We all agreed. There was an eerie feeling in the air. Though there was no one in sight, it felt as if we were being watched. I held tight to my spear and kept my eyes on the hills surrounding the meadow as we walked toward the rocks. The sun of high noon beat down on the open field, leaving us completely exposed to any eyes that may be watching us. The ground was covered in sticks which cracked so loudly under our foot falls that we could be heard from a distance if we were indeed being stalked. Realizing these flaws in our attempted stealth, we did our best to stay low in the tall grasses and to step lightly without slowing our pace. So far, none of us had spotted anything unusual, but the stench of rotting corpses filled the humid air, drowning out any foreign scents the dogs may have otherwise picked up on. And the absurd amounts of bugs swarming the exposed flesh hissed and buzzed so loudly it made it impossible to hear if anyone was encroaching upon us.
Just as we began climbing the barrier rocks, gunshots rang out from the hillside to my left. One of the musket balls whizzed right between Ziare and me and hit the rock in front of us. Between the trees the shot came from, I saw uniformed coats of at least ten men. They were surely Spanish and had certainly set this as a trap to make targets out of us.
Rushing over the rocks, we took cover just in time to miss the following volley of gunfire. The dogs barked and yelped as they followed behind us. The moment we were sheltered by a big rock where we could safely load our long muskets, I saw that Stripes, my beloved catch hound, had not made it to safety. He’d been shot and was lying dead on the other side of the rock pile. For a moment I paused, eyes locked on his striped head and the way it was morbidly kinked to the side. The eyes that used to look up at me so hopefully as he laid on my lap were now large and lifeless...
Another volley of musket balls flew over our heads, awaking me from my heart broken trance. After making sure that Tallulah and Calahu were safe beside us, I hurried to ready my gun. I’d loaded plenty of muskets in my day, but under this kind of pressure—being shot at by the spiteful enemies of my tribe—I fumbled with the patch and musket ball and missed a few times before getting the ramrod down the long barrel. My heart was beating wildly and I was breathing so fast I was getting lightheaded. Hearing the guns of my mates already firing, I felt like a hapless novice, spilling powder out of the horn as I tried to pour it in the pan. Through the fearful blur clouding my mind, I heard the Spanish commander barking at his men, “Fuego! Disparo para matar!”
His men continued firing strong.
Hands trembling and breath dangerously shallow, I missed the gun barrel with my ramrod. Ziare grabbed my arm. “You fire. I load. Like we practiced.”
“All right.” I nodded. The familiarity of my matelote’s voice, and his guidance through the tactic we performed fluidly many, many times, help me to get my wits about me. Accepting the gun he handed me, I propped myself between two rocks, aimed at the cloud of smoke from which our enemies fired, and pulled the trigger. There was no way to tell if I had hit anything, but the sight of my beloved dog lying dead on the ground assured me that I wanted to. I wanted to kill them all to avenge his death.
As I reached for the next gun Ziare had ready, Burton called to me, “How many do you see from there, Bentley?”
“I see at least eight men moving around in the shrubs on the hill. As far as I can tell, they are contained to that one area.”
The sound of my gunfire was followed by the gag of a Spaniard as he keeled over. Good. “Make that seven!” I hooted as I handed Ziare the gun.
“Don’t get comfortable, any of you.” Burton fired another shot. “In fact, keep a look out all around in case they try to flank us.”
Looking at the path we scaled to get here, I figured we’d have a clear shot of any one creeping up from below. But the view of the cove and the sight of our canoe reminded me of something terribly important. “Naked! Where the hell is he?”
Everyone vocalized their worries and Ziare started calling for him and the missing hound, Pretty Boy. The longer that neither responded, the more rapidly Ziare began loading my muskets. Handing me the next readied gun, Ziare said, “If those Spaniards killed our brother and our dog, they will suffer greatly.”
As I propped myself up to fire, a hot ball nicked my bicep, melting and tearing my flesh. Damnation! My arm hurt so badly. I was bleeding everywhere. But it didn’t matter right now. I adjusted my position and pulled the trigger.
