by Barry Sadler
On a silver chain around the mate's wrist was a half shekel or at least that was what he thought he saw before the mate's hand came down and the sleeve again covered the jewelry.
"Where did you get that?" he roared.
But no sooner were the words out of his mouth than the order to fire came, and the brig's starboard cannon blasted the sunlight in a ragged, but rather close, volley.
Immediately the choking smell of burnt powder and the greasy billowing of black smoke, boiled up around them, momentarily hiding both the sea and the lower part of the other ship. Casca, though, was intent only on the mate, whom he grabbed by the sleeve and again demanded: "Where did you get the coin?"
But as the mate answered, some pirate in the rigging shouted: "Look out! Damn them! They're firing back!" And the mate's words were broken. Casca got only bits and pieces:
"... one... Tarle."
That was all. The Spanish broadside came then, grapeshot through the black smoke, shot that whistled through rigging and cut stays and smashed into flesh and buried into timbers and bulwarks and mast.
One shot made a direct hit in the exact center of the mate's face. Casca saw the flesh explode outward like a huge upside down red mushroom before the blood and pieces of bone sprayed over his own eyes, blinding him for the moment, as though he were covered with thick red mud.
And, at the same time, the two ships came violently together. Casca felt the mate's body torn from him by the shock, and when he had hastily wiped enough blood from his eyes to see a little, his first sight was that of the mate's arm, the one with the silver chain and coin, falling down between the two ships. They had just hit, rolled, and now, rolling back, crushed the mate's arm between them. Whatever was on that arm was now ground between the two hulls and lost forever, downward into the sea.
CHAPTER SIX
For some seconds after the two ships collided, crushing the mate's arm, Casca stood holding onto the rigging, dazed with memories. Once in a while something he saw would bring back the past to him in a rush.
The muzzle blast of a Spaniard's musket shocked him out of his reverie. While he dreamed of the past, here in the present the battle had been fairly joined. The two ships were now grappled close together, two wooden lovers, one of which would devour the other once the joining was complete.
From the deck of Blackbeard's ship the pirate boarders had leaped onto the other deck howling for blood. But the Spaniards, too, were fighting. And the musket that now caught Casca's attention, the gun that would fire in a fraction of a thought, was pointed right beside him not at Casca himself, but at the retarded giant who had come with him from McAdams. Somehow he had ended up beside Casca and was wedged between him and a pirate on his other side. Seeing the musket held on his belly at point blank range he realized too late that he was unable to do anything about it. The load of shot the musket was the old fashioned kind with a bell shaped muzzle would burn his gut; it would not be a happy way to die.
Coming out of his daydream, Casca saw that he had no time for thought. His right hand was already beside the belaying pin. In one swift motion he had it wrenched free, his arm back, and the pin thrown. His aim was perfect. The heavy rounded handle end of the belaying pin smashed squarely into the eye of the Spaniard holding the musket, crushing lens and iris and shocking inward toward the brain in a storm of blood and watery fluid. The instant pain was so great that the Spaniard threw up his hands at the same moment that he screamed, so that when the musket went off the pattern of shot was upward, and the deadly pieces of iron and lead shrieked just over the head of the retarded giant, almost touching the tousled hair. Had he been wearing a helmet or a hat it would have been blown off.
Casca had thrown the pin at the one instant when the two ships were momentarily motionless in regard to each other. Now, as the musket fired, the waves crashed the two downward again, and the boarders still on Blackbeard's brig leaped for the deck of the Spaniard, and Casca was carried with them. He pulled his sword and got into the fight.
The first Spaniard before him was a big fat lard tub of a man with a long greasy beard. Casca hacked with his sword, the pent up feeling in him wanting to be released. His blade cut down the Spaniard's arm, slicing off a big hunk of fat and flesh, but there was so much fat on the Spaniard not much blood came. Casca stabbed him in the gut. The Spaniard made no noise, but then the sound of fighting around them was so heavy that it would not have made any difference anyway. When Casca jerked the sword free, he saw another Spaniard beside the fat man swinging at him with a cutlass, and he swept the now bloody sword up in an arc from the fat man and slit the Spaniard's throat. Then he got back to work on the fat man.
