Distant Worlds Volume 1

by Benjamin Sperduto

  More of the reavers followed, pouring over from the longship as it crashed against the brig’s hull. Some of the sailors tried to fight back, but most simply stumbled about in confusion while the Vinlanders hacked them to pieces. Ekundayo did neither, shoving his way past the seamen without looking back. Unlike them, he knew what it meant to be hunted, to be powerless against such monstrous fury.

  He scrambled up the steps to the poop deck only to be greeted by a familiar, loathsome voice.

  “Get over here, damn you!”

  Sir William Danford seized Ekundayo by the arm and pulled him away from the stairs. The ship’s captain thrust a cutlass into his hands and laughed.

  “The Lord may smile upon you yet, boy,” he said. “Defend this ship and by God you’ll have your freedom!”

  One of the Vinlanders bounded up the stairs, a longsword in one hand and a hatchet in the other. He wore a steel cap helmet with the jawbones from some beast affixed to the side to protect his painted face.

  Danford raised his pistol and fired, but he rushed the shot, sending the ball well wide of his target. He reached for his other pistol.

  “Stop him!”

  Ekundayo hesitated, wondering if he’d be better off flinging himself overboard than risk his life to save the man who only a few days ago lashed him for not completing his daily tasks.

  The sea swelled suddenly, thrusting the brig upward and grinding its hull against the longboat. Ekundayo lost his balance and fell, the cutlass slipping from his hand when his hand banged against the hard deck. Even the Vinlander stumbled, nearly tumbling down the stairs before catching the railing.

  Danford, however, grasped the helm to steady himself throughout the ship’s violent heaving. With his free hand, he drew his second pistol and leveled it at the defenseless Vinlander.

  “She’s not your ship yet, you savage!”

  He laughed as he took aim, a vile, heartless sound that Ekundayo knew only too well.

  The same laughter that so often accompanied the lash.

  Before he could stop to think what he was doing, Ekundayo leapt to his feet and threw himself against Danford to knock off his aim. The pistol discharged with a crack, firing the ball through the empty air and over the open sea.

  “What are you doing?”

  The captain recovered quickly, whipping the pistol around to smash the handle against Ekundayo’s skull and shoving him to the ground.

  “Damn you—”

  Ekundayo looked up in time to see the recovered Vinlander fall upon his master, spilling his guts with the longsword and nearly chopping off his head with a stroke of the hatchet. Danford tumbled down in a heap, and the reaver hacked at him a few more times to finish the bloody work.

  Then he turned to look at Ekundayo, blood and gore dripping from his clothing.

  The massacre continued on the deck below them. Within a few minutes, the rest of the sailors would either be dead or captured.

  Death or renewed servitude.

  Ekundayo didn’t find either option appealing.

  But then the Vinlander did something strange.

  He laughed.

  Not a cruel sound like Danford’s vile gloating, but one of genuine amusement.

  The Vinlander raised his longsword and pointed to the railing at the back of the poop deck.

  “Go,” he said. “Swim to freedom if you can.”

  Still laughing, the reaver turned and charged down the stairs to join his fellow marauders.

  Ekundayo got to his feet, not quite believing that he was still alive. He looked down at Danford’s mutilated body long enough to fix the image in his mind. Then he spat upon the corpse and ran across the deck to vault over the railing.

  He splashed into the freezing cold water and immediately felt his body being pulled under the waves. The sea took him in its merciless embrace, thrusting him to and fro without care. He struggled to keep his head above the surface as salt water poured into his throat, choking him at every breath.

  Chunks of the brig’s shattered mast flew past him like massive stones tumbling down a mountainside, each one moving fast enough to dash his skull or limbs to bits. Frantic to keep above the water, he managed to grab hold of a splintered length of wood nearly as large as him. He clung fast to the debris, letting the surging waves carry him wherever it saw fit.

  Ekundayo closed his eyes and prayed to his ancestors, hoping to put off their reunion for just a while longer.