Burton asked, “Are you all right, Bentley?”
“Better than ever,” I groaned, and quickly tied a sash around my arm to slow the bleeding.
Firing again, Burton said, “Good. Thanks for taking me hunting today, mate.”
His bullet seemed to halt one of the hillside gunners. Now, we were only facing what seemed to be six men against our four.
While awaiting his next musket from Barlow, Burton barked, “Hurry up, you sausage fingered ol’ lout.”
“I’m trying, I’m trying,” Barlow huffed, sweat running down his face, leaving clean trails in the dirt coating his skin.
Burton yanked the gun from Barlow’s paws. “I can’t wait any longer. I’ll load, you fire.”
Quicker than he had ever done before, Burton loaded the gun with his one arm and then handed it to Barlow. Equally impressive, was the way Barlow’s next two shots inflicted injury to our enemies. Each time they groaned out in pain, Barlow barked across the meadow with humorously vulgar obscenities. Ah, Billy Barlow’s strong points made it worth dealing with the troubles he caused when drunk.
We carried on this way shot after shot. Black smoke filled the air around us. My ears were ringing from the sounds of the explosions. I was sweating in the heat of the day and had become so incredibly thirsty that my throat was aching. But as long as they kept firing, so would we.
Realizing that the Spanish commander was no longer shouting, I wondered if we had killed him.
After Barlow’s next shot landed, all of the Spaniards ceased fire. The silence was eerie. Relief was the last thing on my mind. We had established a nice base and from there they would not be able to reach us if they had decided to change positions. Either they would retreat or charge us. The bushes on the hillside were rustling. They were coming after us. Breathing up a gale, I visualized an entire army of Spaniards tearing through the brush and storming across the meadow to kill us.
Instead, our dog Pretty Boy came running down the hill. Limping and whining, he struggled across the meadow. As he drew nearer, we saw that there was an arrow through his side and that he was dragging something wrapped in a red rag.
Reaching us, Pretty Boy curled up against my side, crying in pain. While I eyed his wound, hoping there’d be a way to save him, Ziare, went for the item he had been dragging. As Pretty Boy’s breath slowed and his head sunk lower into what would surely be his final slumber, I watched as Ziare unraveled the red cloth. It was then that I realized it was colored by blood. Beginning to dread what lie within, I attempted to look away, but curiosity got the best of me. It was with wide eyes that I watched Naked’s head roll out of the bloodstained rag.
Mortified by the dark red, almost black blood coming out of the familiar face’s ears, nose, mouth and eyes, I started to gag. Yet, my gaze was for some reason locked on the gory sight. One of his eyes was falling loose from the socket and the other was rolled far back in his skull. From his mouth dangled his blue and purple bruised and bloodied tongue and his yellowish spine bone was protruding from the severed and gelatinous mush that consisted of veins, muscles and fat that had only recently been a part of my good friend’s living body.
My stomach began to wretch. My head started to spin. But all of these enabling sensations were thrown to the side when I realized there were letters carved into his flesh. “Look. They sent a message.”
Though I had no interest in touching the ghoulish thing, I reached over and used my sash to wipe away the blood. Bit by bit, the words engraved into the battered meat of the forehead and down onto the cheek became exposed. I read the
m out loud:
Y tú proximo
“What the hell does that mean?” Barlow covered Naked’s face with the rag.
Still taunted by the harrowing visual that would forever be seared into my mind, I said, “I don’t know. Some kind of threat, I am sure.”
Ziare rubbed his face, smearing his paint. “Proximo means next. They are threatening to take our heads next.
As Pretty Boy breathed his last breath on my lap, one of the Spaniard’s yelled, “Territorio Español! Y tú proximo!”
Y tú proximo, the words rang in my head as they fled across the hilltop path. Ziare fired at them as they left but it was no use.
Burton stood up. “Pack your belongings. We need to get back to camp.”
Ziare started packing. “Yes. We need to warn our brothers.”
Barlow joined them. “Aye, who knows where those murderers went or who they are going to tell about us. For all we know, they could be on their way to burn our camp to the ground.”
