In the belly of a ship just beyond New York City, Francis Edmund Swift swung in a hammock. He was surrounded by dozens of other similarly floating beds filled to capacity with pukey babies, tired mothers, whiny old men, gamblers, drunks and at least three cats. They were all nestled in the bowels of a cargo vessel bound for Nova Scotia with three scheduled colony stops along the way. Francis had purchased a ticket for this boat figuring that it would be faster to sail to Boston and then ride on horseback the rest of the way to Cherrytown, but after only an hour aboard the ship he realized he’d made a terrible mistake.
His makeshift bed was on the furthest row of the vast hammock array, so that he had nothing to his right but a slender aisle for walking. Yet to his left were a dozen babies puking and crying at the same steady interval. He wondered how in Christ’s Good Name could these little devils hold so much spittle and poo inside them. It was remarkable. His toes curled at the stench. Their screaming split his balding head. But worst of all that miserable voice inside him; that murderous, terrible thing which writhed in his blood pleaded for him to kill every soul onboard. And with each passing minute, Francis found it harder to tell it no.
A sailor checking for stowaways thumped toward him in muddy boots. He told a man to quit his whining, told a woman to shut her baby’s trap. But as he passed Francis, Francis clutched the man’s arm, dragging him sideways just as the ship leaned and his hammock tilted.
“Oyi?” the sailor hissed before regaining his balance with a handful of skips and jumps. “Mind your paws.” He spit on the floor and yelled, “Goes for all the filthy lot of ye.”
But Francis eyed the young sailor with a desperation in eyes, a crazed narrowing of his pupils, eyebrows bristling like thorn bushes.
It’s dark in here, the voice in his head whispered. It was as if this entity’s lips were ever-so-lightly pressed against the little hairs of Francis’s ears.
Slit his throat, it continued. Drink him. All I need is one and I’m released.
“I can’t stay down here,” Francis told the sailor, his voice hoarse and dry like he’d already been on this boat for a thousand years. “I have coin. I’ll give you all of it. Give me a room up top. Please don’t let me stay here.”
“You paid for the asshole, so you get the asshole,” the sailor replied.
“You don’t understand,” Francis said earnestly, pulling the man close and staring into his brown, dull eyes — eyes the voice begged him to scoop out. “There is darkness inside me. None of these people are safe. I hadn’t known there’d be so many of them. Please.’
“Let me go old man,” he said. “Or I’ll cut off yer hands.”
He slapped Francis across the face, startling him so much that he released his grip. As he rubbed his cheek, he watched the sailor thump away, brushing himself off and cursing about these filthy bloody wretches. He watched him open a door which suddenly enshrouded the man in brilliant, warm light. He watched the light spill across the miserable grove of hammocks, illuminating dozens of feral baby eyes and sickly old men before the door closed and the hold went dark.
Then he heard the voice inside him beg once more, release me.
The ship swayed and groaned. Four babies puked unseen. A man at Francis’s feet lit a match, coughed, blew it out, cursed himself, then fell into a deeper coughing fit.
He watched the door the sailor disappeared behind for several minutes. Glints of angelic amber still sparkled along its edges. He waited for the sailor to emerge, yet the door remained still.
“That there’s the shitter,” a woman beside Francis croaked.
He turned to his left. In the dim moonlight that shone through cracks in the vessel’s hull, he found a nearly bare chested woman glistening with spittle in a hammock. A baby wrapped in rags slept soundly in her arms.
“Shat in there not long ago,” the woman said, nodding at the glowing door. “Nice torch above the can to help ye see. Don’t know why they can’t light one in here.” Then she leaned toward him, as if sharing a secret. “When I shat, I felt a draft from somewhere other than me nethers. From the walls. Fixin’ there’s stairs somewhere in there which lead upward. Bet ya that’s where your lad went. The sailor who slapped ye.”
“He didn’t slap—”
“Slapped ye good I saw, but them hidden stairs is why I betcha he ain’t returned. He’s gone above.”