  The voice was gentle, almost soothing.

  No trace of anger, of judgement.

  His grandmother’s voice had a similar texture. Measured, wise, and inviting.

  It was the voice he preferred to remember. The warm, loving sound of his childhood, not the sound she’d made when the slavers burned her house to the ground and dragged her family away in chains.

  “Easy there. Slowly…”

  Ekundayo opened his eyes.

  He lay upon a hard mattress with heavy furs draped over his body. A fire crackled somewhere in the small, dimly lit room, but he couldn’t see it from the bed.

  A white face stared down at him. The man’s features were hard, but not unduly harsh. He seemed either a young man carrying the weight of too many years or an older man clinging tenaciously to some measure of youth.

  Either one seemed equally possible.

  “Who are you?” Ekundayo asked.

  The man smiled. Although his words came easily, he spoke with a thick, French accent.

  “My name is Jean Francois LeClair.”

  Ekundayo sat up and looked the man over. He wore long, black robes and a wide brimmed hat, a distinctive and familiar garb.

  “You’re a priest,” he said.

  Jean Francois nodded.

  “I am a servant of the Lord, yes. And what am I to call you, friend?”

  “Ekundayo.”

  There was more to his name, of course, but it had been so long since he’d dared to recite it in full that he wondered if he even remembered how.

  “Tell me, Ekundayo, how are you feeling?”

  Ekundayo rubbed his forehead. Aside from a dull headache and the heavy lump he felt at the base of his throat, he felt reasonably well.

  “Sore and tired,” he said. “Where am I?”

  “The trappers call it New Anjou, though your English friends may know it as Fort Desolation.”

  Ekundayo didn’t recognize either name. He knew Danford’s ship had been sailing along the Acadian coast on its way to Annapolis Royal, where his master had accepted a new commission from his queen.

  “Acadia?”

  “Yes, though I’m afraid we’re a far distance from most everything. Not much more than an outpost. And usually a forgotten one at that.”

  Ekundayo looked around the small, single room dwelling. A total of three beds, each one pushed against a wall, took up most of the space, and a wardrobe occupied the fourth wall. The room’s décor was painfully sparse, featuring little more than bare wood. A stove, burning just hot enough to keep the chill at bay, stood in the back corner of the room between two of the beds.

  “How did I get here?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. A fisherman found you washed ashore yesterday morning along with some wreckage from a ship.”

  Ekundayo nodded.

  “We were bound for Annapolis Royal. When we lowered our sails, a storm came upon us. But it wasn’t any ordinary storm.”

  The priest scowled.

  “Go on.”

  “It seemed…alive. We were still worried about the storm when the Vinlanders sailed out of it and opened fire. They crippled the ship and boarded us before we knew what was happening.”

  Ekundayo chose his next words carefully.

  “I got knocked overboard in the fight,” he said. “The storm was terrible. Last thing I remember was grabbing hold of a chunk of wood and hoping I wouldn’t drown.”

  Jean Francois stepped away from the bed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  “Vinlanders. Rare to see th
em so far south. The mongrels have a taste for the colder waters.”

  Ekundayo imagined the reavers running their longship ashore and falling upon coastal settlements without warning.

  “How far are we from the sea in this place?” he asked.

  The Frenchman shrugged.

  “Oh, ten miles as the sparrow flies. Perhaps another three or four by river.”

  “River?”

  “Come, my friend. Why don’t I show you around?”

  Ekundayo welcomed the opportunity to stretch his legs. The priest helped him out of bed and guided him out the door.

  After taking in the meager settlement, he understood why the English called it Fort Desolation. New Anjou sat atop a low hill with a commanding view of the surrounding forest. Much of the cleared woodland had obviously been used to construct the palisade that encircled the community’s dozen or so buildings. Most of the ramshackle structures looked ready to collapse, all save the stone church situated near the central square. Watchtowers stood at each corner of the wall, and settlers armed with muskets kept their eyes trained on the outside world.

