As we chugged down the two different types of liquid, Shayne introduced the cooks. Pointing at the leathery skinned, silver haired old man, who was wearing nothing but a loin cloth, he said, “This is Naked. He got his name because he’d be naked if we’d let him. But even us buccaneers need to have some rules.” Shayne chuckled. “Naked is our main cook and somewhat like a mother to us, you’ll see. And that one over there,” he pointed to the dark haired man, who was wearing a fanciful blue coat with white embroidery that was just as dirty as the rug beneath my bare feet, “that’s Renard. He helps Naked get the meals together. They’re matelots. Just about everyone around here has a matelot.”
Eyeing the way Naked was prancing around, filling mugs and pinching cheeks, I winced in confusion. “Matelot?”
Swallowing a sip of rotgut, Shayne said, “Aye. Matelots watch over each other’s belongings and backs. They also get good at loading each other’s pistols when the need for rapid fire occurs. You’d be wise to set up a matelotage if you stay around here long. In fact,” he patted Ziare’s shoulder, “this ox, here, is on the market for a new mate if anyone is interested.”
Ziare flashed a cheeky grin.
Dennel let out a girlish yelp and hid his face.
Everyone’s laughter over Dennel’s reaction allowed us to evade the awkward offer that no one wanted to respond to.
We teased Dennel and joked about other things as Naked and his matelot, Renard, brought out trays of bacon, fruit and eggs. Digging into the meal, our conversation changed from jokes to compliments on the food. The mix of sweet and savory tastes filled my mouth with an explosion of flavor, and stuffed my belly with the greatest sense of satisfaction I’d ever experienced. Coming more alive with each bite, while talking and laughing among the unique hunters who called themselves buccaneers, I thought about what a joy it was indulging in the flavorful treats and plentiful liquids without having to fear death at the bottom of the barrel.
Once our plates were empty and our bellies were full, Burton—who had hardly been able to keep his head up during the meal—passed out face down on the table. Dennel plopped down and started snoring alongside him. While picking up their plates, Naked said, “We need to get these poor dearies to bed.”
As he passed the scraps to the mutineers, I said, “That would be nice and thank you for feeding us so well.”
I was simply being polite, but his blushing cheeks proved that he took the words to heart. The skinny sack of bones rubbed the back of his wrinkly hand on my cheek and hummed, “You’re welcome, handsome.”
Stunned by his gesture, I jerked my head away from his paw and furrowed my brows.
Naked giggled at my reaction as he picked up my plate, completely ignoring my discomfort and the way Renard was now glaring at me. His hateful expression led me to believe he thought it was my fault that his matelot was flirting with me. What a strange day this was.
Snapping at Renard to break his gaze, Shayne said to me, “Don’t worry about Renard. He hates all of us a bit because Naked loves us all so much, some more than others.” He pointed at me like I was now one in that favored category.
I had no idea how to respond.
Observing my abashed expression, Shayne added, “I know Naked’s behavior can be a bit alarming, but he means no harm. In fact, he’s one of the nicest blokes you’ll ever meet. And the fact that he likes men doesn’t change that. See, with the lack of women, some of these men…how shall I say it…they now sail up the Windward Passage to satisfy their needs. But Naked, ah, I think he’s been that way all his life. Don’t you worry none about that, though. The ones who swing that way learn real quick who doesn’t, and no one will bother you if you don’t. But likewise, don’t bother them if they do. We’re all free and equal around here, no matter how we like our meat cooked.” He laughed at his wording, then took a chug of rotgut. “As for me, I’ll wait for the women.”
“And what a great shame that is,” Naked said as he returned with a smile. He set a bowl in front of Shayne. “I made your favorite custard for dessert.”
As Shayne thanked Naked, Barlow interrupted, “Wait for the women? Are you expecting women?” His tongue was hanging out like a thirsty dog’s.
