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

by Cristi Taijeron

  Suddenly feeling haunted by the nightmarish visions my wandering mind had conjured up, I shook my head and looked away, choosing to observe Rupert instead. The way he had been talking to himself all day assured me that he’d lost his mind entirely. His insolent ramblings got me thinking about how close I was to crossing the bridge to insanity, myself. Worst of all—due to where and how Barlow had stabbed him during the fight—his loose lip was flapping as he mumbled to himself.

  He had become so busy fidgeting and mumbling that his oar was hardly digging into the sea at all. In between the orders Barlow was barking at him and Smedley, I heard what he was saying. “No good. No good. Boa said…” his voice lowered. I tried to watch his mouth but his wound, caked in blood and pus, was more than I could bear. As I looked away, his volume arose a bit. “Boa said we’d die out here without him. We’re going to die out here tonight…”

  “Quit that rambling, Rupert,” I barked at him.

  His eyes widened so greatly that the whites beamed blue in the moonlight. “Don’t kill me. Please don’t kill me, Bentley.”

  “If I wanted you dead, I would have killed you already.” I shook my head. “But I didn’t let you live so you could rest at ease. You two are our prisoners and you will work to compensate for the work we put in on this raft while you were plotting to rob it from us, like goddamn pirates.”

  Rupert hushed up and they got back to rowing at a reasonable speed.

  In the newfound peace and quiet, where progress was being made, Barlow looked at me and said, “How was your nap?”

  Stretching out my arms, I yawned, “Awful, bloody awful.”

  “Maybe this will help cheer you up.” He reached into his pocket. “I’ve been thinking, it’s high time you claim your trophy, Master Bentley.”

  As he shuffled around in the wet fabric of his torn breeches, I let out a delirious chuckle. “Trophy? Ah, don’t tell me you kept it.”

  “Somehow, the sea didn’t get her claws on this.” He handed me Boa’s tooth, which he had drilled and hung on a string of hemp.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Of course, the prisoners saw no such humor in the situation, Smedley least of all. Not at all liking the way he was looking at me, I snapped, “Get that hateful glare off of me and put some force on that oar.”

  Rowing along, Barlow chortled, “Aye, and do it handsomely, afore Bentley slaps you with it, again.”

  While Barlow and I laughed at his comment, Smedley huffed under his breath and flashed a defiant smirk, as if he were tempting me to try it.

  Accepting my hard earned prize from Barlow, I adorned the necklace, charmed with the tooth of my defeated enemy, and glared at his surviving arse wart, Smedley. “Wipe that smirk off of your ugly face or I’ll rip your teeth out one by one and add them to the chain.”

  As if he had never had an adverse thought, he looked away and kept a rowing.

  Shaking his head as he laughed, Barlow said, “Looks good on you. And it’ll remind them plenty well to watch their mouths and their minds when you’re near.”

  “Good thinking. I’ve had enough of both already.”

  “I’m sure you’ve had enough of a lot of things. We all have. But you have had less sleep and have done more work than all of us. I think you ought to lie down and try to get some rest. I’ll see us through the night while you’re out.”

  Trusting him to keep a good watch, I once again wrapped the strap of my sailcloth bag around my arm, laid down on my belly in a saltwater puddle, and took deep, calming breaths until I fell asleep.

  X

  Wake up, Bentley, wake up.” Barlow shook my shoulder, awakening me from my restless slumber. “I told you I’d see us through the night.”

  Opening my dry and heavy eyes, and feeling every aching pain of the stab wounds and bruises on my body, I sat up and looked around. Sunlight was coloring the sky, and the bright morning light showed just how close we had come to the island. From this distance, I could see the definition of the trees covering the mountain that allured me in this direction. Best of all, between two high and mighty peaks, was a river. A river flowing with so much water that it had, over time, carved out a deep and winding crevice that split the mountain in two. “Water.” I heaved, my dry mouth struggling to form the word.

  Everyone who had been sleeping sat up and started drooling like dogs while staring at the abundance of life giving liquid. Rejuvenated by hope and the desire to drink without regard, we all worked together to get our raft to shore as soon as possible.

