A Sea Too Far

by Hank Manley

  “Shelly has something to show us,” Mary said. “It be quite a dog ye have there.”

  Tradd Street was deserted. The sparse collection of buildings on either side of the road was mostly dark in comparison to the brightly lit mansions on Meeting and Broad Streets. Warren looked both ways and then motioned to Mary. “Come on,” he urged. “Let’s see what the back of the jail looks like.”

  The complete absence of light in the alley was disconcerting. Instinctively, Warren and Mary moved closer together until their shoulders touched. The young man reached out and took her hand. “Let me lead,” he said. “Be careful where you step. I don’t want you to fall.”

  Mary opened her mouth to protest the overly protective gesture. She had fought in land battles in Flanders. She had dueled sailors aboard ships. She had traveled thousands of miles on her own, with no help and no sympathy from anyone. Now . . . well, Warren’s protective gesture suddenly felt strangely welcome. She liked his concern. She appreciated his fortitude. “Okay, Warren,” she whispered. “You lead.”

  At the end of the alleyway a trampled field opened behind the row of buildings. The two young pirates turned to their left and walked until they stood directly behind the ramshackle jail. Three openings appeared dimly in the moonlight high on the wall. There was no reflection from glass. A single stout tree sprouted close to the far corner of the building.

  “Wait here,” Warren said. “I’m going to see if I can look in the windows. I think I see bars in the openings.”

  “Nay,” Mary said. “It is I should look.”

  Warren shrugged. “Okay. We’ll go together. I’ll boost you up. I don’t think either of us is tall enough to look inside.”

  “Perhaps ye be right.”

  Warren approached the first window and knitted his fingers together with his palms up. “Step here,” he said quietly. “See if anybody’s inside.”

  Mary placed her foot in Warren’s grasp and stepped to her full height. Her eyes just reached the bottom of the opening. She placed her fingers on the window sill and rose to her toes. “Blackbeard?” she whispered. “Tis ye inside this cell?”

  Silence greeted Mary’s query.

  “I’m going to lower you down,” Warren hissed. “Be careful. You’re not fully healed.”

  “Me wound is healed,” Mary protested. “I can jump.” The girl hopped out of Warren’s hands and landed nimbly on the ground.

  “Are you okay?” Warren asked.

  Before Mary could answer, a thunderous voice sounded from the alleyway. “Arrr! Who be sneaking around me gaol? Do I have thieves or murderers in me midst?”

  “Run!” Warren shouted. “Run!”

  He seized Mary’s hand and began to sprint down the backs of the buildings fronting Tradd Street. Conchshell bolted from her sitting position at the base of the wall and instantly passed the fleeing pirates.

  Mary’s skirt whispered in the evening air as her legs pumped inside the flowing garment. Her powerful stride kept pace with Warren, and the two racing fugitives appeared to put a little distance between themselves and their pursuer. Conchshell was forced to slow her gait to stay even with her master.

  Suddenly a pistol shot rang in the heavy night air. A lead ball ricocheted off the corner of the stone building immediately to Warren’s left. Pieces of shattered rock showered over the two pirates.

  “That was close,” Warren said. “I hope he doesn’t have another loaded pistol.”

  “Blackbeard always carries at least two pistols when he goes into battle,” Mary reminded Warren. “Many times he had three around his neck.”

  The explosion of a second shot pierced the night. The projectile careened off the block lintel of a doorway inches above Warren’s head. Stone powder sprayed into his hair.

  “He’s getting better,” Warren said. “We’ve got to think of something.”

  Conchshell extended her front paws, braked around the corner of a building, and dashed into another alley. Warren and Mary followed five steps behind.

  “Me trusts thy dog knows what he’s about,” Mary said.

  The two scurrying pirates pumped their arms to regain speed after slowing for the turn. They looked ahead in the darkness of the alleyway expecting to catch a dim glimpse of the fleeing Labrador. Conchshell was nowhere to be seen.

  A muffled bark sounded near the ground halfway down the murky passage.

