Slowly moving across the calm of the sea—lumbering against the wind which our sailors were struggling to get the best of—the Spanish fleet seemed to think us no more than the merchants we were pretending to be. The sun was bright, the clouds were white, and the beautiful, shallow bay shimmered majestically around the ships as the lead guard prepared to greet Endless Horizon, the swift and brave leader of our bunch.
I picked up my spyglass. Through the lens I saw Flynn standing at the portside gunnel. His Spanish translator stood beside him. The Spanish guard ship was named San Pedro. The Spaniards sent a man to San Pedro’s gunnel to meet with Flynn. They all looked to be waving like they were friends.
Not long into the friendly facade, Endless cranked it hard to starboard. Her canvas tightened, filling with the wind like the expansion of a lion’s chest releasing his territorial roar, and her black flag rose like his paw cocking back to strike. Over the sound of the wind whipping at our own sails, I heard the threatening growls of Flynn’s men. The Spaniards stirred in fright, preparing for the unexpected attack, but it was too late. Before they had a chance to stake a defense, Endless came parallel to their portside. Through my glass I watched Flynn drop his fist like the hammer of Thor. And just as it would have for the mighty Norse God, thunder followed his command.
The thump of the vicious broadside echoed through the channel, reverberating through my mind like the moans of a thousand angry ghosts. Her portside lit up from the fire propelling the shot. The cloud of smoke following the blasts quickly covered the scene. Splintered timbers and detached body parts flew through the blinding cloud. Before anyone uninjured had a chance to retaliate, Endless Horizon fired again—this time at the rigging. With San Pedro’s ratlines and rigging snapping like pieces of hair under razor sharp shears, collapsing the sails in a way that mirrored the dead who were toppling from her yards, Broken Shell made her pass at Mariposa.
Feeling Wicked tilt beneath my feet, I realized Sterling was shouting at our men to clap on more sail. My blood felt as thick as the heat as it coursed through my veins. My heart—jumping and jarring around in my chest—seemed to be imitating the way Wicked’s keel rose up and dipped down over the wake our consorts left behind. “Raise the black!” I shouted, drawing my cutlass and waving it wildly. “Prepare to deflower that sweet little cherry, boys. This bitch is ours!”
The power of their shouts replenished the courage I had been lacking as we rode the weather gauge past what was left of San Pedro. Wicked slowed a bit on the wake that rolled out from Mariposa’s hull as she came about, while attempting to shield her goods from the clutches of Black James Reid. With wide eyes I watched Broken Shell’s perilous black flag rise above her gun-loaded deck. The death head with one sword lying horizontally beneath it shouted of the power that bitch was about to release.
Squaring up on the tumbling tide beneath them, Mariposa and Broken Shell fired in unison. Broken Shell let out a massive broadside of grapeshot. The small lead projectiles ripped and tore those unlucky Spaniards to shreds without causing much harm to the precious treasure ship. But Mariposa had fired upon Broken Shell’s hull. Though I watched the timbers shatter to useless bits, and I heard the wounded buccaneers screaming for gods, mothers, and mercy, Reid had so many damn guns and gunners on board that Broken Shell fired again like she’d never been hit.
“She’s breaking starboard!” Sterling pointed towards Mariposa’s rear guard as she came about to defend her treasure ship. The sight of Vino Tinto Novia rushing in to protect Mariposa from the wrath of Broken Shell reminded me of the importance of our part in this war. Wicked Rose would not allow Vino Tinto Novia to intervene. “Hard to port!” the captain roared, “Draw on more canvas and ready the guns!”
As terrified as I was excited, I helped Rolland command the men through the sail. Blow me down, those dogs were swift! The flow of my blood mirrored the pace of the water racing around our slick keel as we cut a path between Broken Shell and Vino Tinto Novia.
Taking cover behind the breastwork, sheets of canvas we lined the gunnel with in order to shield our positions, I shouted for my two-man musket crew to ready their guns.
