Pieces of Eight

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Pieces of Eight Page 12

by Deborah Chester


  With a snort of satisfaction, Noel took it and waded back to the prisoners.

  He hacked at the chains of the ship’s officers first, striking sparks, but finally breaking a link. The men yelled encouragement and went to work, worrying the chain apart and then unthreading it from their shackles.

  Noel hurried over to the slaves. Unlike the officers, these prisoners were chained individually. Some of them were in deep water, and Noel dared not make a blind blow with the hatchet. He didn’t want to cut off someone’s foot by mistake.

  Realizing that he was trying to free them, the Africans reached out imploring hands and called to him in their own tribal tongues. His translator deciphered some of it. Noel swallowed, feeling bleak and inadequate. He couldn’t help them all.

  Those whom he freed helped in turn by lifting the individuals trapped in the deepest water, thus exposing their chains where he could strike with the hatchet. The weapon grew blunted with every blow. He hacked as fast as he could. Some of the links snapped readily; others refused no matter what he did.

  And there was so little time. He never forgot that Leon was up there, tied to the mast, helpless and unconscious, probably dying alone in the storm. The thought twisted Noel up inside, made him feel hollow and afraid. He hadn’t expected to ever worry about Leon. But he found himself pitying Leon all over again, although he didn’t want to. He knew Leon’s reasons for saving his life were selfish ones, but that didn’t change the fact that he would have been dead now—a dagger through his heart—had Leon not intervened.

  The ship shuddered, and with a fearsome snapping of timbers, she broke apart yet more. Water rose at an alarming rate, and the cries of the Africans hushed abruptly as though they realized they had run out of time. Some of the freed ones darted about frantically, seeking the way out. Noel knew he couldn’t stay down here longer.

  He handed the hatchet to a tall man with ceremonial scars who still stood in chains. The man took the weapon with­out a word, but in his eyes lay somber acknowledgment of Noel’s help. Noel headed for the exit.

  Some of the Africans were so weak and ill they could not walk. They sank down in the water with moans of despair. Others followed Noel grimly, ignoring their debilitated condition in the quest for freedom.

  At the stairs he stood aside and gave several of them a helping boost, letting them climb ahead of him into the storm. When he emerged onto the deck, he found them waiting, perhaps a dozen of all ages and sizes, men and women, naked, starved, and desperate. They knelt to him, bowing deeply.

  “Thank you, bwana.”

  “Thou art our lord, bwana.”

  “We serve thee, bwana.”

  Noel’s throat tightened. He shook his head. “I’m not your master. Save yourselves. Don’t waste time bowing to me.”

  They straightened, but they did not flee. Across the deck, he glimpsed the officers climbing over the gunwales, helping each other. He saw also a woman’s skirts billowing in the wind. Relief and exasperation filled him. Why the devil had Lady Pamela gone off to put on another dress? Didn’t she understand she couldn’t swim in those damned clothes?

  Then he saw the little boy and knew it was Lady Mountleigh instead of the girl. He bowed his head, so tired he could barely stand. The Africans crowded closer. Some of them took his hands and pressed his palms to their foreheads like dogs nuzzling for affection.

  Noel roused himself. He couldn’t stop now. These Africans still needed his help. Having freed them from the hold, now he was responsible for getting them off the ship. One of them, he noticed, was the scrawny, half-grown boy who carried himself like a prince, the boy who’d been present at Mondoun’s ceremony. The LOC had foretold this boy’s future as the leader of a slave uprising on one of the islands. If nothing else, Noel had to get him safely off ship.

  “Come,” Noel said to him and gestured.

  They streamed after him like half-seen shadows in the night, struggling against the wind that made Noel stagger. He found Leon still tied to the mast and knelt to untie him.

  “What the devil are these slaves doing topside?” asked an arrogant English voice.

  Noel glanced up and saw a shape standing over him. He couldn’t make out the features, but he figured it was one of the officers he’d just freed.

  “Did you set them loose?” the man demanded.

