Owned by the Ocean

by Christine Steendam

  Jacob was pale and climbed in without a word. His protests had grown silent during Brant’s speech, and fear was in his eyes.

  “Someone collect his breeches and boots!”

  Moments later a pair of breeches and boots joined Jacob in the small rowboat.

  “Collect some water and food.”

  Brant held his gun steadily on the man, waiting for someone to bring what he had commanded. It didn’t take long for a barrel of water to be rolled up and tossed into the boat as well as a sack of various foods.

  “Lower the boat,” commanded Brant, his voice losing some of its anger.

  Slowly the boat was lowered into the water below and Brant watched as the man who had killed his captain was sent away without even the slightest hint of protest from any member of the crew, even his mates.

  Once Brant heard the tell-tale splosh of the boat hitting water, he holstered his pistol and then unbuckled the brace, holding it for everyone to see before tossing it over the rail to land in the boat with Jacob.

  “I’ve done your dirty work for you to save this ship, but his blood, if he doesn’t survive is on your heads. Jacob is paying for his sins of mutiny against LaFleur, but don’t any one of you forget that you all put him in that position and you are all to blame. Your malcontent and selfishness is to blame.”

  The crew was silent for a while, and then murmurs began to rise up. “Who be captain now?” seemed to be the resounding question.

  “We vote,” said Karl, walking down from the upper deck where he had stood back through it all.

  Brant looked at his friend, and the most respected man on this ship. “Karl is right. No more blood will be shed because of leadership. Today, we continue on the course set. You talk amongst yourselves and at dinner we will nominate men for captain, then the crew will vote.”

  Nods of approval rippled through the crowd.

  “Why wait for dinner?” shouted a crew member. “I nominate Brant.”

  Brant held up his hand and shook his head in protest. “No, it is only fair that we take time to think of nominations and then vote.”

  Ripples of Brant’s name went through the crowd until it was picked up by the entire crew. Brant’s heart pounded. He didn’t want this, he hadn’t prepared for this. He had intended to nominate Karl, a much better choice for captain than himself. He was too young and inexperienced. But he couldn’t deny the thrill that was coursing through him; the idea that the crew wanted him as captain. His fingers were touching what he’d always wanted and all he had to do was grasp it and it would be his.

  A hand rested on Brant’s shoulder and he turned to see Karl at his side. He held up his other hand and slowly the crew quieted. “If it is unanimous that Brant Foxton be captain, then so be it, otherwise we take nominations and vote at dinner,” shouted Karl, gaining everyone’s attention.

  The men all nodded and said their approval.

  “Those who want Brant as captain, raise yer hand,” said Karl.

  Brant watched, his breath caught in his throat as slowly arms were raised. He looked around at each man in the crowd. Everyone’s hands were held high. Brant looked to his right, where Karl stood with his hand still rested on Brant’s shoulder, his other arm held high in the sky. There was no mistaking it; it was unanimous. He was captain of the BlackFox.

  Chapter Seven

  Brant looked nervously at the approaching ship. They had made port briefly after he had been elected captain—just long enough to stock up and empty their hold. Since then they had been out to sea for a month. Brant had taken this time to establish himself in his new role as captain and had passed by most ships without even considering a raid. The men seemed understanding, allowing their new leader to learn the ropes, but they were starting to get restless and Karl had urged him that now was the time to make a raid.

  “Run up the colors!” Brant called.

  A cheer erupted from the men and feet stomped in approval.

  The crew had given Brant respect, and seemed happy to help when he had questions, but he could tell they were beginning to doubt he had the metal to be captain. Waiting an entire month to raid a ship was pushing it, and he knew it.

  Brant called Karl over and nervously clutched the railing. “Karl, I need you to lead this raid. Casper isn’t ready to man the helm during a raid.” What he really meant was he wasn’t ready to lead his men into battle.

  “You just do what you must and let me worry about the rest.”

  Brant nodded, relieved that he could stand back at a position he was more comfortable at while Karl led the charge. Walking towards the wheel, he snapped his fingers and motioned Casper over.

  “You aren’t ready for this yet, Casper. You go take part in the raid.”

  “Yessir.”

  “Casper.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’ve both had positions put upon us that we weren’t ready for, but you’re doing well and you’ll make a fine Sailing Master.”

  “Thank you, Cap’n.”

  Casper left the helm and Brant took over. He would need all his strength and concentration to navigate his ship through the raid—his ship; it was only just beginning to sink in that this was his ship, he was captain, and Brant found a smile inching up his lips.

  Karl shouted orders while Brant carefully steered his ship towards the other one, circling it and lining it up for a volley from the cannons. It was French by appearance and it looked like they were going to stand and fight instead of try to outrun them.

  The guns were rolled out and Brant shuddered in anticipation. He loved the sound of the first cannon blast breaking the still that seemed to come over both crews just before a battle.

