It was three months since the collapse of the Dutch East India Trading Company, the jail fire, the escape or death of Captain Rynhaunt and Anthony Straat, the death of his friend, Barent Witbeck and the theft of yet another ship, the Kings Ransom.
The collapse of the Dutch East India Trading Company had the opposite effect most had anticipated. Once the land, buildings and lots had become available for private ownership a wave of entrepreneurs and families had moved to the area. The population had almost doubled in the past ninety days and the economy was booming. The influx of new people brought new legal matters to address and new clients to defend. Smythe had kept busy and with the help of his new partners - former justices Sax and Wittstruck - grown his practice in proportion to the demand of a revitalized city.
This morning Goodson was visiting the construction site of the new jail when the bells tolled announcing an incoming vessel. Since the port guns were no longer in place the bell only served to alert the citizenry.
Smythe stood among the crowd as the ship made its way into port. It was midday and the sun was shining but a light fog enveloped the ship. The ship was listing a little and the rigging appeared to be damaged. Sea birds darted in and around the cargo netting snatching pieces of the indistinct objects suspended there. As it drew closer people began to shout. It was mostly the young with the keenest eyes and most excitable.
“…plague ship…!”
“…pirates…!”
“…this is clearly Oriental mischief if you ask me,” said a voice that sounded older. The ship was steadily making its way into the port and toward the pier.
The ship was silent and there was no visible movement on deck. There were no shouted orders or affirmations of compliance from the crew. The ship was so quiet that the battered hull could be heard creaking as it swayed on its horizontal axis. It was the Kings Tempest.
The first scream came from a portly woman in a baker’s garb, and then others joined in. Some moved closer to the edge of the pier for a better view while others backed away. The ship was only two hundred yards out now.
Smythe’s first concern was that, although the ship was hardly moving in nautical terms it wasn’t slowing down, the second was the rigging. As the mist surrounding the ship thinned it became clear what the gulls and erns were feasting on. There were torsos and limbs, cured by the sun, strung throughout the weathered ropes. What at first appeared to be the tattered remnants of sails in truth were tattooed sections of human skin.
People gasped and recoiled. Several vomited while others prayed. The police arrived and ordered the crowd to disperse. At first those of greater fortitude argued the point but as the ship drew closer even they began to retreat from the floating carnage.
Smythe felt it in his gut, the unease of knowing something frightening and horrific but still not believing. The ruined ship, human remains in the riggings; he had heard this tale before. He had dismissed it all as the ravings of a mad man but now here it was bearing down on him and dozens of other witnesses.
Smythe knew that avarice could drive even the most rational man to the brink, but he couldn’t comprehend this. The story couldn’t have been true, he thought, but the smell of rotting flesh had reached him now and he could not dismiss that. If the story had been true surely those fools would not have gone back, Smythe thought despite what the accusatory letter had said.
Smythe saw the telltale fins of dozens of sharks as they circled and followed the ship. Smythe detected something else, mingled with the smell of salt, blood and, putrefaction was the faintest hint of jasmine. Smythe’s mind could not comprehend what his senses were telling him and before he could give it any more thought the ship ran into the pier and collapsed in on its self. The bow crumpled and the mast fell forward killing one of the policemen who was directing the crowd to get back.
Smythe had stayed clear of the crowd and watched from a safe distance. He had learned his lesson regarding a mob in a small space the night of the jail fire.
One man was found on board. He was dehydrated, malnourished and chained to the ships wheel – it was Jailer Mohren. He later claimed to have been unable to free himself and to have no idea how he had come to be on board the Kings Ransom.
Smythe was plagued with questions. How had Mohren navigated back to port? Where was the rest of the crew? Smythe dreaded the notion that he probably knew more than most about the fate of those avaricious men but who could he tell?
Smythe wasn’t himself for several days afterward. He was a logical man who had mastered making arguments without passion. The return of the Kings Ransom had shaken him and he had avoided work for several days.
Upon returning to his offices Smythe received notice that Mohren had been found dead in his cell with his neck broken and that a letter from Mohren was waiting for him. He didn’t want to read the letter but he felt compelled to. He took the letter to his inner office and stared at the sealed envelope. It was some time before he could muster the courage to open it and the first half of the first sentence read: “Those fucking tangerine whores…”
Smythe dropped the document as if it were on fire. He left his office in a daze and went home to contemplate retirement.
- fin -