King of My Nightmare (King of My Nightmare, Book 1): Endless Horizon Pirate Stories

by Cristi Taijeron

  Returning my attention to Mister Dabney, I said, “I apologize for the distraction. I’ve just never seen anything like this.”

  Mister Dabney grinned. “Navigation is one of the most important jobs on the ship. No matter how well the rest of us do what we do, it does us no good if we cannot find our way into port.”

  “I never would have thought of all that.” I humbly stated. “I sure have a lot to learn.”

  Though I figured he would want to rush through the sign-in process and get me off to work, I was pleased hear him say, “And learn you will. A trip across the Atlantic is no small feat. There are a lot of considerations that go into planning a successful journey. Take a look at this,” he pointed at one of the maps. The piece of parchment displayed a large bay, framed by a crescent shaped chunk of land on the west end, and dotted with many tiny islands along the eastern side. “This is the Caribbean Sea, which is where we are headed.”

  Reaching over the table, he pointed at the map of the Atlantic, and then traced one of the many dotted lines running across the vast area of ocean between England and the tiny islands of The New World. “We will be following the trade routes southwest, and sailing into Bridgetown, Barbados to deliver a load of supplies for the good Englishmen who have made their homes there.” Leaving his finger near the round island at the easternmost extremity of the otherwise chained set of islands, he said, “You know, some folks call Barbados Little England. And we take great pride in our job of keeping the colony connected to the motherland by bringing them the things they need, and also, returning the goods they produce for us there.”

  “What do they produce?” I asked.

  “The climate there is perfect for growing tobacco, so that is the largest part of what we transfer, but there are, of course, some unique craftsmen on the island who make things we cannot buy here. Then, there are always passengers to transport to and from their plantations in the New World, and their homes in the Old.”

  “I see. So, what about these other islands, Dominica, and Martinique, who owns them?”

  Aaron snickered under his breath.

  “What’s so funny?” I squinted at him.

  “It is Martinique,” he corrected my pronunciation, adding an annoyingly proper French accent to his tone. “And the French own that island.”

  I was bothered by the fact that he had poked fun at me, but I knew this was no place to raise a fuss over the matter. While I tried to think of a civil response, Mister Dabney spoke up, “It is not polite of you to humor yourself by the mistakes of others, Mister Jenson. And I, for one, am quite pleased by the fact that Mister Bentley can read.” He smiled at me. “Can you also write?”

  “That I can.” I proudly stated.

  “I am impressed. Other than yourself and Aaron, the captain, and I are the only literate men on the ship. Speaking of the captain, though I am sure he would be equally as pleased as I to discuss the trade routes with you, he will be here any moment now, and he suggested that I have the carpenter show you around before we make sail.”

  Opening a large book, he said, “Now, just sign your name near the X on this line and you will be an official member of our crew.”

  Accepting the quill, I said, “It will be my honor to join your crew, sir.”

  Once my name was neatly written along the line, Mister Dabney led me toward the door. Aaron forced a polite smile upon our exit.

  Leading me to the berthing quarters where all the hammocks hung—swaying lightly as the ship creaked and teetered—he showed me where to stow my meager belongings. Once I stashed my coat and hat along with my larger weapons into my sea bag, Mister Dabney then led me to the carpenter’s storage room.

  Behind the door, we found a chubby, baldheaded man who was rolling up a string of rope. This early in the cool, misty morning, he was sweating so much his shirt was soaked through.

  “Good day, Mister Barlow.” Mister Dabney nodded.

  “Upright and breathing makes for a good day indeed.” Mister Barlow grinned, showing the wide gap between his two front teeth.

  “Good indeed.” Mister Dabney politely stated then introduced me. After informing the sweat drenched man that he’d be the one showing me around, Mister Dabney headed back to the cabin.

  Setting down the roll of rope, Mister Barlow said, “For starters, just call me Barlow. I like Dabney, but he talks like we’re all proper gentlemen, sitting for tea with the noble. But I’m not a gentleman and the only drink in my tea cup is ale.” He laughed out loud.

  Glad to see that not everyone on this ship was an arshole, I laughed, too. “I like a drink of ale every now and then, myself.”