As Naked served us each a bowl of custard, Shayne explained, “Hopefully. We had a few for a while; we bought them at the last trade fair. But them damn Spaniards took them all the last time they tried to chase us out of here.” He shook his head.
Ziare added, “They didn’t just take them, they killed them, brutally. Including the one that was with child.”
Dropping Shayne’s empty custard bowl for the mutineers to lick clean, Renard said, “They killed a great deal of our good men, as well.”
Naked started to cry. “And they chained our dogs to a pole and set them all on fire.”
Renard rushed over to hug Naked as he cried.
Looking straight at me, Naked wept, “They are terrible men, who do terrible things to good people. And if you think you want to stay here you must be ready to fight.”
Renard held Naked tighter as he looked into my eyes and firmly stated, “Yes. As long as you are here, eating and drinking with us, you must be willing to defend the good things we all share.”
Unconcerned with Renard’s unwelcoming tone, I took another bite of the tasty custard and easily agreed, “As long as you keep feeding me like this, I’ll fight on the front lines of any war you might wage.”
Barlow and Peck raised their mugs and rang them together as they agreed. After taking a massive chug of rotgut, Barlow asked, “How often do the Spanish come around?”
Shayne answered, “It varies. A good three months have passed since their last visit. But see, they think they own this island—as well as the rest of the Caribbean turf. So, every now and then they come back, trying to fight us for what they think is theirs. There’s no telling when they will show up next.”
“But no matter when it is, we’ll be ready for it.” Ziare pounded his fist on the table.
“And we will fight to the death to defend this land.” Renard growled.
Shayne sat back, looking proud. “That’s right. Here we have no king and the only law we answer to is that of our own. Each of us has our story—most of them aren’t pretty—and we’ve claimed this little piece of land where we can be ourselves without our past social statuses, race, or even religion holding us down.
After tasting freedom and true equality, we will give all to defend the land that supports the lifestyle we love so dearly. For a life short and merry is better than a long life of shame and pain.”
The buccaneers all cheered. Ringing their mugs together, they started singing songs about the life they loved. The passion and pride upholding their jolly hoots got me thinking about the tales I’d heard about pirate captain Levi Huxley. Those inspiring epics were things I had only heard about, whereas Shayne Jackson, The White Devil of Ireland, was sitting right across from me, living the type of life I had dreamed of since I had first heard that such ideals existed.
As the greater number of buccaneers began clearing out of the tent, Shayne said to me, “We lost a few men during that last Spanish invasion and we have more barbacoas—that’s the native word for our style of shack—than men at this time. One of them is big enough to fit your group. We also have a healer who can help tend to all of your wounds. As for payment, if you’re inclined to stay among us, all you have to do is pull your own weight and treat everyone fair. In exchange, we have a nice place, good food and decent company, for the most part.”
Knowing we had no better choices available to us at this time, I made the decision for our group. The White Devil of Ireland and I shook hands.
Walking toward the far-east end of the camp, I dragged the prisoners by their rope as Barlow and Peck helped Burton. Reaching the barbacoa—built on stilts, thatched with palm fronds and neatly shaded under the canopy of trees—Shayne pulled back the flap and said, “The five of you can call this home as long as you wish. As for your priso
ners, I’m sure you don’t want them wandering around causing trouble. We have some stocks we could lock them up in, if you’d like.”
As Barlow helped the captain into the barbacoa, I looked at Peckadennel’s battered faces, and thought about the fight that ended them up in that shape. Next, I eyed the cuts and bruises on the faces of the mutineers, marked with the scars my men inflicted upon them in order to save our own lives. Thinking of how different this day would be had they won that fight and left us behind, I said, “Aye. Lock them up.”
Rupert started to twitch and whine, while Smedley began grumbling in complaint. Annoyed by their bickering, I shouted at them both, “That’s enough. You asked for this and you will take—”
“I’m not taking anything!” Smedley barked. “You can kill me if you want to but I’m not getting locked in the stocks.”
