A Sea Too Far

by Hank Manley

  “That’s goat on the spit,” Marty said. “It’s good. Do ye want some?”

  Conchshell barked her desire to eat.

  “I’m not sure I’ve ever had goat,” Warren admitted. “Is it good?”

  “I guess that depends on how hungry ye be,” Marty answered. “It sounds like thy dog might not be so picky about his vittles.”

  “Then it’s goat for two,” Warren said. He reached toward the fire and withdrew two sticks. “Are you hungry, Shelly?” he asked the dog. “Let me check if it’s too hot.”

  The boy touched the meat with his fingers and pronounced the meal ready for consumption. He peeled a large chunk of goat from the stick and handed it to the Labrador. The food disappeared in two gulps.

  “I guess thy dog likes nanny,” Marty said.

  Warren peeled a chunk of meat from the skewer and nibbled. “It’s not bad,” he said cautiously. “Maybe not filet mignon, but not bad. I guess I’m hungry.”

  “What’s fill-ey mig . . . mig something?” Marty said. “I’ve not heard of that meat.”

  “It’s . . . it’s just another cut of meat,” Warren said gently. “It’s nothing to get excited about. What’s in the jugs? I’m thirsty.”

  “Grog,” Marty said. “Haven’t ye ever heard of grog?”

  Warren shook his head. “Truthfully, I can’t say that I have. I guess both of us could learn something from the other.”

  “Drink water,” Marty said. “If I drink that grog it gives me a headache, especially in the day.”

  Warren looked at Marty Read. The young man’s face needed a good scrubbing. Dirt smudges appeared on his smooth cheeks, but he was strikingly handsome. Warren thought the word beautiful would apply if he were a young woman. His tawny hair, cut shorter than the other pirates, stood spiky on his head. His eyes were robin’s egg blue and sparkled with a zestful innocence that Warren found appealing.

  “I already have a headache,” Warren said. “I smashed my head in the dory during the storm and lost consciousness. Then I must have smacked it again when I tripped over the coral running up the slope.”

  Warren bit off another hunk of goat and walked to the water hole. He dropped to his knees, bent from the waist, and slurped sweet water until his belly ached.

  “Can I give thy dog another piece of goat meat?” Marty asked as Warren wiped drops of water from his mouth. “She’s a beautiful animal. It be the first of her kind I’ve ever seen.”

  “Thanks,” Warren said. “That would be nice of you. Conch is a blonde Labrador Retriever. They’re very popular.”

  Marty Read sat in the sand and circled his knees with his arms. “Are ye really from this Serenity Cay? It be strange that Blackbeard never heard of it. He knows everything about the Bahamas.”

  Warren walked back to the fire and fed Conchshell another piece of meat. “There are a lot of strange things going on,” he said. “But all I can think of is my poor mother worrying herself sick about my disappearance. I’ve got to get home as soon as I can.”

  “I heard ye tell Blackbeard that ye was blown ashore in a dory,” Marty said. “Why don’t ye just get in the boat and sail back to thy Serenity Cay?”

  The boy shrugged. “It sounds simple,” he admitted. “But the problem is I don’t know where I am now. I don’t know what direction to sail. I can’t just get in the boat and leave. What direction would I go? I could head all wrong and never get home.”

  “Ye be at the Wells,” Marty said. “It be one of many places in a long group of islands. I’ve watched as we’ve sailed into the little harbor. The islands be deserted, but that’s what Blackbeard calls it, the Wells. He says it’s his lair.”

  Warren opened his hands and lifted his shoulders. “That’s the dilemma. I don’t know where this lair, the Wells, is located,” he said with the frustration creeping into his voice. “I’ve never seen a place called the Wells on a chart. If I don’t know my starting point, I can’t go anywhere with certainty.”

  Marty Read rubbed his beardless chin for a moment. “Why be ye in such a rush to go home,” he said. “Why not spend a while with Blackbeard and his crew? Me, I’ve been a pirate for almost two years, and it be the most excitement I’ve ever experienced in me life. I be almost rich with me share of the bounty we’ve collected.”

