Owned by the Ocean

by Christine Steendam

  “We are heading into the Caribbean, here.” He pointed to an area on the map. “We will be trading for sugars and such to bring back to France and England, officially.”

  Brant studied the map. “And what do we do unofficially?”

  “Well, I would say pirate but that is such an awful word. I prefer to think that we relieve certain enemy ships of their goods to provide ourselves with profit.”

  “I see.”

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Foxton?”

  Brant’s throat tightened. He hadn’t been looking for piracy, or privateering. He’d wanted a good, upstanding ship to get him experience so he could join the Royal Navy. But now he was among dangerous men, and his future hung on how he chose to answer. “No problem here, Sir.”

  “Good man. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you out of the foray until you’re ready. I’ll train you with the blade myself and the master gunner can show you the cannons and guns. Have you had any formal training?”

  “No sir.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “You’ll have a blank slate to work with. Should make things easier.”

  “Perhaps. I do believe we are underway now; Karl has stopped his hollering. Shall we take a spin around deck?”

  Brant nodded and followed Captain LaFleur once again. The captain showed him all the gun ports, hiding places, what different rigs did and what not. It was overwhelming. They stopped at the starboard side of the ship and looked out to the ocean. England was slowly disappearing along the horizon.

  “Forgive me for saying, sir, but you and your crew don’t strike me as pirates.”

  Captain LaFleur laughed. “Of course not. We aren’t the criminal sort. We’re employed by the King, although if we get caught by the Spaniards we can never admit to that. We are of the respectable sort or pirate, if those exist; Privateers, my young friend.”

  “Privateering doesn’t make it right. You’re still killing people for greed.” Brant felt bold, confident to speak his mind due to the kindness of his captain.

  “We are waging a private war, my boy, no better or worse than a public one. I don’t pretend to think that what I do is moral, but someone has to do it and I’m good at it. Believe me, I’ll be asking for a priest to take my confession when I’m on my death bed.”

  Brant smiled. “What should I be doing?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “For now, wander and stay out of the way. Meet the men and try not to make any enemies; these are cramped quarters we share. Karl will let you know if there are things to be done, but you worked hard this morning and I’m pleased with you. You might do okay out here.”

  Chapter Four

  The loud boom of cannon fire shook the ship and the planking beneath Brant’s feet as he ran down the cramped hall below deck with a heavy iron ball clutched between his hands.

  “Hurry up there, Foxton!” shouted Joseph, who was waiting impatiently for the cannon ball to reload the huge gun that had already been wheeled back from its port. “Yer gonna need to bring more than one at a time,” he growled as he snatched the ball from Brant’s hands and rolled it down the nose of the cannon.

  Brant only nodded and ran back down the hall to where the ammunition was kept. Struggling to lift two balls into his arms, he hurried back down the ship, dodging men and guns in the flurry of activity that was occurring below deck.

  The constant booming of firing cannons left Brant's ears ringing and his mind disorientated. It took all he had just to remain standing upright as cannons leapt backwards in plumes of smoke and the deck rolled beneath his feet.

  He couldn't hear the clashing of swords, the screams of pain and death, the metallic smell of blood, or the yells of victory that he was sure were taking place somewhere above, on this ship or the one they had locked in a dance to the death. No, all he could hear was the ringing and booming that came with cannon fire. All he could smell was the acrid smoke of gunpowder and singed skin of over-eager sailors. All he could feel was the burning protest of his arms as his muscles screamed at him for a moment’s rest, a moment’s relief from the heavy load they'd been carrying for what seemed like hours.

  And then, almost as quickly as it had all begun, it grew silent.

  But it was far from over. As he exited the dark hold into the bright sunlight, he was bombarded by the smell of death. Despite the salty sea air, there was no escaping the sickly sweet smell that seemed to cover the ship in a haze of despair. Brant felt his stomach protest and ran to the rail, heaving his breakfast over the side and gasping for breath.

  A rough hand rested gently on his shoulder. “You okay, son?”

  Brant turned to face Karl and nodded slowly, wiping at his mouth with his dirty sleeve. “I will be.”

  “First time is always the hardest. You’ll get used to it.”

  Brant shuddered. “I’m not sure I want to—” he trailed off and looked back out to the open water, the sight of the blood stained deck threatening to have him heaving over the side again.

  “This is a hard life, boy. Death and pain are an unfortunate reality. Is that somethin’ you can handle?”

  Could he? He breathed in fresh sea air. With each exhale he felt calmer. When he’d first left London he’d wondered if he’d live to regret this decision, but up until this point he’d loved it. Loved swabbing the decks and helping the cook prepare dinner. He loved washing laundry and revelled in the blisters that covered his hands from ropes and mops and swords. It was excited to practice sparring with Captain LeFleur and Karl, feeling the power of a pistol firing, or loading a cannon. There was something about going to bed each night exhausted and waking up each morning eager to see what the day held in store that had Brant feeling more alive than he ever had.

  But could he learn to live with death? To become efficient at taking lives without a second thought, all in the name of blood stained gold?

  Brant looked up at Karl’s smiling face, his kind eyes showing concern for the boy, and slowly nodded. “In time.”

