by Hank Manley
Conchshell turned from her surveillance of the strange island and released a happy bark when she realized Warren was awake. The delighted dog punctuated her sounds of joy by enthusiastically lapping the boy’s salty face.
“Conch,” Warren groaned as the Labrador bounded about the dory. “Take it easy, girl. Let me have a minute to wake up.”
Warren forced his eyes to open, blinking rapidly as the harsh sunlight pounded down from the cloudless sky. He tentatively lifted his head from the bottom of the boat, realizing he had been lying in several inches of salt water that plastered his hair to the back of his head.
The boy reached up and grabbed the boom that swayed gently above him, tugging lightly against the mainsheet rope that was secured to an aft cleat. He pulled himself to a sitting position and looked over the starboard gunwale. “We’re alive, Shelly girl,” he said at last, the amazement obvious in his creaking voice. “We survived the hurricane.”
Conchshell placed her front paws on the side of the dory and looked in the direction of Warren’s gaze. The dog had yet to depart the small boat, cautious about jumping ashore on the strange beach, and unwilling to leave her master. “Ruff, ruff,” the Labrador barked toward the stretch of pink sand as if asking permission to venture on the land.
“I guess we should get out of this boat,” Warren agreed with a shrug of his sore shoulders. “We might as well find out where we are so we can figure out how to get home.”
Warren stepped carefully over the gunwale of the dory and felt his foot squish in the damp sand. The warmth of the beach felt welcome after the bone-rattling chill of the hurricane winds and rain-saturated air of the previous night.
Conchshell watched her master step from the boat. She panted nervously, and her glistening tongue hung between her lower front teeth.
“Come on, girl,” Warren said. “We can’t sit in that boat all day. We’ve got to find somebody on this island who can tell us the name of this place and how to sail back to Serenity Cay.”
The blonde Labrador leapt bravely from the dory at the sound of Warren’s confident voice. Everything was going to be okay, the dog instinctively realized. Her master was unhurt, and he would soon figure out how to return them safely to their own island.
* * *
Warren removed the anchor from the dory and dug it firmly in the sand as far from the bow of the boat as the line would stretch. He then began to walk down the beach, feeling the sun dry his wet hair and draw the salty water from his clothes. The warmth of the air was invigorating, and the boy marched confidently, almost able to ignore the soreness on his forehead, and the residual ache behind his temples.
“Are you feeling better, Conch?” he asked with genuine concern as the dog pranced close beside. The unfamiliar island kept the normally curious animal from straying too far from her master’s feet.
“Here, let me fix you up.” Warren stopped and knelt in the sand. He stroked his fingers through his dog’s fur, straightening the salty patches matted against her body. “That’s better. Now you look beautiful again.”
Conchshell barked her approval of Warren’s thoughtful ministrations. She responded with an appreciative lick on his hand.
The beach narrowed as the dense undergrowth of the island’s interior slanted toward the sand. A large, dark coral outcropping sat prominently at the edge of the water. Warren stopped and looked around the jagged boulder. He was unable to see more beach ahead as the shoreline changed to a low, rocky coast. The boy shook his head. He spent much of his time barefoot, and the soles of his feet were tough and accustomed to walking on dirt and sand. Coral was another matter. His flesh would be shredded in seconds if he tried to walk on the sharp surface.
Warren turned and began to retrace his steps along the beach. “I think we need to head inland,” he said to Conchshell. “It doesn’t appear anybody lives along here. We’ll just have to look on the higher ground to find help.”
The dog splashed several yards into the shallow water and looked around the outcropping. Her padded paws were more suited for difficult terrain than her master’s unprotected feet, but she didn’t relish walking on the coral. She had experienced painful slices to her pads on more than one occasion, and she barked her concurrence to a change of direction.
Warren walked slowly back along the beach in the direction of the dory. He scanned the heavy growth of the island bordering the pink sand. An eclectic mixture of cabbage palms, thatch palms and taller coconut palm trees combined to form a dense wall of jungle. Buttonwood shrubs and other hardy bushes sprawled across the sandy soil.
Fifty yards before the boat an obscure opening appeared in the thick foliage. A narrow path departed the beach and twisted into the thick tropical forest. Warren stopped and knelt at the entrance to the interior.
“I think these are footprints,” he said to Conchshell as he pointed to a series of regularly spaced depressions in the sand.
The blonde Labrador lowered her nose to the ground and sniffed the area under investigation. She swung her tail with curiosity as she moved purposefully into the jungle. Ducks and geese and pheasant all carried a distinct odor that registered with the well-bred hunting dog. Small animals such as rabbits and squirrels also were easy for Conch to identify. But the most familiar scent to the young Labrador was that of a human.
Warren looked to the blinding sky. The temperature was rising as the sun pounded through the cloudless morning. He gingerly touched the tender lump and crusted laceration on his head. He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to quell the incessant throbbing. He was suddenly aware that his mind was not clear. Warren didn’t feel his normal alertness.
He also realized he was thirsty. His mouth felt cottony and raw. He looked at the clear salt water lapping the beach and shook his head at the paradox of the limitless quantities of water at his feet and not a drop of it capable of quenching his thirst.
