Justified Treason (Endless Horizon Pirate Stories, Book 1)

by Taijeron, Cristi

  On my way to the coast I rubbed sand and dirt on my cheeks until they were scuffed and dirty, figuring the rough look would increase my chances of being taken as a man. The night was coated with a heavy fog, and the further I walked away from the lights of my home, the more frightening the eerie haze of darkness became. Having never been out in the world alone, especially in the night, the familiar and beautiful shore suddenly seemed like a fearsome and foreboding place.

  Every branch that cracked below my feet sounded like a gunshot, and the way my boots sunk into the moistened sand made me feel as if I would sink in and drown in the ocean. I knew the thought was outrageous, but my mind was running away with me; conjuring up the most ridiculous thoughts. Realizing that I had no idea what the world would be like outside of my father’s care, I began to feel suffocated by the fearsome possibilities that were running rampant in my unknowing mind.

  Aside from all my worries, I continued to walk the shoreline alone, determined to get a hold of myself. Asserting my courage with the fact that I had two guns that I knew how to shoot, I also assured myself that the darkness was nothing more than nighttime. I had to be brave to endure this endeavor, and if I couldn’t handle a foggy beach alone, then I might as well turn around and go home. There was no way in the world I was going to do that. This was my dream. I was free like the wind, finally going where I wanted on my own terms, and I refused to let a little scare in the dark ruin the rare opportunity.

  No matter how the fog had spooked me, it certainly aided the stealth of my arrival on the dock, for I quickly mingled in with the crew that was loading the Blue Tide without anyone taking notice of my appearance. Helping the men load their supplies, I kept quiet and listened in on the way they talked. There was an awful lot of cursing going on for such a wee hour, and though many of the things they said were quite shocking, it didn’t take me long to warm up to the colorful humor in their early morning profanities.

  One of the men introduced himself to me as Clark Harold. He stuck his hand out to shake mine and laughed, “You can call me Clark or Harold, doesn’t really matter since they are both first and last names.”

  Though I was mortified to speak to him, fearing that he might see through my disguise, I figured it would be far more awkward if I said nothing at all; so I deepened the rumble in my laugh as I reached to shake his hand. The callus that coated his paw reminded me how soft and dainty my own hands were. Not good at all. I told him that my name was Charlie and quickly realized that I had not thought of a last name. Knowing that I could not use my father’s, in case any of these men knew him, I smiled with pride as I finished, “Charlie Bentley.”

  We parted ways to finish our work and I made note to avoid shaking hands with anyone else until I gathered a callus of my own.

  Next thing I knew, the captain was calling his crew to line up on the deck. I was a part of his crew! Imagining myself giggling with Mary, I lined up with the men and stood with my hands at my sides. A hint of sunlight was glowing in the east, and the fog began to clear as Captain Willard Smith paced before us.

  Scowling beneath his thinning white hair and well-trimmed white beard, the man of medium height sucked in his barrel of a gut as he bellowed, “Good morning men. As you know, we are on this pirate hunt to glorify our esteem for England and to maintain protection over this island we call home. If you recall, Captain Morley is requested dead or alive, but it will be important for us to take as many prisoners as we can, in consideration of the one man that must be kept alive.

  This man is a skilled navigator and an impressive artist of the sea. My sources tell me that he knows the bearings of a great treasure, and it is said that the wealth of this loot would ration beyond our wildest dreams. I can imagine that the bulk of you would be interested in acquiring such a prize?”

  The men all agreed and though I chimed in on their bout of excitement, I cheered for a completely different treasure. Yet another example of how Sterling’s skill helped to keep him alive amongst the dreadful odds of his audacious lifestyle.

  One of the men asked, “Captain, how will we know to recognize this man?”

  The captain, who already appeared to be short of breath from his morning pacing, leaned against the rail. “My source says he has light brown hair that is long, and one would know him by the look of his fierce green eyes. He also has the arrows of a compass rose tattooed on his chest. There will be a great reward for the man that delivers him to me, alive and unharmed.”

