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

by Cristi Taijeron

  With him out of sight, I peered back toward the beach. There, I noticed a few of our men were based near the cannons they had hidden along the bluff. “They are rolling out the shore cannons,” I informed my men.

  Ziare yanked the glass from me. As he put it to his eye, the cannons fired. I felt the thump in my heart and with my bare eyes I saw the smoke and witnessed the mighty iron balls plowing down a mass of Spaniards all at once.

  Feeling the warm water rocking around my body, and hearing thunder rumbling in the distance, I watched as the remaining Spaniards pressed further up the shore, swords drawn and muskets firing. Worst of all, they lit torches. They threw the flaming sticks into the shrubs—which quickly caught fire.

  The buccaneers held fast and shot their cannons again, but in mere seconds the flames spread up the hillside and chased them from their stronghold. Shayne Jackson led the fleeing buccaneers down the embankment to take on their enemies face to face. Fearlessly throwing himself into the warpath, The White Devil of Ireland raised his massive Viking sword. Using the moves he’d been teaching me, he began slicing through the Spaniards like they were no more than shrub branches blocking his path. Behind him, the brave and daring buccaneers, including Peckadennel, fiercely met the Spanish soldiers with swords, guns, clubs, and even spears.

  Though the buccaneers fight was fierce, they were outnumbered by many. Watching helplessly as my friends were being killed in the onslaught, I started to doubt my plan. “Too many men are dying! We should go over there and help them fight.”

  “We are going to help them.” Burton patted my shoulder. “This plan will save more lives than rushing ashore ever will. Be patient and those who live will have somewhere to go once we take that ship.”

  Settling in my stance, I grabbed the spyglass to take my turn. Amidst the carnage I was witnessing through the lens, I caught a glimpse of Fat Annie. Running down the flaming embankment, she was screaming with her arms a flail. A group of three Spaniards were chasing her.

  Just then, Barlow charged out of the burning shrubs like a bull and tackled the entire group of three in one blow. Quicker than I had ever seen him move, he shoved the blade of his cutlass through one of their necks. He began wrestling with the next man and as they rolled around, Fat Annie picked up a rock and beat the third man’s face in with it like I had done to Boa. I could tell she was screaming like a banshee.

  While I winced at what I imagined she sounded like, Barlow and his foe both rose to their feet. Before my eyes, Barlow lifted his cutlass, spun around, and smoothly sliced the head right off the Spaniard. My eyes locked on the sight of his headless body falling limp and then followed carefully as the head tumbled between the fires that had yet to unite on the hillside. Barlow and Fat Annie came running behind the head, occasionally tripping and rolling and helping each other up until they reached the beach.

  Stunned by what I had just witnessed, I was hardly able to relay the report to Ziare and Burton. All they needed to know was this, “Barlow got Annie and they are headed for the boats! He is shouting at Peckadennel. They are running this way. Now, Barlow’s waving at others to join him in the bay. They are going!”

  As I spoke, Barlow and the following buccaneers, including Fat Annie, charged a longboat and attacked the Spanish guards. Amidst the fury taking place on the shore, I watched Fat Annie take a long musket from a dying Spaniard and use the butt of it to knock out another. Damn.

  Before long, a mass of buccaneers caught onto Barlow’s lead and were now boarding Spanish longboats, as well as their own canoes. The Spaniards on the shore were struggling to keep up with the change of events, and—as I knew they would—the ones on the ships had all rushed to the starboard gunnels to see what was going on.

  With the plan in motion, Ziare and I prepared our bladed weapons. Though Ziare only had one cutlass, from my baldric hung two scabbards, one holding my cutlass and the other the blade I made at VS Forge. Yet, no matter how many hogs I had butchered or how many mock sword fights I’d practiced with Shayne, I still felt most comfortable with my axes. I’d been throwing them at trees since I was a wee lad, and since I’d taught Ziare how to do the same, we agreed to rely on the tactic for any long range shots, since guns would be no more than clubs after submerging in the water. We loaded our belts with knives and also decided to tie some of the Spanish spears we had gathered to our belts so they would drag behind us as we swam.