  Warren heard the Labrador’s summon. Without hesitation, he turned and grabbed Mary’s arm, spinning her around, halting her forward progress. He pushed the girl to the ground and shoved her into the small breach in the stone wall. The instant the girl disappeared into the declivity, Warren dropped to his stomach and followed her through the opening.

  Conchshell, Mary and Warren lay in a black depression in the earth, inside a void in a crumbled stone wall, wedged under the floorboards of an abandoned house. They fought to control their rapid breathing which threatened to reveal their precarious location.

  Heavy footsteps sounded at the corner of the house. Slow, plodding boots tromped down the alley. Deep breaths sucked in and blew out of a barrel chest.

  “Arrrr, me little thieves. Now I have thee. I’ve not seen thy fleeing bodies emerge from the end of the alleyway. Ye must be close by.”

  Mary held her hand over her nose and mouth and begged for the strength to hold her breath so her panting would not give them away. Warren scrunched his mouth together and tightened his fists, fighting the urge to exhale and gulp another lungful of air. Conchshell buried her snout under her paws.

  “Come out, scallywags. Me jail be nice and warm. Thee can eat two times a day. Perhaps it be more than ye dine now. Don’t make me hunt thee. I want to get back to me flagon of grog.”

  Warren wiggled backward, pressing his body against Mary, sliding her deeper into the darkness of the crawlspace. Conchshell mimicked her master’s movement, seeking safety in the depths of the hiding place.

  “I vouch ye young beggars think ye have found a good place to hide from old Mikey O’Reilly.”

  Beads of perspiration formed along Mary’s upper lip. The cruel slash high across her stomach burned, and she wondered if any of Warren’s carefully administered stitches had pulled open. Her eyes watered from specks of dirt that had passed her lids as she slithered beneath the stone wall. Her heart pounded so loudly she was afraid the jail keeper would hear every beat.

  Warren fought to adjust his eyes to the impenetrable darkness. His mind whirled with possibilities. What if the jailer were to discover their hiding place and crawl through the opening? Would the large man fit? Could he grab the man’s outstretched arm and subdue him? The possibility didn’t seem likely.

  Conchshell twisted once in her hiding place. Warren felt the Labrador move and then . . . the dog was gone. Where had Shelly disappeared to? Had she found an opening in the floor above and slipped through it? Warren rolled his head carefully and tried to detect a path of escape. Nothing was apparent in the inky blackness.

  “What have we here, lads?” Mikey O’Reilly roared with glee. His voice was loud and ebullient. The man was standing directly in front of the low, jagged hole in the rock foundation that had allowed Conchshell, Mary and Warren to temporarily disappear. “I vouch I’ve found the hiding place of ye thieves. It be too small for me well-fed body, but I wonder if a shot into the opening won’t dislodge ye wretched scamps.”

  Staring at the hole in the wall, Warren spread his shoulders to offer maximum protection to Mary lying behind him. He dug in his toes and elbows and pushed back, creating as much distance from the opening as he could without crushing Mary.

  Warren was able to decipher a hand holding a Blunderbuss pistol as it reached into the void, backlit against the faint moonlight outside. The ignition of the powder in the pan flared in the darkness. The sound of the shot in the confined space crashed
against the young man’s ears. His head rang with the percussion and he was temporarily blinded by the explosion. A huge clump of dirt flew into his face.

  The temptation to scream in fright was overwhelming, but Warren fought his emotions and remained silent.

  Mary compressed her body behind Warren and buried her face in his comforting, broad back. She too held her screech of horror.

  Barking sounded from the far end of the alley where it exited on Tradd Street. A deep growl followed, and Conchshell bounded back and forth across the open passage, deliberately showing herself to the jailer.

  “Arrrr,” Mikey O’Reilly bellowed. “Thee must have slipped past me. I guess ye aren’t hiding in that tiny hole under the house after all.”

  Heavy footfalls sounded outside the sanctuary as the jail keeper pounded toward the barking Labrador.

