He looked me straight in the eyes. “Listen, Mason. I’m going to tell you two things right now, and I want you to promise me you’ll holdfast to them both.”
Trusting his good words and solid opinion, I easily nodded to state my promise.
“All right. For one, no more calling me captain. We don’t have a ship, and you’ve been leading us since we wrecked Autumn Moon. I respect the way you care for your men and I trust you to make the right decisions concerning their wellbeing.
Next, regarding this mission, you’ve gotten me farther than I ever would have gotten without your help, and I can never truly repay you for that. But from this moment on, I want you to stop worrying about me. I’ve seen you enjoying yourself among these rogues, working the fields and sharing in their brew. You’re a young man who has his whole life ahead of him, and you’ve done enough worrying about a dried up ol’ log like me. So, enjoy the experiences you are having here.” He bumped me with his elbow. “The ones you can’t write about in this logbook. Because I assure you, Mason Bentley, I will get home. Even if I have to swim there with my one good arm.”
He patted my back with that arm.
“We have an accord,” I agreed, but in my heart I knew I would still do whatever I could to help him when the time arose. Regardless of what was to come, I decided that I would indeed enjoy my time here, and filled a mug with rotgut to begin the night’s celebrations.
Chapter 16
Fine by Me
September 15th, 1641
The last few weeks have been spent celebrating my newfound freedom. Yes, there was work to be done—meat to cook, and always something to fix or build around camp—but among all my chores, I found the option to choose my day’s activities quite liberating. Each morn I arose from my hammock, unsure of what lie ahead. Over rotgut and bacon I could decide if I felt like having another swordfight lesson with Shayne, or working on the canoe I’d been building with Ziare, or maybe I might want to practice swimming with Barlow in the pond. For the most part, I found myself in the garden, learning from Taino how to best tend to the crops in this climate.
Taino is native to this island, so the buccaneers call him by the name of the tribe he once was a part of. I heard that he had, at one point been enslaved by the Spanish, but somehow escaped their clutches and ended up here. Like most of the buccaneers, he did not tell the story of how he broke free, but during our days in the garden, he told me these wise words that I will not forget, “If a man worries too much about my past, he will miss out on my future, as well as the good tobacco I grow.”
And he sure grew some good tobacco.
Not many of the men were interested in farming, but I was, so Taino took me under his wing and taught me the ways in which his people utilized this land over the centuries. Long ago, they began raising their crops in a large mound which was packed with leaves to protect from soil erosion and fixed a variety of crops to assure that something would grow, no matter the weather conditions. This method of farming required very little work. While the men thought we were slaving away to bring them corn, squash, bananas, beans, peppers, sweet potatoes, yams, peanuts, cotton, and tobacco, we were mostly lazing around in the fields smoking Spanish cigarros.
Taino taught me how to roll the leaves and stuff them with herbs and spices to make the most flavorful smoke. He was stingy with this recipe, and insisted that I tell no one else what he had taught me, but assured me that I’d be wise to make and trade these flavorful treats with passing ships. If a ship would ever show up, I surely would.
October 7th, 1641
Ziare has taken a liking to me, and while carving the bow of our new canoe last week, he referred to me as his matelot. Being how we’d spent every day together—sweating over the smoke of the boucan and building what would soon be the best canoe on the island—I figured this dynamic had taken place, no matter what anyone wanted to call it.
As of yet, Ziare had shown himself to be a solid young man, who had no tolerance for weakness and had a way of making me laugh, which made everyday chores all the more enjoyable. Since Peckadennel always had each other, and Barlow had become Burton’s left-hand man, I figured I’d be well off with a man like Ziare watching my back and my belongings. Our ‘matelotage’ is strictly based on friendship, and a mighty good friendship it is.
October 27th, 1641
The canoe is complete! Ziare and I named her Eraiza Lace, after each of our sisters, whom we both lost during our tragic past lives. The dugout log that I had carved the name into, was slick, well balanced, quick to maneuver, and made for a rather comfortable journey around the coast.