  “I reckon you had plenty of spirituous brew served to you in Madam Pauline’s room, eh?” He nudged me with his elbow.

  I scratched my head. “Damn, I reckon I’ll be hearing about my time with that woman for all my days.”

  “Aye. Bristol maybe a big place, but it isn’t that big of a place, and word gets around to these sailors who sometimes gossip like old ladies. Plus, you’re new, so we’re all going to give you a hard time. And knowing that the widow of Pirate Captain Levi Huxley found her fancy with you, has already given us something to blather about.” He patted my arm. “So, tell me, Bentley, was her bedframe made of gold and were her linens and dishes lined with jewels?”

  I fanned my hand at him. “Ah, that’s all talk. Her room was no different than the rest of the Stone House Inn. It was nice, but nothing fancy.”

  “Well, that’s an unfortunate truth.” He shook his head, then lifted it with a grin. “Anyhow, back to work. Let’s talk about the men you’ve already made acquaintance with. I saw that you met ol’ Peckadennel this morn, and—”

  “Peckadennel?” I squinted.

  “Aye. Peck and Dennel. We say their name like one, for they might have but one brain between them. Anyhow, I heard them giving you trouble when you arrived, but I’ll tell you right now, don’t you pay them no mind. They’re just trying to find a way to feel smart. Those two are as dumb as the cobblestones, they are. And since you’re new they’re thinking they can act like they know something more than somebody, for once. But Boa on the other hand; watch out for that one, if you will. He can sail like the wind, so mind his commands and you’ll learn something, but best not upset him or his followers, or else.” He ran his finger across his neck.

  Remembering the scar Boa had across his neck, I winced in my mind, but outwardly, I just nodded to accept the advice, then said, “Dumb or mean, the lot of them know more than I do about all this.”

  Stuffing a small crate with tools—some familiar and some completely new to me—Barlow said, “We all started somewhere. There was a time when I didn’t know how to walk, but now I can climb up them shrouds with my old deadlights closed. I’ve listened and learned and if you stay close to me, I’ll teach you what it took me years to learn in one journey.”

  “Thanks. I like to learn.”

  Sifting through a different crate, he said, “Good. The men who know everything annoy me. You may as well be dead in the dirt if you think you have it all figured out.” Standing upright, sweatier and out of breath, he huffed, “Now, let’s go topside and I’ll show you around so you at least have a clue about what needs doing afore we get underway. Do you have a knife?”

  “Will this do?” I showed him the knife I had on my belt.

  He nodded, suggesting that I remove the sheath, so I did. Eyeing the blade, he said, “That’s a mighty fine piece of steel. Where did you get it?”

  “I made it myself when I was working as a blacksmith’s apprentice.”

  “Good job.” He handed me a thin strand of rope. “Here, make a lanyard for it. You wouldn’t want to lose that beauty. Plus, you may eventually get caught up in the rigging and could have to cut yourself loose.”

  While hoping I’d never end up in a mess like that, I tied the rope around my belt.

  Once my knife was in place, Barlow handed me a spike. “And here, this will also help if you need
to untie a tight knot or splice a line.”

  Accepting the offer, I asked, “Is there anything else I might need?”

  “Strength, agility, and courage,” he said, then led me down the hall.

  After showing me a couple of the many rooms below, he took me topside and waved his hand around. “Our lovely Autumn Moon is a three-masted barque. As you can see, her sails on the foremast—the front mast—and mainmast—middle—are square, but she’s fore and aft rigged on the mizzen.” He pointed toward the back mast. “Autumn Moon is small enough that her courses and tops need not be split, but big enough to haul a heavy load like the one currently stored in her hold.”

  During the next hour I learned that the front of the ship was called the bow, and the back the stern, and when walking to the stern you could say, going aft, or abaft, and when to the front, fore or forward. The underneath of the wooden hull, from bowsprit to stern, was called the keel, and the rails—where the cannons, or great guns, were positioned—were called gunwales, but they were pronounced gunnels. Here, the walls were called bulkheads, and the stairs and ladders were gangways. The main deck was the biggest flat surface and the quarter deck was the one a step higher up. Some of the ships nearby had higher levels, called poop decks, but not Autumn Moon.

