by Jacob Nelson
Chapter 20
…1535…
Christopher knew it would only be a matter of time before the pirates organized themselves enough to hunt him down. It had now been so many years since his wife’s death, and every moment of it had been in the pursuit of wiping out piracy from every shore. Even though he had a fleet of ships now to choose from, and rotated them often, the pirates had become wary; constantly on the lookout for him. At nearly every port he used a different variation of his name, yet every one of them was his: Kit Walker, Christopher Standish, Chris Columbus, even Sir Gerald Nelson after his mother’s relatives. But every use of his various names was always with the intent of surprise. He did not desire any of the evil men to disappear without earning their just rewards. He savored the look upon their faces when his death’s head belt was recognized and they knew he was a man to be reckoned with. Yet even with all those precautions, Christopher knew his days were numbered. He felt the twinge of guilt at keeping his son with him on these later runs, but he wished to be with his son as much as possible… especially in that knowledge of his limited days.
The voyage back from Siam started out as a joyous one. The trading had been great, the gifts to King Ramathibodi were well received and the talk between them was long.
As they sipped their cinnamon tea (a personal favorite of the king), conversation flowed from the dealings of King Henry to King Carl’s expanding reign from Spain through Italy and beyond to simpler topics such as travels, foods, and commerce.
Although Christopher held no political agenda, he was better informed about the world and its dealings than almost anyone else. Though not mentioned in the conversation, he could have gone on at length about any part of the world, including the newly discovered Americas. He kept up on Mendoza and his exploits in Argentina and knew about how Pizzaro was doing among the Inca as much as he kept up on the European scandals such as the twelve nude Anabaptists who ran through the streets of Amsterdam in deference to King Henry’s claims of being the Head of the Church in England and his two edicts which were issued against Anabaptists and Sacramentaries, to the social dealings of the same man with the Boleyn girl.
The conversation lasted well into the night.
The next day, Christopher found his ship had been visited by the royal guard and slaves. King Somdet Phra Ramathibodi II was ever the gracious host and this time loaded Christopher’s ship with so many extras that it was truly overburdened. The king rightly interpreted the gratitude in Christopher’s eyes.
But what really moved Christopher was watching his son, Kit, as he made the formal thanks and goodbye to the king and the royal escorts. Christopher’s own son was finally of age to trade, a man of his own, and a captain of his own ship (in command of the second ship in their small trading fleet, under Christopher’s watchful eye). It was with emotion that he watched his son work the family trade. Time could never erase the pain he felt when he had lost his wife so many years before, but he reveled in the equal joy he felt in Kit. Never had a father been so proud of his son. As a final bestowal of pride and as a token of manhood in taking over his father’s work, Christopher gave his son the belt he had been given in the American desert. As his son Kit donned it, Christopher couldn’t help remembering his own youth and the time he spent with his beloved Miya.
They chose an early morning departure, as they were guests of the king and had spent the night in luxurious comfort.
Kit graciously allowed his father’s ship to depart first, but being the lighter ship, soon passed him up as he raced along the coast. The next stop was a familiar one, and Christopher knew he would shortly meet up with his son, so he allowed his son to race ahead and laughed at Kit’s youthful appetite for adventure and speed as he gloried in the joy that Kit had brought into his life.
However, Christopher’s joy was short lived. As he rounded the cape many hours later, he came across the first sightings of wreckage in the distance. A hard tightening of his stomach belied his worry and bile crept into his throat.
Soon enough he had confirmation. His son’s ship was completely devoid of life; the men slaughtered and the cargo stripped. Never had Christopher seen such carnage so distastefully displayed. Yet, every man was left with his head on or placed nearby as if to say, “See! This is not the one you are looking for!”
Quickly, he searched the ship for his son’s body, but instead found nothing more than a parchment on the Captain’s bunk with the symbol of the Singh Brotherhood, ‘brothers of the seven circles’; local pirates that controlled all of Africa and South Asian coast around to the far reaches of Siam. They need not have left the parchment; the disemboweled and decapitated crew was signature enough.
All knew who the Singh were. They needed no introduction, as their brutality left indelible impressions on the living far and wide. Few words could be conjured up to describe the extreme cruelty that they encompassed, yet all the words were synonymous with one another, each used to describe subtle differences in the same: atrociousness, viciousness, barbarism, brutality, heinousness, savagery, and ferociousness. They were the Singh Brotherhood. They had finally caught up with him… and they had his son.
Chapter 21
The sea fog engulfed them.
Sea fog, is caused by a warm, moist airstream blowing over cooler seawater which occurs principally in the late winter to early spring; when the sea is cold and the rising sun warms the moist winter land to produce saturated air. One of the greatest hazards to sailors, it is very thick and persistent, even in the presence of a strong wind. It is hard to guess when it may disperse, as a wind change of drier air is oft times necessary to make that change.
Despite his ever-growing concern for his son, Christopher heeded to the safety of his crew and ordered the sails lowered to half mast as the ship slowly sank into the thickening mist around them. Shortly, even his crew was difficult to spot. There they drifted along for half an hour while they waited for the fog to lift. With every second wasted, Christopher’s impatience grew.
