by Raelle Logan
Lochlanaire was distressed. Why did he feel as if his soul had been consigned to the Devil?
CHAPTER TWO
Satan’s Victory
Lochlanaire dismissed the carriage near the pier. Chattering people surrounded him, the crowd intimidating. His glance rose to the ship that stood anchored nearby of which possessed three tall spires that seemed to pierce the sapphire sky. He took courageous steps forward. Before he could evade, three men jumped him, having concealed themselves beside a darkened alley’s mouth. His assailants dragged Lochlanaire into the alley. Instinct took command. Lochlanaire’s right elbow bashed one of his attackers in the stomach. The man released his grip. The jagged fingernails of Lochlanaire’s left hand bit another kidnapper’s arm. Lochlanaire stomped on his adversary’s foot. The felon hopped about and cradled broken toes. Lochlanaire’s attention fell to the knife the third thief suddenly wielded. He kicked at the weapon. The knife clattered across the ground. His assailants raced away, lost to the sanctuary that the alley’s structures provided. Lochlanaire straightened his clothing and continued on his journey to the ship. He boarded the main deck and froze.
“Captain ‘board ship!” rang a voice.
Every crewman turned toward him.
Lochlanaire explored each man’s eyes. He revealed no fear.
An obviously respected man threaded the crowd. “Captain Blackheart,” he nodded, his ebony hair swathed his white linen clad shoulders. “Welcome aboard, Captain.”
“Your name, crewman?”
“Quartermaster Grayson Blackheart, Captain.”
Lochlanaire asked, “Blackheart?”
“Aye. I’m your brother,” Grayson confessed.
Lochlanaire considered. Grayson’s hair was similar to his but his eyes missed the death-veil demanded by memory loss, which haunted him. Grayson’s stature was not so slender or tall. “Forgive me, my memory eludes,” he asserted frostily.
Grayson slapped Lochlanaire on the back. “I cannot trust that you know nothin’ of me. We were apprised of such, of course, but it is unbelievable. That bloody prison seized the memory of your own brother?”
Suddenly reminded of the men who listened to their conversation, Lochlanaire felt desperate to crawl amidst an obscuring sanctuary. “You have me at a disadvantage, I admit. And, yes, my memory is fractured.”
“I’ll do whatever I’m able to assist in recovery of it.”
“My gratitude.”
Grayson looked at the muttering crewmen. “Prepare for departure.”
The crew chirped, “Aye!” The men scattered.
Grayson glanced at his brother. “Once word’s said, Captain, we depart. Allow me to escort you to your cabin.”
Grayson led Lochlanaire to a black-washed door. They descended the slight shaft of stairs within the passage that was lantern lit and proceeded to the end, approaching a doorway.
Grayson pushed the carved entry and motioned for Lochlanaire to step inward. Unhurried, Grayson poured wine into a pewter goblet. “What did they do to you, Lock?”
Lochlanaire noted the brass nautical instruments littering the substantial mahogany desk, which stood nearest a substantial wall of glass that is the ship’s stern. He roamed to the majestic bed anchored to the far wall and sat on its feather mattress. Seduced to lie backward, he sighed and his legs flopped over the edge. “Ah, glorious,” he whispered. Lochlanaire’s previous bed in the prison was a slab of cold stone that possessed no bedding and was stained by blood, his and others who had been tortured before him.
Grayson tugged a chair to the bedside. “I cannot know what you must have suffered.” He sipped the wine he held, then offered the libation to his brother.
Lochlanaire sat up, his left arm cocked at his side. He accepted the goblet and affirmed, “Much of it is a nightmare that is too evil to describe.”
Grayson fell pensive. “I hired solicitors, hundreds, none were able to even assist me in gettin’ to see you, let alone free you.”
“King William said my sentence was for murder?”
Grayson laughed. “Aye, ironic that they’d imprison an assassin for murder.”
“Who is it that I’m said to have murdered?” Lochlanaire wondered aloud, savoring the wine.
“Elias Larnon, the Earl of Lancer. He, it has been said, was the instigator behind a rash of robberies bred by highwaymen, although no proof of this exists. The two of you fought in a tavern one night, thereafter, a duel was demanded by the disgraced Elias. In a forest, on the outskirts of London, you rendezvoused. Elias Larnon was clearly not the wisest man, havin’ baited you into a duel, bein’ aware of your assassin reputation. Alas, pride goeth afore the fall. Since he’d insisted on the duel, he couldn’t free himself of the obligation. Duelin’, however, is a transgression punishable by death if you’re caught. Nevertheless, walkin’ paces, back- to-back, you were wronged. Unknown to you, Elias schemed to have you shot in the back by a felon he’d hidden in the forest’s trees. Elias decided he’d conquer you deceitfully if he couldn’t otherwise. You somehow heard the crack of a tree limb and shot the trickster, then you pulled the knife from your side, spearin’ your betrayin’ dueler’s chest. Elias died, along with his clumsy accomplice. They apprehended you for Elias’ murder. Wolf, his brother, exacted revenge.”