  Just when I thought I had a good grip on the surroundings, he started naming off everything that had to do with the sails and began explaining the meanings of the commands I needed to learn. Already feeling overwhelmed, I was sure I’d forget the names of all the sails, and lose track of the absurd amount of lines used to control them before we even left the dock.

  Taking note of the confusion on my face, Barlow patted my back. “There’s no better teacher than experience and between her and me we’ll have you caught up in no time. Oh, looky here,” he shook my shoulder. “Captain Burton has arrived. The time is now, my fine young gent.”

  Watching Captain Burton scale the gangway—once again wearing dark blue and puffing away at his pipe—I took a deep breath. This was it.

  Sticking his fingers in his mouth, he whistled the way my grandfather used to do to call the dogs in. The sailors came running just the same.

  Once everyone I assumed to be part of the crew was in sight, he called through cupped hands, “Toe the line, men. Toe the line. Day light’s burning and the horizon is calling.”

  Remembering the meaning of the order, I hurried to line up among the row of sailors. Hands at my sides and head held high, I paid close attention as the captain said, “Good morning, men. As you know, this special load of cargo was specifically chosen for our hands and it is with high regard that we transport these important supplies to the newfound English colony on Barbados. Between those who I have sailed with before and those I have not, I am certain that we are capable of the feat and with any luck, we may even show up early.” He drew heavily on his pipe, and then slowly exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. “Now, let’s chase the sun as far as we can before she sets.”

  Before walking away, he nodded to Mister Dabney, who then looked at Boa. “Mister Mills, please take us off the dock.”

  Boa stepped forward and eagerly began shouting orders, “All hands to mooring stations.”

  Four men sprinted from the lineup. Reaching their stations, each man shouted that he was ready.

  With everyone in position, Boa glanced down river, eyed the current, and then commanded them to release the mooring lines.

  As the lines came loose and Autumn Moon drifted free from the dock, Barlow patted my arm. “We’re now underway. Anytime we are free of anchors, sailing or not, it’s considered underway.”

  Noticing how we were already beginning to catch the current, I nodded to show my understanding.

  Barlow grinned. “Now, it’s time to make way.”

  Boa, who had been observing the currents and the winds, stroked the long end of his dark mustache as he looked up to the sails. He appeared to be judging which ones he planned to use. Once he made up his mind, he started pointing at the sails. “Make sail, you dogs! Hands aloft to unfurl the tops and top gallants. Then, cast the fore and be quick about it!”

  I somewhat recognized the names of the sails he mentioned, but being the one novice among a crew of seasoned sailors, I was the only one who didn’t know how to unfurl them. When the other sailors bolted across the deck and took to their stations to make sail, I stood there like an idiot. Luckily, Barlow remembered me. Tugging me along behind him, he said, “Get your arse a moving, boy. Them lines won’t haul themselves.”

  Relieved by his interest in keeping me informed, I listened close as he grabbed onto the windward shrouds. “Rules, always go up windward side.”

  “Is that so you don’t get blown down?” I asked while looking up at the others who were already scaling the hempen ladders with a speed I feared I’d never be able to emulate.

  “Aye, this way, if you get shoved by the wind you’ll fall into the shrouds, not away from them,” he said before swiftly maneuvering his fat arse around the futtocks. The agility in which he did so left me to believe that at least part of the climb would be easy…but it wasn’t. Pulling myself around the lines that were fastened on the outside of the hull, I suddenly felt clumsy and awkward, and feared I would slip and fall into the river.

  My palms—calloused from years of hard work—were now drenched with sweat, and felt slick and smooth over the tarred lines. Gripping on for dear life as sunlight broke through a hole in the clouds—intensifying the heat which had overtaken my body—I did my best to hurry behind the fat man who was shaking the ratlines with the quickness of his steps. And worst of all, the ship was swaying and the wind was blowing atop all these other movements.

