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Jens Rushing is a widely published writer, currently living in Arlington, Texas.

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THIRST
(continued)

“He’s treated me kindly.”

Wickliff snorted. “Because he thinks he can make a pound or two from you. The instant he thinks otherwise, your life isn’t worth a handful of sawdust. He’ll kill you for the sport of it. He’s mad.”

“Mad? Is he truly insane?”

“Aye. He’d strike the sun from the sky if he could. You just haven’t seen his madness yet.”

“Then why serve him?” Miranda asked breathlessly. From across the cabin, she held her arms out to him in momentary compassion or appeal; then she blushed faintly and withdrew them.

Wickliff stared for a moment before replying. “Not my first choice, miss!”

“Not your choice?”

“I was impressed, Miss Davenport. I was Navy. They take our sloop, and line us up on the deck. Barclay scratches a line with the tip of his cutlass and bellows, ‘All free men, cross! All others can perish!’ What do I do then? I do what I must to survive. I cross, my captain cursing me for a traitor and a coward—but I’m drawing breath now, at least.”

“And the captain?”

“He didn’t cross. Barclay cut him down.”

“And now you’re an enemy of the Crown.”

“Aye. To see my wife no more.”

“You are married?”

“To a baker’s daughter in Bristol. Sweet young thing, a humble lass, not educated and refined like yourself, madam, but goodhearted and kind. She looks—looked after this scoundrel well enough.”

“And if you return to her—the rope.”

“The rope,” Wickliff echoed.

Miranda snapped her fingers as if she had received a brilliant inspiration. “You could obtain the King’s Pardon. The governor is quite free with those, I understand. Mr. Fraser—my betrothed—has written to me of such things in the past. All but the worst ruffians can be pardoned for laying down their arms.”

“I’ve heard of that. And there’s the rub—’all but the worst’. As long as I sail under Barclay, I have no more hope of the King’s Pardon than he.”

“As long as you sail under Barclay. I judge that you are intelligent, Wickliff, from conversing with you. I can see that you are strong.” Wickliff shrugged modestly. “And you’re sane.” She crossed the cabin and reached to touch his sleeve, but stopped. Wickliff stiffened. “You’re sane,” she whispered. “That’s more than that animal has. He’ll lead you into the jaws of hell, Wickliff. I know you for a good man. You’ve been so kind to me.”

Wickliff shrugged, but Miranda could see her words working on him. “The crew…” he said.

“The crew will follow you. Tell them of the King’s Pardon. They have to know that Barclay’s mad. They have to fear him. They won’t fear you; they’ll respect you.”

“And how do you know they’ll respect me?”

Miranda clutched his sleeve in her delicate fingers. She fingered the rough fabric and stepped closer to him. His sunripe scent filled her nostrils. Miranda examined the dulled brass buttons of the coat, the worn stitching of the collar, and finally, looked Wickliff in the eye. “Because I do,” she whispered.

Wickliff turned aside roughly and wrenched the door open. “I have a good many duties other than tending to you,” he said as he left.

Miranda waited for Wickliff’s return. She examined her little prison for the tenth time, going over every surface and object, searching for something, anything she could use. And, for the tenth time, she found nothing—except a rotted plank on the starboard wall. It ran horizontally, directly under her cot, and so she had missed it on previous inspections. Miranda scratched at it with her fingernails and little flakes of wood tumbled off. She took her tortoiseshell comb, one of the few possessions Barclay had left her, and scraped the wood. She wiggled under the cot and dug at the edge of the plank where it joined the other. The crack between the planks widened; she put her elbow to the rotten plank and it gave a little. She peered through the gap: a long table, two benches, and a large chair at the end, once grandly upholstered, now faded. The officers’ mess. That explained the occasional laughter from next door. At the far end, light streamed through a pair of large windows at the very stern of the ship. She craned her neck and saw the rolling ocean beyond—vast freedom, just feet away! Footsteps echoed in the passage and she scrambled from beneath the cot. She swept the crumbs of wood away with her foot and rearranged her disheveled hair as well as possible.

Wickliff entered. “I departed in a temper,” he said. “I apologize, Miss Davenport.”

“No apology required,” Miranda said. “Have you essayed the crew?”

Wickliff’s red face darkened for a moment. “Some,” he said. “The second mate, Jenkins, might prove agreeable. He’s a Navy man, like me, and new, at that. Picked him in a public house in Tortuga six months ago, and he’s still right sore about it.