Hating the way his filthy face winced as he shouted, I wanted nothing more than to punch him, but I didn’t want to disrespect Shayne’s camp. I looked to him as if to ask for approval. He took a step back. “He’s your prisoner, mate. Deal with him as need be.”
“I’m not your prisoner,” Smedley screeched at me. “We are Burton’s prisoners and he’d never treat us as brutally as you do. You’re just a stupid deckhand whose head is getting bigger and bigger with power and I won’t do what you say.”
Stepping toward him, I growled, “That’s enough, Smedley. You know the truth and don’t forget it.”
“The truth?” he squawked. “The truth is that you’re a tyrant and…and you’re…” Realizing a crowd had drawn in, he looked to the buccaneers as if to convince them of his case. “He killed the ships bosun! He smashed his face in with a rock and now he’s wearing his tooth on a chain. He is a monster who cannot be trusted!”
Catching glimpses of distrust on the buccaneer’s faces—recognizing a few as the ones who appeared displeased upon our entrance—I realized how much this moment mattered. I was in a new place, around new, dangerous people and how I dealt with my mouthy prisoner would affect my place among this group from this day forward.
Acting as if it were Smedley and I alone in the world, I looked in his eyes. “I’ll give you one chance to get your wits about you, Smedley. Stop this now and accept your due punishment or I will force you to accept it.”
“Force me?” he screamed, and then shouted to the audience, “See? This man is one of the unfair rulers you fight against! He will—”
“I will follow through with my threats.” I grabbed him by the collar and dunked his face into the nearby water barrel. Ignoring the sounds of the crowd that was now wild with hissing and booing, I held him stiff until I was certain he had learned his lesson. Lifting him up—getting splashed by the water he was shaking off of his head as he gasped for air—I was abashed to hear him cursing more.
I dunked him again.
While he kicked and flailed under my hands, I asked Rupert, “Are you going to take your punishment, or do I need to dunk you, too?”
“I’ll take my punishment. “He started walking toward the stocks, but got snagged on the ankle rope and fell. The connected rope yanked on Smedley’s legs as I lifted him again. He was still wailing accusatory shouts.
Gripping my hand painfully tight in his hair, I roared, “As soon as you shut your mouth, I’ll stop.”
He did not shut his mouth.
I forced him back under.
While considering that I may have to drown him to prove my point, I felt him slap my arm. Hoping that was a sign of surrender, I pulled him up. This time he was quiet. “Are you done making a fool of yourself, now?”
He nodded yes. Pushing him back with his group—where Barlow swiftly roped his hands, I then pointed at Tennison. “And you?”
He stared me in the eyes. Shoulders straight and head level, he said, “I will accept my punishment, sir.”
Thinking back on all the things I knew about the helmsman, I said, “I don’t trust you, and I don’t like you, but for some reason I see you differently than them. So, if you’re interested, I’ll give you a chance to work as our servant until further notice.”
His pathetic expression led me to believe he didn’t see himself as worthy of the pardon. But he agreed to take it.
Pointing at his chest, I said, “If you prove me wrong for allowing you this freedom, you’ll wish I had left you back on that deserted island to starve to death.”
“I will not let you down, sir.” He nodded.
Now that the prisoners were under control, Barlow and I led them to the stocks. While opening the wooden clamps, I spoke to the buccaneers, “With that out of the way, I’ll have you know that Markus Smedley is right. I killed the ship’s bosun, my weapon was a rock, and I am indeed wearing that bastard’s tooth on my chain. But what Mister Smedley failed to mention is the reason I did it. See, after the shipwreck, the bosun and these men tried to sabotage our survival plans. Like spineless leaches, they crept upon our camp in the night, and attempted to steal the raft we built to get us here.”
With all eyes on me, I locked Smedley’s limp and wet body in the stocks. “These filthy pirates planned to leave us to face the death we had worked so hard to escape, but we caught them in the act and fought to defend what was rightfully ours. Every stab wound and bruise you see on our bodies were earned during a fight for our lives. And as you see now, my men and I won that war.