Just today, as we rode along the shore, fishing and bird hunting, I asked Ziare if I could use his beloved spyglass. He willingly shared the piece that he was otherwise so possessive of. With it, I gazed around the horizon, and secretively peered in the direction of Boa Constrictor Island. From where I sat, the tiny speck on the ocean was nowhere in sight. But I knew right where it was. Eventually, I would find a way back to that dreadful place to gather the captain’s cargo…which led me to a thought. Since arriving here, I had heard many tales about how the buccaneers—in hard times—had indeed raided passing Spanish ships from canoes much like Eraiza Lace. I did not believe such a thing was possible when Boa mentioned it, but now, living among the people he was referring to, I began seeing the possibilities. And if need be, perhaps we could do something like that to capture a ship of our own to take Burton home.
October 31st, 1641
Among the many things I’ve come to love about my life here on Hispaniola, I might have to say I enjoy nightly readings the best. It started by me following through with my promise to teach Dennel to read. While I showed him the words in my Bible, others drew in to join the lessons, including Joshua, who was eager to learn more about the book he had nearly memorized. Before long, I was reading nightly tales to the largely illiterate group, and had begun teaching a few eager listeners how to read and write.
Getting to know these buccaneers as the men they were—behind the scars they bore and the shields they wore to protect from their painful pasts—I began spiting the worlds that had thrown them out, and ruing the rulers that had held them as prisoners or slaves. These buccaneers were good men, who each had skills and talents to offer, and had proven themselves capable of upholding sound positions in a society where they were respected. Hell, even our prisoners, who we fed well and offered a fair amount of personal freedoms, were cooperating and aiding to the overall success of our tribe. As the good book says, God created us in his likeness, and under his grace we are one. And as one, we can accomplish a great many things.
X
Dipping my head into a water barrel, I reveled in the way the tepid liquid cooled my overheated body. I’d spent the warm November morning drinking rotgut with Ziare, and it felt like I was sweating fermented fruit through my tallow coated pores. And that was no good. The smugglers had finally arrived and I wanted to clean myself up a bit for the trade fair festivities.
Lifting my head and whipping my long, wet hair back so that the trail of water sprayed off and all over the playing hounds, I hooted, “Damn, that felt good.”
“The dogs thought so, too.” Ziare laughed at the dog’s wagging tails, and then splashed them again before dipping his own head.
While Ziare had only dipped his head to cool down, I began rubbing my face in an attempt to remove the remains of paint from my skin. The paint, being lard based, had seeped into my pores and was not easy to break loose. I used an old rag to scrub off what I could remove. Once most traces of filth were gone to the touch, my face felt raw.
Finally feeling somewhat clean, I ran my hands through my long goatee—or, tried to. The brittle hairs were tangled into matted locks, and my hair was in no better of shape. I hadn’t had a comb for so long, and hadn’t cared to, but the thought of coming into contact with the outside world got me thinking about what a disaster I had become. Moreover, I had planned to arrange a worthy sail home for Burt
on if possible, and figured I’d be taken more seriously by the sea captains if I put a little effort into my appearance.
Regardless of who I might meet or what trades I might make—for my portion of the boucan as well as for the Spanish cigarros I had spent so much time rolling—it was high time I address the mangled wad of locks resting atop my itchy head. Using the short cutlass I skinned boar hides with, I sliced my locks until I was able to run my hands through the strands of hair without getting snagged. Even though I had long awaited this length of a goatee, I decided to trim it, as well. As nature had it, my cheeks between my sideburns and goatee stayed bare, so I only needed to run the blade across my chin and upper lip.
Feeling somewhat presentable with my face washed and shaven and hair shorter than it had ever been, I pulled out the waistcoat I kept clean and neat inside of my sea bag and put it on.
As I fastened the buttons, Barlow and Burton came walking over, Rupert and Smedley in tow. Eyeing my appearance, Barlow said, “Well, don’t you look royal, Master Bentley.”
“Feel it, too.” I slapped my clean and shaven jaw.