  By the sheer will to not be the idiot who plummeted to his death on day one, I made it to the yard. But balancing on the footrope was no better. Slinking across the wobbly rope, I held tight to the yard, sweating, hoping, and even praying that I’d be able to keep my footing. Despite my interest in looking down to see how high I had climbed, I did not look down. Not once.

  Once two men were positioned at each side of each yard, Boa started shouting directions for them to release the sails. I had not learned all the terms, but while doing my best to ignore the immaculate height, I angled my gaze toward Barlow and followed his lead. Step by step, I mirrored his efforts, and tried to match them with all the things Boa was barking about so I could learn what exactly was going on here.

  As soon as the sails were loose at the ends, we let the bunt gasket—the one that holds the center of the sail—go, which allowed the sail to fall from the yard.

  Watching and hearing the heavy canvas sheet come unbound, I felt like I was toppling down within the canvas folds. I struggled to maintain my balance on the teetering footrope as the wind filled the sheet, but as it snapped taut, securing the yard with its force, I braved the nerve to glance below. The sail, full with the misty breeze, was illuminated by golden rays of sunlight. Amazing. Suddenly, I felt like I could have stayed up there all day, eyeing the magnificent sights and feeling the wind on my face while perched at the height of the pelicans flying around the harbor, but we were quickly ordered to return to the deck to finish the job.

  Descending the shrouds and traversing the futtocks was just as tricky and unnerving as it was earlier, maybe even worse while also feeling exhilarated by the success of my first time going aloft. Returning safely to the deck, I watched as the men scattered about, preparing running lines to set the sails, and wondered once again what I should be doing.

  Before I had a chance to ask where I should fit in, Barlow put me to work tailing a line. As I followed his every command, the sailors all around me swarmed like bees, shouting and singing, pulling on lines until the sails above and behind were all full with the morning breeze.

  As we tacked out of the harbor, and began our journey down river, Barlow put his arm over my shoulder and pointed toward the bow. “Why don’t you take your place there at the knighthead, and scan the river for floating objects. There
are many more in a river compared to the ocean.”

  “Knighthead?” I kinked my head to the side.

  “Aye. See that triangular bulkhead just abaft the cutwater, where the bowsprit passes through the bow? Take watch there and keep an eye on the path.”

  “Sounds easy enough.” I nodded.

  “Just don’t get lost in the scenery with them dreamy bright eyes of yours.” He winked at me then shoved me along.

  Walking toward the bow, I realized I had been grinning like a childish fool. Shaking my head, I forced my face into a serious expression as to better fit in among the men, to whom this was just another day at work. But for me, this was the most exciting day of my life!

  Watching the water moving swiftly around the cutwater, and doing my best to keep an eye on the path ahead, I couldn’t help but sneak a peek at the Stone House Inn as we sailed past it. For a brief second, I thought about what a grand time I had there, and how it was a wonderful place to reset my mind frame and transition into this new future. But in a flash, it was behind me, as were the buildings down the road from it. And before long, the whole damn town was but a distant memory.

  Looking forward from the knighthead, no one could see me grinning like a dolt as I scanned the river for obstacles. There were a few times I had to warn the crew to tack around fallen branches or thick and murky gatherings of riverbed debris, but for the most part, I got to admire the scenery along the riverbank. The sun was once again well-hidden behind the cloud cover, and under the grey light of day, the rolling hills covered in green shrubbery and trees reminded me much of the land where I was born and raised. But there was something far more majestic about it while moving swiftly alongside by waterway.

  Once we reached the Bristol Channel, the setting took on a completely unfamiliar look. Across the expanse of water, tall tree-covered mountains framed the shore, and downriver, a few other tall ships were sailing in and out of the channel. Vast and broad, the channel widened bit by bit as we sailed along, shorelines alternating between sea cliffs and beaches backed by sand dunes. Many times in my life, I had been awed by beautiful images in nature—blooming meadows, meandering creeks, and clouds tumbling across the sky—but this was something altogether different. Beyond just being beautiful, it was freeing. The sight and song of the full canvas sails flapping in the breeze above me—as well as on the other ships in the sparkling blue waters of the bay—represented more than just a means of transportation, but signified a life of exploration. This waterway was a passage to the entire world.