  Warren stared speechless at the youthful buccaneer. Finally he was able to frame words. “Being a pirate is exciting?” he repeated. “You’re rich?”

  The young man swung his arm around, indicating the group of men reclining near the water hole. “What think thee brings all these men here?” he asked. “Do ye suppose they be captives of Blackbeard? No. It be the life they choose. They enjoy the freedom. They seek the danger. They love the bounty.”

  Warren looked around at the scruffy crew in repose circling the water hole. None looked sad. All appeared content with their lot in life. Many wore expensive jewelry that appeared beyond their means to purchase. Necklaces predominated. Earrings hung from many a masculine lobe.

  Maybe . . . he thought. But then he banished the crazy idea from his head. He had to return to his mother. It would be completely unfair to subject her to sorrow and grief while he cavorted around the Bahamas with a gang of pirates.

  “To the boat! To the boat!” A frantic voice rang out from high above the palm trees. “A ship is coming! It be a merchant ship!”

  Marty Read jumped to his feet. “Come on,” he said to Warren. “The lookout has spotted a ship. We’ve got to get aboard.”

  Warren waved his hands in front of his face. “Not me,” he said. “I’ve got to get home to my mother.”

  Marty grabbed Warren’s arm and pulled him upright. “Look around ye,” he said, the urgency rising in his voice. “We all be getting aboard the ship. There not be a single person left on this island in ten minutes. Ye will have all the water ye want, but there won’t be a scrap of food. And ye still don’t know the way home. Ye be better to come with me. It be the only smart thing to do. Perhaps we’ll sail to Nassau after we take the merchant ship. Ye can sail home from there. Surely somebody ashore will know how ye can get to thy mysterious Serenity Cay.”

  Conchshell understood her master was facing a dilemma. The dog wanted to return home, but she had had enough of dory rides for awhile. The company of the men meant food and security. The potentially perilous journey back to Serenity Cay could be postponed.

  The Labrador barked as she danced about in concert with the pirates hustling to gather their belongings. The dog turned toward the anchorage and trotted several steps in the direction the men were running. She stopped and waited for Warren, anxious to board the ship.

  ~11~

  Warren raced along in Marty Read’s footsteps, past the water hole, through the narrow strip of jungle to the east, and across the pink colored sand beach. He skidded to a stop when he saw the ship resting in the anchorage. It was the most unusual and exciting vessel he had ever seen.

  Queen Anne’s Revenge was 80 feet long. Three towering masts reached high into the deep blue sky. Men were scrambling up rope ladders and unfurling gigantic black sails from wooden arms that stretched more than the width of the ship.

  A long wooden sprit stretched nearly forty feet ahead of the bow. Ropes ran in every direction around the masts, forming a maze that confounded Warren’s untrained eye.

  A small mezzanine rose from the main deck forward. The aft third of the ship soared four stories in the air. Ladders offered access to the upper platforms. Balconies hung from the sides of the raised aft section, allowing breeze and access to the water for the occupants of the interior areas.

  The sides of the vessel were painted a menacing black. A red accent stripe ran the length of the ship high above the waterline. Eight windows stood sentinel along the bright vermillion portion of the ship. Barrels of huge cannons poked from each of the openings. Anothe
r six cannons were visible jutting through slots in the deck above.

  “How many cannons does she carry?” Warren managed to ask as he and Marty prepared to climb into a small launch for the ride to the ship.

  “Forty,” Marty answered as he helped lift Conchshell aboard. “The captain doesn’t like to be outgunned.”

  The Labrador, caught up in the excitement of the dash to the anchorage, and thrilled to be boarding a ship instead of the tipsy dory, happily barked her approval of the operation.

  The two intrepid young pirates scrambled up a wooden ladder, rolled over the side of Queen Anne’s Revenge, and tumbled to the wooden deck.

  Conchshell was hoisted aboard in a crude basket that was lowered into the launch.

  “Don’t worry, lad,” a crew member with flaming red hair and bushy brows the color of a carrot called to Warren. “We not be leaving thy dog on the shore. Me thinks the captain likes the hound. Maybe she brings us good luck.”