  Those cold, incredulous tones infuriated Noel. He rose to face the man.

  “Yes, I freed them, just like I freed you.”

  “You had no right. They’re valuable cargo—”

  Noel socked the man in the jaw. The officer staggered back, and Noel went after him, seizing him by the coat front.

  “Cargo!” Noel shouted furiously. “They’re people. Living human beings. If they stay down there they’ll drown.”

  “You have no right to dispose of our cargo,” said the man implacably. He knocked Noel’s hands away and shook out his clothes. “I order you to—”

  “Go to hell.”

  “You can’t set untrained slaves loose on these islands. Where’s your sense of responsibility?”

  “My what?” Noel shouted.

  “Responsibility. They’ll cause all sorts of problems among the others. The planters will be furious with us.”

  Noel couldn’t believe he was having this conversation in the middle of a hurricane with the ship sinking under them. “Why don’t we see if they even survive first?” he said sarcastically.

  “You don’t understand—”

  “No, you don’t understand. If they stay aboard they will drown. They will die. I’ve given them a chance to live.”

  “What the devil does that matter?”

  “My God!” exploded Noel, clenching his fists. “Aren’t they better off alive than dead? What’s wrong with you?”

  The man sputtered. “The insurance, my good man. The insurance.”

  “What insurance? What are you talking about?”

  “If they drown in the hold, we can collect for our losses. If they escape, we have no coverage.”

  Noel couldn’t believe it. “They aren’t teacups or bolts of cloth. They’re people!”

  “They’re slaves.”

  Noel, trained in ancient history, was familiar enough with the institution of slavery. But the Roman culture had been a sophisticated, fairly humane one. Some slaves had been wealthy, influential individuals. They’d enjoyed certain rights and certain obligations. They’d lived by certain rules. But they weren’t considered cattle. And they certainly weren’t drowned just so their master could collect on his insurance.

  “Now herd them back below deck where they belong,” said the man.

  “The hell I will.”

  Noel sprang at the man, who raised his arms to guard himself against blows. Instead, Noel seized him by his coat and propelled him across the deck and over the gunwale by sheer impetus. He heard a yell, then a splash, and smiled to himself in grim satisfaction.

  He turned to go back to the mast, and saw that the Africans had untied Leon. Noel waved at them and stepped forward. Lightning forked the sky. It struck the top of the mainmast and blue electricity sizzled down the pole. The Africans screamed and scattered, and beneath the deafening roar of thunder Noel heard a mighty crack of splitting wood.

  Looking up, he saw the mast sway. Horrified, he yelled a warning, but the thing was already straining at its cables. Some of the lines snapped with vicious twanging and whipped through the air. The mast leaned. The shrouds broke, and Noel hastily ducked. With a terrible groan, the mast came down.

  Rooted in place by sick fascination, Noel realized he was in its path but he could not move. It fell slowly, majestically, its progress delayed by the remaining forestays snapping one by one. It dragged down with it a sweep of tattered sails and rigging, the complex but ordered system of ropes, pulleys, sails, halyards, and spars all chaotic and tangled now.

  Then the slow, groaning progress of the mast halted, held impossibly by a final quivering line. Noel stared up at it like a child
, fascinated despite the danger.

  It had stopped, he told himself. He drew in a sweet deep breath. He even grinned to himself and wiped the rain from his face.

  The ship heeled over with a loud groan, going nearly horizontal on her starboard side. The shift put too much strain on the line. It broke, and the mast crashed down. Shaken from the spell that had held him, Noel tried to run now that it was too late. Like a toppling sequoia, the mainmast snapped off a lesser mast that bounced and rolled, missing Noel by scant feet. Losing his balance on the steeply sloped deck, he went sprawling and came up hard against a stack of barrels lashed to the deck. Stunned, he tried to scramble on, frantic now and cursing himself for having stood flat-footed until it was too late.

  A tackle block as large as his head thudded into the deck next to him, and heavy rigging hit him, its weight forcing him down.