  We were released from the speech and ordered to set the rigging. Watching the men scale the mast and cut the sails loose, I wondered how in the world they could possibly know which line was for what. There were so many lines, hanging to and fro, crossing from the mast to the yardarms, and from the yardarms to the sails; there were so many sails! I heard the men shouting words like jib, mizzen, and spanker. Starboard, gunnel, fore and aft. Though portside, mainsail, and topsail made enough sense to me, the rest of their lingo was but a foreign language that I couldn’t wait to learn.

  I was demanded to help raise the anchor, and as I pushed on the bars of what was called the capstan, I reveled in the strength that it took to do so. My muscles were going to strengthen while working on this ship. The men pushing along with me were insulting each other for weakness that was nowhere to be seen, and the humor of their vile insults made me think I would be catching on to their curse words before too long.

  Soon enough we were free of the anchor weight, and as I heard a few men discussing the prospect of catching that pirate navigator, I laughed to myself. For tricky as the arrangement had become, I was pleased to know that I was not the only one that wanted Sterling Bentley alive.

  By the time the anchor was raised and the sails were set, the sun had risen in clear sight. The misty morning breeze filled the enormous canvas drapes and began to push the Blue Tide across the deep water of the harbor. This was it. I was sailing! The wind on my face was exceptional and the smell of the sea had never been closer. It was so much better than I could ever have imagined.

  Once the ship cleared the narrow entrance of the harbor, I looked back on my home. Having never seen it from that view, the beauty it expressed made me wonder why I would ever want to leave. The light of the warm morning sun gleamed in a golden hue, making for a stunning backdrop behind the steamy green mountains that protruded from the aqua shades of the sea. Though I was tempted to raise my spyglass to peek at The Royal Poinciana, I figured it would be best to sail away without looking back. I turned to face the endless horizon and my heart lifted in a wind of glory as we sailed off into the sunrise.

  PART III

  Sterling Bentley

  Chapter 7

  Freedom of the Sea

  As told by Sterling Bentley

  After kissin’ on Charlotte Wetherby behind The Rusty Anchor, I headed back in to have another drink. Swallowing far too much rum, I hardly remember what happened in thar, and the stumble to the harbor was just as hazy of a blur. I do remember laughing so hard that I almost fell over, but couldn’t quite recall what the outrageous amount of humor was about.

  Stepping over Planky’s half conscious body, I nearly fell into the longboat, and as I grabbed the oars, me crew mates teased me for me unusual lack of balance. It wasn’t often I let the rum over take me this badly, and they were quick to take advantage of the rare opportunity to poke at me for being so wrecked.

  “Ye be rowing like a water logged rope, mate.”

  “Might as well hand that oar to Planky, ye bloody lush.”

  I fanned a sloppy hand at them as I slurred, “Ah, I don’t need ye sluggish bilge worms tellin’ me I can’t do a thing. I’ll bloody well row it out and slap ye with this oar a few times while I do it.”

  While they hissed and booed at me sloppy threat, I laughed and splashed me face with the thick salty water, knowing damn well it was difficult for me to row in me drunken state of mind, but thar was no way in hell I’d give those dogs the satisfaction of thinking I was outdone.


  Pete and I pulled the oars through the deep blue harbor, and Faron dished commands on the longboat as if it was a large ship that he was the captain of. Pete was mouthin’ off to Faron with curses he would never cast upon a real captain, and Planky was just mumbling things that no one could understand. I was certainly amused by their antics, but kept to meself, and as I had hoped, my mindful focus on the hard work began to sober me up.

  Stepping on board the Wind of Glory late as we had, most of the work to get under way was already done; and that was fine with me. I was feeling better, but not quite well enough to climb a mast pole, so with the lines flailing around me I simply helped to raise the anchor. Pushing on the bars of the capstan, I laughed at the singing and cursing men that swarmed around the deck, and once everything was in place, I wiped the sweat from me brow. Inhaling the scent of salt and tar as if’n it were a morning pot of coffee, I was ready as me rum numb senses would allow me to be.