“It was self-defense,” chided Lochlanaire.
“Aye,” Grayson attested. “However, the succeedin’ Earl of Lancer, Wolf, bore friends of high stature. He testified that you murdered both men while he witnessed and that they were unarmed. He cleverly cleared the pistols and created a scene polished against you.”
Lochlanaire inquired, “I was jailed solely for vengeance?”
“Exactly,” Grayson jubilantly replied.
Lochlanaire suddenly realized -- a captaincy might demand solitude; he altered their subject and asked, “Have I married?”
“No, you couldn’t oppose rakishness. You were quite the seducer. Ladies swooned afore your feet, lured by one glint employed from your devilish stare.” Grayson batted his eyes, pretending to be an infatuated woman.
Lochlanaire guzzled the last wine droplets and surrendered the goblet to Grayson. “I’m a scoundrel, a pirate and an assassin?”
Grayson refilled the wine and released it to his brother. “A rogue forever shall you be, my lord.”
Confused, Lochlanaire asked, “My lord?”
Grayson explained, “Your title is Marquis of Braighton.”
Lochlanaire sat up, wrapping his arms around his legs. “That bloody monarch said he was granting me the title Marquis of Braighton, rewarding me with a manor as compensation for services rendered. All he’s doing is reinstating my title and landholding. Scoundrel.”
Grayson solemnly declared, “The title and land were forfeited to the Crown at the murder charge. I submitted a request in order to continue as your steward. I was refused, suspect for bein’ the brother of a murderer. I’ve been in seclusion in Scotland and Ireland. When word traveled that you might be freed, a messenger traced my whereabouts. I rode here and waited for the declaration.”
Lochlanaire wandered around the cabin, noticing silken and linen clothing stacked on shelves that would fit him. He swiped his fingers across the topmost garment. He investigated the rolled seafaring charts layering another shelf. Lochlanaire soon halted by the window, attempting to retrieve a memory of what Grayson said. Unfortunately, there were no images, just unrepentant darkness.
“Nothin’?”
He touched the cold glass. Lochlanaire shook his head. “Nothing. Am I older or younger than you?”
“Older. Two years. You’re twenty-eight.”
“What about our parents?”
Grayson explained, “Father lives but is dissatisfied by our piratin’ trade. It is not what he wished for either of us. Mother died of illness.”
“There are no other brothers or sisters?” Lochlanaire asked.
“We have another brother. Zore is older than you by two years. We’ve not spoken in years. H
is sins are barbaric.”
Lochlanaire sensed Grayson’s longing not to clarify concerning Zore. He changed the subject, “You called me Lock earlier. Why?”
Grayson chortled. “When we were young, I struggled to pronounce your full name. Lock-lan-air. I shortened it to Lock. It stuck.” Having filled his brother’s head with a jumble of images, Grayson proclaimed, “I leave you to rest. The ship departs when you say, Captain.” He approached the door.
“Grayson, our destination is America...Virginia. I await the arrival of a messenger. After his departure, we’ll weigh anchor.” Where the term weigh anchor came from, Lochlanaire couldn’t say.
“I assumed you’d inform me of our destination, Captain.”
“Time yields the remainder.” Lochlanaire couldn’t say why but he secreted the journey’s foundation.
“By your command.” Grayson returned to deck, barking orders to the crew.
After he read the ship’s log and fingered the brass instruments toppling the desk, he retrieved one of the cutlasses decorating the wall. Lochlanaire buckled a leather scabbard around his waist, stabbed the blade into it and stepped onto deck. Twilight immersed the ship. In the distance, Lochlanaire could see a scaffold structured on a lowly shore. At the end of a noosed rope, swung a dead man, his skeletal body ravaged by birds chipping on his bloody flesh. Execution Dock. In a moment, that noose could have captured his neck in eternal death. This sincerity was not lost on Lochlanaire.
He hurried to the stairs, which guided him aboard the helm deck, and approached his brother. Grayson stood beside the tiller. Lochlanaire saw a colorfully dressed chap leaving the ship.