  “Quick, Mary,” Warren said. “Let’s get out of here while Shelly keeps the jailer busy.”

  The two young pirates crawled out of the opening and retraced their footsteps toward the meadow abutting the rear of the buildings. At the corner, Warren turned to his right and raced back toward the jail house. Mary kept pace in spite of the difficulty running with a long skirt.

  At the rear of the jail Warren paused briefly below the closest window. “Blackbeard?” he called. “Are you there?”

  “Aye, lad, I’m here,” Captain Teach answered. “Who be thee, and what accounts for all the shooting?”

  “It’s Warren and Mary . . . ah, Marty Read. We don’t have time to explain now,” Warren said. “Be ready tomorrow night. We’re going to break you out of the jail.”

  “None too soon,” Blackbeard said. “They plan to stretch me neck day after tomorrow.”

  Holding hands and ecstatic with the surges of adrenaline coursing through their bodies, Mary and Warren sped into the night and vanished in the darkness.

  Conchshell met them as they turned on Meeting Street. Together the three jail break plotters wandered back to the Boar’s Tooth Inn and collapsed in their room. It was almost an hour before their hearts slowed sufficiently to allow sleep.

  ~26~

  Warren walked the edges of Charles Town looking for rural patches of ground that would support a vegetable farm. He remembered the kindly farmer with the two-wheel cart who granted Mary a ride to the Boar’s Tooth Tavern and Inn after they had stumbled off Fancy. The man’s mule had appeared old but strong. Hopefully he owned more than one stout mule. A single beast wouldn’t be sufficient for the job Warren had in mind.

  A mile north of Market Street the boy spotted a lean-to structure at the edge of a cultivated field.

  “I think we’ll try that place, Shelly,” he said to his dog.

  Conchshell had enjoyed the long walk. The Labrador had zigzagged across the open spaces and scooted along the dirt paths sniffing the ground happily. The scent of a rabbit struck her nostrils. She detected the passage of several deer through a lightly wooded area. The smell of a fox intrigued the naturally bred hunting dog. The bouquet of wild pheasant was strong in a scruffy patch of bush. Geese and ducks left offal reminders of their presence in a field of crushed corn stalks.

  Warren approached the lean-to and called a greeting. “Hello,” he yelled. “Is anybody home?”

  The old farmer who had assisted Mary walked out of the shadows of the rickety structure. He wiped his glistening face with a large bandana and waved.

  “Hello, youngster,” he said. “How’s that friend of yours doing? Is he all healed up from his injury?”

  “Yes,” Warren responded. “She’s . . . he’s doing well, thank you.”

  “That’s some handsome dog ye have there,” the farmer observed. “She be a good hunter? I’ve never seen one like that.”

  “Shelly is more of a fisherman than a hunter,” Warren said. “We live on a boat. We don’t get much chance to go hunting.”

  The farmer dabbed at a drop of perspiration on his upper lip and tucked the handkerchief in his back pocket. “I’d surely enjoy some more of thy company,” he said. “I don’t get many guests out this way. But I have work to do. This godforsaken little patch of ground keeps me plenty busy, and I know ye didn’t walk all the way out here to pass the time of day.”

  “No, sir,” Warren answered. “That’s a fact. I came to ask if I could rent a couple of mules for the evening. Three if you have that many.”

  “Son, ye have met me entire stable of animals,” the farmer said with a laugh. “I can barely afford to feed ol’ Bessie, let alone two others.”

  Warren shook his head slowly. He had been afraid the farmer wouldn’t have more than one mule, but he had asked anyway. Three mules would have made his task far easier. Now he would have to make up for the lack of pulling power with ingenuity.

  “I have a gold coin that should purchase a month’s feed for ol’ Bessie,” Warren said. “Can I rent her for the evening?”

  The farmer reached for the doubloon and weighed it in his hand dubiously. He placed the coin in his mouth and took an experimental bite. “It’s heavy,” he observed. “And it looks genuine.”