Camp. Our brothers. We were going to have to tell Renard what happened to Naked. Shit. Chopping a silver lock of hair from Naked’s head, I said, “I’ll save this for Renard.”
Barlow patted my back. “You’re a good friend, Mason Bentley. Now, let’s go.”
While standing up myself, I looked down at the faces of those we had lost. “The dead. We should bury them.”
Barlow grabbed my arm. “If we stick around here a moment longer, we could end up dead ourselves.”
He was right. Within what seemed a blink of an eye, those Spanish terrorists had slaughtered our hunt, killed two good hunting hounds, and worst of all, beheaded one of our dearly beloved friends. Our lives, as well as our stake on the land we loved were in danger and all we could do about it right now was run. I hated that most of all, but there was no other choice.
Making the dangerous trek back to the cove—every sound and shadow causing us to hold tighter to our weapons—I thought of how many times I’d been forced into situations where I didn’t have a choice. I was tired of it. Once we loaded our canoe and rowed far enough from the shore to be safe from musket range, I continued to dwell on how I hated being trapped like this. It wasn’t just a matter of being forced out of the field and possibly off of this island, it was a matter of once again being robbed of what I had worked for and of those who I loved.
It was a tragic shame that Stripes was shot in the line of senseless fire, but it was a sheer and utter atrocity that Pretty Boy had been killed in vain. He would have run home to deliver their horrific message without that arrow in his side. And Naked…good God, I couldn’t get the image of his severed head, or the words carved into his flesh out of my mind.
Judging by the expressions on my friend’s faces, and the way Tallulah and Calahu were looking around and sniffing as if there were something amiss, it was plain to see that we all left that field in heartbroken disarray. Not to mention that I had been injured, and my arm hurt like hell. The more I thought about the things that had happened and what it all meant, the angrier I became.
Dark clouds formed overhead as we moved along the coast. Thick wind gusted over the grey face of the sea, cooling the sweat oozing from my tallow-paint coated pores as I rowed faster and faster. With all four of us rowing with a steady and effective rhythm, Eraiza Lace was moving swifter than she ever had. Feeling empowered by our pace and the might it took to uphold it, I thought of how I wanted to make those Spaniards pay for what they had done.
As the clouds thickened in the sky, so did my dark and dreary daydreams of vengeance. With thoughts of death and bloodshed clouding my vision, I lost track of the world around me. Eventually, a deep and foreboding rumble of thunder awoke me from my hateful trance. Suddenly aware of my surroundings, I realized the wind had picked up and was blowing in our faces, which made it harder to row.
Struggling with my injured arm to keep a steady pace over the rippling and bouncing surface of the sea, I saw a bolt of lightning flash across the sky. The bright, electric streak lit the grey dome in a daunting shade of green. Another followed right after. The moment the thunder cracked, I cursed the storm heading in our direction. Ah, at least we were close to camp. If we could just make it around this final bend, the shore of our village would be in sight. Plenty of storms had passed over the island since I’d been living here, but I hadn’t faced one at sea since the wreck of Autumn Moon. I surely did not want to go through that again, and especially not today.
Come to think of it, today would be a perfect day for a storm. I could swim now and I was angry enough to fight back. I refused to be nature’s victim ever again. If she chose to rise and thrash and batter my boat today, I would not sit here and cry. I’d loved the rain all of my life and no bitchy little squall would take my love from me. Bring me a storm, nature, I growled in my mind, daring her to test my wrath.
Rounding the tree covered point, my concerns about the weather blew away in the breeze that was filling the sails of the three ships sailing into our bay.
Their canvas sheets were marked with the same red cross that was burned into the spears that had slaughtered our hunt. Before my eyes and ears, the lead ship fired a warning shot off the starboard. The side facing our shore. Oh, Good God, the Spanish were invading our home!
As the iron shot plummeted into the shallow, grey-green water of the crescent shaped bay, Ziare pulled out his spyglass. “They are close and lowering their boats. We must hurry to fight.”