  The place didn’t have a proper gate, just a wagon laden with sharpened pikes resting alongside the entrance, waiting to be wheeled and tipped into position to block passage. Through the gap in the palisade, Ekundayo could see the muddy road running down the hill until it reached the river below. The river was too wide for a bridge, but a large raft floated along the shoreline, moored to a thick tree trunk.

  A few brown, shriveled leaves yet clung to the branches, tiny splotches of color that broke up the otherwise gloomy, gray landscape. Although the river had yet to freeze and the ground harden, Ekundayo could see his breath in the cold morning air.

  He shivered.

  “Colder than I’m used to,” he said, rubbing his arms.

  Jean Francois laughed.

  “And where is that?”

  Ekundayo caught himself before he let slip the truth.

  “Florida,” he said. “Good fishing there all year.”

  He’d seen black fishermen working along the Florida coast on their journey north. Whether or not they were free men, he didn’t know for sure, but considering that he’d seen precious few free blacks in the British Caribbean, he thought it better to take his chances with someplace a lighter European presence.

  “Florida, eh?” the Frenchman said. “I’m afraid I’ve never had the privilege of visiting the tropics. My work keeps me here in Acadia, with an occasional journey to bring the Lord’s word to the savages farther inland.”

  Several settlers ambled past them as they spoke, each one rougher looking than the last. Ekundayo spotted a few women, but most of the residents were men, and all of them white skinned. They stared at him when they walked by, sometimes pausing to examine him from a distance before moving along to gossip with their neighbors.

  The priest smiled.

  “Please pay them no mind. Most of them have never seen an African before. We had a governor here once, years ago when I first arrived. He had a servant he’d brought with him from his time in Saint-Domingue. When the governor died, his heir sold the man to a fur trapper who used to frequent these parts. We saw them the next spring, but never again. Likely pushed too far west, into savage country.”

  Ekundayo didn’t much care for the precedent. British authorities were quick to clap escaped slaves in irons wherever they found them, sometimes without pausing to make sure the prisoner was in fact a slave. He didn’t know how the Acadians handled such matters, but he knew better than to wait around long enough to find out.

  What he couldn’t decide upon, however, was where he should go. He knew nothing of Acadia, and wasn’t likely to last long in the wilderness if he simply ran off.

  A commotion broke out at the fort’s entrance before he could say anything more. Ekundayo saw several people rushing to help a man guide his mule and cart up the muddy hill. One of the residents waved to Jean Francois and called out something in French.

  The priest answered, then turned to Ekundayo.

  “It seems they’ve found another survivor from your crew,” he said. “Come.”

  Ekundayo felt a ball of ice forming in his stomach. Just about any man from that ship would immediately recognize him as Danford’s slave.

  Reluctantly, he followed the Frenchman across the yard. As they neared the gate, he contemplated slipping off while no one was looking and fleeing into the forest. Perhaps he would freeze or starve to death, or run afoul of wild beasts or murderous natives.

  Would that really be worse than feeling the cold bite of iron manacles on his wrists once again?

  Ekundayo couldn’t quite decide, not without knowing the true intentions of New Anjou’s residents. Jean Francois had been kind enough, at least, and he’d been well cared for since his arrival.

  When he saw the man lying in the farmer’s cart, however, he found himself reconsidering his prospects.

  The young man was scarcely more than a boy, but Ekundayo recognized his torn clothing and hawkish profile.

  Thomas Danford, the eldest son and heir of Sir William Danford.

  “Do you know him?” Jean Francois asked.

  Ekundayo shrugged, hoping his expression concealed the shock of recognition.

  “A relation of the captain, I think,” he said. “I don’t recall him by name.”

  Young Danford looked feverish, sweat plastering his copper hair against his forehead and his limbs trembling. Despite being unconscious, he let out occasional moans while turning his head back and forth.

  Jean Francois listened to the rest of the farmer’s story, which seemed to cause great alarm among the gathered crowd.

  “What is it?” Ekundayo asked.