  Armed and ready for battle, I slipped out of my shoes. Sticking them into my sea bag, I thought of the many valuable things within that I could not afford to lose.

  While I wondered if I should strap it to my back and bring it along, Burton snatched it out of my sight. “It’ll slow you down. But I know what it means to you and I’ll risk life and existing limbs to bring it to you when Peckadennel row me over.” He nodded to where they were rushing across the trail leading to this point.

  “You don’t bring it, you aren’t boarding,” I said with a laugh.

  “We have an accord.” He grinned. “Now, go and chop up them bloody Dons like firewood.”

  Once everything was in place, Ziare and I began our swim. The warm, salty sea water burned my gunshot wound so badly I swore I heard the open flesh hissing underwater. No matter how much it hurt, I could not rise above the surface. Keeping my eyes closed, I held my breath and moved forward. I had trained for this in the pond, holding my breath and swimming as fast as I could for as long as I could. Though I had in mind that the practice may save me from a shipwreck one day, I had never imagined that it would help me swim up behind an enemy ship to seize it.

  Unable to hold my breath for a second longer, I came up for air, and prayed that no one would see me. Finding myself more than halfway there and no eyes on me, I took a deep breath and went back under.

  The next time I surfaced, I was next to Ziare in the shadow of the ship’s bobbing portside hull. Catching my breath, striving not to heave too loudly, I untied my spears and asked Ziare, “Are you ready?”

  “Ready as ever, mate.” He lifted his fist, axe in hand, and grinned like we were only preparing to play a game.

  Soaking wet, with our array of bladed weapons at the ready, Ziare and I climbed the gangway. On our way up we could hear the men on deck barking at each other as they haphazardly fired musket balls at our men from the starboard side. Though I could not understand their words, they sounded frantic and confused. Amidst the chaos, I heard the dreadful sound of a great gun rolling across the deck. No. No, we had to stop them before they fired it!

  Reaching the deck, feeling the timbers rocking beneath my feet, I prepared to meet the worst, but realized we had boarded completely unnoticed. From where we stood, I could see about four men lined up at the starboard gunnel, firing muskets at our brethren below and six more preparing the great gun. Before my eyes, one of the ten was hit in the head by a buccaneer bullet and fell dead on the spot. The remaining nine still had not heard us.

  While watching the Spaniards shove round shot in the barrel, Ziare and I raised our axes. Silently agreeing it was time, we threw them at the gunners, just like we had at many, many tree trunks. The blades plunged into two of the men’s backs. The thud was similar to the sound of the metal lodging into thick layers of bark. My target fell over dead, but the one Ziare hit screeched out in pain as he toppled to the deck.

  The sound alerted the other gunners. As they turned to face us, we charged headlong and threw our spears. My blade drove through one man’s open mouth, while Ziare’s pierced deep into the other man’s eye.

  With those four out of the way, we prepared to face the next. Watching the tallest man raise his readied musket, I whipped my second axe off of my belt and hurled it in his direction. The solid piece of steel plunged into his chest, killing him before he had a chance to pull the trigger. As the survivors charged us, I drew my sword. For the first time in my life, I used it as a weapon.

  Swinging the mighty piece of steel to slice the life out of living and breathing men, I tore my way across th
e deck. Outnumbered, I knew I couldn’t let up for a second. In the blur, I saw that my blade was stained in blood. I heard the screams of many men as their flesh tore open under my force. All I knew for certain was that they would no longer be firing at my brethren, and this ship would soon be ours.

  During the attack, I caught a glimpse of Ziare. He was bashing a man’s face against the great gun they had planned to use against our men. Letting the lifeless body fall to the deck—the man’s head nothing but mush—Ziare lifted his bloodied spear and growled at his next prey. The man ran for the gunnel. Screaming like a woman, he hurled himself into the sea. Ziare chased after him, spear in hand. As he raised the weapon, ready to throw it at and kill the coward who would surely swim away and tell his crew what we had done, a man in a cook’s apron charged at Ziare’s back. He had a meat cleaver in hand.

  I rushed in the cook’s direction. Crashing into him, I drove my sword into his side and twisted it within his torso until his screams fell silent.