Fight we would.
With my bare eye I could see them cutting out the sails. They were anchoring far outside of our shore cannon’s range. This was it. This was our moment. Rather than viewing this dreadful situation as sheer and certain doom, I saw it as an opportunity—an opportunity to challenge the hands of fate and to finally begin settling some scores.
Chapter 18
Blood Red Rain
“We will fight.But not in haste.” I removed my shirt and used it to wipe the sweat from my brow. “Let’s take cover near the point to get a better view of what we are up against.”
Everyone agreed and we rowed for the point. On our way, I assured my men, “There is no way they could have seen us, yet. But better than stealth, we have knowledge on our side. They may have three ships and are certainly loaded with ammunition, but this is our land. We know the hills and rocks and shrubs as well as we know the tides surrounding the shore they are planning to attack.” Proving my point, we smoothly tucked our canoe within the shrubs and tree branches overhanging the rocky bluff. The wooden canoe, carved from the very trees that sheltered us, and our skins, painted from the pigments of the plants surrounding us, blended in with the environment and hid us from sight.
Stepping out of the canoe and into the waist deep water to keep stable footing amidst the lightly tumbling tide, we positioned ourselves at a vantage point where we could see the Spanish ships as well as the beach. “Let me see that spyglass, Ziare.”
He handed it over.
With his prized possession in hand, I surveyed the activities of the Spaniards who were anchored just outside of our shore cannons range. “The ship nearest us is called Isabella. It looks like the second may be Cosecha, but I cannot see the name of the third. Either way, men from all three ships have begun rowing to shore. It looks like very few are remaining on deck. But the ones who seem to be staying aboard are pacing around and keeping watch over the bay.” Thinking of how cloudy skies like this changed the color of the water and marred the visibility, I considered the ways we could use this knowledge of our turf to our advantage. “If we wait until the boats reach the beach—”
“I have no time to spare.” Barlow took off his sandals and dropped them in the canoe. “Fat Annie is over there and I am going to save her.”
“What?” We all asked in unison.
He adorned his baldric that held his favorite cutlass. “Aye. Do as you wish, but I’m going after my woman.”
I grabbed his arm. “You’re a good man. And Fat Annie is lucky you love her. But listen he
re. Once you get your woman, get a boat. A team of boats if you can. Row them toward the starboard side of that there ship.” I pointed to the sparsely manned Spanish ship nearest us. “Do what you can to get the attention of the few men left aboard without risking your lives. While they are busy with you, we’ll swim up to the rear to take her.”
“Take her?” he gasped.
“Yes.” Burton pumped his fist. “They’ll never expect something like that. If we can get aboard without being noticed, we can take them down from the inside and clear a safe path for our boarding party. Once we have enough men to raise anchor and make sail, we can sail that beauty home.”
“I’m in!” Ziare hooted in agreement.
“Good plan!” Barlow threw his arms around my neck. “In case I don’t make it back, just know that you are the best friend I’ve ever had, Mason Bentley.”
Squeezing him tight, I said, “Same goes for you, Billy Barlow. But I know you will make it and we’ll be celebrating our success and our friendship on the deck of that Spanish ship by sundown.”
As he let go of me, Burton added, “And send someone to get me. Preferably Peckadennel. I haven’t practiced swimming with one arm like I joked about and this is no time to end up rowing in circles.”
Barlow promised to send help and then dunked under water. While he swam along the plant covered coastline as to not be seen, I aimed the spyglass at the shore. Through the lens, I could see the faces of the people on the beach. The buccaneers were positioned behind rocks and shrubs, and had begun firing their muskets and arrows at the invaders. Our best huntsmen dropped the first soldiers in line like small game. But there were so many behind them, their numbers were hardly affected by the loss. And more kept rowing in.
Wondering how the hell Barlow was going to get past them, I moved the glass to his side of the beach. He had made it and was pushing his way through the shrubs that would lead him to the eastern end of our camp.
King of My Nightmare (King of My Nightmare, Book 1): Endless Horizon Pirate Stories Page 28