The emergence of a stiff wind blew past and as the sails billowed, the fog thinned with it.
“Ships!” shouted someone from the main deck. Before they could even be identified, Christopher knew who they were.
Christopher realized he had no means to outrun them, and frankly he didn’t want to. Like a wild boar caught in a snare, he was going to give it his all; come what may.
The lifting of the veil of sea fog from before their eyes allowed the Singh to spot them as quickly as they were spotted. Ships were ordered to maneuver into position.
Then the flag dropped and the crack of cannon fire sounded as the waves of sound bounced off of Christopher’s ship seconds before the blast hit.
Men flew like matchsticks. Railings shattered and those not caught in the cannonball’s path were pierced with shards and splinters of wood and metal.
The sudden surge in motion caused the few that were standing to drop to the deck. Those that were dead or supporting themselves unsteadily by the broken railing shortly found themselves without sure footing and slid off the broken side into the water.
Then as quickly as the sound had dissipated, cries cut through the ensuing silence as it filled the air again.
A few were caught unaware during a game of chance, a sport that was expressly forbidden during working hours. A dozen of these men were brutally butchered during the opening salvo, like a bolt from the blue, dispatching their souls to their final rest.
The wind that pushed their back, died at that moment and they were stuck to fight where they were.
“To battle!”
“Return fire!”
Two of the pirates hauled up young Kit to watch the destruction of his father’s ship.
It was at that moment that Christopher saw him. “Son!” he called across the waves. Yet Kit was too far away to hear his father’s voice.
One of the two men that had dragged the young man to the deck allowed his attention to be momentarily diverted from the captive in his
arms. Kit used that split second to step into the instep of the other, temporarily crippling him. As the diverted man turned back, Kit twisted and hit him hard on the nose with the palm of his open hand, giving him an upward blow. The blow forced a sliver of the nasal bone cavity into the man’s brain, killing him even before the man had time to drop to the deck. While the pirate’s body fell, Kit sprinted forward and dived overboard as another volley of cannon balls flew through the air.
The sea ran red. Shark fins sliced through the water looking to feast on the dead and dying.
Kit swam strong, as a monster of a great white brushed passed him, pulled elsewhere by the overwhelming scent of spilt blood. Another smaller shark swam around him and decided to try a nibble; however, a powerful hit to the nose sent it on its way. As he clambered up the side of his father’s ship, the sharks began their feeding frenzy.
As if the sharks were a similitude of the fight above, relentlessly the two factions tore at each other like beasts scratching and clawing for dominance.
Seeing his son ‘safe’ on his own deck, Christopher began to respond with more fury than before. For every hole the pirates carved into Christopher’s hull, they returned two that carved theirs. For every volley that came, two were rained upon the other.
It wasn’t long before Christopher had destroyed the pirates’ rudder and burned their sail… yet these ‘brothers of the seven circles’ came on. Cannon fire rained down upon Christopher’s ship and soon his own sails were ablaze.
Despite the flames, the pirates came on.
With a solid bump the ship he stood upon jolted as his and the pirates’ ships were connected and fastened tight. Like a tidal wave unchecked, an onslaught of men came pouring over the sides. They came on with inhuman horrors; brutal for the sake of savagery. Their scimitars cleaved swiftly and viciously.
Yet Christopher would have nothing of it. He would not give up his ship. He saw his son take up the sword against the scimitar and smiled grimly to himself. Dropping his Captain’s coat to the deck to give his arms more maneuverability, he launched himself into the foray, working his practiced arm against those that stood in his way.
As he fought his way towards his son, one man stood aloof, watching him. The one man that was Christopher’s equal: Kabai Singh.
Laughing out loud Kabai exclaimed, “At last a worthy foe!”
Meanwhile, like an unwavering oak Christopher stood against the onslaught. His well practiced sword singing in his mighty arm as he parted those scurvy dogs like Moses did the sea.
Kabai stepped forward, his opponent elected. As he approached the captain, he scooped up the discarded coat and wore it on his smaller frame, showing his contempt for Christopher’s authority and as a means to infuriate and unnerve his opponent. Whether ‘friend’ or foe, all were threshed before his wrath as he approached the one man that he deemed worthy to fight him.
Kit moved forward to help his father but as Kabai locked swords with Christopher, the sails fell, veiling them in flames. The heat of the fire was too intense to move forward and other pirates continued to steal his attention as engagement after engagement wore on him.
Yet, through the flames and scorched sailcloth, he could make out the two engaged swords, parrying, striking, blocking.
The rest of Christopher’s crew had been dispatched or were in the process of the same, as more pirates went through the ship and stripped it of its goods; tossing overboard anything they deemed unimportant so as to make certain nothing was gone through twice. Gone were Christopher’s riches, his personal chests tossed into the boiling sea.
Yet, the fight continued, each a master of his own weapon, each equaled in skill and strength, the one fighting for the destruction of evil, the other attempting to promote the opposite.
