and in the door I lingered, looking on at their gambling and carousing. A burly, bearded man grasped my arm. "Come! A drink! A glass of rum for old times' sake!"
"Old times?" I smiled at him. "What old times? I never saw you before."
His grin revealed a missing tooth. "So? Who cares? It is for old times we both have had, old times we should have had! Come! A drink?"
He thrust his way through the crowd, and amused, yet reluctant, I followed. It was a noisy, not unfriendly crowd, and many seemed to know him, for they shouted invitations at him. Resolutely he shook his head and went on until we found a table in a corner.
"Rum? It is a raw, bold drink. Not bad, either, if aged. But we will have something else, you and I, for I know you now whether you know me or not. I know you, lad, and it is a bit of the German you will have, a delicate wine from Moselle."
"You can get it here?"
He looked over his shoulder at me from under bushy brows, beginning to gray. "Aye, you can have that and whatever you wish. It's me whose standing for it, too, get that in your head."
It was a bare plank table, and the benches on either side were crudely made. It was a rough place, thrown roughly together for a rough trade. A big man brought a bottle to the table, but my host waved it away. "White wine from Moselle, a good wine, a delicate wine."
"For you," the waiter said grudgingly, "although we've little enough on hand."