  As the Wind of Glory sailed out of the harbor I walked abaft to look at the green peaks of the island. Takin’ in the beauty of the scene, I found meself perturbed by an unusual sense of farewell. Normally I would leave a shoreline so eager to sail on that I would hardly look back, and the reason for doing so now took me by surprise; I was still thinking about Charlotte Wetherby.

  I had left plenty of women in my wake over the years; some of them in tears and some of them throwing things at me, but had yet to leave one behind that made me look back at the shore.

  Never ‘aving to anchor to anything other than me current desire, I had always lived intensely in the present, constantly moving like the tide. People and possessions came and went like the wind, and me greatest treasure was always in the adventure of the moment. This particular moment ‘appened to be full of sunset colors that beamed through patchy holes in the clouds, and the glassy ocean was reflecting the light as the vanishing island faded into the darkened sky behind it. Feelin’ the ship soaring over the wake, with the thick wind blowing warmly on me face, I thought ‘bout how odd it would be to be needing anything other than what was right before me.

  Then the dreadful conclusion dawned upon my waking soul; I actually liked her.

  Holy shipwreck! I had promised to return to that woman, and I didn’t even say it to keep her from throwing things at me. It wasn’t for the sex, because I didn’t get any, nor could I blame it on the alcohol, because me memories of her were far too sobering. She was different from any woman I had ever met, and she allured me in a way I never experienced before. My soul was hypnotized by her sunset eyes, and whatever the hell the desire was based on, I wanted more of her.

  Watching the lacy wake flow over the drafting tide, me thoughts of Charlotte became clouded by visions of my dangerous and passionate love affair with the sea. It was as if my turquoise mistress would not allow another lover in me life, and I easily succumbed to her distracting seduction by turning to face the horizon. For the sea was me first love. The ever changing wash of her mesmerizing face was the only home I had ever known.

  Me father, Captain Mason Bentley, had been dragging me across the tides since I was old enough to walk, and without ever having a mother, it was the creaking timbers that would sing me to sleep at night, and the rising sun that would wake me with her smile every morn. The natural beauty that surrounded me was the only comfort I had in the otherwise difficult life I led.

  Though I mostly looked just like me father, and our matching green eyes stated obvious relation, Captain Bentley never showed extra favor to me. I was treated as an equal member of his crew, and even in me youth, he had me working the hefty responsibilities of sailing and maintaining a ship.

  Me father was harsh, and brought me up with a hard hand, and though I didn’t like it much as a lad, I’m nothing but glad he raised me as he did. His rugged propriety led me and all the men that sailed with him through storms and battles that would have put an end to weaker men, and we all respected and revered his command with loyalty. It was by merely watching his diligent actions that I acquired me vigorous survival tactics: the way of the sea, surviving ashore, aiming a pistol and fighting with a sword. It was also his profound mannerisms that taught me to respect the word of God and to be fair to the crew that hoists your sails. Ferocious as he was, Captain Mason Bentley had all the moral decency that the life of a buccaneer would allow, and if’n he had raised me any different, I might not have survived this long without him.

  As for that mother that I never knew; besides knowin’ that her name was Hannah, she was mostly a mystery to me. Anytime I would muster the nerve to ask me father ‘bout her he would grumble, “No sense being anchored to a shore ye ain’t on, boy.” Bleak as the answer seemed, over time I came to know that there was more to their bond than he would ever let onto. Though he refused any mention of this mysterious Hannah, through the whispers of the crew, I came to understand that she had broken his heart, and eventually I realized that he didn’t want to talk about her because he still loved her.

  He died without ever telling me how he ended up raisin’ me on his own, but he often claimed that I got me hell-fire temper from Hannah, and his reactions to my outburst assured me that I was a constant reminder of his long lost lover.