“But why would there be stairs hidden in the privy?” Francis asked.
“There’s hidden things all around us,” the woman replied, waving her hand slowly through the air while balancing her baby with the other arm. “This ain’t no ordinary shipping frigate. You’ve stumbled on a smuggler’s vessel.”
Francis blinked. “A smuggler’s ship?”
He was shocked he hadn’t noticed. He was world traveled and well accustomed to the various illicit trades of war and vice. In his youth he’d have just talked his way into receiving the finest room aboard. He’d have swindled the swindlers. How soft had he become? How old and aloof?
“Aye it’s smugglers,” the woman said with a glint in her eyes. “There’s war things hidden in this shitty wood — goods for the good rebellion. I was the first to board, and I seen em’ slide sacks into the floorboards. They didn’t care if I saw. Who’d believe me if I snitched? I reckon those sacks be filled with musket balls, cannon balls, pixie dust, pox shots, all sorts of things to help the northmen fight.”
“Have you seen these stairs for yourself?” Francis asked.
The woman sighed. “Most of us be refugees bound for Nova Scotia, so I don’t plan to kick the hornet's nest looking for secrets. What’ll I do with a cannon ball, huh? No, I’ll just lie here another week an’ suffer in silence like the rest of this lot. A little leaky sea water and a little darkness won’t kill us.” But then she eyed an old man shivering nearby. “Most of us, at least.”
Francis nodded. “Suit yourself, but I’m going for a look at that toilet.”
He shakily climbed out of his hammock, nearly toppling over as the ship lurched sideways. He turned and smiled awkwardly at the woman while she studied him in the dim light.
“Nice coat ya got there,” she said with narrow eyes. “Seems expensive. You steal it? Bit old to be playing soldier, aren’t ye?”
The voice inside Francis whispered again. His left hand balled into a fist and shook violently at his side.
Snap her neck, it whispered. No one will see. No one will mind. Drink her good, you could. Sweeter than wine.
“Good evening,” Francis said, tipping an imaginary hat.
He slipped his quivering fist into his coat pocket and turned. The woman sighed and settled into her hammock with the baby as Francis briskly stumbled to the privy door, threw it open, stepped inside its angelic glow, then slammed the door behind him.
The sailor was gone, and at Francis’s feet was an ass-sized hole in the floor. Rats yipped and skittered in its deep black below, hardly illuminated by the bright torch flickering just above it. The stench of the room was enough to shake his knees and wet his eyes. There were no stairs. No extra door. It was just a small privy with hardly enough space to fit one man.
He pushed against wood panels and pressed his fingertips into black, swirling tree notches in hopes of discovering some hidden button or camouflaged lever. He turned round and round as the ship lurched and groaned. Reluctantly, he leaned toward the hole in the floor and nearly fell in as the vessel tumbled down a wave. Finally, he looked up and noticed the knotted end of a rope wedged through a crack in the ceiling. His heart skipped as he grasped it and pulled until a square wood panel slid away, revealing a gap just large enough for him to climb through.
He tightened the straps of his satchel and pulled his aging body upward with a groan. He climbed the privy walls straining his shoulders, his spine and every muscle in his neck. He had to get away. Had to find a real bed, a real meal, the warm light of a torch and a toilet to call his own. But most of all he was terrified that if he stayed in that cramped boat’s belly for two whole days the voice inside him would win and every soul swinging on those hammocks would be slain. So he growled and he kicked and finally he climbed up, up, up until he passed the threshold of the hatch and pulled himself to the floor above, collapsing into a hallway.
Panting, he found himself in a slender hallway lined with closed doors. At the end of the passage was an ornately carved door with a little ornate rug nestled at its base. He stumbled toward it, turned an iron knob and entered quietly.
Orange light flickered from torches which encircled what appeared to be the captain’s quarters. The sweet, tangy stench of tobacco filled the air. In a corner was a lab station with bubbling flasks and little cauldrons. In another corner was a maple wood desk covered in crumpled parchment, maps, books and ink stains. And in the center of the room, seated at a very ordinary table, was a well-dressed man playing cards with a bear.
