“Oh, come now, we both know that Captain Drake is sick with scurvy. Drake could very well keel over and die within the coming days. It’s my guess that he’ll not be captain for much longer. Face it, Saint Drake and her crew are under your command and everyone but your captain knows it. Come now, Hearted, you’ve an appetite for my Isabel and all I ask in return is a ship. ‘Tis the only chance I see of getting off this forsaken island without threat to what little crew I have left. I don’t plan on staying here forever. Like you, I belong on the sea and I’ll find no other such gratificational life elsewhere.”
Finally in agreement, Black-Hearted took Isabel as his own, negotiating in addition, ten percent of Scurvy’s booty attained over the next year, during which period Scurvy agreed to sail under Saint Drake’s banner. This deal would ensure that crew and captain would be more accepting.
They took a walk out to the harbor, where this mid-sized, square-rigged vessel sat. It was almost twenty-five meters in length, baring two masts and mounted with six twelve-pound cannons, making her a fairly respectable vessel.
“Your ship, Mate,” Black-Hearted pointed out. “She’s all yours.”
“So, how exactly did you come across that there vessel?” asked Scurvy, when he saw his newly acquired schooner for the first time. It resembled something he might have seen following a small skirmish, but more on the losing side. “It carries some true character.”
“How I come across the vessel is none of your concern. Take her, she’s yours. But, be mindful, your mainmast is a jury. The original was suddenly retired.” He shrugged his shoulders ever so innocently. “We rigged two sails to the mizzenmast, so she’s fast. She’ll carry fifty men and she’s fit for shallow waters.” Upon entering the bilge, several leaks were seen slowly running down her walls, prompting Black-Hearted to continue, “I call her the Weeping Lady.” The leaks were certainly noticeable, but too small to sink her overnight. “You’ll need to man the bilge pumps once in a week until repairs can be made.”
“I should not have a need to man the pumps,” complained Scurvy. “Such leakage should have been taken care of before the bidding.”
“Be grateful you have a ship at all. Is a woman worth the lives of two loyal men? That was the cost of this ship and don’t you forget it.”
Though frustrated, Scurvy was indeed happy to have a ship. The name suited the schooner just fine and therein remained her name, the Weeping Lady.
Though Isabel was used to purchase the Weeping Lady from Back-Hearted, she was strangely happy to be given to him. They seemed to be fond of one another, but never pursued a relationship, considering lifestyles and distance apart. But this deal did make the process a whole lot simpler, without such nonsense as courtship type of talk.
“She’ll be yours so long as she’s inclined to be yours,” mandated Scurvy.
“It’s done then,” finalized Black-Hearted. “We’re agreed.”
Within the next few days Scurvy, along with his crew, patched and repaired the Weeping Lady until they were finally able to set sail. Though, Scurvy still had to remain accessible to Black-Hearted, as their verbal contract had indicated.
Under Darcy’s watchful eye, Black-Hearted assured Isabel a safe home on Port of Errors, purchasing from Darcy a quaint cottage on the edge of his estate on the outskirts of the township. Black-Hearted and Isabel, from that time forth, were together as oft as was permitted by his timely visits to Port of Errors. In her presence Black-Hearted was not the ruthless monster that everyone feared. Isabel was a strong-willed and spirited young woman who managed herself quite well. Everyone that recognized this curious liaison never thought twice about looking at Isabel with undesirable intentions. Not one person living outside Port of Errors, with the exception of Black-Hearted’s closest friends, knew of their relationship and it was meant that way to keep her safe.
As quartermaster, Black-Hearted’s fame exceeded that of his own captain. In his ill condition, Captain Drake struck minimal fear into targeted ships, evoking fewer unforced surrenders. In turn there seemed to be less respect among several members of his wretched crew.
Two weeks after acquiring Isabel from Scurvy, Black-Hearted and four of his closest shipmates crept silently into the captain’s chamber in the dead of one cold and eerie night. Approaching his bedside, Black-Hearted whispered, “Aye, you’ve been a good captain – Captain.”
Captain Drake slowly opened his eyes only to find Black-Hearted standing above him. Before Captain Drake could call out in distress, Black-Hearted shoved a cloth into his throat, busting his lips in several places against his shattered teeth.
Stephen, Eric and Gunner, restrained Captain Drake to keep him from thrashing about. A grotesque sound of gurgling moans filled the emptiness of the room, as the ocean splashed violently from without, rocking the ship up and down. Saint Drake’s every hinge and loose board seemed to come alive with an eerie composition. Suddenly there was only silence.
Black-Hearted pulled the moist rag from Captain Drakes open mouth. Thick salivation pulled stubbornly away from his bloodied lips, clinging to the soiled rag. The smell of vomit and death fill the space within the walls of the captain’s chamber.
“Stephen, Eric, retire to your quarters,” whispered Black-Hearted, “In the morning you’ll have a real captain.”
“Aye, Hearted,” they replied, walking cautiously and carefully off. Black-Hearted held the other man back for a brief moment. “Gunner, you’ll be quartermaster. I’ll have none other.”