  In what seemed like no time at all, we rowed up to a sheltered cove, just west of the river mouth. We all leapt over the ledge of the raft and into the waist deep water and dragged our life saving raft—with the captain still in it—onto the shore.

  Once the raft was anchored to the massive tree shading the west end of the cove, we all jumped and hugged and patted each other’s backs. We had made it. By God, we made it.

  Not liking how the prisoners were just as joyous as the rest of us, while Captain Burton was laid up on the raft, unable to move without reopening his wound, I called out their names, “Rupert, Tennison, Smedley. Lineup.”

  They did. Staring them down, I stroked the length of my tangled goatee, and said to the captain, “We can’t just let these fools roam free. What do you want done with your prisoners?”

  Sitting up, looking pained and once again bleeding from his wound, he grumbled, “Tie them together. I don’t have the energy to walk, let alone drag those dogs by their leash. You need to keep a hold of the rope so they can’t flee.” He coughed, and then started to gag, which quickly led to vomiting. As I rushed to his assistance, he mumbled between heaves, “Consider them your prisoners for now, Bentley. I trust you to keep them contained.”

  While holding his long hair back as he vomited, I agreed to take command while he was down.

  I could tell the prisoners were alarmed by my newly appointed leadership, and it was apparent that they wanted to dispute, but they didn’t.

  Barlow tied them together.

  Once I was done helping Burton, I tightened the sashes I had wrapped around my horrific stab wounds. My body ached everywhere, but there was no time to rest. For now, I donned my baldric, stashed my sword in its scabbard and then loaded my belt with my axe, my knife, and the knife I claimed from Boa—the knife he had hoped to kill me with.

  Once we were all loaded with our weapons and tools, and done eating our handful of limes, I reminded the men, “Remember the fire we saw? There are people on this shore and we can’t get too comfortable until we know who we are dealing with. Keep your mouths shut, eyes wide, ears open, and weapons at the ready.”

  They all nodded to agree.

  Quietly, we headed down the beach and toward the river that lie on the eastern side of the shrubs ahead of us. The prisoners hauled the barrel, while Barlow held onto their rope, and Peckadennel carried the captain as I guided them all through the shrubs. The growth was dense on the way to the river, but through the thicket I could hear water rushing over rocks and around branches. Soon, it would be flowing down my throat.

  Using my sword to hack through the branches blocking the path, I thought of how exhausting this chore would be had there not been such a treat awaiting us at the other end. Yet, no matter how excited I became, I never once forgot about the possible threats that lie ahead. Clearing the shrubs at the edge of the bank overlooking the river, I traded in my sword for my axe. I was more confident in my use of it if we did encounter the need for weapons, and held it tight as we tromped down the sandy path that led us to the beach along the shore.

  As far as I could tell, there was no one in sight. But the moment we started setting up the filter, an unfamiliar voice proved me wrong. “Avast, intruders. Stop where you stand.”

  In a split second, I realized there was a band of armed men hiding in every shrub and tree around us. These were men of varying colors, wearing many different styled outfits, and were armed with a vast array of weapons.

  A f
ew feet upriver, at the center of the volatile welcoming party, stood a man with brown hair—tangled in matted braids—draped over the shoulder of his vest that appeared to be made of hog skins. His icy blue eyes were fierce and mean like a wicked winter frost, and his crooked scowl was as gangly as the animal tusks he had woven into the necklace and bracelets he wore. As if his stance was not threatening enough, he wore a baldric with five pistols across his chest, and brandished a giant sword that looked like it once belonged to a Viking. “Lay down your weapons, every one of them, or my lot and I’ll lay them down for you,” he snarled, his men echoing his blood hungry growl.

  Being fiercely outnumbered, we had no choice but to halt, but I refused to lower my weapon as I spoke for my group, “We don’t want any trouble.”

  “Then state your business, quickly.” He twisted the hilt of his fearsome blade.

  Standing my ground, I explained, “We barely survived a shipwreck, and rowed our half-dead bodies across the bay in search of food and water. It’d be one shitten tale if we did all that just to end up as another bone on your attire.”