  The priest scowled.

  “He says this man wandered out of the forest and collapsed in the middle of the road this morning. Before he passed out, he said a Vinlander longship is on its way up the river.”

  Ekundayo looked down at the river, which lay less than a hundred yards away from the palisade. From what he’d seen of the longship, its draft was probably shallow enough to travel that far upriver.

  “Help me bring him inside,” Jean Francois said, reaching down to scoop Thomas Danford out of the cart. “Then we need to get everyone inside the wall.”

  Ekundayo hesitated, once again considering whether he’d be better off fleeing into the forest to avoid Danford and the Vinlanders. But something in the priest’s imploring gaze held him where he stood.

  Maybe it was guilt or some nameless dread of offending the Frenchman’s god that pushed him into a decision, but whatever the case, Ekundayo found himself helping to carry Danford across the yard.

  “Do you think he’ll live?” he asked.

  “Difficult to say. The fever could be the sign of internal injuries. If he’s bleeding on the insides, there’s not much we can do for him. But if he’s merely feverish from exposure, he should recover once we get him inside for a time.”

  Ekundayo grunted, fully aware that Danford would make life difficult for him if he lived.

  Of course, that was assuming any of them survived the reavers.

  “What about the Vinlanders?” he asked. “What chance do they have against this place?”

  “We held our own against the English in the recent war,” Jean Francois said. “Three times they tried to batter down the walls with cannon and bayonet charges. Three times the militia turned them back. The Vinlanders aren’t likely to do much better with fewer numbers and less firepower.”

  Ekundayo thought of the grim stormcloud swirling over the longship as it sliced across the waves.

  “Tell me, Priest, could the English bend the winds to their will? Or call fire down from the sky?”

  The Frenchman turned to him and smiled.

  “And do the Vinlanders have God on their side? Have faith, my friend. The Lord has a way of fending even the fiercest wolves away from His flock.”

  Ekundayo considered asking what the English sailors
on the brig had done to lose that divine protection, but he knew better than to argue with a European where his faith was concerned.

  They carried the younger Danford into the same house where Ekundayo had awoken earlier, and gently situated him on one of the beds. Jean Francois set to stripping his wet, tattered clothing off. Cuts and bruises covered his flesh, but there didn’t seem to be any serious injuries. Ekundayo watched his eyelids, which twitched and fluttered every time the Frenchman touched him. He felt the muscles in his neck tighten, and he half-expected Danford to sit up at any moment and identify him as a slave.

  Had the Englishman seen him turn on the elder Danford? Seen him buy the Vinlander a second chance to cut his master to pieces?

  One thing he knew for certain: he didn’t want to wait around to find out.

  “We should send someone downriver,” he said. “A few scouts to keep watch on the Vinlanders.”

  Jean Francois looked up at him, one of his eyebrows raised.

  “A dangerous charge. Are you volunteering?”

  “I’ve faced them once before,” Ekundayo said. He kept his voice even enough to bolster his answer with a lie. “I’m not afraid.”

  The Frenchman stared at him for a moment, then nodded.

  “Very well. There’s a trapper here by the name of Marcelle. His English is a bit rough, but he’s a brave man and he knows this country as well as the natives. Ask around for him and tell him that I want the both of you to scout downriver. He’ll know what to do.”

  Marcelle was older than Ekundayo expected and his command of English was much worse than the priest intimated, but the trapper welcomed the suggested mission with great enthusiasm. He served as a scout in the recent war against the English and claimed to have spent as much time among the native tribes as he did among the Acadians, but somehow he’d never come face to face with a Vinlander. Ekundayo had scarcely laid out his plan before Marcelle dragged him back to the fort’s armory to fetch muskets and powder for their expedition.

  He didn’t bother telling the trapper that he’d never loaded, much less fired, a musket before. Fortunately, he’d seen English soldiers and plantation guards handle the weapons enough for him to fake some measure of expertise. Before they left the fort, Ekundayo made sure to track down a steel hatchet.