  ***

  Brant had been sailing with the crew of the BlackFox for nearly three months when they docked in Port Royale, Jamaica. Here, they paid a portion of what they had taken to the Governor, who would report it as profits to the King; keeping their business legitimate and their necks comfortably noose free.

  Port Royale was everything Brant had dreamed it would be; exotic, noisy, busy, and in no way industrialized like London. It was beautiful, with palm trees swaying in the breeze and white sand making up beaches along the island’s edge. The word that came to mind when Brant walked through the streets was something akin to paradise.

  Brant sat next to Corbin, the sailing master aboard the BlackFox, in a dingy bar. He glanced down at his cards, a two of clubs, five of spades, a nine of hearts, and two queens. That, paired with the cards on the table, he had nothing. He took a long drag of his cigarette then threw his cards on the table. "I fold."

  He glanced over at Corbin who tapped his finger twice against the back of his hand of cards. He had a good hand. This was the third round Brant had folded and his pockets were beginning to grow light.

  They made a few more rounds of bets and then a smug looking young man, who looked much too well-dressed to be found in an establishment such as this, called.

  One by one the men lay down their cards, Corbin included. The smug man had a run, and with a smirk he swept the coins down the table towards himself, pocketing the small pot. It was nothing extravagant, but it was a good portion of many of the men’s wages sitting around the table. Wages that were nothing more than pocket change and a good time for the man who had won. Brant was beginning to understand why people hated it when he and Leo had played. Because rich boys and men did not belong at the same table as the desperate and poor. Here, it was more than just a game; it was an escape, it was hope that they’d be able to bring home a few pounds more for their wife and children. When you lost, the men understood what that meant. People like Leo, like this young man, like the person he used to be
, did not.

  Brant pushed back his chair and walked out of the pub in disgust. It wasn’t so much that he’d lost the money. It didn’t matter for him. He had no one to send wages home to. It was that he used to be that man. He used to be the one taking hard earned money from those less fortunate, and it made him sick.

  Corbin didn’t follow Brant out, and he assumed his friend had stayed to either play more cards, or join a couple other crew members who had deposited themselves at a table and were filling themselves with drink.

  It was growing dark as Brant made his way down the docks back towards the BlackFox. The men had all been given a couple days leave while they recuperated from the three months in cramped quarters.

  He walked up the gangplank aboard the ship. It was mostly deserted. A single lantern hung near the mast, illuminating a small portion of the deck, and Karl who was sitting beneath it. Smoke curled out from the man’s pipe, and drifted out to the open water. Brant could see a glow coming from the captain’s cabin, where he would likely burn the midnight oil going over books and routes in preparation for their departure.

  Taking a seat next to Karl, Brant reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He’d gone without for most of the three months voyage and the first thing he’d done upon docking was buy more.

  “Had enough of the shore?” asked Karl after a long stretch of silence.

  Brant was slow to respond as he listened to the waves slapping against the hull of the ship and the various noises from the town drifting towards them. “A little too much reality for me.”

  Karl chuckled and took another drag on his pipe. The smoke was sweet and reminded Brant a bit of the woods back home.

  They sat for a few hours, Karl smoking his pipe and telling Brant stories of his younger years. It was nice to sit on a quiet deck with the man that had taken Brant under his wing.

  “You shouldn’t smoke those,” said Karl, during a break between stories.

  Brant had just lit another cigarette and he looked down at it. “You’re right, I haven’t had any since my pack ran out over two months ago.”

  “It’s the act. Relaxes you.”

  Brant smiled and nodded. “Old habit from an unhappy time of life.”

  “Yer too young to carry that weight.”

  “I’m not the first son to disappoint his father, to lose his mother too young. We do what we can with the cards we’re dealt.”

  Karl chuckled and stood up slowly, stretching his stiff limbs. “Aye, we do. And men like you rise to the occasion. Mark my words, Brant, you’ll have a life to be proud of yet.”

  Those were Karl’s parting words of the evening. He strode away to his cabin and left Brant sitting alone, contemplating words spoken by a man that had become more of a father to him than Calvin Foxton ever was.

  Two days later, as they sailed away from Port Royale, Brant took a few minutes to watch the retreating shoreline. His father owned a sugar plantation somewhere on the island, but he’d never seen it, never left the confines of England until now. Had his father been there, on his yearly trip to oversee it? Could they have been walking the same streets these past few days and not run into each other? Brant shook his head, dislodging the thoughts. The chances of his father being there were slim, at best. And even if he had been, and even if they’d seen each other, Brant knew there would be no acknowledgement. He’d made the choice to leave; he was dead in his father’s eyes now.

  * * *

  Months went by, days of hard work melding into each other. It seemed like yesterday that Brant had sailed away from Port Royale. The only sign of passing time was his continued improvement at sparring and the growing pile of wooden barrels and chests in the hold.

  Brant had become more accustomed to raids; the noises and smells no longer bothering him. And, in the months since leaving Port Royale he had been promoted from Cabin boy to Sailor, allowing him to collect a larger portion of pay and no longer being required to swab the deck or clean the latrine. But it wasn’t enough, not yet. He wanted to be Sailing Master.

