by J. P. Sheen
“The King?”
Eselder looked dumbfounded. Then he shrugged.
“I cannot say he looked particularly blithe whenever I was around him. He mostly looked…serious. But then, he’s the King. No doubt he has good reasons to look serious. Why do you care?”
Eselder sounded suspicious. Realizing that they were voyaging into dangerous territory, Blake transformed back into Mr. Evil Brigand and sneered, “Just wanted to know whether all bluebloods wear a mopey face like yours. Guess they do. See, that’s what I mean! Like you bit into a lemon! You just can’t help yourself, can you, boy?”
The ship’s bell chimed. Still chortling, Blake sauntered above deck. It turned out to be a glorious day, for he spent most of it aloft, setting the sails and delighting in the gales that rocked the mainmast to and fro. Indeed, the wind was so fierce that even the topmen, who were accustomed to turbulent weather, moved with unusual care. Not Blake Ransom! His spirits thrilled to rove under a mantle of bright cloudless blue, through a jungle whose treetops were made of barkless oak and their vines of thick brown twine. He gamboled about so recklessly that the other topmen looked at him with esteem and envy, and Thug Kurzon scowled. Blake was aware of these things, and they spurred him to feats of even greater recklessness.
This was where he belonged! High above the ship’s officers, high above the unfortunate waisters who had to labor in the ship’s belly, far below! From this height, they all looked like scurrying ants. Blake peered down at the quarterdeck, hoping that one of those ants was Eselder. He didn’t understand other people’s fear of heights. Up here, out of reach and out of sight, he felt safe, far safer than when his feet touched the ground. Of course, he hoped he wasn’t so beyond sight that Eselder couldn’t see him. He imagined himself flying about the shrouds like a seabird. The only things he needed were wings…but who needed those, really, when one could climb straight to the heavens! Aye, Blake Ransom was a born seaman, and he felt sorry for the poor bastards who spent their lives landlocked…because there was no greater joy than this!
When his shift was over, Blake climbed down from his eyrie with a regretful heart. On a positive note, he reminded himself, he could rub it all in with Eselder this evening. The boy was assigned to the galley this week, assisting the ship’s bad-tempered cook, and was lucky to get above deck at all. Poor lad, Blake thought without a trace of sympathy. Then again, that’s what he got for being a talentless son of a…gentleman. Maybe, if Blake could track him down, the boy could tell him what was for supper, because bloody mother of Neptune was he starving.
Blake jumped cheerfully from the shrouds to the quarterdeck, ignoring Thug Kurzon’s squinty-eyed glare and humming a shanty about billowing sails and booze. He hoped that burgoo was on the menu. It was bizarre, but he was actually rather starting to like that sulfurous, burnt pea taste, and those squishy white chunks of pork fat weren’t bad either…he suspected that they were actually chopped-up tapeworms. He made a mental note to mention this to Eselder as well.
Strolling past Ham Cheddar, who was scrubbing the deck, and resisting the urge to boot the boy’s upraised arse, Blake noticed a flock of midshipmen shuffling across the deck, led by Captain Thornhill himself. He was mildly surprised to see the reclusive captain out and about. Most of the time, he stayed in his comfortable cabin. Today, however, the tall, corpulent officer paraded across the quarterdeck, talking loudly. He pointed here and there, occasionally pausing to tilt up his tricorne and wipe his sopping brow. Blake got the impression he was telling his young recruits about the makings of the Swift. The pirate’s lip curled. Then he squinted. Did Thornhill look familiar?
Blake looked hard for a moment. Then he shrugged.
“Mech,” he muttered, hacking up a bogey and spitting it over the side. He watched the midshipmen trail after their captain like a gaggle of acne-ridden geese, ignoring the seamen hard at work around them. Then Captain Thornhill said something with a wry smile, and the group erupted in laughter, eager to make a good impression.
Blake stared with contempt at the chortling band. Then, out of nowhere, a memory sprang to mind. He felt an awful shudder, like a torrent of icy pinpricks. Shaken, he made to turn away, only to discover that he couldn’t move. Glancing down, he discovered that his arms were shaking uncontrollably. Then his body went hot, and his breathing became wheezy and rapid.
What the hell? Move!