  Silent. The world around me was eerily quiet. Looking around, holding tight to the hilt of my bloodstained blade, I realized that Ziare had the two surviving men backed into a corner, and a light rain had begun to fall. The carnage on deck made it seem like a blood red rain.

  Breathing up a gale and feeling each cool drop of water hit my hot and blood splattered skin, I looked around at all the men we had killed. Some had been speared, the blades dug into their flesh and the sticks standing tall like they did when left in the hides of our slaughter cattle. A few had been axed, one with my blade sharp in his heart and somehow representing a reckoning of the pain they had inflicted upon mine. Others stabbed and sliced open like my friends they killed on the beach. The deck was painted with blood and their wide open eyes and mouths screamed a silent and woeful song.

  Perhaps I should have felt something...pain, sorrow, regret…hell, even relief, but I didn’t feel a damn thing. I did, however, notice that the world was not silent.

  The land I had grown to love was burning so badly, I could hear the flames eating the trees and shrubs alive. Buccaneers and Spaniards were still growling and wailing as they fought on the beach and in the bay. And guns were still firing—but slowing in their intervals as rain dampened the black powder. I also noticed that Peckadennel had retrieved Burton and were now rowing Eraiza Lace in our direction. But most importantly, I heard the sounds of great guns firing from the other ships. Though the shots only splashed into the water, missing the boats completely, the fact that they were aiming at my men assured me that we had to make haste. This battle was not over and we still had a great deal of work to do to win it.

  Stepping over the dead cook, I took a stand beside Ziare. “Tell Barlow it’s safe to board and to do it handsomely.”

  He bolted for the starboard. Hearing him shouting to Barlow, relieved to hear that fat bastard shouting back with crude and unruly responses, I stepped toward the surviving Spaniards. One of which was wearing the cloak of a priest.

  The other man was trembling and begging in his language, “Por favor, pirata, por favor no nos maten! Especialmente el sacerdote.”

  But the Priest held his head high and stared directly into my eyes.

  Feeling like God was looking down at me through his very gaze, my spirit quickly relived the visuals of terror I had just inflicted upon the world…but it didn’t matter now. The Lord and I would work it out later.

  Lifting my sword, I pressed the bloodied tip against the priest’s chest, just above the golden cross he wore. I figured he could not speak English, but I said my peace, anyhow, “I could kill you just like I did your men, but I have a message I wish for you to send.”

  While his mate kinked his head to the side as if he could not understand, the Priest responded in clear English, “And what is that?”

  Glad that we would be able to communicate, I twisted the blade against his cloak and said, “First, tell me your name.”

  “Padre Diego Ibarra,” he proudly answered.

  “Well, Diego Ibarra, listen here, and listen good.” Remembering how easily Barlow’s blade sliced through that man’s neck back on the beach, I cocked back my sword and lifted it high in the air. Twisting to the side, I laid the blade down hard on the neck of the dead cook. The sharp and heavy piece of steel sliced through the soft flesh of his neck and broke through the rubbery discs between his vertebras. Once his head fell free from his body, I grabbed it by the hair and tossed it onto the priest’s lap. “Take that to shore and tell your men that Mason Bentley did this. And tell them if they ever again tamper with me or my men, Y tú proximo.”

  Diego accepted the cook’s head. Stroking his hair, he mumbled Spanish prayers over his soul while his mate cried in terror.

  As I yanked the priest to his feet, Barlow and the buccaneers rushed up the gangway and hurriedly began throwing spears and shooting arrows at the Spanish boats that had chased them here. A great deal of them turned and began rowing toward Cosecha to take cover and most likely to come after us from the ship.

  Ziare ran towards the readied gun and hooted, “They were nice enough to load the deck gun for us!”

  The buccaneers sent a runner below to gather dry powder and then huddled around the loaded gun and fired it at the nearest Spanish longboat. The round shot hit the boat and smashed through the wood, blasting the Spaniards to bits.

