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DIVVYTOWN

K ENNIT MOISTENED HIS KERCHIEF in lemon oil and smoothed it over his beard and moustache.

He regarded himself in the gilt-framed mirror over his washbasin.

The oil gave an added sheen to his facial hair, but it was not that effect he had sought.

The fragrance of the oil was still not sufficient to keep the stench of Divvytown from his nostrils.

Coming to Divvytown was, he reflected, rather like being towed to dock in the musk and stench of a slave’s armpit.

He left his quarters and emerged onto the deck.

The outside air was as sultry and humid as within, and the stink more powerful.

He looked with distaste at the nearing shores of Divvytown.

This pirate’s sanctuary had been well chosen.

To find it, one not only had to know the way, but to be a consummate master of bringing a ship up an inland waterway.

The limpid river that led to this lagoon looked no more promising than a dozen others that threaded their way through the multiple islands of the Shifting Shore to the true sea, but this one had a deep if narrow channel that a sailing ship could navigate, and a placid lagoon sheltered from even the wildest storms for anchorage.

At one time, no doubt, it had been a beautiful place.

Now mossy docks and piers poked out from every piece of firm land.

The lush greenery that cloaked and overhung the river banks had been sheared back to bare mud.

There was neither sufficient flow of water nor stirring of breeze to disperse the sewage and smoke of the clustering huts and hovels and stores of the pirate city.

Eventually the rains of winter would come, to flush both city and lagoon briefly clean, but on a hot still summer day, the Divvytown lagoon harbour had all the beckoning charm of an unemptied chamber pot.

To anchor here for more than a few days at a stretch invited moss and rot to the hull of a ship; to drink the water from all but a few wells gave a man the flux – and, if he were unlucky, the fever as well.

Yet as Kennit stood looking down over the deck of his ship, he saw his crew working well and willingly.

Even those in the boats towing the Marietta into harbour pulled away heartily, for to their noses this stench was the sweet smell of both home and pay.

By tradition, their trove would be divvied out on deck as soon as the Marietta was tied up.

In a few hours, they’d be up to their navels in whores and beer.

Aye, and before sun-up tomorrow, most of their hard-won loot would have passed into the hands of the soft innkeepers and whoremasters and merchants of Divvytown.

Kennit shook his head pityingly and dabbed once more at his moustache with his lemon scented handkerchief.

He permitted himself a small smile. At least this time, in addition to sowing their plunder throughout the town, his crew would spread the seeds of Kennit’s ambition.

Before sun-up tomorrow, he’d wager that half of Divvytown would have heard the tale of Captain Kennit’s sooth-saying at the Others’ Island.

He intended to be exceptionally generous with his men this day when it came to divvy-time.

He would not flaunt it, but he’d take no more than a double crew-share this time.

He wanted the pockets of his crew to be heavy with their pay; he wanted all Divvytown to remark and remember that the men of his ship seemed always to come to port with well-laden purses.

Let them mark it up to the luck and largesse of their captain.

Let them wonder if a bit of that luck and largesse might not benefit all of Divvytown in time.

The mate came to stand respectfully beside him as he leaned on the rail.

‘Sorcor, do you see that bluff there? A tower there would command a long view of the river, and a ballista or two beneath it could defend it from any ship that ever discovered our channel. Not only could Divvytown be warned well ahead of any attack, but it could defend itself. What do you think?’

Sorcor bit his lip but otherwise contained himself.

Every time they put into port here, Kennit made this same proposal to him.

Each time the seasoned mate answered the same.

‘Could there be found enough stone in this bog, a tower might be built, and rocks hauled up to throw. I suppose it might be done, sir. But who would pay for it, and who would oversee it? Divvytown would nevee stop quarrelling long enough to build and man such a defence.’

‘If Divvytown had a strong enough ruler, he could accomplish it. It would be only one of the many things he could accomplish.’

Sorcor glanced cautiously at his captain. This was new territory for their discussion. ‘Divvytown is a town of free men. We have no ruler.’