“You slimy ape,” the man said before tossing a handful of cards onto the table. The bear growled, then nodded enthusiastically. It leaned over the table and with a big paw, slid a handful of coins toward it. It was then that Francis noticed a scar across the grizzly’s right eye, carved vertically through its fur. His heart nearly leapt from his body.
“At this rate you’ll cheat me out of ship and home,” the well-dressed man said to the bear, anxiously twirling one end of his mustache. He shook his head, grumbled, then retrieved a tricorn hat from the table’s edge.
“It’s time we enjoy some fresh air,” he continued. “And I believe Tommy has a bucket of fish waiting for you starboard.” But as he rose from his chair he froze at the sight of Francis standing at the other end of the room. “Who in the bloody blazes are you?”
The bear turned and locked eyes with Francis. Its face scrunched into a scowl. It flashed its sharp teeth and growled, rumbling the floorboards.
“Desmond.” Francis said to the bear.
The well dressed man’s eyebrows shot upward. He turned to the grizzly and said, “Good Christ, are you two acquainted?”
“I gave him that scar over his eye,” Francis replied with gritted teeth.
The bear then sauntered toward Francis who stood his ground with squared shoulders.
“Last I saw you was Baton Rouge,” Francis said to the grizzly.
“Baton Bloody Rouge?” the well dressed man said, “Desmond, who is this man?”
But the bear just huffed and let out a loud, guttural roar as it stomped up to Francis’s feet, finally planting its paws on the floor and stood mere inches from his face. Snot spilled from the bear’s wet nose. Spit splashed across Francis’s red coat. The room was silent as they stared at one another, waiting for the other to make the first move.
But then a smile curled around Francis’s lips and his arms darted upward.
“Desmond!” Francis cried. He wrapped his arms around the beast who then cooed and nuzzled the aging man’s chest with closed, happy eyes. “I thought you’d died!” Francis continued. The bear grunted in reply, then stepped away and gave a little shimmy, shaking the floor. “You look great!” Francis said.
“What the actual fuck,” the well-dressed man said, exasperated. “Might someone explain what just happened? Did you crawl up from the toilet down the hall? Did Tommy leave the rope askew again?” Then he muttered, Miserable idiot.
But before Francis could reply, the bear rolled over on its side and with a big paw pointed at a large, cannonball shaped lump on its chest.
“What’s that?” Francis asked, leaning toward the bear’s growth and rubbing his hand over it. He turned to the well-dressed man. “Is he hurt?”
“I’m afraid it’s cancer,” the man said with a sigh. “Its spread seems to slow when he’s in his bear form.”
“Can it be removed?” Francis asked.
The man shook his head. “Perhaps. But wait, I demand to know who you are! And how do you know Desmond?”
The bear rolled over again and groaned apologetically at the anxious ship captain. Then it nodded at the door Francis had come through, to which Francis opened the door and the bear strolled through it and into the hallway. He shrugged at the captain, then followed the bear.
“For Christ’s sake,” the captain shouted. He snatched his hat from the table again and yelled, “Desmond!” He chased the two into the hallway and up a set of stairs.
The wind was warm and salty on the upper deck of the ship. Stars twinkled above the mast and a full moon cast its radiant glow. There was a lovely quiet to the sea that Francis had long ago forgotten. Only the flap of sails interjected the silence.
A few sailors nodded in the dark as Francis and the captain followed the bear to the ship’s stern. Far on the horizon, New York City flickered like candles on a window sill. The bear stopped at the rear-most railing and swung its front paws over, leaning its enormous body against the wood to more comfortably watch the city slowly disappear as the ship sailed away.
“I’m Francis,” Francis said to the well-dressed man as they both joined the grizzly. “I was a monster hunter long ago and confronted our friend here in Baton Rouge decades ago. I had a contract to put his werebear ass on a pike for a rival crime boss, but when I finally confronted him we found ourselves steeped in mutual interests and civility. We drank all night and became instant friends. So I ripped up the contract and never looked back.”
