Owned by the Ocean

by Christine Steendam

  “Thank you, Sir. I won’t disappoint you.”

  LeFleur nodded and looked back down at the papers spread over his desk. “Now, I believe you have work to do.”

  * * *

  Brant’s opportunity to join in a raid came quickly. The BlackFox followed heavily used trading routes, and were never long between attacks. When the first cannon shot fired and the deck shook beneath his feet he felt the first inkling of apprehension. Each cannon blast only succeeded in escalating his fear. He glanced around nervously at the waiting men, who seemed eager to spill blood. A buzz of adrenaline filled the deck and yet Brant felt himself shaking in fear. It was one thing to spar, never drawing blood; it was completely different to take over a ship and kill men for nothing more than gold and stores, all in the name of weakening an enemy of the crown.

  When the order came to board Brant lunged forward with the rest of the men, screaming and yelling their bloody war cries, but not feeling the hu-rah that the other men seemed to possess.

  There was no chance to collect one’s thoughts when he landed on the deck of the other ship. Immediately someone charged at him with a sword ready to cut him open. Brant parried and thrust skillfully, protecting his life and fighting to take another’s. This was different from sparring. There was no cool calculation of moves and steps, out here men fought with desperation, and screams of death overpowered the music of clashing steal. There was no one-on-one or rules of engagement. An attack could come from any angle, from any number of men. Bullets whizzed by and you could only pray that one didn’t find its mark in you.

  Brant felt a sharp pain in his side and he looked down; a growing red stain covering his dirty white shirt.

  “Don’t!” Corbin’s blade jumped into view and blocked a thrust. “Brush it off or yer dead!”

  It was enough to shake Brant out of the stupor the sight of his blood had put him in, and his sword arm was immediately back at work, but his vision spun a little. It had just become a little more real; if Corbin hadn’t been right there he would have been run through because he stopped for a split second. That was all it took; a second.

  For Brant the fight seemed to take forever but in reality it went quickly. The crew surrendered and LaFleur had their hold cleaned out of anything valuable and then the ship was left to flounder in its ruined state. Corbin took Brant directly to the surgeon to have his stab wound looked after but he kept assuring Brant that it was nothing to be worried about.

  After getting his wound cleaned and stitched, he joined the rest of the crew to stow things away below deck. His side ached, reminding him of how close he’d come to death, but he was proud of himself. Death hadn’t left him weak kneed or nauseous. He had held his own, and in time he would get better.

  He’d told Karl after the first raid that he’d learn to live with it, that he’d be okay with death, and he was. He never lost his composure again after that first raid. But after seeing the life leave a man’s eyes, he understood what Captain LeFleur had meant when he said ghosts haunted him. Brant wanted to hurt for the men that he had killed this afternoon and never forget the look in their eyes as their souls left their bodies.

  As he celebrated their victory that night with the crew, he took a swig of rum and passed the bottle on, listening to stories of close calls and staring death in the face. Brant smiled and laughed, he showed off his wound and the men congratulated him on his first stabbing, a rite of passage it seemed. But underneath all the bravado and laughter, he was hurting, hurting for the men that he had taken from loving mothers and waiting wives. He vowed to remember each life he took so that when judgement day came and he had to atone for the sins he’d committed, he’d know the face of each and every man that testified against him, and he’d know that he deserved to suffer for eternity.

  Chapter Five

  Three Years Later- 1663

  Brant’s eighteenth birthday came and went, then his nineteenth. Three years he’d served aboard the BlackFox, spilling more blood than he cared to measure, developing calluses on top of calluses, spending countless hours working harder than he ever thought was possible; and he loved every minute of it.

  Corbin had taken his leave, true to his word, after their second season working together, and was working as a cartographer in Port Royale. He hoped to take his wife and young son to the new world and map out the large and wild land, but the last Brant had heard he had no real plans to leave yet. Maybe it was all talk.

  Brant had continued to learn the skills required of a Sailing Mate from Captain LeFleur after Corbin had left, but he had been told that for this voyage he was taking over as Sailing Master. No more Sailing Mate. Now he answered to no one, served no one but Captain LeFleur. And he would happily serve the man that had offered him so much until he could get a ship and a crew of his own. When that day came, he would sail to England and face his father with pride. He wondered from time to time how James was doing, but over three years had passed since he had seen him. He assumed James was doing well… he would be ten now and probably still acting like the perfect disciplined boy he’d been when Brant left. Shaking the thoughts of his past, of a family he left behind out of his head, Brant joined Captain LaFleur in his cabin to look over their intended course.

  He had attended countless numbers of these meetings when he had been learning under Corbin and then LaFleur, but now it was his turn to take charge. He knew what to do. In the last year he had pretty much been doing everything himself with LaFleur only watching over his shoulder and putting in suggestions when needed. He was confident in his knowledge and in his skills and he knew that he wouldn’t fail; nevertheless it was a daunting thing to be called before the captain to do the job he had been trained in completely on his own for the first time.

  Brant looked over the map that LaFleur was showing him and pointed at a location. “Here is where we’re at. We’re traveling at about fifteen knots right now. You want to get to Tortuga, best way would be along here,” Brant explained as he traced a route along the worn paper.