After that it was like any other battle he had ever fought: a confused dream of blood and cries and sharp steel... of men who screamed and cursed and fought, slipping in the blood on the deck, slashing with the blades, killing, dying. Only one Spaniard bothered Casca, a youngster not yet bearded. When Casca's sword went into his chest it was like cutting into the soft belly of a woman, and there was a look in the boy's eyes as he died that Casca would long remember. But the boy had had a pistol, and it had been pointed at Casca's gut. Casca pulled his sword savagely from the body of the dead youth and looked for someone he could really enjoy killing.
He found the one in a squat, beetle browed son of a bitch who was so damn good with a cutlass that at first Casca had to work to keep alive. But then the Spaniard made the mistake of being too slow on his follow through. Casca got his own blade within the swing and, when he slashed, did so with a quick pull of his wrist. The move neatly sliced the Spaniard's hand from his arm, and while he was looking stupidly down at the blood spouting from the stump, Casca brought his blade back in another slicing, arc combined with a thrust. The Spaniard would be singing soprano if he lived because his testicles were now on the tip of Casca's sword.
What happened to him then, Casca did not know because two Spaniards were coming at him at the same time, and they were both good. But he was high on the lust for battle, charged with a feeling of invincible power, and he cut and thrust like a madman, and he had them.
It was then, as he was pulling the sword back from the second dead body, that he heard the voice behind and slightly above him: "Watch it, Cass Long! Do too good, and you'll make Blackbeard jealous."
Casca recognized the voice but didn't believe it. He had a Spaniard in front of him, so he had to parry that one's rapier thrust, but when he stepped aside, he could see who was behind him, who had spoken, low, into his ear.
The retarded giant!
Casca knocked the rapier from the Spaniard's grasp and brought his own blade back across the man's throat, severing the jugular, and again grabbed a quick glance at the giant. There was just the slightest upturn to the corner of his mouth, and a very faint, momentary glint in the eyes then the man's face again took on the vacuous stare of the simpleton.
Casca thought, now why does he pretend to be stupid if he's not?
Damn! Casca ducked just in time to miss a very wicked cutlass slash. Too much thinking! Gotten him in trouble before. Would get him in trouble again. He parried the next Spanish blow and was all set to attack when the Spaniard's face blew up in a miniature volcano of blood, bone and gristle. At the same time Casca was deafened by the two simultaneous pistol shots just behind him, almost at ear level. He turned.
Israel Hands, Blackbeard's official captain, was holding the two pistols. There was an odd half smile on his face as he said to Casca: "Captain wants to see you in his cabin after the prize is secured."
Israel Hands glanced at the Spanish ship, saw that all resistance was over, put up his pistols without reloading and limped away.
Casca watched the limp. The mate had told him earlier where Hands had gotten it. "That? Oh, one of Captain Teach's savage humors. One night he's drinking in his cabin with the pilot and with a man I don't know and with Israel Hands there. The captain, without provocation, secretly drew out a small pair of pistols and cocked them under
the table. This man I don't know saw what Teach was doing and left, not telling the pilot or Hands. When the captain had the pistols ready, he blew out the candle on the table, crossed his hands, and discharged both pieces. The one aimed at Hands shot him through the knee and lamed him for life. The one aimed at the pilot missed. You know, Cass Long, what Blackbeard said when they asked him why he did it?"
"Says, `Damn you! If I did not now and then kill one of you, you'd forget who I was.' "
Remembering that now, Casca looked forward to where Blackbeard was standing in the bow and saw that the pirate chief was watching him, evident pleasure in his eyes.
Damn! The son of a bitch is probably going to promote me. Casca saw that the pirates he passed were looking at him curiously, almost with respect. Shit! Damn good thing they didn't know what was in his mind.
He stopped by the galley and washed the blood from his face and hands with water from the barrel there, then went on to Blackbeard's private cabin aft. There he was alone, and he noted that, although it wasn't the cleanest cabin he had ever seen, Blackbeard's own private cabin was definitely in better shape than the usual chaos on the deck outside. For some reason Casca could not understand the pirate chief was playing a role. Not that the cabin was furnished in very good taste. Any whore in London could have done a better job.