So, Markus Smedley, Mark Rupert, and Henry Tennison are Captain James Burton’s prisoners for that reason. And while the captain is healing, I am the one who will be overseeing their punishment.” I wiped the sweat from my brow. “If any of you have any questions, my name is Mason Bentley.”
Chapter 15
Boar’s Blood
July 30th, 1641
After packing my supplies and preparing my weapons for the boar hunt we will set out on at dawn, I am now sitting by the light of the campfire, writing in my personal journal. Just this afternoon, I traded Boa’s knife to Naked in exchange for this book and the colorful quill I am writing with. I couldn’t be more pleased with the trade. Being how I spent the month at camp making spears and arrows for hunting, I am well armed with plenty of primitive weapons, and I figured the book would be far more useful to me than the secondary knife would have been.
In this book I plan to record the details of our time here, the details I cannot share in the logbook that will one day be handed over to the shipping company. Starting with my thoughts about Boa’s death…In my mind, I have many times relived vile visuals of killing him, But, for some reason I am not tormented by these memories like I was after my first kill. In that case, the problem went unresolved. Taking that rich man’s life was not enough to save my sister from the torment he inflicted upon her spirit. The vengeance had and always will sit unsettled on my heart. With Boa, his death not only ridded the world of a tyrant but saved the lives of good men. That outcome was something I could live with, and in ways, I had learned to embrace.
With him out of the way, we were able to leave his island and row across shark infested waters to take refuge on this Spanish island, which turned out to be a mighty good thing. Within the month we have spent here among the buccaneers, our bellies have been full of good food and our spirits wild with adventure. Tending the crops, hunting for boar, and exploring the island, reminds me of my better days as a child in the English countryside. Only here, the weather is much hotter than it was in England, there are more biting bugs than I have witnessed in my lifetime, and the boar are far more ferocious than the deer I used to hunt with my grandfather. But the buccaneers…they are incomparable to anything I have ever seen before.
Crude, filthy, and jolly, these men answer to no king and pay no tax on the land or their labors. Everything they earn is their very own and is shared equally among them. The White Devil of Ireland speaks as their leader for the most part, and has been the one to defuse any disputes that have arisen between them, but his opinions are no stronger than those of the group. They debate and discuss matters at hand a
nd come to agreement by a simple show of hands.
By the looks of this mangy lot of unkempt hunters, one would never expect them to hold themselves together so successfully. But here, on the northern shore of Hispaniola, I have learned that mankind does not need a king to keep order, in fact, they seem to operate better without one.
August 3rd, 1641
We spent the last two days hiking into the island’s interior, and have now stopped by a shade covered stream to gather water and cool ourselves in the pool. Taking a moment for myself while the men splash around, I’ve decided to write a bit about this adventure. Being how Burton still needs some time to heal, he stayed back at camp with Barlow and Tennison, so only Peckadennel and I were able to make this trip with the buccaneers. The three of us have enjoyed the company, as well as the scenery, and have taken great interest in the buccaneer’s tales about their experiences with the boars that inhabit this mountainous isle.
Apparently, the rugged hog’s skulls are so thick that musket balls and spears can bounce off them, and their moods are so foul they occasionally charge at and chase men up trees, gouging their feet with their tusks. Also, there were plenty of tales told about loyal hunting hounds that were mauled or killed by the boars during the attacks, and worst of all, there were a few cases where the hogs killed men. After having witness the hogs in action myself, I believe every word of these seemingly exaggerated tales, and now know that I need to be ready for anything.
X
Our team of hunters divided into smaller groups and parted ways at sunrise. Now, in the heat of the day, the small group I was assigned to made way under a canopy of trees along the northern slope of a rocky hillside.
King of My Nightmare (King of My Nightmare, Book 1): Endless Horizon Pirate Stories Page 23