But Blake couldn’t move. It was like something had taken over his body, leaving him paralyzed. Helplessly, he watched Thug Kurzon approach Captain Thornhill and brazenly initiate a conversation. The captain looked irritated by the interruption but, shockingly, did not reprimand Kurzon. Several agonizing moments passed. Then, in a flash, Blake could move and breathe normally again.
“Shitfire,” he whispered, looking around to see if anyone had noticed his little freak-out. It didn’t appear so; sailors and swabbies were busy scrubbing the deck, oiling the masts, repairing sails…everyone involved in his work. Blake hurried across the deck, his feet slapping the hot planks. That had never happened to him before. Though he could move now, he still felt weak, like he hardly had the strength to stand. His ravenous appetite has disappeared along with his good humor. He didn’t want to see Eselder, now or later. He definitely didn’t want to see those pompous young men, strutting around in their spotless blue uniforms. He wanted to be left the hell alone. He wanted off this ship.
Blake knew it was a bad idea, but when he was next to the hatchway, he turned back to glare at the sons of a bitches who’d had him pressganged. The ship’s bosun and captain were still talking, but it wasn’t long before Thornhill turned away with an expression that was almost apologetic. That was odd. Wearing a black scowl, Thug Kurzon stalked off to bully some luckless swabbie. That was also odd…well, not the bullying part, but the look on Kurzon’s face. Like he was displeased with Thornhill. Blake wasn’t an expert in the ranks of the Eliothan Royal Navy, but he suspected it ought to have been the other way around.
Blake hesitated and glanced at one of the midshipmen. He started feeling cold again. Fighting off panic, he hurried down the stairs to the upper gun deck. No! That was so long ago…years ago…he’d been a boy then…now he was a man, a pirate, a Sea King...
And nobody…nobody…could touch him.
Several days later, during the forenoon watch on a clear Sunday morning, the bell rang three sets of two and one single, summoning the crew to the quarterdeck for the HMS Swift’s weekly punishments. Even Captain Thornhill came out on deck to watch the proceedings. The fair-haired captain’s face, heavyset and red under a gold-trimmed tricorne, still rang a bell in Blake’s memory, but he couldn’t place it. It gave him a nasty feeling though. Perhaps, Blake thought with a wicked grin, he’d had a run-in with the naval officer in the past.
Today’s offender was Thug Kurzon’s assistant, a burly man who greatly resembled a pit bull and whose name was, appropriately enough, Bull. He had been caught stealing rations, and it seemed that Kurzon had no mercy even on his “mates,” for news had spread that it was Kurzon’s idea that Bull run the gauntlet.
When the bell started to ring, the crew filed onto the quarterdeck, some holding handmade whips of rope or tightly wound canvas. Every man who shared Bull’s watch and side of the deck during sleeping hours was expected to help Captain Thornhill teach his insubordinate crewman a lesson whether they relished the prospect (which seemed the general sentiment) or felt like throwing up (which was Eselder’s sentiment).
“And you’d better do it, or I’ll lash you,” Blake warned Eselder, because the boy looked as if he might do something idiotic, like refrain from contributing a lash.
Thug Kurzon was watching everyone.
“I can’t!” Eselder whispered back, sounding terrified.
“Do it!” Blake hissed but could say no more. A morose drumbeat commenced, and two scarlet-clad marines led a wretched Mr. Bull to the head of a line that stretched all the way down the deck to the foremast.
Blake knew from
his time aboard the HMS Swift that Mr. Bull was a self-serving bully, someone who would have taken pleasure in whipping a fellow crewmate had their positions been reversed. He was the boatswain’s mate and always carried his rattan around with him, looking for somebody to encourage in his work with a hard blow. Eselder’s priggishness was maddening. As for Blake, he had no interest in running the gauntlet himself, nor did he have a problem with offering Bull a blow he had long deserved.
Soon the air rang with whip cracks and agonized cries as Bull fled down the painful path marked out for him.
Don’t get cold feet now, Eselder!
Blake dished out his blow. Eselder also raised his whip. Then, looking like someone had whipped him, he lowered his arm and Bull ran on.
Blake looked quickly down the line. His fears were confirmed. Thug Kurzon was looking right at Eselder.