His stomach growled with hunger. In addition to the feeling of vagueness, Warren recognized his physical strength was already low and definitely ebbing.
“Are you thirsty, too, girl?” he asked turning to the Labrador. “I’ll bet you could use a drink. I sure could.”
Conchshell licked her snout and swallowed. The ingestion of seawater when she had been swept from the beach during the hurricane had only served to make her more dehydrated. “Arruuu,” she whined to acknowledge her need for water.
“Let’s find whoever made these tracks,” Warren said. “Somebody’s got to live on this island. I sure hope they’re friendly and that they can offer us some water and food. I don’t know how much longer we can go without something to eat and drink.”
More worrisome to the boy than his pain and hunger and parched condition was his concern for his mother. He appreciated the agony his disappearance would cause her. Rhonda would be frantic when she discovered he was missing. He had to figure a way to quickly return to Serenity Cay and save his mother the anguish she was experiencing.
With a quick look back at the dory, now resting comfortably on the beach with the anchor holding her against the inevitability of the rising tide, Warren plunged into the jungle and began to pick his way along the serpentine path.
~7~
The narrow trail wound around large palm trees and coral rock. Roots crossed the sandy path and Warren was careful not to stumble or stub his bare toes. Heavy branches swooped across the tiny lane forcing the boy to duck to avoid knocking his head. The sand was damp, and occasional small puddles of rainwater were visible in craggy depressions in the ground. Residual rain drops clung to the foliage. The air was heavy with evaporating moisture.
Warren managed to scoop a few drops of water from a fissure in a rock and wet his parched lips. Conchshell eagerly lapped at another tiny collection of rain water. The small sips did little to quench their thirst.
The land gradually sloped upward as the boy and his
dog moved inland. The jungle thickened as the soil became more substantial, and the overhanging foliage crossed the pathway and blocked the sunlight. An eerie gloom permeated the landscape, and Warren felt unfamiliar discomfort.
Conchshell noticed her master’s concern, and she moved closer to his legs. She looked nervously into Warren’s eyes, hoping to see his typical confidence and strength. His nervousness elicited a shallow whine of concern from the Labrador.
Warren stopped walking and looked around at the heavy canopy of jungle overhead. He motioned for Conchshell to sit. An unnatural silence pervaded the air. Laughing gulls, normally incessant with their chatter on every island Warren had visited, were strangely quiescent. Parrots, often seen and heard in the more remote Bahamas, were nowhere in evidence.
“I guess we just have to keep going, Shelly girl,” Warren said. “But it sure is quiet. I wonder where all the animals have gone.”
Conchshell sniffed around the edges of the trail. No scent other than the faint trace of human was present. The island apparently was devoid of wildlife.
The boy looked back down the trail to be certain he could retrace his steps should the path not prove productive. The overhead sun was obscured, but Warren guessed he could ascertain its approximate position if he lost the trail and had to proceed according to general direction. He was now heading basically east. In the afternoon, if he had to blaze a trail, he would head for the setting sun in order to relocate the beach and his dory.
Warren continued walking with Conchshell close at his heels. He licked his parched lips and attempted to gather some saliva in his throat. His throat was as dry as burnt toast. His anxiety magnified his thirst, and he longed for a substantial cool drink of water.
The trail appeared to widen as it rose more sharply toward a visible outcropping of coral. The jungle grew less dense as the soil gave way to a spine of rock that traced across the length of the rise.
Warren stopped. He looked around cautiously and cocked his ear to the wind.
Conch stood frozen at his feet.
The faint sound of human voices drifted over the craggy ridge.
The boy dropped to the ground.
The Labrador fell to her stomach and released a deep, slow growl. “Grrrrrr.”
“Shussssh!” Warren hissed under his breath.
Conchshell pulled her head between her shoulders and placed her front paws over her nose.
“Don’t move, Shelly girl,” Warren whispered. “Stay right here. I’m going to crawl up to the crest and look over. We need to determine if these people are friendly. We can’t just assume they’re going to be happy to see us.”
The boy crawled toward the ridge, careful to place his hands and knees in the sandy patches between the razor-sharp coral slivers. He reached the pinnacle of the rocky outcropping and eased his head over the lip. A gasp of astonishment escaped his lips.
The Labrador reluctantly held her position for a moment. The dog was obedient, but even the slightest separation from her master in this tense circumstance made her nervous. Tentatively, almost unconsciously, Conchshell inched her way to her master’s side on the ridge.
Approximately two dozen unkempt men were sprawled around a shallow pool of water, lounging in the sand on soiled blankets. Several others were lying in narrow mesh hammocks suspended between the trunks of palm trees. Many of the men were sipping liquid from crude earthenware jugs. Broad swords and strange looking pistols were scattered about the campsite.
The surprising gathering on the apparently deserted island was unlike any Warren had ever witnessed. It certainly wasn’t a picnic. The men appeared soiled and rough. Though apparently relaxed and unaggressive, their demeanor did not seem inviting. Warren hesitated to stand and announce himself.