  “But?” asked LeFleur.

  “Won’t be many ships along this route.”

  LeFleur nodded. “I want to take the most direct route to Tortuga so we can empty the hold. We’re sitting low in the water and it’s slowing us down too much. Also, we can’t keep having Harold do repairs on the ocean like this. We’ve taken too much damage in the last few raids.”

  “We should try to avoid storms as much as possible. It’s getting late in the season. Could be some big ones starting to brew.” Brant had been watching the sky earlier. He didn’t like the look of the clouds that seemed to be chasing them down faster than they could sail, and he wasn’t sure that the BlackFox was in any shape to weather a big gale. LeFleur had pushed them hard this season, barely letting them make port, having Harold do repairs on the run as much as possible. The last raid they had to run from with their tail between their legs, their beautiful ship barely limping away.

  “It is, but we have to go a bit longer. We’ll dock at Tortuga and spend the summer months there.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, Sir, why Tortuga? We just left Port Royale.”

  “Port Royale is taking in heavy trade and I don’t want to trade, I want gold. Tortuga is a good place for that.”

  “Gold that is not taxable to the King?”

  “If we play our cards right.”

  Brant pressed his lips together, holding back the words that were brewing inside. LeFleur was taking risks; pushing both the men and his ship harder than ever; going later into the season than was advisable; and now trying to cheat the King of gold that was, according to the letter of Marque, rightfully his.

  LeFleur was getting up in age. Was he trying to cash in for retirement? Whatever it was, something wasn’t adding up.

  Brant took his leave and went to set the ship on the course they discussed. It was a time consuming job, but he had a good crew that could adjust the sails quickly and efficiently for their purposes. Of all the crews Brant could ha
ve been serving with, without this group of men—as rough as they were—he wouldn’t be where he was today.

  * * *

  The summer storm months were usually dull, but this year was particularly so. Normally the crew settled in Port Royale, and Brant would spend the months with Corbin and Anna. There, he had some semblance of a family. Tortuga though was nothing but women, drinking and cards, which sounded good in theory. The women were boring and frivolous, only spending time with the men for money, and the entertainment was often drinking and bar brawls—which was good for a few laughs until it landed you in lock up for a night.

  Brant spent most of his time with the men in his crew, throwing away all their money on rum and cigarettes. Many of the men had some girl on their arm that they had paid for, but Brant mostly ignored them. He had no interest in a girl that was merely giving away her body and not her heart.

  Women weren’t in his future. He didn’t live a life he could bring one into and he’d come to terms with that about when Corbin gave up his position to look after his family. He was lonely, but he refused to lower his standards for a one night lie. He’d seen what that did to Leo, and he didn’t want that.

  Brant finished off his glass of rum and noisily dropped it onto the wooden table. He was sick of hearing the girls in this bar laugh and flirt, pushing themselves on inebriated men. Was this how girls had been around Leo? He could remember thinking they were pathetic, but they were looking for a life change. These girls were just looking to make a pound.

  Brant played with the idea of taking one up to his room… It would be so easy, just one night of reckless abandon that he could forget about the next day. Sooner or later a girl would come up to him if he watched them long enough. There was one girl who looked younger than the rest, wearing a dress that barely covered her chest. She was laughing at something another girl was saying to her. She was blushing… Either she was incredibly good at what she did or she was new enough to still have a little bit of innocence about her. She looked over and caught Brant’s eye. It was just a second, but it was enough. She sauntered over.

  “You’ve been watchin’ me.”

  “You aren’t like the other girls. What’s your story?”

  “It’s long… I got the time to tell it if you got the money.”

  Brant smiled “I got money. Sit, let me buy you a drink.”

  She sat and Brant waved over a serving girl and ordered two rums. “I’m Brant.”

  “Clarice.”

  “You’re too young to be working this job, Clarice. Too pretty.”

  “Mayhaps, but it’s good money and I need it. My father died a little while back, he was a sailor, and me mom and baby brother are left with nothing. We don’t have two shillings to rub together, so I do this. It’s the one thing us women can do to make a decent penny and I ain’t gonna let my momma and baby brother go out on the street.”

  “Is that your real story or is that the one your mistress told you to tell?”

  “You think men around here give a lick about women being put out of their own homes? That’s the truth. For every other man I just pretend like I’m not a working girl. That’s what they want.”

  “I’m sorry you have to do this.”

  “Tis life, Brant. Don’t tell me yer so naïve you think this is a choice. Now, are you gonna take me upstairs or should I look for business elsewhere?”

  Brant smiled and shook his head. “I’m not looking for that. I just want some conversation. Sit here with me, talk, that’s all I’m asking for and I’ll pay you good.”

  “I do believe you’re one of the good ones, Brant.”

  “So are you. Don’t forget that.”

  So they pretended. He told her about his life on the ship, about his father and brother back home and she listened. She laughed in all the right places and took the coins as he slid them over. For just one night, Brant could pretend that he had someone waiting for him whenever he was out to sea, wanting to hear his stories of adventure. But when he made his way up to his room alone in the wee hours of the morning, reality came back. He was just a sailor and he would grow old and alone like most of the men on the crew.