It was my job to command them through the attack and Toby would be my partner. I’d fire first, and he would have the next gun loaded and ready for me. While I shot he would reload the one I had just fired. The entire row of men I was commanding would be doing the same. We’d practiced this tactic many times, but now, soaring into musket range where I could hear the voices of the Spanish sailors we’d be firing at, I felt my mind wandering in a fearful frenzy. Focus, Black Rose, I told myself, and took a deep breath as I awaited the captain’s command to fire.
“Muskets ready!” Sterling hollered from his dangerously vulnerable position at the helm. Once I let him know we were ready, he dropped his fist and shouted, “Fire!”
Rising above the bulkhead and peering through the neat little portholes we’d cut out in the breastwork, I aimed as best as I could and pulled the trigger. With the Spaniards firing as well, I had no time to watch my bullet land, but I was pleased to see all of my men reach for their second shot without having received injury.
We were not so fortunate in round two. Muddy Rivers took a bullet between the eyes. Hearing a few others shout out in pain as bullets struck their limbs, I aimed my third round with a vengeance.
Tension grew as the ships drew closer. My men fired again. As we reached for our readied guns, our captain commanded Copper’s men from the helm, “Hold that fire until you’re sure it’ll be deadly.”
Understanding the tremendously destructive power of the great guns, I knew they were only accurate at short range—which was coming up soon. Taking note of the injuries our men were acquiring, I was ever so relieved to finally be close enough to Novia for the thunder to replace the raindrops which were our musket balls. Aye, this storm was about to become a hurricane.
Watching our prey open her gun ports, I dreaded the thought of them striking first, but to our great fortune, Copper and his men handed out the first broadside. The huge blast from all the starboard guns firing together caused Wicked Rose to tremble as if she received the damage herself. The sight of Vino Tinto Novia’s hull shattering to bits clearly stated otherwise.
Though the demolition seemed to be crippling to me, the Spanish bastards had enough life in them to fire back. While taking cover from the falling debris of the seemingly detrimental blow, I found myself choking on the smoke filling the air. Squatting low to see under the cloud and breathe free, I watched our great guns spewing their brilliant flashes of fire, which violently pushed them back from their ports. Men smudged and slick with sweat and grime frantically, yet masterfully balanced on the rocking and pitching deck and heaved the iron beasts back into their places. Within what seemed a mere blink of my eye, those salty dogs primed, aimed, and fired another glorious blast of thunder and fire towards the mighty guard ship.
So enthralled with the show, I hardly noticed that Vino Tinto Novia had caught fire. Close enough to hear the crackling wood and screaming men, I looked around at our bloodied and battered crew wondering who would live and who would die.
Beyond the gory scene barraging my eyesight, I saw Sterling steering his ship and commanding his men as Novia forced us towards Broken Shell. His expression was frightful, his demeanor unfathomably focused. Over the horrible sounds surrounding us, his commands rang out like a beacon of hope, reminding us there was a war to be won. Hopping to my feet, I dragged Toby, who had been shot in the arm, over to a barrel where we took cover and continued to fire at the sailors high in the yards of the relentless Novia.
After Toby and I dropped a few more men, Novia fired a broadside at us. The blast busted the bulkheads near me to bits, peppering my skin with shattering debris. Beyond the buzzing in my ears, I heard the muffled screams of the men I knew as friends and loved as family. Through the cloud of smoke burning my eyes, I saw my brethren holding their gaping wounds. Over the pain I felt from the shards of shrapnel that
had gouged my own aching limbs, I witnessed the detaching of my mates’ body parts. Every time I heard a gun blast I saw more dismembered pieces of men flying through the air.
Trying to hide from the gruesome sight, I looked down, only to lay eyes on a large white hand. The ring on the finger assured me it had once been attached to Gerald Alrald’s arm. I looked up to escape the terrible sight. What now lay before my eyes was no better. Right next to Sterling I watched a projectile slice Corky Hamilton’s head in two. Pieces of his brain splattered against the side of Sterling’s face the same way the shrapnel had just hit me.
Unaffected by the vile painting now coating his angered face, Sterling shoved past the bleeding and dying men and knelt down with the remaining gunners. I had never once seen him operating a great gun. Though I knew he was handy with every aspect of a ship, the way he swiftly took command of the swivel gun, Agatha, and masterfully orchestrated the crew at her ready, heightened my level of respect for the man in a whole new way.
