Jan limped in their midst with Sampari supporting him. He stopped only to take one of the oars from the launch oarlocks and smash it against the foremast until the paddle end broke off.
The attackers reached Vigoreaux then, and the old man waded through them like a catamount, backhanding some with such force they left the deck and arced far out over the dark sea. Half a dozen spears pierced his body when he laughed and drew his heavy cutlass, chopping away the hafts and in some cases the arms that held them with single sweeps. Blood splashed into the air. The two dozen men who had manned the canoes were swiftly whittled down to ten, and these, to give them credit, backed away from the diabolical captain, but did not turn and run.
Vigoreaux was a shambles, but retained his strange poise, an ancient gentleman whose officer’s fineries were unfortunately torn and blood soaked but would surely be mended. The broken spears protruded from every angle of him like quills. Yet he laughed, and his teeth were fangs to rival that of the werewolves’. His eyes were wide and dilated as he called out, turning in place, peering through the terrified native faces for the one he sought.
“Where are you? Where are you?”
The only one who could answer, did.
“Here, Old Tick.”
And then the splintered end of the oar was in Vigoreaux’s chest, propelled by a two-fisted lunge by Jan which drove the old man against the mainmast.
The two stood face to face now, and Jan stared into the soundless, working animal jaws and the gaping, bloodshot eyes, so full of confusion.
Vigoreaux’s hands hung loose at his sides, and his head lolled on his neck.
Jan squeezed the captain’s chin in his fist so he could look in his blinking, darting eyes.
“You may have never met another like yourself, but Padre Timóteo’s heard of your kind through the Church. You might do all right with steel and lead shot, but a good length of wood through your little black heart takes all the fight out of you, apparently.”
Jan gestured for two of the spearmen to come forward. They gingerly lifted the old captain up between them. He was as docile as a dead doe, but his eyes worked frantically in his head.
They dragged him to one of the launches at Jan’s lead, and dumped him inside. Then Jan swung the launch out and had the two men man the block and tackle.
“There’s one more thing you don’t fare well against, which you know well since you decorated your quarters with all that drapery and cringed at the letting in of the light the day you took us aboard.”
He stepped back from the side and nodded to the two men, who began lowering the launch into the water.
“So I say good morning to you, Old Captain Tick,” he said, offering a weary marine’s salute.
He watched the paralyzed captain’s flitting eyes as the launch descended until he could make out their detail no longer in the dim light, and turned away when he heard the splash. He cut the lines himself with Badham’s knife.
He stood at the quarterdeck rail until the first light of dawn as Sampari dabbed at his torn body with scraps of Vigoreuax’s good table linens and the men arranged the dead to bear them back to the island. He thought of his friend Timóteo, hoping he would find him awake when they returned to the village.
They had a ship they could man with the natives if they chose to leave and there were men or women willing, or they could use the remaining launch and Vigoreaux’s charts to make for civilization.
He supposed Sampari would urge them to stay; she would surely not want to weaken the village by allowing enough men to crew the ship to leave now. He might tarry awhile, but his boyhood Virginia was still home, and the headright and the old bandolet over the mantle called to him.
The sun rose in an orange so brilliant even the fire of the burning launch rising and falling on the swells could not match it.
About Edward M. Erdelac
http://www.lyricalpress.com/edward_m_erdelac
Edward M. Erdelac is an independent filmmaker and has written fiction for Starwars.com. Indiana born and Chicago bred, he lives in the Los Angeles area with his family. Write what you know you love is the best advice he’s ever taken or given.
Inspired in part by an upbringing of Errol Flynn/Tyrone Powers Jr. movies and a young adulthood packed with Robert E. Howard and Frank Frazetta, Red Sails began as a hypothetical question put forth on the long drive back from San Diego one summer; ‘if you could write a story that featured vampires, werewolves, and zombies, what would it be?’ The zombies shuffled off to another story.
Edward’s Website:
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Edward-M-Erdelac/112183918691
Reader eMail:
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Red Sails Page 7