The bear grunted and turned to them so its scar was clearly visible.
“Ah, right,” Francis chuckled. “But not without giving him that nice cut on his pretty face.” The bear snorted and faced the city again as Francis continued, “But he stopped writing to me about ten years ago, so I thought a hunter finally got him.”
“He must have stopped writing once he moved to New York,” the captain said. “He's never spoken of you, but then again he never speaks of his former life. I'm just lucky he stumbled on our humble smuggling operation and invested tenfold."
"What do you smuggle?” Francis said. “All I've seen so far are people.”
“Refugees, ammunition, food for soldiers, talking bears and mysterious men.” He cracked a smile. "But truthfully, if Desmond hadn't discovered us a few years back we'd be destitue. I owe him my life and more.”
“He’s a good man,” Francis said, then fell silent.
The wind whistled between them as the well-dressed man lit a tobacco pipe between his teeth. He puffed on the pipe and inhaled until he was satisfied. As smoke tumbled from his lips into the warm ocean air, he said, “I’m Captain Plank, by the way.”
Francis chuckled. “Captain Plank?”
“Fitting, isn’t it?” the captain said between puffs. “I suppose if I were born Gregory Tooth I’d be a dentist.” Then he nodded at the bear. “We’re taking him to Canada. He’s been good to me, to all of us. There’s a doctor there who might be able to help him, maybe even remove the tumor, but his prognosis isn’t great.”
“I’m sorry, buddy,” Francis said, rubbing the bear’s snout as it stared at the fading city in the distance. He noticed a wet glint in the grizzly’s eyes as it watched the remaining few sparks of New York City fade into the dark horizon.
“I’ve always hated that place,” the captain said. “And the blockade certainly hasn’t helped, but Desmond always had an affection toward it. I suppose it’s where he found himself again. Away from his messy life in the south.”
“It was never easy for him down there,” Francis said, nodding.
“Heavens no,” the captain replied.
“When was his last shifting?” Francis asked, still patting the bear’s fur. “A week?”
Captain Plank grimly shook his head. “Three months. His pain is lessened in his bear form. It’s much easier to manage than when he’s shifted back to normal.”
“I can only imagine,” Francis said. He leaned a little more on the railing and realized the terrible voice inside his head had been quiet for some time now.
“But what brings you to my humble vessel?” the captain asked, eyeing Francis. “Are you a soldier? Deserter?”
“I’m looking for someone,” Francis replied. “An old friend. Someone I hunted with long ago.”
“How ominous,” the captain said, flashing a curious smile in the moonlight. “Does this old hunter friend have a name?”
Francis sighed. “Samuel Burtwhistle.”
Suddenly the bear roared, causing both men to jump. Its shouts echoed over the water, through the air, maybe even up to the stars. The grizzly turned to Francis and stomped its paws, groaning and growling.
“I know, I know,” Francis said, ashamed. “But it’s just a job. All I have to do is find him. I’m not rekindling anything. I promise.”
The bear quieted into little grunts, but eyed him wearily.
“Well, whoever this Samuel is,” the captain chimed, “He seems quite esteemed in Desmond’s opinion…” He then turned his pipe over and watched burnt tobacco flutter into the wind, down into the sea. “I won’t pry, but are you going with us to Nova Scotia?”
“Just Boston,” Francis said, still a bit shaken by the bear’s angry response. “He was last seen in a New Hampshire hamlet called Cherrytown.”
“Sounds lovely,” the captain replied. “Well, there’s a spare room that you can have, free of charge.”
Francis anxiously riffled through his satchel and said, “I have coin—”
But the captain held up a hand. “Any friend of Desmond is a friend of mine. We’ve still two days until Boston, so I insist.” He then patted Francis on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to catch up. Just tell one of the deck hands to show you to your room when you’re ready.”
The captain smiled then strode across the deck before disappearing back into the ship, leaving Francis and the bear to quietly watch the remaining lights of New York City wink dark.