With time on his hands, Casca prowled. On a mahogany desk was an open ledger. Idly Casca turned a few pages. Blackbeard's journal. One entry caught Casca's eye:
"Such a day: rum all out; our company somewhat sober; a damned confusion among us! Rogues a plotting; talk of separation. So I looked sharp for a prize; such a day, took one with a great deal of liquor on board, so kept the company hot, damned hot, then all things went well again."
''Ah."
Blackbeard was standing in the cabin door, a very pleased look in his eyes. And behind him were Israel Hands, the mates, and others not yet in Casca's view.
They all looked friendly, Blackbeard most of all, and Casca was sure now that he was going to be rewarded for his part in the fight. He still disliked Blackbeard. He didn't have to have any damn reason why, but now, with Blackbeard standing momentarily in the hatchway, his face in part shadow and light, Casca idly considered what there was about the big bastard that turned him off.
The son of a bitch was hairy enough; Casca could not recall offhand a man with such a black beard grown so long. It came all the way up to his eyes, and he had twisted it with ribbons in small tails after the manner of the Ramillies wigs which were then in favor and which Casca thought had been designed by a group of fruits. Anyhow, the way Blackbeard had these, ribbons turned about his ears suggested he was a fruit – particularly since they were dark green.
But, shit! that wasn't enough to make Casca hate his guts. Live and let live, he had always felt. Blackbeard wore a scarlet sling over his shoulder with three brace of pistols hanging in holsters like bandoliers. No problem there. But the fur cap a big, thick, greasy fur cap in this weather! And Blackbeard had stuck two lighted slow matches, one on each side, under the cap apparently trying to look like the personification of the Devil. Why would–
"So, Master Cass Long, have you finished deciding what I look like?"
The shadowed eyes were sharp and full of malice, and Casca was surprised. His mind had just been getting ready to decide that Blackbeard wasn't bright enough to lead a pirate nation, and McAdams was betting on the wrong horse.
Blackbeard came into the cabin followed by the others and pointed at the table that stood just in front of the open rum locker. "The head chair, if you please, Master Long. There are a couple of matters. First, that of a reward." His eyes gleamed in the light from the ship's lantern, swinging in gimbals just over his head, and he was probably smiling, though Casca could not really tell, because of the way the shadows fell on the black beard.
"Reward," Blackbeard repeated. "Damn my eyes, but you're a good fighter."
He sat at the foot of the table and the others took places on the sides. Two of the men not officers, apparently just seamen seemed a little uneasy. The others the two mates and Israel Hands had perfectly blank faces.
Something wasn't right here. Casca tensed.
"Now, this ship's council is officially in session. I declare it, and damn any man who says otherwise, says I. Agreed?"
One of the seaman started to open his mouth, but a glance from Israel Hands stopped him.
Ship's council? To reward a man? Casca didn't know much about pirates, but this didn't sound right to him.
"In the matter of Cass Long, passenger, en route to the command of Captain Tarleton Duncan, it is agreed that the said Cass Long hath rendered excellent service to my command and should be rewarded. Is this not so?"
"Aye." Only Israel Hands answered.
"In the commonwealth of pirates, he hath distinguished himself, and I hereby promote the said Cass Long to captain. May his soul be damned if he not be worthy. To captain, do you hear, Cass Long? But not of this vessel."
It was obvious that under that black beard the pirate chief was grinning widely, but there was still something in the eyes Casca could not place. Malice?
"Look sharp, men! Mates! Hands! Rum!"
There was a flurry of movement as they got up to do Blackbeard's bidding. As for the pirate chief, he kept his seat, his eyes on Casca.
Casca heard the clink of bottles in the cabinet behind him, then he heard absolutely nothing at all.
When Casca regained consciousness he was still in the chair but this time he was bound hand and foot, tightly, with tarred ship's rope and gagged with his own pistol sash. His sword was on the table out of his reach even if his hands had been unbound and his pistols were in the hands of Blackbeard who was toying with them. Again there was the strange light in Blackbeard's eyes.
"Ah! Well, damnation, gentlemen. Our spy has come to his senses." He reared back in his chair like a London solicitor, Casca thought and surveyed the men at the table with satisfaction. "Aye, that he hath. Now, gentlemen council members are we agreed?"