  And then it came. The shouts of “Fire!” were screamed from both ships and the loud booms thundered through the air. Brant laughed and kept the BlackFox in line with the opposing ship, bracing himself for the impact of the heavy iron balls. As the ships drew closer and closer together Brant could see the enemy ship beginning the flounder. Karl gave the orders to board and then all hell broke loose. There was shouting and shooting and the clanging of metal on metal all mixed with screams of death. Brant itched to join in but his job was to control the ship. He missed the rush that came with the chaos of a raid.

  From where Brant was at the helm the whole thing seemed to go by quickly. Every once in a while he had to pull out his sword and fight off a sailor who had jumped over to the BlackFox but it wasn’t very often and he made quick work of it.

  Karl came up to Brant when it was all over and they dropped anchor while they took care of the ship, cleaning up and making any quick patches they needed to before sailing away.

  “Should we give them quarter, sir?”

  “Yes. There is no need to spill unnecessary blood. The ship is floundering anyway. Someone will hopefully come to aid them but they won’t be going anywhere in a hurry. Relieve them of their valuables and we’ll be on our way.”

  Karl nodded and went to give instructions to the crew. Brant walked one of the planks that spanned the distance between the two ships and approached the prisoners that had been clustered in a group.

  “Who’s the captain?”

  A man stepped forward and Brant sized him up; a typical French man who enjoyed frivolity a little too much. “We will leave you and your men alive and with enough provisions for you to either make a port or get help.”

  The captain spit at Brant’s feet. “You are nothing but a weak Englishman.”

  Brant smiled. “We shall see about that.”

  Brant walked away and went back to his ship where he briefed Casper on what heading to make and then retired to his cabin where he could collect his thoughts and prepare for the celebrations that would ensue. In the past few seasons it had become tradition on the BlackFox for the men to have a bit of a celebration after their first successful raid of the year and, although not a first of the season, it was the first with Brant as captain and worthy of celebration.

  Brant smiled as one of the men
ran past his window and below deck—likely to pull out a crate of rum. He was jumping the gun a little, but as long as the anchor was pulled up and they were making headway Brant didn’t care if half his crew couldn’t stand. There wouldn’t be another raid today anyway.

  * * *

  Brant looked at Karl in shock. “What do you mean I'm wanted?”

  “I mean they want to put a pretty noose around your neck in Port Royale. It would be wise to adjust our heading and clear things up.”

  “Clear what up, exactly? And what happened to privateering status?”

  “Apparently privateering status ain't transferable from captain to captain.”

  “So you're saying that when LaFleur died and I took over I was acting illegally and am nothing more than a common pirate?” Brant could feel his blood pressure rising with every word spoken. He hadn’t signed on for this. He’d wanted to serve the King, not himself.

  “Aye.”

  “And you didn't tell me this, why?”

  “I was as much in the dark as you, until now.”

  “There were no rules and bylines about this whole thing when LaFleur got into it originally?”

  “Sure there was, I just didn't know.”

  “Who would I get a Letter of Marque from?”

  Karl shrugged. “The Gov’nor, I suppose.”

  “Then we sail for Port Royale. We’ll anchor off the coast, take a long boat in at night, and make a little visit to Governor Modyford.”

  “Very good, Cap'n.”

  “Karl—”

  “Yessir?”

  “Enough with the formalities; we both know I'm Brant to you.”

  “Aye, Brant.”

  “Thank you. And could you send Casper in?”

  “Yessir.”

  Brant shook his head and laughed. Casper walked in moments later looking a little concerned. “Something wrong, Cap'n?”

  “We need to make a change to our route and destination.”

  “Cap'n?”

  “We need to head straight for Port Royale, but avoid other ships. No more raids. And we won’t be making port.”

  “Sir?” Casper looked confused.

  “Seems there’s a price on my head,” he offered in explanation. “Just change our course, and have us drop anchor off the coast, somewhere inconspicuous.”

  “I’ll take care of it right away.”

  “Thank you. Oh, and Casper, try to get the shortest route possible. I don't like having a death sentence hanging over my head.”

  “Of course, Sir.”

  ***

  The winds seemed to be in their favor, pushing them towards Port Royale quickly. Brant didn’t know if he should be thankful that he would be able to put this mess behind him sooner rather than later, or terrified that he was rushing towards a waiting noose.

  They docked off the coast of Jamaica, near a small beach a short hike outside of the port city and waited.

  When darkness fell, Brant along with Karl and Christopher, lowered a long boat to the water below and rowed it the short distance to the beach. Hauling the boat onto the shore sufficiently high enough to avoid any incoming or outgoing tides, they double checked their pistols, and then set out on their hike through the dense jungle towards civilization.

  It took a couple hours of pushing through brush and vines and walking dusty roads before the made it to the outskirts of the city. Walking down the streets, Brant knew they stuck out like a sore thumb, covered in dust and sweat, but they made their way to the good quarter of the city where Governor Modyford resided.

  “Hey, you!” came a shout from behind, just as they were about to turn up a street where some of the more lavish houses were situated.

  Brant spun to face the speaker and paled. It was a guard.

  “Brant—” warned Karl.

  “You and Christopher better get out of here.”

  Karl nodded and he waved Christopher to follow him as they slipped into the shadows of a back alley while Brant walked towards the guard.

  “Can I help you?”

  “What’s your business around here?”