Twisting the swivel in the direction Sterling ordered, the men fired her towards Novia. The blast was followed by a mighty explosion. They’d hit the powder magazine. The sound of the fireball igniting made the frightening noise of the broadsides sound like the meows of tiny kittens. Taking cover and thinking it might be the last time I did so, I felt the weight of a body shield me as quickly as the hellish heat that surrounded me. The body was alive and breathing, holding me tighter than I’d ever been held.
It was Sterling.
Feeling his hot breath on my face, and realizing I could hardly breathe beneath the strangling grip he held on me, I closed my eyes and listened to the horrifying sounds. Screaming men silenced within the fire that consumed them, and others were hushed by the projectiles propelled by the burst. But the worst sound of all had to be that of human body parts falling like hailstones on the deck around us. I wished I could just stay right there under the shelter of Sterling’s body until I awoke from this terrible, terrible nightmare.
In the strange pause that followed the dreadful explosion, I heard Reid wailing over the crowd, “Board her!”
The worst was yet to come.
Sterling leapt up, took my hand and pulled me up alongside him. He put his hands on my cheeks. “Stay back here and make sure no one tries to board from Novia.”
Looking into his eyes and remembering how that blood got splattered across his face, I easily agreed to take on the job he had clearly made up to keep me positioned where I would be safe.
He ordered Rolland to guard my life with his, then he kissed me hard on the mouth before he joined his men at the gunnel.
Standing beside the master sailor, who had been solely appointed as my protector, I thought of how that kiss from Sterling could have been our last. After looking to the burning remains of Vino Tinto Novia—certain that no one would be boarding from that direction—I turned back to observe the boarding party. With Novia’s flames blazing behind me, I watched our men strap grappling hooks to Broken Shell. Roaring with the deepest, most animalistic shouts of war I had ever heard, the men stormed across Broken Shell, then followed their leader onto Mariposa de Oro.
It was plain to see that the buccaneers had the upper hand, in numbers and in strength. Watching Flynn and Bentley fighting back to back—Flynn with his two swords and Sterling with his one—I was awestruck by the ease in which they tore through their opponents. Sterling’s safety was nothing I had to worry about. As awesome as their teamwork was, Reid seemed to put up a fight of equal force all on his own. Stabbing, punching, breaking necks, and gouging eyes, he killed off every man in his path like they were but newly sprouted weeds in his well-established garden. The man was relentless, savage as they came. Not wanting to see what he would do to anyone who acted in cowardice during the war he was leading, I was glad my captain had ordered me to stay back during this horrendous invasion.
Just then, I laid eyes on the most miraculous sight. Amidst the ringing in my ears, sulfur biting at my nose, and black powder burning my eyes, I saw Mary Daley fighting this war, bloodied sword swinging just as fiercely as that of any man on deck. Dodging the butt of someone’s pistol, she swiftly rose with a graceful twist. After running her sword through a Spaniard’s gut, she trudged up the gangway and grabbed the horn blower by the collar. He spat and cursed as she twisted him around. She pressed her knife to his throat and whispered in his ear. He blew the horn. He blew and blew until the violence subsided.
Beyond the sound of fire burning in the background and the gruesome groans of injured and dying men, the setting fell silent. I wasn’t yet sure who had lived and who had died, but within the strange moment of peace, I heard a ridiculous laugh echo across the smoke-filled air. Turning towards the unexpected sound, I saw Black James Reid approaching Faron Flynn. The feathers on the commanding captain’s hat blew wildly in the wind as he patted Faron on the back and pointed at Mary. “So it seems you will be the one washing Daley’s coat tonight.”
I laughed, too, deliriously.
As the buccaneers forced the surviving Spaniards into their longboats—where they would be set adrift with minimal supplies and no sails—Rolland let me know that Sterling had survived and was in the captain’s cabin with Reid and Flynn. Relieved as could be that he had lived, I ended up helping Rolland round up the injured. Doing so only emphasized how awful this war truly was.