"Aye." Again it was only Israel Hands who answered.
Casca 's head was beginning to throb with the pain that had been masked while he was unconscious. Both sides. Two of them must have got me at the same time, he thought. Pistol butts? The way it was hurting it felt more like belaying pins. He was trying to decide which two had hit him. If he got out of this, he'd give the bastards a taste of it.
Blackbeard's eyes steadied on Casca, and the light in them was wicked. "You have been listening to the proceedings of the council, have you not, Captain Long? You have heard the testimony of Johnson and Short here, have you not? That this new governor of the Bahamas has planted a spy in our Brotherhood of the Main, our Commonwealth of Pirates? That Johnson saw you talking to a man we know is a lackey of the British government? Saw you in Montego Bay with this one? And Short himself overheard you admit you were such a spy? Look sharp, there, Short. You did hear such, did you not?"
"Aye." The little seaman looked like a rabbit cornered, but he spoke up pluckily enough.
"Aye. Now what do you say to that, Captain Long?" Blackbeard leaned forward. "Look sharp, men. Let us hear what the good Captain Long has to say in his defense." He dropped the two pistols and made an exaggerated gesture of cupping his ear to hear better. "What do you hear, gentlemen? What does he say?"
The two seamen grinned, then thought better of it when they saw the impassive faces of the two mates and of Israel Hands.
"I don't hear anything. Do you, Captain Hands?"
"Nay, Captain."
"Any of you other council members hear anything?"
Silence.
"Then let the record show that the spy, Captain Long, has nothing to say in his defense. As captain of this council I will pronounce sentence. One; says I, Captain Long, for being a spy, is to be hanged from the yardarm. Two, says I, sentence commuted to marooning, due to service rendered this command and due to the fact, well known by all in our Brotherhood, that in
the commonwealth of pirates he who goes the greatest length of wickedness is a person of extraordinary gallantry and is therefore entitled to be distinguished by some high post, namely, promotion to captain in Master Long's case and, damn my eyes, if spying is not wickedness, then, says I, what is? And, three, says I, until Captain Long is marooned and upon his being marooned said Captain Long shall remain bound, hand and foot, and shall have no food, no drink until such time as he is set ashore, and when he is set ashore, says I, he will still be bound and gagged, and no food, drink, supplies, or weapons shall be set ashore with him. And that, says I, just for the hell of it."
Blackbeard grinned.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Two days later Casca lay in the bottom of the ship's boat being rowed to the island where he would be marooned. He was still bound hand and foot, and he was still gagged. He had no idea what island he was headed for. All he had been able to see from the deck when he was taken out and thrown into the boat before it was lowered was a quick glimpse of some island that had low hills and green trees.
"In the sunlight, damn it! Look sharp, men, and be quick about it. "
That order had come from Blackbeard himself. The only officer aboard the longboat was the boatswain, a silent man made even quieter by the fact that at the moment he was too drunk to do anything but stare stupidly dead ahead. Casca was lying at his feet, so the boatswain's drunk face was all he could see. Unlike most of the pirates, the boatswain was gaunt hungry looking. He paid no attention at all to Casca.
The oars slapped against the water, and Casca could feel the vibration of the boat's passage through the relatively mild surf. None of the pirates said anything. Some inner intuition told Casca they were apprehensive but that didn't make sense. Why fear an island?
As for Casca, his already strong hatred of Blackbeard was beginning to be reinforced by a definite desire to rip the blustering bastard's face off him. Casca had the feeling that the way he was being set up was just too damn smooth. It was as if the bearded bastard back there on the ship was making fun of him. Like the way a cat plays around with a mouse playing with it as though it wasn't worth anything. The drumhead court martial was one thing, but Casca might have been able to go along with that just because Blackbeard was a stupid bastard jealous to the extreme. But with the island showing up in less than two hours. Shit! Blackbeard had it all planned in advance. Whether it had something to do with Tarleton Duncan that Casca didn't know about, or whether it was just the way Blackbeard's twisted mind worked he didn't know. But it made no difference. Somehow, he was going to even the score.