  “Does it taste genuine?” Warren asked with a smile. “I’ve never seen anybody test a coin’s authenticity with their teeth.”

  “Aye, lad. It be a common thing.”

  “So we have a deal,” Warren said. “I can have ol’ Bessie for the evening? I have a little job that requires some pulling power. I think she’ll be up to the chore.”

  “Aye,” the farmer said. “Bessie is thine for the evening. She’s a good old girl. Be gentle with her. Will ye be needing the cart, too?”

  Warren thought a moment. The cart would be helpful. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll take the cart. Does Bessie know her way home from Charles Town? If so, I may just send her back to you after I’m finished with my task. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Ol’ Bessie can find her way back,” the farmer said confidently. “Just set her loose. She may be plodding, but she’ll wind up back here, don’t ye worry.”

  * * *

  Warren and Conchshell sat on the bench seat in front of the farmer’s cart and rode silently back to Charles Town. The blonde Labrador turned her head side to side as if searching for someone to be impressed with her new means of transportation.

  At the end of Market Street, overlooking the river, Warren tugged on the reins and turned Bessie away from the residential area and toward a working pier and the commercial section of town. A single story clapboard building abutted the water. A painted sign announced the establishment as Horace’s Ship Chandlery.

  Warren secured Bessie to a hitching post and entered the dim building. Merchandise littered the floor. Buckets and rope and fishing nets and cork floats were strewn about the store. Harpoons and gaffs and spars hung on the walls. In one corner a potpourri of old sailing equipment was piled high including several binnacles, ships wheels in a variety of sizes, rudders, centerboards and a collection of old wooden blocks.

  Warren had found exactly what he sought.

  With two stout blocks in hand, each containing three pulleys, Warren approached the proprietor. “How much do you want for these old three-wheel blocks?” he asked.

  The man looked at the cracked wooden blocks, the deteriorated wheels and the rusted iron fastening rings on top. “There’s not much life remaining in them old pieces,” he said. “I hope you’re not going to put them to much use.”

  “I only have one task for them,” Warren said. “I’m hoping they’ll last long enough for that. I need about one hundred feet of rope, too.”

  The proprietor pointed to a pile of old rope. “Grab what you need, son,” he said. “That’ll be one shilling four.”

  Warren pulled two of Mary’s coins from his pocket and handed them tentatively over the counter. He had no idea of the value of the shiny pieces. The man droppe
d the gold pieces in his pants pocket without comment. He returned a selection of smaller coins to Warren’s outstretched hand.

  ~27~

  Mary brushed the remaining traces of dirt from the front of her skirt and blouse and turned to face Warren. “How doest thou think I look?” she asked coquettishly.

  “You’re absolutely beautiful,” Warren said. “Without question you’re the most gorgeous woman in Charles Town.”

  “I was worried me clothes would be ruined by the crawling in that hole last night,” Mary said. “But the fabric the French woman sold me appears to be of excellent quality.”

  Warren smiled. “It is you who make the clothes beautiful, Mary,” he said. “It is not the clothes that make you beautiful. I think you’ve dressed as a man too long to know how stunning you really are.”

  Mary looked at Warren for several seconds without saying a word. The boy – or was he a young man? – possessed a wisdom far beyond his age. He was polite and brave and considerate and . . . refined in a way none of the other pirates could hope to be. She felt a strong tenderness for the lad, and briefly wondered if . . .

  Warren interrupted Mary’s reverie. “I’m certain you’ll have no problem getting the jailer’s attention,” he said. “Just be careful. Don’t get too close to him. I think I’ll only need about five minutes if everything goes well.”

  Conchshell paced nervously about the room. It was very late in the evening, hours past the normal time when her master and his friend went to sleep. The dog sensed that something very important was going to happen.

  The Labrador had noticed when Warren and Mary had packed their meager possessions in the bandana and tied the corners tightly shut. She knew that meant they were going to leave the room permanently. What new adventure awaited?