The Pirate King

by J. P. Sheen

  “No, it’s not,” snapped Blake, “We lived in the Selenic Ocean. This is the Giesting Sea, Jaimes.”

  “But it’s still the sea,” Jaimes pointed out, like Blake was a dimwit, “It…it could be much worse, Blake...”

  His tone was part hopeful and part wheedling. Blake knew that Jaimes wanted him to act excited, to jump up and down at the sight of their mother’s ugly homeland. But he recalled his sunny island and muttered sourly, “It could be a dem sight better.”

  Jaimes didn’t reply.

  Weeks ago, Blake had decided that, as soon as the fleet reached Elioth, he’d jump overboard and hide in the shallows until Admiral Ashby’s men presumed him dead. As it turned out, he didn’t need to follow through with his plan. The women were being taken to Kingston to be tried for treason, but Blake and Jaimes weren’t going with them.

  It had so happened that, a few days into their voyage, Admiral Ashby’s manservant took ill. Call it providence or call it luck, but Jaimes volunteered to take his place, and surprisingly, Admiral Ashby accepted his services. The dependable young man quickly earned the Admiral’s favor and, toward the end of the voyage, was told that he and Blake were free to go their way once they reached Elioth. The Admiral offered to take them as far as Kingston and help Jaimes secure a job there, but Jaimes politely refused. He and his brother were going to stay close to the sea.

  It was just Blake and Jaimes now. Their mother had died a week into the voyage after coming down with a sudden, violent fever. They hadn’t even been told she was sick until the very end, when Admiral Ashby broke the sad news to them and permitted them to visit her aboard the HMS Bonaventure. In the surgeon’s cabin, a stricken Jaimes knelt down at her side while Blake hovered behind him, suspecting that he ought to feel worse than he did.

  “It isn’t fair!” Jaimes complained, “We’re so close to Elioth, and you won’t even see it!”

  “It is just, Jaimes,” whispered their mother, gently touching his wet cheek. Blake watched her hand emerge from under her blanket and press an envelope into Jaimes’s palm. Jaimes looked startled, and they shared a look. Their mother nodded. Looking grieved and solemn, Jaimes silently placed the sealed parchment inside his coat.

  Finally, she’d died, and they’d climbed back up to the quarterdeck. That was when Blake spotted Charles laughing with his friends. All his terror came racing back in an instant. What if the midshipman noticed him?

  Charles said something that made the other midshipman laugh. He quickly joined in, looking delighted, as a chuckling Nat slapped him on the back. The midshipman didn’t even glance Blake’s way.

  Blake’s eyes darkened with pain and deep confusion, watching Charles goof around with his mates. Then he cursed and fled across the gangplank, down to the midshipman’s quarters where he and Jaimes bunked, where he had spent the first week convinced that the other midshipmen would try to do what Charles had done to him. For days, he’d refused to shut his eyes until everyone else was out and snoring, only to awake an hour later crying like a baby. Finally, an exasperated (and sleep-deprived) midshipman suggested that they muzzle the little screech owl.

  Inside the cabin, Blake slammed the door shut, blazing and shaking from head to toe. He looked around. No one else was there. No one else would ever know. He had to do it; he had to; he couldn’t help it, and it was the only way to escape the pain. His fingers twitched and trembled as he made ready to do it—

  The door opened.

  Jumping, Blake dropped his hands like a criminal caught in the act.

  “Go away!” he snarled at Jaimes, wondering if he’d seen anything. Then Jaimes quietly remarked, “It’s alright to mourn, Blake,” and Blake realized that Jaimes thought he was lamenting their dead mother. That gave him an idea.

  “Then go away, and let me!” he panted. Jaimes cast him a long look that made Blake flush, loathing himself. Broken. Filthy. Vermin.

  Then, with one more look, he walked to the door and left Blake alone.

  Two weeks later, as they prepared to disembark, Admiral Ashby approached them to thank (and pay) Jaimes for his services, and to wish them well. Blake stared at the dismal dockside, pretending not to notice Admiral Ashby as he handed Jaimes a sealed envelope…everyone wanted to do this, it seemed…with the advice to seek out a Mr. Cuthbert Simmons. The pair shook hands. Admiral Ashby offered Blake his hand too, but Blake remembered his pili hut on fire and ignored it.