  The corner of his mouth—mostly hidden beneath the hairs of his thick and long facial hair—curled into a tricky smile.

  Breathing in deeply, ready to fight to the death with this savage jungle man and his tribe, I was surprised to hear him say, “Aye, mate. A sheer shame that would be. But on the count you be brave enough to make light of your own deaths, I’ll consider letting you eat and drink with us. What do you say, boys?” He looked to his men.

  A few of them huffed, appearing uneasy about us, but the leader spoke on our behalf, “Look at them, they are too beat to be a threat and if you can recall, the lot of us weren’t in much better a shape when we arrived here, either.” Stroking his beard, the leader said, “State your votes, men.”

  They all grumbled amongst themselves, as if remembering their own arrivals to this strange place. By a show of hands, the majority agreed to welcome us in.

  I heard my men release the breaths they’d been holding. As for me, after facing such a horrendous threat it took me a moment longer to lower my axe. Once I did, the leader walked toward me, casually, and stuck out his hand. “Shayne Jackson, The White Devil of Ireland.”

  As I reached in for the shake, I realized that he rivaled me in height, which was rare, especially considering that I seem to have grown more since leaving England. “Mason Bentley.” I chuckled, “I don’t have any flashy appendages to go along with my name, though.”

  “Not yet you don’t. But you keep greeting armed tribes with that much courage in your stance and you’ll have a legend of your own in no time.” The White Devil patted my back, then looked to the war painted and devilishly dark skinned young man standing at his side. “You see, Ziare, I told you they weren’t going to bring us trouble.”

  I had never seen a man with skin so dark. Judging by the tales I’d heard about African slaves, I assumed Ziare to be African, but his image was far more fearsome than what my imagination had conjured up about his kind. He looked to be about my age, but was even taller than The White Devil of Ireland, and dressed just as uniquely, which made him all the more threatening as he squinted angrily at his leader and stuck out his hand as if he were awaiting payment.

  Shayne rolled his eyes, then pulled a brass spyglass out of his duffle and handed it to Ziare.

  Sticking the fine tool in one of his many rawhide belts, Ziare said, “You take my spyglass again, and I will bring you trouble.”

  I hardly wanted to imagine the kind of trouble a man like him could bring.

  Shayne grinned as he clapped Ziare’s shoulder. “What’s between you and I can wait. For now, let’s show our guests to camp.” He returned his attention to me. “Come along. We have barrels full of filtered water and breakfast meat roasting over a hearty flame.”

  Meat…the mere thought of my teeth tearing through muscle and ripping tendons from the bone caused my mouth to water and my gut to wretch. Resisting my urge to drool and groan like a starved animal, I simply nodded. “We’d be pleased to join you. But we don’t expect a thing for free and will work for whatever you are willing to share.”

  Appearing to be pleased by my response, Shayne said, “There’s plenty to be done and plenty to eat. I’m sure we’ll come to a fair agreement.” He started walking the rocky path that led upstream.

  Ready as ever to eat and drink among these unusual men, but too wise to trust them completely, we followed them upstream in good spirits but with wide eyes.

  Reaching a spot where the river widened, and therefore shallowed, we waded across the rocky riverbed, then headed down a well-worn sandy path that led toward a grove of trees. Along the way, I noticed the path was heavy with dog paw prints, as well as the marks of many bare feet. While chatting and joking with Shayne and his men, I saw that most of them were indeed barefooted, but none were anywhere near as bothered as I was by the pebbles and sticks I occasionally stepped on.

  Some of the men had been wise enough to make sandals out of what appeared to be hemp and boar hides, and I decided I would do whatever needed to be done to get something like that on my feet.

  Entering the canopy of trees, I welcomed the way the hot air cooled and moistened. While sniffing out the fragrant fruits and flowers, I quickly caught a whiff of cooking meat. Meat. Just as I thought of how I couldn’t wait to eat, we entered the clearing that housed their camp.

  Opening his arms, and waving them around, The White Devil of Ireland said, “Welcome to our piece of paradise.”