Reapplying his face paint, Ziare said, “Aye, who is this fop that stepped into my mate’s place?”
Burton sat down on a log and complimented, “Ah, I think you look great, Bentley.”
“Thanks, Burton.” I grinned. While tying my sashes around my waist, I teased the others. “As for you two, poke fun of me all you want. You’re just lucky you don’t have to look at yourselves. And in case you were wondering, you both look like piles of boar shit. Especially you, Barlow. What the hell happened to your face, anyhow?”
While locking Rupert and Smedley in the stocks—so that they wouldn’t try to escape or mutineer with any of the smugglers—Barlow said, “I fell asleep by the pond, face up. My wet skin boiled and blistered like a damn egg in a pan. And then I tripped and hit my face on a rock. Damn rotgut.” He shook his head.
Burton started cleaning his gun. “Aye. That devilish brew rots your brains as much as your guts.”
Ziare kinked his big ol’ head to the side. “You don’t drink, Burton?”
“Not rotgut.” Burton laughed. “But ale, ah, that’s another story. In fact, I reckon you jovial young lads ought to bring this old man a pitcher afore the day is through.”
After finishing his last sip of the devilish rotgut, Ziare belched, “I’m in need of ale myself. I’ll go get more and bring you some.”
Burton thanked him as he headed toward the trade fair.
“You’re not going to the fair, Burton?” I asked while sticking my pistols in my sashes.
“I already walked the aisles and paid a large sum of coin to get myself this new toy to play with.” He ran his hand along the gun barrel. “I’ll be right here caressing this beauty till I fall asleep hugging her tight.”
I eyed the ornamental matchlock which was made into the shape of a dolphin. “Oh, that is new and it sure is nice.”
He pinched the long-barreled and broad-stocked gun between his knees. While loading it faster than I had ever seen anyone do he said, “The French gunsmiths of Dieppe and Nantes make some of the best guns in the world and Captain LeRouge over there has an excellent display of them at his booth. You ought to check them out while you’re there.”
While I stood there in awe at his speed, Barlow put his sweaty and sunburnt arm over my shoulder. “We’re heading over there, now. As long as Prince Bentley feels he is dressed fine enough for the royal ball.”
After chugging down my last sip of rotgut, I plopped my cavalier hat on my head and belched, “Ready as ever.”
Burton laughed and fanned us on our way.
As we wandered off, Barlow said to me, “Did you see how fast Burton loads that damn gun? I know he’s been practicing for the hunt he plans to take with us, but still. He’s better than me with my two good arms, I reckon.”
While tying my wooden mug that I had carved to my belt, I said, “He’s good. Real good. Even with how fast Ziare and I have gotten with our pass off, I think Burton may beat us.”
“About that…” A look of concern crossed Barlow’s face. “I know you’ve gotten close with Ziare. And he so far seems like a good fellow, but we only met him a few months ago. You never want to get too close, you know?”
“Ah, don’t worry about me, Barlow.” I waved his blistered face away from mine.
As he backed up, Ziare strutted in our direction. Carrying two full pitchers of frothy ale, he stopped in front of us and hooted, “Oooweee, this ale is good. Makes me wonder how we’ve been drinking rotgut for so long.”
“When options go down, so do standards.” I flashed what felt to be a ridiculously drunken grin.
“This week there will be no need to settle for less.” Ziare lifted one of the overflowing pitchers, and reached over to pour us each a drink. “There’s plenty to go around if you want some.”
Remembering how much I loved the taste of ale, I hurriedly untied my mug and accepted the offer. Barlow stood with his arms crossed. Looking away with a shrug, Ziare mumbled, “More for Burton and me, then.”
Certainly feeling Barlow’s agitated mood, Ziare went on his way.
Once he was gone, I took a drink of ale. The warm, hoppy flavor filled my mouth and slid down my throat so smoothly that I ended up chugging more than half of it down in the first gulp.
Barlow shook his head in irritation. “I wanted to buy you your first drink.”