The men’s clothing was bizarre. Curiously, none wore shorts. All were dressed in pants that covered their knees and billowy, long sleeved shirts, open at the neck. Many wore sleeveless vests with colorful patterns. Boots adorned the feet of every man. They looked very much like the sketches Warren had studied with fascination in his book about pirates.
Warren looked disapprovingly at Conchshell now tucked close by his side. He opened his mouth to admonish her for leaving her position below the coral ridge. Two heads poking above the rise doubled their chance of discovery. Instead, he remained silent and signaled his dog to retreat below the outcropping. The boy slid down the incline alongside Conchshell.
Safely out of sight again, Warren explained his plan to the Labrador. “Did you see the weapons lying around, Shelly girl?” he began. “That bunch doesn’t look very friendly. I’m going to sneak closer and try to listen to some of the conversation. Maybe they are friendly, but I’m afraid to walk right into the camp and start asking for water and food. We might be on some island where strangers are not welcome at all. I think it’s better to be cautious now than sorry later.”
Warren’s words meant nothing to the dog, but his concern with the unusual gathering of men registered strongly. The Labrador had been able to smell the strange men on the easterly breeze that drifted across the camp site and rolled up and over the coral slope. It was a pungent scent like none other she had experienced from humans.
“You stay here, girl,” Warren whispered firmly as he pointed to the ground immediately in front of the dog. “Right here.”
A low growl of displeasure rolled out of Conchshell’s throat. She did not want to be apart from her master, especially at this time of potential peril.
“That’s a good girl,” Warren said in an encouraging voice. “I’ll be back soon.”
* * *
Warren crawled back to the ridge and peeked over the rise. Several men were gathered to the right of the water hole in a sandy area immediately adjacent to the jungle. They sat in a half circle with their backs to the dense foliage.
The boy steeled himself for his mission. He had to discover if the men would welcome him or rise against him with their weapons. He was convinced he could determine the answer by listening to their conversations. Even if they didn’t outright announce themselves as desperados or criminals, their general demeanor and the tenor of their voices would be illustrative of their nature.
Warren crept slowly across the coral ridge line, moving to his right, careful to keep his profile low. He had to avoid detection by any of the men who might glance above their position. He headed toward the edge of the jungle where the rocky spine of coral dipped from the high ground.
The open sand yielded to foliage, and Warren entered the dense thickness. He moved into the jungle only fifteen feet before he immediately lost sight of the clearing. The darkness of the verdant area was eerie, but the boy calmed himself with the thought that he would be less discernible with the lack of light.
Confident he was invisible to the men seated around the water hole, he crawled through the tangle of bushes and tree trunks, parallel to the sandy site. When he estimated he was directly behind the men sitting to the right of the little pond, he stopped.
Warren’s heart pounded inside his chest. Perspiration dimpled his brow. His breathing was shallow and rapid. He considered simply standing, walking out of the jungle, and begging food and water. But the appearance of the men from the rocky ridge had been alarming. The plethora of deadly weapons strewn casually about had been deeply troubling. He knew he had to learn if the rough–looking men would welcome him or cause him harm. With renewed purpose, Warren inched his way closer to the edge of the jungle until he could clearly hear their conversation.
~8~
“Do ye think we should take the amnesty offered by that scallywag Rogers?” one of the men grumbled. “I not be sure he’s to be trusted.”
“Trusted or not, ye miserable sot, what would ye do if ye wasn’t a pirate?” another stated with conviction. “Become a dress maker? Build ships? Ye be lucky if ye can nail a peg in a round hole. I�
��ve not seen such a fool as ye with tools.”
A third man pushed to a sitting position from his elbow and reached for the jug sitting in front of his comrade. “It not be for me, the amnesty,” he said as he raised the vessel to his lips and took a long pull of the liquid contents. “I took to the sea for the freedom of the life. Where else can ye find such a merry existence? Would ye be happier plowing a patch of dirt and dying of the plague in England?”
“I like me freedom, too,” a fourth man said. “But I like me gold even better.” He lifted a heavy gold chain from around his neck and shook it proudly for his compatriots to see. “Do thee think ye can get something like this working an honest trade ashore?”
The first man looked admiringly at the costly treasure adorning his friend’s throat. “And what good will that beautiful piece of golden rope do ye when they stretch thy neck with a real length of hemp?”
“They can have their chance at me golden neck,” the fourth man responded, “if they can wade through the steel of me sword.” He withdrew a heavy blade from a black leather case and brandished it menacingly in the air.
“Ahoy, Governor Woodes Rogers,” he said with a jolly laugh, feigning a conversation with the governor. “Come for a visit to our hideout, have ye? We’ll discuss thy amnesty and me precious neck over a pint of grog. Then I will be obliged to slit thy throat and watch the blood turn the ocean red.”
The three men laughed uproariously. The jug was passed around to the cheers of the unrepentant pirates.
Warren’s eyes swelled in their sockets as he realized he was in the midst of a band of murderous hooligans armed with enormous swords. He instinctively retreated from the cluster of men who sat less than ten feet from him in the clearing on the edge of the jungle.
The boy’s foot landed against a dead branch as he eased his body backward, deeper into the thick foliage. He paused, uncertain if his movement was disturbing the jungle and giving away his location.