  “Get aloft,” screamed one of the crew to Marty and Warren. The grizzled sailor, sporting a corncob pipe clenched in his jaw, seemed to carry some authority among the common crew. “Them sails ain’t gonna drop from the yardarms by themselves.”

  Warren looked at Marty with alarm. “What does he want us to do?”

  Marty Read swung his foot into the lowest rung of the hanging rope ladder on the starboard side and began to climb. “Come on,” he said with undisguised delight. “We’re going aloft. We’ve got to unfurl the sails. Ye go up the port side.”

  Warren peered into the burning sun pouring down from the unblemished sky. The uppermost horizontal yardarms seemed half a mile high. He swallowed once with difficulty and pasted a mortified smile on his face.

  “Stay here, Shelly girl,” he said bravely. “Unless you want to take my place.”

  The Labrador barked her contentment to remain on the deck.

  Warren stepped up to the port ladder and grabbed two vertical sections of rope with his hands. Instinctively he tested the strange contraption with an exploratory pull. The conveyance up the tall mast seemed strong enough; he wondered about his courage.

  “Get moving, lad,” the pipe-smoking sailor said benevolently. “If ye desire to become a proper pirate, ye best start learning thy way around the ship.”

  Warren stretched his arms and grabbed the ropes at the height of his reach. With a slight jump, he lifted his weight from the deck, found purchase with his feet, and began a rapid ascent up the ladder. He kept his eyes aloft, concentrating on the next step. Save for trips in an airplane, he had never been so high above the ground. The tuna tower on his father’s sportfishing boat was perhaps half the height.

  “That’s right, Warren,” Marty Read called from the neighboring rope ladder. “Don’t look down. It be easier that way.”

  The tiny square platform surrounding the mast at the halfway point arrived more quickly than Warren expected. “Now what?” he yelled to Marty. “Do I keep going up?”

  “Aye,” the young man yelled back through the breeze. “Get to the top.”

  Warren scrambled from the ladder and knelt briefly on the platform. He glanced down to the deck and immediately felt a wave of dizziness sweep through this head. I must still be feeling the effects of the fall in the dory, he thought. I better get some rest as soon as this excitement concludes.

  The young man scanned the length of the ship with his eyes. The activity was frantic. The last of the men were already aboard from the beach. The launch was being winched over the starboard side, and pirates stood ready to lash it in place on top of the ventilated main hatch cover.

  Both sets of yardarms stretching from the forward mast swarmed with young sailors unlashing leather straps that held sails. Below, three stout sailors were revolving a large drum in the bow by circling it while pushing protruding handles. Heavy line was coiling around the wooden capstan, lifting the anchor from the bottom of the anchorage. Pirates worked feverishly around the deck cannons. Others staggered up ladders from the area below carrying massive cannonballs.

  Queen Anne’s Revenge was preparing to get under way. She would not be venturing forth in a friendly manner.

  * * *

  Warren inched away from the platform midway up the mast and regained the narrowing ladder. Looking only upward, he scrambled to a second height, similar in length to his initial climb, until he achieved the very top of the rope ladder. Cautiously, he crawled over to the diminutive platform at the zenith of the mast and clasped the thick wooden pole tightly with both arms.

  He felt the ship move. Warren peeked down and suddenly realized the ship was actually swaying. His stomach churned and for a moment he thought he might vomit. He concentrated on the men below. They appeared as tiny as ants scurrying around the deck. He searched for his dog. Conchshell was huddled at the base of the mast. Her paws covered her eyes.

  “Crawl out the yardarm and remove the straps,” Marty shouted as he poked his head above the last horizontal step on the starboard ladder. “There’s a rope running overhead from the tip of the mast to the end of the yardarm. Use it to steady yourself.”

  Warren looked up and saw the line. He fought the nausea roiling in his stomach. “What if I lose hold of the rope and fall?” he yelled to Marty.

  “Don’t worry,” Marty Read called back with an enormous grin on his face. “The fall won’t kill ye.”