  Without further ado, the two brothers were ushered down the gangway. They stepped onto the filthy streets and blankly gaped at the flocks of seamen at work, the carriages clattering to and fro, the vendors hollering the names of their wares, the people dodging puddles of saltwater and urine, and the many other strange and frightening sights. They looked at each other. Their eyes held the same request: Stay with me.

  Together, they walked into the tumult to seek out a new life in Yaletown.

  It soon became clear that Thug Kurzon hadn’t forgotten about Eselder’s insubordination during the Swift’s weekly discipline. His punishment came swiftly enough, and from Bull himself. The bosun’s mate harassed Eselder mercilessly about his work, often demanding it redone, and employed his rattan so frequently that the boy’s shoulders were soon a black and blue mess.

  A few days after the storm, Blake was passing through the upper gun deck on his way to the weather deck. The Swift didn’t have enough topmen, so Blake had been called on to work in her shrouds. Though he was surprised Kurzon had allowed it, he was thrilled to be aloft again.

  On his way across the deck, he spotted Bull haranguing Eselder for a sloppy job polishing the cannons. Blake glanced at the cannons.

  Their black muzzles gleamed in the sunlight.

  As he watched, Bull’s rattan smacked Eselder for a job well done, and Blake’s temples started to pound. Then he caught a glimpse of Eselder’s face, so stunned and disbelieving. The sight infuriated him, and he turned his back as Bull’s rattan once again found its mark.

  I tried to warn him! Now he’ll learn his lesson the hard way, and I’ll bet a gold sov he won’t make the same mistake again.

  That prediction failed to satisfy Blake’s ire. In fact, he was so angry that he spent his time aloft composing a pitiless rant to be recited the next time he encountered the naïve young Birkenbee. It was about time that Eselder’s innocent mind was disillusioned, and Blake took it as his bounden duty to help it along. It was an act of charity on his part, really. He was helping teach the little turtledove how to survive now that he wasn’t safe in his mother’s nest anymore…and he saw no reason why he should do it in a particularly compassionate way either.

  During the forenoon watch, he tracked Eselder to the foc’sle. Bull had set the boy to work scrubbing down the ship’s heads, mere holes on opposite sides of the bowsprit that served as toilets for the crew. Blake overheard Eselder muttering, “When things are set right, I’ll be in the Admiral’s cabin, and Thug Kurzon will be the one cleaning the toilets!”

  “Oh, what a threat!” Blake jeered. Eselder spun around, looking frightened until he saw who it was.

  “Please leave if you only intend to mock my plight,” he said stonily.

  “I can’t,” replied Blake, having every intention of mocking Eselder’s plight, “I have to add more water to the sea.”

  Eselder’s revulsion was apparent. He turned back to his nauseating task.

  “That meant I have to use the head,” Blake added.

  “There’s one on the starboard side.”

  “But I’m fond of that one.”

  Eselder paused long enough to convey his disdain. Blake decided to get right to it. He leaned against the bowsprit. The wind was strong today, blowing in clouds and a blanket of heat.

  “I hope you’re happy,” he said.

  Eselder kept on scrubbing, though his eyes narrowed.

  “You thought yourself very heroic. A class above the rest of us, I imagine,” Blake said scornfully, “And now look. You aren’t being elected for sainthood,
and you aren’t in the Admiral’s cabin, Your Lordliness. Instead, you’re scrubbing shitpots and getting beat like a dog by the very man you showed mercy to—”

  “I don’t regret it,” came Eselder’s steely whisper.

  “This is nothing!” Blake snapped, “Do you think this is the worst Thug Kurzon could’ve come up with? You’re getting off easy, boy!”

  “Leave me alone!” Eselder cried, whirling around. Blake was afraid he’d hurl his shit-stained rag at him, but Eselder just hissed, “You’re n-not my father, and I w-won’t be lectured to b-by a common seaman! You’re v-vulgar, the lot of you! Well, you won’t make me so! You’re all c-commoners, and I’m the—”

  He cut himself off and glared at Blake, who glared back at him. So the truth had come out.

  “My humble apologies, Your Lordliness, for trying to help you stay alive. From now on, I’ll be careful to keep my vulgar advice to myself and my common arse out of your way!”