  He struggled to roll clear, but the rope held him pinned. The mainmast hit with a force that jarred the deck. The whole ship seemed to be caving in. He was smothering. More things fell on him, tangling him, crushing him. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. The ship was still tilting, as though she was at last being sucked beneath the raging sea.

  Down with all hands, Noel thought blearily. It seemed the LOC’s prediction was going to be even truer than he’d originally suspected.

  And then he was drowning.

  Chapter Nine

  Heat brought Noel back from the long darkness of nowhere. It baked him, making him increasingly uncomfortable and restless. For a long time he endured it, hovering on the edge of consciousness, but it was the trickle of sweat running into his eye that finally woke him up.

  He opened his eyes, and the harsh glare of light made him squint painfully. He closed his eyes and sought to return to the safety of unconsciousness, but now his mind stirred and remembered. There had been the storm, the drums, the raging sea.

  With a start, he pushed himself up. The world tilted dizzily around him, making him shut his eyes again. Finally, however, he eased them open and focused.

  He sat on the beach. The white sand was strewn with the debris of planks, coconuts, dead birds, tree limbs, tangles of rope, barrel staves, articles of clothing, and shells scoured up from the bottom of the sea. The beach curved around the blue-green waters of the cove. The waves rippled in, meek and sun-kissed, as different from the gray, raging whitecaps of last night as possible.

  The little harbor itself was empty. He squinted out at the blue horizon and saw no sails there. Gulls dipped and wheeled on the hot breeze, shrieking and fighting for the fish that had been washed up in the storm’s violence and left stranded.

  Noel frowned and ran his fingers through his sand-crusted hair. He was skinned and bruised. His mouth tasted of brine. He wore no clothing except the tattered remnants of his trousers. His left eye was swollen and puffy to the touch. The vision in that eye seemed a little blurred. His lungs hurt with every breath, as though he’d inhaled some water. He vaguely remembered the sensation of drowning. Obviously, however, the sea hadn’t wanted him.

  More memories returned to him. He staggered to his feet in sudden anxiety and looked around. “Leon?” he called.

  Startled by his voice, the gulls flew up from the beach and wheeled out over the bay, fussing with their strident cries.

  “Leon!”

  He paused a moment, listening to the steady rush of the water, the breeze rustling in the palm trees that hadn’t been uprooted by the storm. Out by the mouth of the bay, the dark, rounded silhouette of the Plentitude’s hull floated on the restless sea, three-quarters submerged and most likely a grave for those who had not managed to escape her final moments.

  “Leon!”

  His voice echoed into the jungle.

  A flock of flamingoes flew over him and settled on the beach. The pink, stately birds strolled about, pecking curiously at the debris and dipping their heads into the surf. They showed no fear of him.

  Noel glanced around and touched the Plexiglas bracelet on his right wrist. “LOC, activate.”

  A responsive warmth from the device leeched into his skin before the circuits flashed to life.

  “Working,” the LOC said.

  “What’s the date?”

  “June sixteenth, 1697.”

  He frowned. “No way, pal. Hurricanes don’t blow themselves out that quickly. Not in a matter of hours. Try again.”

  “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  “I didn’t ask a question. I gave you a command. What is the date?”

  The LOC pulsed a moment. “Incorrect response.”

  He thumped it with his finger. “Do you have sea water inside you?”

  “Negative.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “Restate question. What problem do you wish analyzed?”

  Noel sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He was hungry. Thirst shriveled his mouth. He was hot and sunburned and tired. Why the hell did the LOC have to act like this now?

  Reminding himself that it was just a machine, however sophisticated, and efficient only if he was the same, Noel forced himself to concentrate.

  “Let’s start over.”

  “Working.”

  “You say that today’s date is still June sixteenth, 1697.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Are you malfunctioning in your present time counter?”

  “Negative.”

  “What about the hurricane? How could it blow itself out in just a matter of hours? If it hit the mainland I could see it slowing down and dissipating, but not out here. It should still be raining, even if the winds were downgraded. I don’t understand.”