  Though his greeting was grand, the space was not. The flat and treeless area atop a bluff, overlooking the bay we rowed in from, was surrounded by raised shacks and filled with filthy men, flea-bitten dogs, and smoke. There was so much smoke rising from the green leaves burning in the massive fire pit in the center and the few others scattered about that I became so hot I started feeling ill. Worse yet were the flies. There were rotting carcasses littered about the outskirts of the clearing, beckoning the ungodly amount of flying bugs that the billowing smoke seemed to be chasing away.

  Figuring I’d rather face the smoke than the flies, I wandered closer to the unbearable heat of the fire as we followed Shayne through camp. The men sitting around, sharpening knives, playing cards, and tending to the meat, all stopped what they were doing and watched us with suspicious eyes as we passed.

  “Don’t worry about these ones,” Shayne said. “So far, we like them. And this one,” he playfully punched my shoulder, “I reckon he’d make a mighty fine buccaneer.”

  Some seemed eased by his mention, while others continued with their menacing scowls. Not wanting to appear threatening or afraid, I ignored them altogether and asked Shayne, “What is a buccaneer?”

  “Ah, the few in the world who know of us, know us as buccaneers. We’re hunters, and the way the natives taught us to cook our meat has earned us the title.” He carried on with a well worded speech that was quite contrary to his rugged appearance. “See, the Spanish have a town on the southern shore and their livestock—boar and cattle—spread out and flourished in the jungle. Taking advantage of the resources, we make leather of their hides, weapons of the tusks, and have a special way of cooking the meat.”

  He stopped and tapped one of the wooden stakes forming a V shaped frame over one of the many shallow fire pits. “This here is a boucan. We gather sticks from the nearby trees and make these frames where we lay the slabs of meat to cure over the smoke. The smoke cooks it slowly, therefore keeping it moist and chewy for much longer than simply salting it. Adding herbs and spices gives it a unique flavor, not only for our own tastes, but to better allure the merchants who sail in every now and then to trade supplies for the highly desired boucan, made by us, the buccaneers.”

  Smoke blew into my widening eyes as my mind wandered into the possibilities of finding the right ship to take us back to England. Not wanting to sound uninterested in the boucan, because I was definitely interested, I praised the buccaneers for their eff
orts, then inquired about the passing ships. “Where do these merchant traders come from?”

  Shayne answered, “All over the place. French, Dutch, and sometimes English smugglers sail in with various goods to exchange for our meat, sugar, and tobacco. Every now and then it turns out to be an outright fair.”

  “A fair, huh? That sounds fun. We need to get back to England as soon as possible. Maybe one of those ships could help to get us there.”

  “Eh, you stick around here for a bit and you’ll never again want to step foot under a king’s rule.” He bumped me with his elbow. “But that’s enough talking about kings and food. Let’s go eat like kings.”

  Agreeing to move along, we followed him into the largest tent. Accepting his welcome, we sat along the benches lining one of the four long, wooden tables. Smedley, Rupert, and Tennison stood there, looking at me as if to ask if they could sit as well. Shayne squinted at them, then looked back at me. “Do you feed your prisoners?”

  Feeling unwarranted pity for the starved and battered followers of my slain enemy, I said, “Ah, they don’t deserve to eat the scraps from beneath our table, but I’ll let them do just that today. It’d be best to keep them strong enough to be able to paddle us around on our raft again if need be.”

  Laughing at my comment, Shayne shooed the prisoners into the far corner of the tent where a pack of dogs were scratching themselves and gnawing on old bones. As the mutineers accepted their place, I squinted at them as if to remind them how lucky they were to be granted a seat among the mutts. All but Smedley looked to be thankful.

  Once everyone was seated—my men and a handful of buccaneers—an old fellow and a dark haired young man started serving us mugs of water and a liquor they called rotgut. They were speaking to each other in what sounded like French, but in English they explained to us that the rotgut was made up of fermented fruit from the island. Rotgut was horrible to the taste, but the buzz instantly overtook my mind and made it easier to swallow thereafter.