  Brant shrugged. “Just out for an evening stroll.”

  The guard squinted at Brant in the low light. “You been drinking?”

  “Not a drop.”

  “You’re a captain?” asked the guard, indicating Brant’s hat.

  Brant grimaced. He should have removed his hat. “Yes sir, I am.”

  “What’s your ship?”

  Brant’s mind spun as he tried to come up with a lie, with a ship’s name that wouldn’t incriminate him, but for all the ships he knew and captains he was associated with, his mind refused to cooperate and offer him a name.

  “You look familiar.”

  “I make port here quite often.” Brant could feel the sweat pooling on his upper lip and forehead, and this time it wasn’t from heat or exertion. “May I go? I’ll head straight to my ship. I’m not going to cause any trouble.”

  The guard shook his head. “I think you’d better come with me.”

  Brant hesitated. Should he run? He knew Port Royale like the back of his hand and likely could hide, but that didn’t solve his problem and he would still have to find a way out of the city. With a sigh, he nodded his acquiescence, unbuckling his belt which housed his pistols and cutlass, and handed it over to the guard who accepted it, then shackled Brant’s hands.

  As they walked through the streets towards what was undoubtedly the jail, Brant studied the guard’s face, impassive and stony in the moonlight.

  “Do you even know why you’re bringing me in?”

  “I saw a poster with your face on it. You’re Brant Foxton.”

  So much for anonymity. He didn’t reply; his silence was answer enough for the guard.

  They approached the jail and the guard walked him to a dirty cell which housed three other men. The smell that wafted out had Brant gagging, and thankful for an empty stomach.

  “In you go.”

  Brant’s eyes watered from the stench and his nostrils burned but he walked forward, and waited for the guard to release the shackles that held his hands firmly behind his back.

  Once the door clanged shut behind him, Brant turned around the face the guard. “I want to see Governor Modyford as soon as possible. You tell him Brant Foxton, son of Calvin Foxton was brought in.” Brant nearly choked on his father’s name, the blow to his pride hitting him harder than any punch to the gut could. But this was a matter of life and death, and if it meant living to see many more sunrises, he’d put his pride aside just this once.

  The guard smiled. “Yeah, I’m sure the governor will give pirate scum an audience.”

  “He’ll give it to me.”

  “High and mighty, ain’t you? Fine, I’ll pass on the message, but don’t expect much.”

  Brant nodded and turned away, finding a corner of straw to sit in that looked somewhat clean, if there was even an inch in this cell that wasn’t covered in filth. The other two men, his cell mates, watched him but remained silent.

  Brant drifted in and out of sleep on the hard stone floor. Bugs and rats skittered about, waking him up frequently throughout the night. The stench was slowly becoming less noticeable as he acclimatized to his surroundings, but his skin crawled more with each passing minute. He itched constantly, convinced fleas were making their home on his person and moved out of the straw, sitting on the cold stone where at least he could see what was moving along the floor instead of just rustling pieces of straw that had him wondering if it was the wind, his imagination, or a cockroach.

  When the sun finally made its appearance, leaving a sliver a light through the tiny single window, Brant felt relief and energy flooding his body. He got up and started walking around, waiting for news that his message had gotten to the governor.

  A guard brought breakfast, if the slop could really be called that, and the line of sunlight moved along the cell floor slowly, showing the passing hours. Still, no one came. Brant peeked out the window a
t the sun, and guessed it was nearing noon, when he finally heard footsteps echoing down the stone hall he walked over to the bars, eager.

  “Brant Foxton?” asked the guard.

  “Yes sir.”

  “The governor wants to see you.”

  The guard inserted a key into the door and opened it, motioning for Brant to turn around as he fished the shackles off his belt and locked them on Brant’s wrists.

  Leading him down the hall and out of the jail house, he was loaded into a wagon and driven across town where it stopped outside the ornate mansion that was known to all as the governor’s house.

  Brant was unceremoniously unloaded from the wagon and pushed into the house and a short distance into a dining room, where Governor Modyford sat, eating lunch.

  “Unshackle him,” he said, without looking up from the newspaper he was perusing.

  The irons fell from Brant’s wrist and he swung his arms around while twisting his wrists in little circles to get the blood flow back.

  “Sit.”

  Brant pulled out a chair and sat down. The minute he relaxed into the chair a plate, set of cutlery, and wine glass was set in front of him. He took this as invitation to the food spread out on the table and reached for various fruit, breads and cheeses that were causing his mouth to water hungrily.

  “Leave us,” was the governor’s last command as he folded his paper and set it aside.

  Brant watched his host curiously while eating some grapes, waiting for the man to open up conversation.

  They sat in silence for a time, Governor Modyford seemingly content to eat his lunch in peace and quiet before addressing the business at hand. Hungry, and the spread of fresh food too much to ignore, Brant feasted. He wasn’t about to be hung now. He had the audience he wanted and he didn’t plan on leaving in irons.

  “So, Brant, you are Calvin’s son.” It wasn’t a question.

  Brant nodded around a mouthful of bread and cheese. “Yes sir,” he said upon swallowing.