  The LOC grew hotter on his wrist. “The velocity of wind was measured at seventy-two miles per hour. Although hurricanes are generally between seventy and one hundred thirty-five miles per hour, some—such as Hurricane Camille in 1969 and Hurricane James in 2114—can reach a force of almost two hundred.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “This storm did not maintain hurricane strength winds for more than two point seven hours. It did not develop a true circular rotation. By the time it reached Cuba shortly after dawn, it had dissipated into a heavy thunderstorm. Rainfall counts are—”

  “Stop,” said Noel. “You’re saying we weren’t in a hurricane?”

  “Affirmative. Tropical storm is the correct designation, based on the—”

  “Never mind,” Noel said impatiently. He glanced at the glaring sun overhead. “It’s what? About midday? Is safety-chain programming still running?”

  The LOC flashed for several seconds but made no reply.

  Noel thumped it. “LOC! Is safety-chain programming still running? Respond.” ­

  Nothing.

  Alarm stirred in Noel. He couldn’t afford to have the thing go haywire on him now. He needed it too much.

  “Come on, LOC. Answer me.”

  Nothing.

  “LOC!” he said sharply. “Locate Leon. Full scan. Is he alive?”

  “Scan…ning,” said the LOC.

  Noel’s heart sank. The malfunctions were increasing. For a while he’d thought the LOC might succeed in repairing the damage that had been done to it. But now those hopes were dashed. LOCs were built to withstand considerable abuse, but they remained delicate pieces of complex technology. Not only had the LOC been dunked more than once into corrosive salt water, but it was probably beginning to experience stress fractures in its biochips.

  No one had ever been trapped in a closed time loop before. No one had ever stayed in the past this long before. No one had ever traveled on successive missions without returning to the present before. So who knew how long the LOC could hold up? Noel wasn’t certain how many more times he could survive passing through the time vortex himself.

  “LOC, buddy, you can’t quit on me now,” he said with a desperate break in his voice. It was so hot now on his wrist his skin was beginning to feel scorched. “Scan for Leon. Tell me if he’s alive.”

  “Scan
…ning…to…or…i…gin…p-p-p-point,” droned the LOC.

  “No! Not origin point,” Noel said. “Not now. Unless there’s an incoming message from origin point?”

  “Af…firm…a…tive.”

  Noel gasped with hope. “Receive message!”

  The LOC pulsed rapidly. “Mal…function.” Its voice speeded up to normal, then got faster and shriller. “Malfunction. Malfunction!”

  “Cancel! Deactivate!”

  The LOC went dead. Noel’s eyes stung with disappointment. He swallowed a lump in his throat and kicked the sand furiously. His friends at the Time Institute were still trying to reach him, still trying to get him back, yet as long as the LOC remained unable to establish a communications link there could be no return. He wasn’t sure which was worse: having no contact from his own time, or knowing they were trying but couldn’t reach him.

  He’d read about shipwrecked individuals withering away on desert islands, scanning the empty seas for rescue, sometimes even seeing a sail on the horizon only to watch it pass by unheeding of their plight. He’d read about loneliness, starvation, and the slow, eventual madness.

  Now, he knew what it was like to be alone, abandoned, with­out hope. He could not get home. His LOC was disintegrating. Even Leon was now gone, probably dead. Perhaps some of the others had survived and washed up on this island, but they were not of his kind, not of his century.

  He hurt inside with a sudden, terrible ache. He crouched down and hugged his arms tightly around his knees, compressing himself in an effort to hold together.

  But giving way to fear was like giving way altogether. If he ever let himself crumble completely, he did not think he could pull himself back.

  Breathing harshly, he tipped his head to gaze at the sky, then forced his knees to straighten. He scanned the beach before taking a step, then another, making himself walk down to where the debris was the worst.

  He began to search for survivors, muting his thoughts, refusing to acknowledge the fear gnawing holes in him.

  “LOC,” he said once.

  It hummed sporadically, its light blinking dim.

 

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