  Blake turned to leave, but Lord Birkenbee’s son couldn’t allow a common seaman to have the last word.

  “Then your advice is that I sh-should feel c-compassion but not show it? Or h-have none at all? In th-that case, I would be no d-different than Thug Kurzon. Is th-that what you want?”

  Blake halted, seething. That sounded just like something Jaimes would say, to emphasize how superior he was to everyone else.

  “How noble,” he sneered, rotating back around, “But there’s a price to pay for that kind of thinking, and I swear this is just the beginning, boy. You ain’t in your ivory palace anymore! If I can’t get that through your thick skull, they will! You’re a dog to them, boy, that eats and sleeps and whines when it gets beat! The trade-off is simple: your pain for their pleasure, and if the tables were turned, I’d do the same to them and so would you if you’d been through half of what I have! As it is, I’ll be fascinated to see how long your resolve lasts. Knowing your kind, I’d wager my pearl that the next time someone runs that gauntlet, you’ll be at the head of the line!”

  A stunned silence followed Blake’s outburst. Eselder stared at him, and a snarl formed on the tip of Blake’s tongue: Don’t look at me like that!

  Eselder whispered, “I hope there may be one or two persons who share my sentiments. The world cannot be full of Thug Kurzons.”

  “No, it’s not!” Blake shot back, “But the other sort is dwindling by the hour as they get picked off by Thug Kurzon!”

  He turned to leave.

  “I thought you had to use the latrine.”

  Blake stopped, his face mottled. He longed to turn and add another blow to Bull’s count, but with a great effort, he forced himself to storm up the stairs to the quarterdeck. He was certain that he had just been lumped into the “Thug Kurzon” category by this arrogant twit who tossed all his advice in the rubbish heap.

  Well, what did he care? Blake jumped onto the shrouds and headed aloft. The breeze and the height would clear his mind and cool his temper.

  From here on out, he washed his hands of the lad! But when things got worse (for they would) and Eselder came running to him for help, he’d leave the little Lord Birkenbee to fend for himself. No! Blake quickened his pace. He’d laugh in the boy’s face and then leave him to fend for himself! After all, His Lordliness didn’t need any help from common folk…no doubt in time he’d win over Thug Kurzon’s heart with his compassionate ways and prove Blake a hard-hearted bastard.

  Blake grinned and kept climbing.

  But until that glorious day dawned, he hoped that Lord Birkenbee’s son had a truly unforgettable time scraping the feces of six hundred burgoo-bloated men off the ship’s heads.

  The ship’s bell announced the second dogwatch, summoning Blake and his watch to supper.

  Blake sat down at his mess, assuming a careless air. He was prepared to accept Eselder’s apology with as little grace as he could muster. But when several minutes had passed and Eselder didn’t appear, Blake’s anger dissipated a little. Suppose Thug Kurzon did have something nastier in store for Eselder than the occasional clout about the head?

  Blake irritably shook his thoughts away. Eselder would be along shortly, no doubt filled with remorse for his rudeness by the toilets. The swabbie was probably wandering around the lower decks somewhere, completely lost.

  Minutes later, Eselder’s thin, nervous countenance ascended from the lower gun deck.

  See, there you are. So predictable.

  Blake’s eyes followed Eselder like a hawk’s. The boy headed for the galley, picked up his tablemates’ rations, walked to the cabin boys’ mess…and proceeded to sit down there.

  Blake blinked. That wasn’t right. Eselder was supposed to come and stare at him with puppy-dog eyes until Blake graciously allowed him to take a seat.

  Eselder began to eat, his head bent low, while the other cabin boys jabbered animatedly around him. Meanwhile, Blake sat still, not touching his pork and peas. He had been rejected. Thrown away.

  Blake glared balefully at the boy sitting quietly with his persecutors. Why had he bothered to educate Eselder about the ways of the world? The boy was already a master! The little hypocrite! After all Blake had done for him…

  How had this happened? How was it that, once again, Blake had let himself be used…and cast aside.

  Blake shoveled green mush into his mouth. So the boy was finished with him, eh? Well, Eselder couldn’t avoid him if he tried. They were in rather close quarters. Blake grinned nastily at Eselder’s hunched back. This time, the traitor’s plan was going to backfire on him. Blake had no intention of letting Eselder play turncoat without suffering the consequences.