Grayson tossed the sealed parchment he’d held to Lochlanaire. “I presume, Captain, this is what you wait for?”
Lochlanaire caught the rolled declaration, shattered King William’s wax seal, and studied what it presented. He rolled the parchment and faced his brother. “Away the sails.”
Grayson barked orders. Men raced over the deck and many assisted, raising one of the ship’s numerous anchors, which would take a measure of time. Others packed supplies in the cargo hold, those treasures that were subject to last minute containment: squawking chickens, potatoes, onions, fresh water barrels, and other provisions.
Under nightfall and with strung lanterns twinkling about the ship, Lochlanaire crimped the knobby tiller, his eyes crept to the figurehead carving the ship’s stem. The mantled form of the skeletal reaper Lucifer squeezed an arched sickle, diving as the ship launched. Lochlanaire’s gaze lifted to the sails that gloriously fluttered upon the ship’s masts. The frigate began its journey. Ahead, the sea’s singing waters remained unseen. But this mantle of blackness did not present the same chasm of evil that Lochlanaire had lived among for brutal years in prison. This defiant darkness signified freedom.
Freedom…the word echoed in Lochlanaire’s mind, but then a venomous song droned…‘Evil’s cast ye here. Hell has spat ye out…Heaven will not weather ye, prisoner shall ye be…crazy, crazy, were Satan’s whispers, hang, hang, hang ye, dead, dead, dead ye be…’
In spite of his desire to crush that wail of the undead, it brutalized his soul.
Long into nightfall, Grayson trampled the helm deck to his brother, for himself witnessing Lochlanaire’s swaying form while he manned the tiller. “I relieve, Captain. You require sleep.” One of the men portrayed earlier in the galley that their captain was defying slumber.
Lochlanaire sighed. “Am I so burdened that you damn me inefficient at the captaincy?”
Grayson’s amused eyes snaked to the star-twinkling sky. “No. Exhausted. Honestly, Lock, do you deny that years of captivity have taken a toll on your body?”
Lochlanaire conceded, “I offer good eve.” He surrendered the ship to his brother and lazily stepped down the stairs, noting that only a small gaggle of men remained aboard, for the winds died beneath the night’s veil. Much of the crew returned to cramped quarters inside of the ship’s hull.
Entering the passage that drew him toward his cabin, Lochlanaire’s mind hurled through time. He froze. The lanterns’ brilliance faded. He remembered the first day of his imprisonment, irons cuffing his legs and arms. Lochlanaire was guided by pistol to step along the foul-smelling recesses of the castle dungeon to its farthest cell. The cage door groaned open, then slammed. The world was extinguished, for blackness surrounded Lochlanaire. Squeaky rats scampered from his struggling footfalls…
Bolted amongst the present, Lochlanaire grappled with the memory. He cradled the ship’s wall to his left. His breath strained. The ship’s lanterns once again brightened the path. Lochlanaire forced his weakened legs to step through the passage. He hurried to his cabin and grabbed the wine decanter, carrying it to the bed. There, he flopped against the wall, drinking until the decanter emptied. He dropped it on the floor. Hours after he left the helm to his brother, Lochlanaire fell asleep…
Mysterious faces crept throughout the darkness. Eyes dulled in death suddenly appeared in a multitude of caverns. Screams resonated. Shots boomed; bloodstained fingers clawed…
Lochlanaire jolted awake and searched the lantern-fluttery cabin. Sweat soaked his brow. He lifted shaky fingers, but no blood splashed his flesh. He swiped trickles of sweat off his face. He struggled to reach the window, comforted by the breaking dawn and whirling sea waters.
Straightening his clothing, Lochlanaire left the cabin and found the men readying for battle on deck, for a ship dipped toward their direction. Lochlanaire looked to the tallest mast of Satan’s Victory upon which a black flag fluttered and depicted a skull and crossed knives. He ran to the stairs and directly approached his brother. “Why did you not alert me?”
Grayson confessed, “We’ve fought battles without Your Lordship’s presence. We can weather the storm once more, Captain. You required sleep more than a fight.”
Lochlanaire couldn’t refute that. “What is our status?”
Grayson affirmed, “They’ve trailed in our wake for hours, speculatin’ on if we’re friend or foe. They’ve obviously determined that we’re adversaries and are challengin’ our authority. Our status, Captain, is we are prepared to attack, pillage, and destroy, lest you say otherwise.” He gestured to the men who manned the cannons below, primed to shoot.
Lochlanaire pondered the magnificent two-masted ship that began to bridge the distance. “Are they pirates?”
“Aye, Captain.” Grayson tossed the brass spyglass to Lochlanaire.