Blake was furious enough to follow through on his threat and start whipping Eselder. It didn’t matter whether the boy’s gesture had been spurred by rebelliousness or compassion. Eselder had disobeyed Kurzon’s orders, and for that, he would most certainly pay.
Blake looked off into the distance, where black clouds were gathering. To his surprise, he realized that he was afraid…and not because of the approaching storm. He didn’t want Eselder to come to harm. He didn’t want to see the lad at the mercy of these Navy dogs. It would be an entirely different matter if it were Eselder running the gauntlet.
Then, Blake knew that he wouldn’t have the heart to offer a blow.
13
Into The Storm
The Royal Navy was to have its revenge for the death of its loyal officer.
Soon after the Blessing’s departure, white sails appeared on the horizon. Four Eliothan warships sailed straight for Moanamiri. The Royal Navy had finally found Drake Ransom’s secret pirate haven.
Red-coated marines surged ashore, bearing muskets and pikes. Guns fired, and smoke dirtied the clear noonday air. The members of Drake Ransom’s crew that had stayed behind on Moanamiri put up a savage fight, but they didn’t stand a chance against the soldiers that packed the village like a swarm of scarlet termites.
As evening fell over Moanamiri, the pirates surrendered. The marines rounded up the men, including Jaimes. Before Blake found out what they were going to do, the enemy whisked him away and locked him inside the village storeroom.
For what seemed an eternity, Blake was trapped in the dark.
“Let me out, you sons of a beach!” he screamed through the door, “Do anything to my brother, and I’ll kill you! You’re all murderers!”
Sobbing, Blake banged and kicked the door, to no avail. He tried searching for another way out, but he couldn’t see a thing. Finally, he crouched by the door and tried to hear what was going on outside. His romp of a world had become a nightmare, and all was darkness.
A long time passed.
Then the door opened and Blake scrambled backward, realizing too late that he should have scrambled forward. A bright orange glare blinded him. Cursing and shielding his eyes, he saw two midshipmen enter the storehouse. One of them carried a lantern, the other a plate of food.
“Thanks, Johnny. Keep watch, would you?”
The speaker was a handsome fellow who looked a year or so older than Jaimes. He had a flaxen ponytail, a sunburned face, and a crescent-shaped birthmark on his forehead.
“Righto, Charles,” said a voice from outside. The door swung shut, and Blake heard it lock.
Facing the two midshipmen, he tried not to show his fear. His stomach growled at the sight of food.
“Hungry?” sneered Charles, “Say ‘please’ like a good pirate’s spawn, and maybe I’ll give this to you.”
Blake was starving, but he wouldn’t let them know that. He flicked telltale glances left and right at the bananas and salted pork dangling overhead. Then he looked back at Charles, whose face darkened.
“Cheeky blighter, aren’t you? Well, like father, like son,” the midshipman hissed, “Aye, that’s right, we all know who your daddy is! You’re proud, aren’t you, boy, of everything he’s done, the men he’s—”
His voice caught, and his companion grabbed him supportingly on the shoulder. Blake took advantage of the interruption to demand, “What did you do to my brother?”
He meant to sound intimidating, but instead, his voice came out frightened and wobbly. Like a scared little boy’s. The midshipmen smirked at each other and then advanced on Blake, who involuntarily shrank back.
“You wanna know what we’re gonna do to your brother?” Charles demanded, grinning, “We’re gonna take ‘im and string ‘im up, see?”
He grabbed the bandanna around his neck and yanked it hard. “And when he’s set a-danglin’, he’s gonna perform Jim Twining’s dance for all of us to see!”
He let go of his bandanna, and Blake went berserk.
“Devil!” he shrieked, “Devil!”
Charles cast a glance at the door and hissed, “Shut him up, Nat, they’ll hear!”
Nat set down his lantern and lunged for Blake, who stopped shrieking and fought back. They grappled for a while, but the other boy was bigger and stronger than he was, and soon Nat had him pinned down, a sweaty hand over his mouth. Blake continued to struggle until he noticed Charles approaching him with the lantern. He froze. His heart thudded like a rabbit’s foot, reminding him over and over that he was powerless and alone. Jaimes couldn’t save him.