The deck itself began to burn as the two continued in their eternal quest, each knowing that the outcome of this fight would decide both their fates. Then, whether by fate or providence, Christopher’s foot fell through a burned portion of the deck; the wood splintering beneath, fire dropping onto the powder kegs below.
Kit looked up in time to see Kabai’s final thrust as he dropped his sword through his father’s neck. His father continued to thrust as life slipped from him. Both opponents knew his time had come.
As Kit’s father slumped down, eyes wide as death approached, the Singh released the weapon and turned his back from the man as if he were of lesser caliber, not staying long enough even to see Christopher’s body hit the deck.
The flames continued to climb, but Kit didn’t care. Leaving his sword in the pirate he had just dispatched he hurried forward, ignoring the flames that were steadily climbing around him.
Unknown to him, time itself was done with the fight, and like a pestilence, the inferno raging on the main deck had swept through the remainder of the ship; infecting the hull, the boards and the powder-kegs.
As Kit ran and jumped through the flames, he snatched up his father’s sword, and with a wild cry of “Revenge!” he lunged himself at the retreating form of Kabai Singh and buried the sword in his back.
At that moment the powder kegs exploded. The ship blew apart into a thousand pieces and Kit was thrown into the sea.
…Over 400 Years Later….
Chapter 22
The sun broke the cloud layer as the storm rolled past the Costa Rican beach of Jacó and moved eastward inland. The day had only just begun and the now stilled morning air seemed too heavy to want to lighten yet.
As the sun rose a bit higher, the air lightened and the date palms seemed to straighten as the last heavy drops from the storm fell from their towering fronds. Not a soul was stirring amongst the tourists that had weathered the storm. Even the street vendors slept in, knowing that the day would start late. But not all were lazing the morning away. A young Tico named Emmanuel immediately went to work scouring the sands of Jacó beach for lost treasures that could be sold to the tourists that would come.
He hurriedly moved the larger shells from their sandy bed into his hemp satchel that was flung over his neck and one arm. There on the black sand lay a beautiful pink and white conch. A bit further a large cream-colored spiral shell with darker broken stripes running through it.
On the lee side of a small rock a beautiful half clam shell rested. Ringed in a light purple fading to a brilliant pink, it was partially buried in the small pool of water left from the rising tidal surge. Smaller than those that he would normally collect; it was still fairly good sized. He picked it up; critically measured it with his mind’s eye and kneeling by the pool that he pulled it from, cleaned the sand from it. Then running higher up the beach he laid it out artfully out of the way of the high-tide mark in an area where a beach comber would have to be blind to miss it.
He knew his business well. If the tourists found the beach cleaned of all the shells, they would just move on to another beach. However, if they found a good specimen every once in a while, they were more likely to search out more… and he had more to sell them.
Emmanuel continued his work. The storm had done its job well, and his satchel was filled and yet he still hadn’t scoured by the water’s edge. The day was rapidly filling too, and tourists would be lazily waking soon. He needed to get back, but the thought of finding something more kept him working a little longer.
The tide had by this time receded enough to expose the black volcanic rocks on the north end. Though the wave action was still quite high, it appeared that if he were careful enough he could get in and out again in enough time to avoid any big waves. After all he didn’t want to get too wet this morning.
Emmanuel surveyed the beach for tourists and seeing only a lone jogger decided he had time to try the rock pools.
The black rocks were the supermarket of tourist trinkets, while the sandy beach was akin to that of street vendors. As waves wash over the black rocks, shells and other flotsam are washed over as well. The return of the wave action lodges those treasures against the rock as it returns to start the process
anew. There they remain until the action of the tide produces enough force to dislodge them again; occasionally taking back those treasures that were deposited from before. Timing is crucial when collecting those items that are left behind from the rock pools.
Emmanuel knew that the storm would likely have added to the bounty of the rock pools. To not search it out now would be stupidity. Climbing nimbly over the slippery surfaces, Emanuel worked his way to the now exposed rock pool.
He laid down his satchel and leaned over to dig down in the water with his hand. The first item he found with his fingers was the rough spiral of a large sea conch. As he fought to release it from the grip of the wet sand, he leaned down further into the cavity of the rock. He pulled it free, only to drop it again at the last second. Something in his mind’s eye told him to let it go, but now that he had had the treasure within his grasp, he was determined to get it back. Reaching down again he was finally able to get hold of it and pull it free of the water. “This will bring in some real money!” he thought to himself.
He never saw the wave coming.
Before he had time to even take in a breath he was engulfed in water. The wave lifted him from the ledge he was leaning over and rolled him along, twisting him around and about as the wave swept him against the rocks. He fought to pull himself out, yet the return surge slammed him against the very rock that he had been leaning over moments before.
His eyes glazed over as the water left him partially slumped in the pool.
A smaller wave brought him to. As the water passed by him, he choked and sputtered. He found himself stretched out on the ledge, in a partial kneeling position due to the smaller cavity of the rock, with one foot well buried in the sand. A small trickle of blood was running from a cut on his arm, and he could taste more in his mouth where he must have bit his lip or tongue. There was also a large bump on the top of his head just into the hairline.