Lochlanaire inspected the black flag, which portrayed the skull and crossed sabers that graced the ship’s center mast. Could he endure a conquest of this magnitude? Lochlanaire couldn’t say, although he’d fought the men who attacked him at the pier sufficiently, as well as the king’s swordsman. “Permission granted.”
Grayson shouted to the men to battle. Cannons roared his answer. Shots splashed the sea, surging onto the opposing vessel’s stem. The ship refused to retreat in its chase, however. Shouts echoed from the men, sails soon furled on both vessels and grappling hooks anchored the ships. The men of Satan’s Victory swarmed their foe and shots burst. With their pistols rendered useless, swords, cutlasses and knives were employed. Lochlanaire judged the progress of the men, unsheathed his cutlass, and jumped alongside Grayson off the ships’ bows. Lochlanaire’s cutlass slit the throat of man after man. A brigand strangled him from behind. Flipping the man over his head, Lochlanaire split his assailant’s chest, blood splattered. He kicked another villain in the face, breaking his nose. Another thief received a broken neck as he cut to their deaths anyone who fell into his path.
Satan’s Victory’s men killed the captain and the conquest ended. Cast to their longboats, the few surviving pirates abandoned ship and were permitted to abscond. The pirates of Satan’s Victory pillaged the ship of its treasures: silks, satins, sails, cannon, pistols, swords and foodstuffs. The ship was soon delivered to Poseidon’s den with cannon ball shot mid hull at water line. The ship sank.
Aboard Satan’s Victory’s brid
ge, Lochlanaire was disturbed by his ferocity in the kill. He silenced this mortal immorality and calculated his ship’s condition. The mainmast had partially splintered when a mast ripper’s chain tore through it, wood and rigging now littered the deck.
Grayson hurried to the tiller, “The ship anchors, Captain. We cannot journey far without that mast.”
Lochlanaire asked, “Is there a port nearby?”
Grayson removed a chart. “Serpent Isle is southerly. We can limp to it, should the wind keep to our cause.”
Lochlanaire nodded. “Clear the mast. Head us in the direction of that island.”
“Aye, Captain.”
After Lochlanaire surrendered command to Grayson, he ventured to his cabin. Therein, he cleansed the cutlass of blood and washed the stains off his hands. He pegged the weapon to its nail piercing the wall. Unwillingly, he relived the battle fought. He saw the eyes of those men he’d slain.
Needing a distraction, Lochlanaire retrieved the parchment painting of the maid he had sworn to hunt. He used a pistol’s butt and nailed the painting to the wall closest to where he could see it at his bed.
Lochlanaire rifled within the desk’s drawers, found a couple of shackles chained together and sat on the bedside, spellbound by the beauty of Siren Rain. The manacles swayed eerily back and forth.
“‘Evil’s cast ye here. Hell has spat ye out, Heaven will not weather ye, prisoner shall ye be…crazy, crazy, were Satan’s whispers, hang, hang, hang ye, dead, dead, dead ye be…dead, dead, dead ye be,’” Lochlanaire murmured icily.
CHAPTER THREE
Siren
Siren Rain dropped against the wall of her prison. Chained, irons clenching her wrists, she remembered the villainy of which tempted her to this hideous position aboard this ship of the damned…
While she threaded among the crowd of drinking and gaming men, Siren attended those who smirked lustfully at her, maligning the gaming hall, the Virginian. Having run from her cruel stepfather aboard a ship bound for the Americas from England, upon which she’d stowed away, Siren embarked on an adventure she prayed would bring freedom and enchantment. Sadly, she only procured starvation with her arrival in Virginia. She required employment so to compensate the captain for her voyage to America as; of course, he discovered her hiding in the cargo hold. She attempted to scrounge up a governess station but, possessing insufficient expertise, Siren was forced to labor as a scullery maid in a brothel’s smoky kitchen. This status repugnant, and with the madam beginning to ogle her shapely body, she tiptoed out of the house in the dark night, a skittish maid without benefit of employment or benefactor. Siren broke inside the icehouse outside the Virginian, seeking shelter. Regrettably, she fell ill and was recovered by its proprietor, who took pity on her and placed her under his charge. Now beholden unto him, as well as to her previous servitude to the Adventure Galley’s reprehensible captain, she labored for her keep, wearing a peasant’s shirt of white linen and a high cut, multi-colored skirt that reminded her of a gypsy. Her clothing was presented for which to bare the silhouette of her unbound breasts and curvy legs to the enraptured rogues designing debauchery in her company.