  Cheering over their success, the buccaneers loaded the other deck guns. As they worked to blow the remaining Spanish boats out of the bay, I led the priest and his crying friend to one of Isabella’s longboats. Taking note of the head the priest had in hand as he boarded, the buccaneers began chopping heads off of the other dead Spaniards aboard and threw them in the longboat, as well. While they cursed and hooted and some even pissed over the ledge and on the priest, his friend, and the severed heads, I noticed that the second ship had made sail. Cosecha was now heading in our direction with her gun ports open wide. Escudo Dorado was following close behind. Shit. They were taking advantage of the now outgoing tide. We needed to do the same.

  Just as I figured I’d shout some orders about preparing for the fight, Burton took the helm. “One point to portside and ready the guns!”

  While I and a few others attempted to raise the anchor, Burton yelled, “There’s no time for that. Grab the boarding axe and chop that chain!”

  Barlow lunged for the axe mounted to the mast. Just like he had done to remove Burton’s arm, he cocked back and threw all his weight into the swing. The solid blade broke the metal chain link in two. I saw Burton wince at the memory and he rubbed the old wound before grabbing the tiller.

  Isabella drifted free from the anchor weight. A few of our twenty men went to ready the great guns while I and the others bolted across the deck to make sail. No longer being a novice sailor, I knew my place and quickly slipped around the futtocks with pride. Ziare followed right behind me.

  Scaling the shrouds and feeling the misty wind on my face, I had no concern for the aches and pains and bleeding wounds on my body. But as I balanced across the foot rope, I saw that a great deal of these buccaneers were also injured and bloody and were moving like they had never sailed before. As I watched them fumble up the shrouds and stagger across the yards, I realized that someone needed to take control. I wasn’t the best sailor in the world, but it was painfully apparent that I was better than them.

  Remembering the commands Boa used to shout at us, I yelled them myself, “Come on, you soft-handed land lily lubbers. Get across the footrope and cast the gaskets.”

  Of course, they did not know what I meant. As hastily as I could, I explained each step to the men sharing the main mast with me. Following my lead, Ziare did his job quickly and then started shouting at others above and below to do the same.

  Seeing how Barlow had made it up the foremast, and was shouting orders at the slow and sloppy men just the same, I had faith that we’d whip them into shape. We had to. Cosecha and Escudo Dorado were drawing near. Feeling them creeping at our tail, I had never b
een more relieved to watch the sheets fall into the wind.

  Rushing down the windward shrouds, I glanced back on the oncoming ships—great guns blazing. While wondering how the devil we were going to fight off or outrun two ships when we were hardly capable of setting sail, I noticed something unusual. “Ziare! Pull out that glass and see who’s at the helm of Escudo Dorado.”

  Holding the tarred ratlines with one hand, he held his spyglass with the other and hooted, “Its Renard! The buccaneers took the ship!”

  Hearing the news, all the men in the yards hooted and growled in excitement as they made their way to the deck.

  Climbing down the shrouds and whipping around the futtocks as swiftly as if I had done it yesterday, I rushed to meet my fellow sailors to teach them how to loose the rolling and the truss. Before long, all sheets were home, full with the misty wind, and Isabella was sailing away.

  By now, all signs of the impending storm had blown away, leaving no more than a mere mist in the air. Though the lightning and thunder had ceased, a new kind of storm was chasing our tail. Cosecha’s bow sprit was biting down on our stern. There was hope in the fact that Escudo Dorado was hard on hers, but Cosecha caught a swift wind in her taut sails and drew nearer, leaving Dorado in her wake. Figuring Cosecha would do all she could to stop us before Escudo Dorado caught her, our men loaded their muskets with the dry powder from the hold and rushed to the stern to take full advantage of drying skies and musket range.

  While Burton commanded us seasoned sailors to guide our stolen ship away from Cosecha’s heavily armed starboard, our gunners unloaded a volley of musket balls on the approaching ship. The Spaniards fired back. Our men were nicked and hit and threatened by musket balls, but the damage they cast upon the Spanish was far more severe. Not only were our guns better, but we were better shots and our aim was far more accurate and precise. The lofty Spaniards on their mighty perch had not suspected such a defense and surely not a one of us on either side suspected that a fat whore would be loading and firing a long musket alongside the buccaneers. Damn, that woman was just as good a shot as the hunters.