‘That is true,’ Kennit agreed. Experimentally, he added, ‘And that is why we are ruled instead by the greed of merchants and whoremasters. Look about you. We risk our lives for our gains, every sailor of us. Yet by the time we weigh anchor again, where will our gold be? Not in our own pockets. And what will a man have to show for it? Naught but an aching head, unless he has the ill luck to catch the crabs in a bagnio as well. The more a man has to spend in Divvytown, why then the more the beer or the bread or the women cost. But you are right. What Divvytown needs is not a ruler, but a leader. A man who can stir men to rule themselves, who can waken them so that they open their eyes and see what they could have.’ Kennit let his gaze move back out to the men who bowed their backs to the oars as the ship’s boats towed the Marietta into dock.

Nothing in his relaxed stance could indicate to Sorcor that this was a carefully rehearsed speech.

Kennit thought well of his first mate. He was not only a good seaman, but an intelligent man despite his limited education.

If Kennit could sway him with his words, then perhaps others would begin to listen as well.

He ventured to shift his eyes to Sorcor’s face.

A frown furrowed the mate’s tanned brow.

It pulled at the shiny scar that was the remains of his slave tattoo.

When he spoke, it was after laborious thought.

‘We be free men here. That wasn’t always true.

More than half of them who have come here were slaves, or going to be slaves.

Many wear a tattoo still, or the scar where a slave tattoo was.

And the rest, well, the rest would have to face a noose or a lash, or maybe both if they went back to wherever they come from.

A few nights back, you spoke of a king for us pirates.

You’re not the first to speak of it, and it seems the more merchants we get here, the more they talk up such ideas.

Mayors and councils and kings and guards.

But we had enough of that where we come from, and for most of us, it’s why we’re here instead of there.

Not a one of us wants any man telling us what we can or can’t do.

We get enough of that on shipboard. Begging your pardon, sir. ’

‘No offence taken, Sorcor. But you might consider that anarchy is but disorganized oppression.’ Kennit watched Sorcor’s face carefully.

The moment of puzzlement told him that his selection of words had been wrong.

Obviously, he was going to need more practice at this persuasion.

He smiled genially. ‘Or so some would say. I have both more faith in my fellow men, and a greater appreciation for simpler words. What do we have in Divvytown now? Why, a succession of bullies. Do you remember when Podee and his gang were going about breaking heads and taking pouches? It was almost accepted that if a sailor did not go ashore with his shipmates, he’d be beaten and robbed before midnight.

And that if he did, the best he could expect was a brawl with Podee’s gang.

If three ships’ companies hadn’t turned on Podee and his men at once, it would still be going on.

Right now, there’s at least three taverns in which a man stepping into a dim chamber is as likely to get a stick behind his ear as the whore he paid for.

But no one does anything. It’s only the business of the man who gets clubbed and robbed.

’ Kennit stole a glance at Sorcor. The mate’s brow was furrowed, but he was nodding to himself.

With an odd little thrill, Kennit realized that the man on the wheel was paying as much attention to their words as to holding the ship steady.

At any other time, Kennit would have rebuked him.

Now he felt a small triumph. But Sorcor noticed it at the same moment his captain did.

‘Hey, you, ’ware there! You’re to hold the ship steady, not be listening in on your betters!’

Sorcor sprang to the man with a look that threatened a blow.

The sailor screwed up his face to accept it but did not wince nor budge from his post. Kennit left Sorcor berating him for being a lazy idiot and strolled forward.

Beneath his boots, the decks were as white as sand and stone could make them.

Everywhere he cast his eyes he found precision and industry.

Every hand was engaged at a task, and every bit of gear that was not in immediate use was carefully stowed.

Kennit nodded to himself. Such had not been the case when he had first come on board the Marietta five years ago.

Then she had been as slatternly a tub as any in the pirate fleet.

And the captain that welcomed him aboard with a curse and an ill-aimed blow had been as indistinguishable from his greasy, scurvy crew as any mongrel in a street pack.