  I thought a while longer ‘bout me father and laughed ‘bout the many times that I had frazzled his astute stature of patience, but as the color of night coated the sky, I remembered thar was work to be done. Since I could reckon me place in the world and plot a direction of choice by placement of the constellations, watching the flickering heavens appear in the darkened dome above me was like lighting a candle over me map. The scene was certainly beautiful, but me view of it was logical. Thar was a serious course to route and a heavy situation to handle, and me connection to the surrounding elements would once again make for me means of survival.

  After getting meself a jug of water and a slice of bread, I headed to the chart room, which was right near the captain’s quarters. Pleased to find the small room free of Morley and his shitten remarks, I lit a candle, sorted through me tools, and then rolled out the map on the small desk. The wooden walls of the room creaked as the ship swayed over the rolling ocean and every now and then the candle would slide across the tabletop.

  Just like every map that I had drawn, I marked this one with the compass rose that matched me tattoo, and instead of signing me whole name I would just write a scriptedB in the bottom right-hand corner; the swirling artwork of the letter was a replica of the tattoo that Captain Bentley had on his shoulder blade. Anyone that would come across me maps might recognize me signature markings and would either find themselves thrilled by the prize of me measurements or riddled by the mysteries I would disguise the secret shores with.

  There were some shores that were better left uncharted, and the island we were after was one of them. So as I studied the coastlines that I had drawn, I made marks and adjustments to help me memorize certain landmarks without leaving them too obvious for others to recognize. I never knew how long a map would be in me possession, and if the ship was invaded and the map was stolen, too much information could give undesired leeway to treacherous adversaries. Not to mention the threat of gold hungry and blood thirsty captains that would ‘ave me throat if’n I didn’t keep meself as the key.

  Our first stop was going to be on a small island called Una Palma. Quite some time had passed since me last visit thar, but I decided to draw the view of the island from the sea as I last remembered it. Taking me time to express me vision on the paper, I felt confident in the accuracy of the completed piece. Looking forward to matching me impression with the island itself, I began charting the route with great anticipation. My passion for charting the seas was strong, and the work always set me mind at ease.

  As I made me measurements on the map, I thought ‘bout the story behind the treasure we were in search of. The hunt was for an abandoned hideaway on an uncharted island, referred to as Ile de Amoureux; which was French for Island of the Lovers. Tale was told that two lovers escaped the gallo
ws of Guadalupe and stowed away on a merchant ship that carried imported jewel stones and gold pieces. En route for the mainland, the ship was invaded by pirates.

  A storm blew in during the brutal onslaught, and the pirates escaped the waves leaving a mass of the treasure behind. The remains of the shipwreck were thrashed in the current and thrown near a shallower shore. Only the lovers survived.

  They made their way to the beach where they lived peacefully near a stream under the fruit trees. While visiting the shipwreck to gather gear for their survival, the man would uncover jewels to give as gifts to his lover. Over time they stocked their cavern with riches and crafted a locking door out of pieces from the tattered shipwreck.

  One day the shipwreck was spotted, and the lovers were found. He was killed, and she was taken as a prisoner. Eventually the heartbroken woman escaped her captors, and rumors of the wealth and the key to the cave door began to spread. She would never relay the location of either, for “the cruel world stole the wealth of my true love from me, so I will steal the secret of this wealth from the cruel world.”

  X

  The morning sun was warm and the mood aboard the Wind of Glory was brewing with excitement. It was a new day at sea and the weather was divine, so the men on board joyfully bustled around in their maintenance work. Alden the Logger hammered in some loose nails on the railing, and Pete was already heavy with rum; blustering profanities as he caulked planks on the deck. After the planks were seamed with rope and sealed with tar, James Thornton followed behind Pete’s work to sand the tar smooth, to keep the deck from splintering.

  James was new in the crew and to the life at sea, so he was delegated to the lowly work of sanding and swabbing the deck. Though all of us appreciated the importance of the line of work, we were all quick to give James a hard time along his way. Especially Pete. “Ye better sand it smooth, Thornton. If’n I get a splinter in me bare foot, I’ll be kick-slapping ye cross yer ugly face with me splintered paw.” Pete showed his ugly foot to James and while looking like he smelled something fowl James winced, “Can you truly kick that high?”