During the fight, with the rush raging in my blood, there was no time to process the depth of the horror we had all just endured. There had been no time to feel the pain of the injuries I had acquired. But after helping carry battered men over dismembered bodies, watching comrades who hadn’t died on the spot hacking up their own blood, and witnessing the last breaths of life of those who gave all for the gold they will never touch, I began to wonder what the hell this was worth. What good would it be to retire if I’d be carrying around these horrific memories for all my days to follow? Peace, ha! Would I ever find it after all this? Could there be such a thing in the mind of a person who had witnessed so much destruction? Could one who raised this kind of hell ever enter the gates of heaven? Looking around at the carnage, I wondered how I’d ever wash these pictures out of my mind….
Rum. That’s how.
Taking out my flask, I drew back a hefty shot and said farewell to the haunting thoughts echoing in my tormented mind. But then there was my body. Oh, the blimey bugger was aching all over. My ankle was twisted and it hurt to walk so I had to limp. My back was throbbing from the ache of whatever I landed on when Sterling threw me down. My hair had been singed from the flames of the explosion, and my face still felt hot from the blow-by of the fireball. But worst of all, my face hurt like hell. The more I thought about it, the more it ached. Laying my palm on my cheek and finding it covered in blood, I realized I might be in need of stitches.
Buzzing from the rum, I helped Rolland to prioritize the urgency of the wounded. To the sounds of men screaming in terror as the saw gnawed through bone, tearing tendons and muscles apart, I found myself feeling sick. I threw up multiple times throughout the afternoon, but my men needed support. So here, by their sides I would stay. Dumping vomit buckets, wiping sweat from foreheads, and even holding hands and drying a few tears, I ran myself ragged, doing all I could to see them through.
Unfortunately, not all of them made it.
All I could do was drown the pain of the losses in rum.
Chapter 12
Worth Dying For
As Told By Sterling Bentley
Back to back, sweating like hogs in the heat of the day, Faron Flynn and I forced our way through the gnawing crowd of battered Spaniards and bloodthirsty buccaneers. With Flynn’s two swords and my one, alongside my free fist, we were like a serpent with many heads, gnashing, slicing, and killing anyone who dare come up against us. Not a one of those Spaniards stood a chance against our might—especially considering the worthless state they were in when we boarded—but knowing their king would have their throats if they gave up, they fought like they
had every chance in the world.
I admired their courage, and respected their pride, but they were standing in between me and my gold. Therefore, I could allow them to stand no longer.
Though Reid was crafty enough with his warfare to leave Mariposa’s hull intact, her masts had been detrimentally cracked, forcing us to hop over the shattered pieces of lumber as we fought. Her sails and rigging lines were strung about, tangling around our feet like spider webs as we jumped and hurdled our way across the deck. The area was coated in blood—the smell of which had overtaken the salty fragrance of the sea. Groans of the injured and dying around us, along with the sound of Novia’s timbers burning in the background, drowned out the sound of the wind whipping at what was left of the sails.
Taking a hit to the head, I was struck with a moment of blindness. As my vision cleared, I watched Flynn slice the arm right off of the man who had whacked me with his pistol. There was no time to thank my mate, but I was able to return the favor when I saw a Spaniard leaping off of a barrel and lunging at Flynn’s side. Halting the man’s momentum and his warrior cry with my cutlass blade—twisting it about his guts until he withered to his death—I let him fall to his face just in time to see a Spaniard make a mad dash for the captain’s cabin.
His focus was intent. Caring not about the gory failure surrounding him, he dipped and dodged the dead, dying, and fighting men on their ship with the slithery movements of a snake. Judging by the drive in his stride, and the obsession blazing in his eyes, I knew there was something important behind the door this slippery snake was now opening.
Bound and determined to find out what it was, I stabbed through my next opponent and scouted the path before me. Flynn was blade to blade with a man behind me, and no one else from my crew was near enough to tug along, but this opportunity could not be lost. Heart thumping and blood rushing, I pushed through the fight, hurdled the wreckage, and ran for the door.
Gunpowder & Gold (Justified Treason, Book 4): Endless Horizon Pirate Stories Page 18