“You care an awful lot about your brother,” Charles quietly remarked, bending over Blake’s prone form, “Well then, you’re in luck, ‘cause I’ve got the Admiral’s ear. But first, you’ll have to do something for me…”
He looked Blake over. Then his eyes latched onto Blake’s soiled shirt.
“Let him stand up, Nat. If he makes a sound, we’ll hold his face to the fire.”
It was the very worst threat he could have made. Nat backed off and Blake scrambled to his feet, looking at the lantern with terror.
“Those clothes,” Charles said angrily, pointing, “Your daddy probably stole ‘em, didn’t he? Hey! Ain’t we here to reclaim stolen goods, Nat?”
Nat was grinning.
“Why, yessir, we certainly are,” he replied.
“Take ‘em off,” Charles ordered. But Blake stepped back, his face stony.
“Proud little bastard, ain’t you?” breathed Charles, “Well, we’ll remedy that, won’t we? Your dear brother’s lined up now, for his turn to swing with Jim Twining. I can save him. Or, rather, you can save him…if you care about him. Give me your shirt.”
Rigidly, Blake complied. What else could he do?
Charles’s eyes gleamed. “Now the belt. And that pretty sash.”
Blake glared desperately.
“Boy, your brother’s running out of time!”
Seething with fury, Blake undid both and threw them to the floor.
“That’ll do,” said Charles coolly, “Now the breeches.”
Blake didn’t move.
“It’s all or nothing, boy! If you can live knowing you could’ve saved your brother, well, that’s your affair!”
Blake stood still. Then, slowly, he unfastened the button on his breeches. He stopped and cast a glare at Charles, who stared back at him with cruel, slitted eyes. A livid Blake slid his breeches down to his ankles, stepped out of them, and surrendered them to his tormentor.
“Not so proud now, are we?” Charles hissed. His eyes raked the naked boy from head to toe. “I hope you learned a lesson today, boy! Nat here, Captain Hornby…they come from respectable families. Thus, they merit respect. But you come from a line of vermin, and that’s what you are.”
Tears ran down Blake’s cheeks.
“Let Jaimes go,” he whispered.
Charles looked enraged. “Are you even listening to me? I don’t think you learned your lesson at all! Go on, Nat. I’ll finish this.”
As Nat left the storeroom, Charles set the lantern down on a crate. Blake’s hands balled into fists as the larger boy
advanced on him.
Terror. Darkness. Groping hands. Flesh on flesh. Pleasure like fire.
Horror like hell.
That night, angry waves tossed the man o’ war around.
Perhaps the ocean’s fury influenced his dreams because, in them, Blake was back aboard the Polaris, and he was paralyzed again. Over him and under him, Keel Cutlass’s demons teased him like delighted children.
“Give up and give in!” they giggled, “You’re too dirty for the sunlight anyway, Blake!”
Invisible fingers jabbed at him from all sides, and the sensation was torture. The childish voices surrounded him, laughing gleefully, as if his lust and helpless rage were joys to behold. After a ferocious effort, Blake managed to cry aloud for help. There was a flash like moonlight, and he sat bolt upright in his hammock, gasping and drenched in sweat.
Feeling eyes on him, he looked up. Mr. Lindsay sat upright on the hammock beside his, staring at him with alarm. Blake flushed. Had he cried out in his sleep, like he used to do as a boy?
The scarecrow’s cracked spectacles reflected the lantern light, replacing Blake’s shivers with a fevered heat. He bared his teeth, and the young man looked hastily away. Probably he wouldn’t get any sleep now. What a shame.
Blake’s hammock squealed as he lay back down.
It was a nightmare, he told himself. That was all. There’d been no nasty children aboard the Polaris.
Blake scowled. He knew he’d never liked children. Little demons.
And since he’d been going hellbat crazy down there, he’d also conjured up Keel Cutlass…and those weird, dancing shadows. Blake frowned. From what demented part of him had those come from? He searched his memory and recalled the nights dancing around a roaring bonfire with the Sahil tribe. Maybe from that.
Blake shuddered. But what about the fingers…their horrible poking and prodding…
Those were harder to explain away. He had felt those.
And the Sea Captain, with his last request…