“The first mate, Trent, may not be game. He’s been with the captain a lot longer, and I think he came off a plantation—that maybe he escaped from bondage. So he’s got nothing to go back to. But he’s a powerful dog, quick as can be with a blade. He and the captain together—well, I couldn’t stand before them.”

“Then you won’t,” Miranda said. “See if Trent can be turned. If not—do what is necessary.”

Wickliff furrowed his brow. “You don’t mean murder, miss?” Miranda said nothing. “You do mean murder.”

“And? Is it murder to murder a dead man? If Trent will not surrender his captain and seek the King’s Pardon, he is a dead man. You would serve the King’s purpose in this, and make possible the deliverance of all your fellow crew—your fellow prisoners.” The color drained from Wickliff’s face. “What?” Miranda was suddenly angry. “Are you a stranger to slaughter?”

“No…no, not at all, damn me for it!” Wickliff muttered violently. “But to hear such words—from a lady. How coldly you condemn him!”

Miranda lifted her pointed chin in a gesture of rebuke. “And? How they would condemn me! Or you—when they took you, they condemned you to death on the sea. I find it not cold but delicious indeed to turn their cannon upon them.”

Wickliff stared, speechless. Miranda’s anger grew. “Well? What do you have to say? Speak, if you have a tongue!” Fury overwhelmed her and she slapped at him. Her blow caught him across the face, and he reeled back, startled. “Excuse yourself! Tell me how you could slay my Nona, but not this wretch Trent! By what reasoning do you doff the executioner’s hood now, when you wore it so well in the past?” She struck at him again and he raised his hands to defend himself. He advanced on her suddenly, fist shaking, and she drew back with a cry.

“Don’t tell me my own mind,” he said. “I know what has to be done. Do you think I don’t know?” He ended in a shout.

“Shh, shh,” she soothed. “I’m sorry, Wickliff, I’m sorry. You know. You’re a strong man, more than able.” Wickliff turned away, and Miranda wondered if he was ill. Then she saw that he wept, silently, wiping the tears away so she would not see. She put her arms around him from behind and leaned her cheek against his broad back.

“I was gentle as a lamb,” he said in a thick voice. “I pinched her nose and mouth shut and sang ‘Rock-a-bye’ while I laid her down. And it soothed her, just like a wee babe. She drifted off with a smile, miss, I swear to you!”

“Shh, shh,” Miranda said. “You did what you had to. You are forgiven. No need, no need.”

Soon after Wickliff left, Miranda heard voices in the officers’ mess. She slid beneath her cot and peered through the crack. Wickliff and another man, a shorter, older fellow, with a mass of curly grey hair and a missing eye uncovered by a patch or scarf. The void in his skull gaped blackly and seemed to rove over Miranda and her peephole. Wickliff stood before him, his voice strident and quick.

“Just hear me out, Trent,” he was saying. “Hear me out. How old are you? How much older do you expect to get on an outlaw’s ship? It’s no life we live, Trent.”

“Watch your words, Wickliff. Treason—”

“Treason? From a man of no country! From a convict—an exile!” Wickliff’s voice grew louder, and Miranda saw Trent’s hand go to his pocket.

“Do it!” she cried. Wickliff’s pistol roared, and Trent fell dead, blood spouting from the wound in his chest.

“Oh, Christ…” Wickliff moaned. He didn’t seem to know what to do. Blood flowed from Trent’s chest in a widening pool. Wickliff stepped back from the pool.

“Wickliff! Listen to me!” Miranda whispered. He looked wildly about, his eyes searching the wall. “You must hide him! We aren’t ready, and if they find the corpse, they will know you for a mutineer! Hide it! Wickliff!”

“Yes,” he said. He replaced his pistol in its holster and regarded the body. Then his head jerked to the door—footsteps in the corridor. Someone had surely heard the gunshot.

“Hurry!” Miranda pleaded. Wickliff opened the port window. The salt breeze flowed in and Miranda breathed deeply of her first fresh air in days, mingled with the rusty scent of blood. Wickliff shouldered the burden of flesh and thrust it through the window; Miranda heard the distant splash. Wickliff watched for a moment.

“Sharks have him now,” he said. The footsteps—closer, closer. The door to the mess creaked open, and Wickliff, covered in Trent’s blood, whirled to face the intruder. Crimson soaked his shirt, his coat, his hands, his hair. Blood stained the floorboards.

“You cut yourself, then?” The voice was unfamiliar. “Or did you do for Trent?”

(Continued on page 3)

Thirst by Jens Rushing 1 2 3

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Big Pulp Fall 2011!