  For the first time in his life, Brant began to wonder if maybe his father had been right… maybe this wasn’t the life for him.

  * * *

  Brant barely noticed the passing of his twentieth birthday. Four years he’d sailed with the BlackFox. But this season was different from the others. If LaFleur had pushed harder than ever in the previous season, he was sitting back and relaxing this time around. It was the general consensus of the crew that he was getting tired. Soft. And there was talk that he wouldn’t be captain for much longer.

  It unsettled Brant to hear murmurs of discontent and mutiny ripple through the crew. He’d tried to talk LaFleur into following heavier trade routes. The men were restless, barely having enough raids to satisfactorily line their pockets with gold and they were heading into the latter half of the season. And now, to make matters even better, LaFleur was talking about heading to Port Royale early and taking a longer break over the storm season. It was as if he was completely blind and deaf to the discontent spreading through his crew like wildfire.

  He was getting old, tired. He’d spent too many years in a hard life and everyone saw it.

  Brant was worried. He couldn’t help but feel like a storm was brewing. And by the feel of things, the BlackFox wasn’t going to get through it unscathed.

  Brant woke up with a start as the sounds of running feet thundered overhead. That wasn't right. The men should all be asleep in their bunks. But instead they were up, which couldn't mean anything good.

  He swung his legs out of his bunk and quickly pulled on his trousers and boots, grabbing his cutlass from where it hung on a peg on the wall. Refraining from running above, Brant walked cautiously up the stairs and peered out of the hold.

  The deck was alight with lanterns and it seemed the entire crew was gathered on deck. Karl, LaFleur and Joseph made up a small group at the center of the foray. LaFleur looked as if he'd been roused from bed, his shirt untucked and barefoot, hair disheveled. But he looked anything but tired. His eyes were ablaze with anger.

  Brant walked up on deck and joined the crowd of sailors to try to get a better idea of what was going on. The sick feeling in his gut told him to hang back, not to get involved, but he moved forward anyway; curiosity winning over.

  "You're a bunch of cowards!" yelled LaFleur. "You drag a man out of bed in the middle of the night, for what? To betray him? To stab him in the back? You ain't happy with the way I'm running things, you can leave at next port. That is how things work on my ship."

  "Yer ship?” one of the younger sailors, Jacob, stepped forward. “This ship would be nothin’ without us. You are nothin’ without us. And quite frankly, yer draggin’ us down.”

  Brant swallowed hard as the men around them yelled their approval at the apparent leader’s words. He caught Karl’s eye, silently asking what to do. All he got in response was a nearly imperceptible shake of the head. So he stood, his hand resting on the cutlass strapped to his hip and watching the crew members he called friends and family turn into crazed men. They were calling for blood, and he knew that this night would end with a red sun rising.

  Shouts calling to throw him overboard, to maroon LaFleur, came from the men that were quickly taken up as a chant, rippling among the men like the words of dark magic. LaFleur was growing red in fury and he pulled his pistol, waving it in the face of Jacob.

  “Usurper! You’re gonna hold a mutiny against me? I put food on the table and lined your pockets with gold!”

  Karl reached for LaFleur’s arm and rested his hand on his shoulder, whispering to their captain. Calm down, Brant prayed. He wanted to push his way through the crowd and join his captain. Instead, he stood on the outskirts, a coward, and watched the situation deteriorate before his eyes.

  The minute LaFleur’s pistol was waved in Jacob’s face Brant knew it was the end. The me
n were calling for blood. They’d lost faith in their captain and had elected a new leader. To lose control, like LaFleur was doing, was basically signing his own death warrant.

  The chant for overboard had been dropped and instead calls for a duel filled the ship deck. Though they were not calling for blood in as many words, they might as well have been. There was only one way a duel would end; in death, and Brant wasn’t confident LaFleur would win.

  Jacob drew his cutlass and turned to face the crowd of men that stood behind him. “A duel you say?”

  “Yeah!” came the uproarious shout from the men.

  “Winner be captain? No contest from no one else.”

  “Aye!”

  Jacob turned to LaFleur. “What say you? Sounds fair to me. The men ain’t happy with you, but they’re willin’ to give you a chance if you can best me.”

  LaFleur nodded. “Aye, tis fair.”

  Brant could no longer stand aside and watch. He pushed his way through the crowd. “Let me fight for you, act as champion,” he called. He knew he could beat Jacob and secure LaFleur’s captaincy.

  But LaFleur and Karl shook their heads. “Nay, boy. You fighting for me won’t help. I fight for my own place, or I hand it over.”

  LaFleur holstered his pistol and slowly drew his cutlass. “Clear some room!” he shouted.

  Roars of approval erupted throughout the crew and Brant thought he might get sick. Karl grabbed his arm though and dragged him to the outer edge of the large circle that was forming around the deck, leaving only Jacob and LaFleur standing, their blades glinting in the light of the flickering lanterns.

  The fight began quickly, with clashing steel and the stomping boots of men as they picked up the beat of the fighting men.