  Warren turned to the young man with a questioning look.

  “It be the sudden stop ye need be worrying thyself about.”

  ~12~

  Queen Anne’s Revenge eased from her narrow anchorage on the east side of the Wells and headed into the vast adjacent sound. A wall of large rocks, fifty yards offshore of the deep slough, screened the ship from the easterly trade breezes and shielded the hull from the sight of passing vessels. From the crow’s nest atop the center mast, Blackbeard’s vigilant look-out was able to see over the protective rocks and monitor ship traffic.

  The ship’s master, Christopher Oakes, stood behind the huge steering wheel on the third deck in the aft section. His sun burnt right hand rested easily on one of the spokes as he guided the wooden vessel around the last rock.

  “Make all sail, Master Oakes,” Captain Edward Teach said calmly. “Me thinks this trader might prove profitable. I be anxious to have a look.”

  “Aye, captain,” Master Oakes acknowledged.

  Christopher Oakes turned to the pirate who had ordered Warren and Marty aloft. “Launch the twin jibs, Boatswain Bostock,” he commanded. “We want all possible speed.”

  “Aye, sir,” the grizzled Bostock said as he stepped to the stout railing in front of the wheel and cupped his hands to his mouth.

  “Come, lads,” he shouted. “Set those bow jibs. Be smart about it. I want to hear the water hissing off the keel.”

  Two enormous black square sails billowed from each of the tall masts, one above the other. Each sinister canvas was suspended from its own yardarm. A fifth square sail hung below the bowsprit, stretched to catch the wind on a separate horizontal boom. The aft mast carried a sixth square sail above a triangular jib.

  A distinct pop announced the launch of the forward jibs as they caught the air and snapped taut against their controlling lines.

  “Now we’re sailing, lads,” the boatswain shouted to the crew through the pipe clenched tightly in his teeth. “There’s nary a ship afloat can match us for speed, me thinks.”

  Marty pulled Warren to the port side of the ship and pointed. “Look,” he said. “Can ye see her? There she be in the distance.”

  “I . . . I guess I see a boat.”

  “It be easier from above,” Marty said. “After a while thine eyes get more accustomed.”

  “What are we doing?” Warren said in a low voice. He didn’t want to appear ignorant in front of the fifty pirates who had scrambled to prep
are Queen Anne’s Revenge for . . . what?

  Marty Read’s expression glowed with anticipation. His eyes shone with eagerness. “We be going to capture that ship,” he said excitedly.

  “How are we going to do that?” Warren asked. “And why? They didn’t do anything to us.”

  Marty laughed. “Ye be a pirate now,” he said. “That be what pirates do for a living. We rob other ships.”

  Warren turned from the side of the ship and looked at Conchshell. The dog had happily welcomed him down from the scary ascent to the top of the mast with yips of relief. The Labrador apparently was pleased to be aboard a stable vessel rather than the tippy dory.

  “Are you ready to be a pirate, Shelly girl?” Warren asked with a dubious expression on his face. “I don’t see that we have much choice. It’s Captain Blackbeard’s ship and his crew. We’re just passengers hoping to hitch a ride to Nassau.”

  Marty Read placed a sympathetic hand on Warren’s shoulder. “It be a merchant ship we’re after,” the young man said. “This won’t be like taking on a French or Spanish ship of the line. I vouch there won’t be much fighting. I wager Blackbeard will order a loud show of force and hope to scare the crew into surrendering.”

  Warren looked around at the pirates on deck. Several were pulling on lines from the lower corners of the black sails, adjusting the trim for maximum speed. Others were inspecting swords and charging pistols with powder in preparation to fire.

  “I hope you’re right,” Warren said. “I don’t have anything to fight with.”

  “If we board the other ship, stay behind me,” Marty advised. “Ye should be able to pick up a weapon from one of the other crew.”

  “Just take somebody else’s sword?”

  Marty laughed and slapped Warren on the shoulder. “Now ye be getting the idea.”

  Conchshell jumped in a little circle and barked joyously. The electricity of excitement charging through the crew had infected the Labrador.