I almost spit out my mouthful. “Ah, quit acting like Renard, you jealous old goat. Ziare is my friend, just like you are and that’s that.” After saying my peace, I waved my hands around the area, “Now, wipe your wee baby tears and take a look at this place, would you.”
Walking down the path that led to the fairgrounds, I was surprised to see how much our usual camp had transformed. Just past our dinner tent, there was a row of at least ten tents on each side, with buccaneers and sailors wandering the aisle between them. And at the far end, there was a stage. Glancing at the man who was up there playing a fiddle, I said, “I heard there will be an entire band later on.”
“Better yet,” Barlow leaned in and whispered, “That French ship out on the bay is loaded with wenches. So, we’ll have women later on.”
“Women? What?” More than just my head shot up. “No. Why would any man bring women here?”
“Not just any women. Whores. I heard Captain LeRouge and Shayne making arrangements. He’s going to auction them off after sundown.”
As Barlow stopped at the nearby tent and refilled each of our mugs, I pondered the possibilities this shocking news turned loose in my mind.
When he handed me the drink, I raised my wooden mug to meet his pewter one. “Thank you for the treat, fine sir.”
He swatted a swarm of bugs away from the pus oozing from his blistered face. “You’re welcome, mate. And as I promised back on Autumn Moon, I’ll buy you you’re first whore.” He patted my shoulder and then said, “But on a far more important note, I wanted to get you away from that nattering African mosquito so I could tell you about another encounter I had today. One that only our original crew needs to know about.”
Interested to hear what he had to say, I stopped under the shade of a tree and listened as he explained, “Captain Lee down there at the last booth, the Englishman, well, I know him. He’s a slippery fellow, no one I’d want to send Burton home with, or even sail with for a second, but he is good friends with one of my most trusted mates from Barbados. Remember that whorehouse I told you I liked, The Brass Knob? This friend is the owner of that fine establishment. And it just so happens that Captain Lee is on his way there. He has agreed to deliver a message to my old friend, John Brassington.”
Stunned and excited by the concept, I blurted, “That is good. Do you need me to write the message? What should it say? Wait, if Captain Lee is slippery shouldn’t we—”
“Don’t worry about him. I may not like the fellow, but I trust him to deliver a letter. Now, as long as you’re not too dr
unk to do so, get out your quill and I’ll tell you what to write.”
“I’m not too drunk to write,” I mumbled, but while sifting through my leather pouch, I wondered if I was too drunk. Somehow, I succeeded in my mission, and as I held my quill over the blank page, I said, “Spit it out, big boy.”
Peering over my shoulder, he told me to write these words:
Dear old Brass,
I am currently stuck on the island where you used to tell your eldest son you were going to ship him when he misbehaved. Please send a ship.
One of your few true friends,
William Barlow
“That’s perfect.” He clapped his hands and hooted. “No one else will know which island I am speaking of and I know Brass will do whatever he can to get a ship here as soon as possible. He owes me a favor, and would help me out even if he didn’t.”
Pleased with the plan, I tore the page out of the book and chuckled, “That would be much easier than attacking a galleon from a canoe.”
He cocked a brow. “Were you truly thinking of doing that?”
“If need be.” I shrugged, then lost focus when I caught sight of a nice pair of buckled shoes at the nearby booth. Then another pair. Shit, that booth was full of shoes and hats and even clothes. “I believe my work here is done, William Barlow. I’m going shoe shopping.”
I heard him huffing about me being a dandy as I wandered toward the booth.
Sipping on my mug of ale, I eyed the various pairs of shoes, wondering which would fit me best.
“Do you like what you see, fine sir?” A tall and absurdly muscular Dutchman asked.
“I sure do. I’d like to try these on for size.” I pointed at the darkest color of leather shoes with the copper buckles.
After moving his jaw-length blond hair behind his big, floppy ears, he stuck his gigantic hand out to shake mine. “The name’s Zeeger. Captain Ruadh Zeeger. Come on back and I will help you to try them on.”
King of My Nightmare (King of My Nightmare, Book 1): Endless Horizon Pirate Stories Page 25