  He could make Eselder’s life hell, and that’s precisely what he intended to do.

  Blake rose from sleep before his brother, because the sea called him.

  Quietly, he tugged on his loose sailor’s trousers, gathered his fishing tackle, crept down the boarding house’s creaky staircase, and left the Carp and Mackerel to embrace the world of frost and silence that was Yaletown before dawn.

  Summer came and went in the blink of an eye here. It was early September, and already a chill lingered in the air. In Blake’s opinion, this was the best part of the day, when the morning light transformed the sea from a somber gray shroud to a glittering blue mantle.

  Mr. Busby usually shared his fishing boat with Blake. The kindhearted fisherman liked to call Blake his “business partner.” Blake was having none of that, but if the man was enough of a chump to share his boat, well, that was just fine with him. Currently, Mr. Busby was lying abed with the shinshicks, but he had given Blake permission to use his boat in the meantime.

  Blake worked hard all morning. Busby’s boat steadily filled with fish, and when Blake drew up his new trap, he was delighted to find three gigantic blue crabs. At noontime, he rowed back ashore to meet Mrs. Busby, who had also taken a liking to the stormy-eyed adolescent. She was a fair woman too. Blake got five pennies for every fish, and two shillings apiece for his blue crabs. By early afternoon, the fishwife was rolling her laden cart to the marketplace. That meant Blake could spend the rest of the day in the sea instead of on Yaletown’s dirty dockside.

  When twilight fell, Blake emerged from the sea, laden with new treasures, and ran barefooted back to Yaletown. Spotting a redcoat, he scooped up mud and crowed, “Red rooster! Strut and squawk, red rooster!”

  He lobbed the brown glob and shot off before the redcoat could do anything more than shout. He raced up and down the steep cobbled streets, trying to stay warm, until he arrived at Simmon and Co.’s Merchandise, a small general store squashed between the milliner’s and the mercer’s. The store’s window showed off wares that most of Yaletown’s citizens couldn’t afford.

  Blake pushed the door so violently that the bell clanged rather than tinkled. A harassed-looking Jaimes emerged from the backroom. Blake swaggered through barrels of beans and sugar and slapped his hand on the counter.

  “Give me a gallon of yer best rum!”

  “Look at
you! You’re getting water everywhere!” Jaimes complained, casting an anxious glance toward the backroom, “You’re not supposed to come in here anymore!”

  Despite his expression, the young man looked very sharp in his ironed waistcoat and meticulously tied cravat. Ignoring Jaimes, Blake abandoned the counter and made a beeline for the confectionaries. He stared greedily at the sugar ribbons and discreetly slid his hand into the jar.

  “Hands off, Blake!”

  Blake’s hand shot out. Jaimes came for him, and Blake darted away.

  “I can’t believe you’d try to steal from the store I work in!” Jaimes cried.

  Blake felt slightly abashed.

  “Sorry, I’ll go rob somewhere else,” he replied, twirling his cap and enjoying how roguish he felt.

  “You’d better not!” Jaimes warned him. He adopted a pompous tone. “Now get out of this store at once, you miserable ragamuffin!”

  Blake grinned and skipped backward. Then his gaze fell on the confectionaries, and his heart swelled with desire.

  “I want to buy one of the sugar ribbons,” he announced grandly.

  Jaimes frowned.

  “My crab trap worked, Jaimes!” Blake said excitedly, “Look here; I got six extra shillings! It’s just a penny, Jaimes.”

  His thrifty brother relented.

  “Take one, and give me the money,” he said, and Blake received his heart’s desire. Appeased, he left the store and sat down to wait for Jaimes, sucking on his sugar ribbon and showing off his blue tongue to every man and woman that passed by.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jaimes walked down the front steps, buttoning his coat. On their way home, he talked about the political crisis in Kingston. He didn’t shut up about it until he noticed a beggar curled up in front of a storefront.

  “Give me a shilling, Blake,” he said.

  “Why should I?” Blake demanded rudely, “They were my crabs.”

  “And I paid for the materials to build the trap. You still haven’t reimbursed me. Hand it over.”