  Many times he’d watched Corbin plot out a course using his tools and the stars. He’d adjust the rudder by centimeters, to keep them from sailing kilometers off course. He wrestled the ship against winds and won. It was the perfect mixture of science and strength, and it fascinated Brant.

  It was good work, respectable. Maybe not enough to write home to his father about, but it was a start, and it was a goal he could work towards.

  Brant’s seventeenth birthday came, no different than any other day. He wouldn’t have even realized if he hadn’t been going over some of the navigation tools with Corbin and he had mentioned the date.

  “It’s my birthday,” he said, working with the astrolabe.

  “Yer birthday? How many years?”

  Brant shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. “Seventeen.”

  “That be a year deserving of a drink.”

  Corbin disappeared down to the hold for a few minutes, leaving Brant alone on deck, feeling a little silly that his friend was even acknowledging a day that seemed so trivial and childish.

  Corbin returned with a dusty bottle of rum and took a swig before handing it over to Brant. They drank together as Corbin showed Brant the different uses for the tools he had laid out on the deck in front of them.

  “You done real good for yerself,” he told Brant as he packed away his leather pouch of instruments. “Cap’n is pleased with yer work and you be well on yer way to being the best swordsman we have on board.”

  “And yet Captain LaFleur will not let me fight.”

  “Cap’n won’t be appreciatin’ me saying this, but he’s a softy. He ain’t eager to send anyone into the fray until they’ve proven they can hold their own. Soon, you’ll be up there. You can best nearly anyone on the ship, just gotta let the Cap’n know yer ready.”

  Brant nodded and took another swig of rum. “Are you looking forward to summer leave?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Aye, it’s been too long since I seen my wife. You have family waitin’ for you?”

  Brant’s mind went briefly to James, but he shook his head. “It’s just me.”

  “Yer welcome to stay with me and the wife. The house ain’t much, but it’s a roof over yer head.”

  * * *

  Two months of leave went by uneventfully and Brant found himself happier than ever to be back on the BlackFox and sailing again. He had spent the summer storm months with Corbin and his wife, Anna, helping them with various repairs Anna needed done before they left. In the evenings Corbin taught him the more intricate science of navigation; how to map and read the stars and use the more delicate instruments in his arsenal.

  Every day he found time to spar with Corbin, more to keep himself in shape and on edge than to really challenge himself. Corbin was by no means an expert swordsman.

  Their days were full, but when the day came to load up and sail out, Brant was eager to be at sea again; eager to feel the freedom and adventure and the satisfying ache in his bones after a day of hard work. This season held a lot of promise. He had one season under his belt, and he had done well. But now, with the second season upon him, his goals were that much closer, he could almost grasp them. He knew that there would be no more manning cannons during a raid. He was good with the cutlass, he’d proven himself time and again to LeFleur in daily lessons. He’d bested nearly every man on the crew at one time or another, including Karl. He was ready, and he knew it. LeFleur needed good sword hands and he couldn’t afford to squander the skills he had at his disposal; skills that Brant had worked hard to hone, not only with the blade, but working hard to learn the science of navigation from Corbin, something that was above and beyond his duties as a Sailor. The BlackFox had no Sailing Mate to work under Corbin. That job was there, waiting for LeFleur to see Brant’s potential and promote him.

  Brant strolled the decks with Corbin, pulling the second watch of the night. “This is my last season,” said Corbin, out of
nowhere.

  Brant stopped his forward progression and looked at his friend. “What do you mean?”

  “Anna, she be pregnant. It’s time I went home and was a husband to her.”

  “Congratulations,” and he meant it. He felt a twinge of pride for his friend, who was embarking on a new stage in his life.

  “Cap’n is gonna need a new Sailing Master. I talked to him today, he is gonna promote you to Sailing Mate so you be ready to take over when I leave.”

  “When?”

  “Soon.”

  “Thank you, Corbin.”

  They continued their watch, talking about what Corbin would do in the future as he settled into a quieter life as a father and husband. But Brant’s mind was stuck on the fact that he was going to get what he was working towards, sooner than he expected.

  He was busy mending a sail when Joseph approached him a few days later. “The Cap’n wants to see you.”

  Brant jumped up. He’d been waiting for this since Corbin had broken the news, and was beginning to worry that perhaps Captain LeFleur had changed his mind, that there was someone older, more experienced and better suited to the position.

  “You wanted to see me, Sir?” he asked, walking into the captain’s cabin.

  “Yes, Mr. Foxton. I’ve heard a great deal of good things about you from Corbin and he seems to think you are in need of a rank change… perhaps Sailing Mate?”

  Brant smiled broadly. “I’d really like that, Sir.”

  “He tells me that you’ve been learning the skills needed on your own time. I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “Which brings me to another matter: I don’t believe your skills are best utilized on the cannon deck during raids.”

  Brant’s heart quickened. This was it. Only a few weeks at sea and he was getting everything he’d hoped for.

  “You’ll be on the boarding party next raid. I think you’ve proven yourself more than ready.”