“Aye and you’ll need no other, Captain Hearted.”
Chapter III
Black-Hearted’s election to captainship was sure with the death of Captain Drake. Black-Hearted closed his tired eyes, unremorseful and proud.
The night grew bitterly cold as Saint Drake continued to sway. Fading off to sleep, he recalled the fond and bitter memories of a childhood that led him to this point in his poignant life; memories that have haunted him for years. His eyes began to flutter in a whirlwind of excitement as the past came flooding back.
It was an early February morn. The day was gloomy and wet, blanketed with a thick layer of fog carried in by a slight westward breeze. Torn, broken and without hope, Henry approached the large wooden doors to the old cathedral. Tears swelled deep within his troubled eyes. It was the only place of worship in the small township of St. Thomas. Henry held his little son, whom he’d loved and cared for, for all of his five years, cradled within his lifeless arms. Although this orphanage was within the walls of an old cathedral, the boy’s odds of living a good life were not in his favor.
Heavily dispirited, Henry spoke to an elderly Irish priest at the cathedral doors. Father Whittaker was a kind old fellow who hadn’t the means to truly care for all the children in the orphanage. His white hair was thinning and his skin discolored from age and experience. He spoke boldly with a broken accent and his voice was noticeably as old as he, raspy but somehow still intimidating. He hunched slightly and walked with a mild limp. He’d lived within the walls of this cathedral for a goodly portion of his life. And although he could not realistically provide for the children, he testified in good faith, “The Lord will provide, me old friend.”
The boy’s father, crushed and tattered, whispered forlornly, “The boys name is Davy. Tis the only thing I ask to be left him of me. I’ve nothing else. Where I go now, the child is to know nothing of.”
“How has it come to this?” replied Father.
“Just remember, you’ve never seen my face; you don’t know me at all. Take the boy. Please, make him a better life than was mine.” He broke down and lowered his head, placing his brow upon his son’s tiny chest.
“Henry,” addressed the priest, “will you not come to find him again?”
Henry lifted his head and without a trace of emotion, replied, “He can never know what has come of me. I’m already dead.”
“Dead? You stand before me and tell me that you’re dead? What’s become of you?”
“I’ve been mar
ked. If it weren’t for my son, I would have died long ago. Things change. I thank you for your help and your silence.”
“It’s done then?”
“Aye, ‘tis done, says I.”
“Then say no more, for even these walls have ears. Go now, before you be discovered.”
Taking a few steps backward in an awkward shuffle, Henry shamefully lowered his head in self-disgust, voicing one last time, “Fair well, my boy. I’ll always love you.”
Davy awoke, looked up and saw his father walking away. The priest held him close. Davy shouted out with a deafening cry, “No!”
Although he deeply ached to, his disheartened father, now too far away, covered his ears and sobbed. Yet in vain, Davy hollered out with a painful plea, “Da!” But to his astonishment, his father faded into the dimness of the morning light until he was completely out of sight. The doors gradually closed. At that very moment, the world that Davy once knew was suddenly stripped away. Shouting out and wiggling about for his release, Davy was carried off to his new quarters, being that of a large soiled room. He was set gently down on a small nest of bedding beside a few other lads. Before he could get up, the door was slammed shut and locked.
In the morning young Davy awoke curled up securely in a far corner of the room facing the wall. Taking a look around, a tear formed in the inner corner of his eye.
Joseph, one of the other boys who’d been curiously observing Davy for some time, ripped a piece of cloth from his own sleeve and wiped the tears from Davy’s eyes. Soon, the fear Davy had felt vanished into a quiet, unspoken gratitude. A third boy named Charley sat with Davy and Joseph, mostly for moral support. Charley was the eldest of the three, followed closely in age by Joseph, who was an especially filthy child. Davy was only five.
After a day or two had passed, Davy still wouldn’t leave his bedding – even for the want of food. Eventually, too many days had gone by, the old Irish priest slowly opened the door and walked in. “How’re you doing me lad? What ails your poor soul? It makes me sad to see you so. Please, answer me, child. What ails you so that you don’t have the stomach to eat?” Davy gave no answer. Father Whittaker sat down and talked until Davy was comfortable enough to respond. After several hours the old priest was able to leave satisfied that Davy would be well enough off. Joseph and Charley had been secretly taking food.
The children were never allowed to leave the cathedral grounds until they were entrusted into someone’s care, which realistically might never happen. Over the next four years Charley, Joseph and Davy would become the best of friends.
On their fifth year together at the orphanage, a young boy and his sister were found sitting at the oversized cathedral doors. The young boy never gave his name. He was angry and hurtful. After enough time had passed, he acquired the name “Grim”, due to his open bitterness. His little sister’s name was Elizabeth. The two of them mostly kept to themselves.
One quiet evening Charley, Joseph and Davy, being the mischievous little rascals that they were, ventured into the kitchen to steal a loaf of bread as they had done numerous times before. They’d never been caught in the past and thought little about the consequences. But Grim was a discouraged little brat. He was jealous of Davy and the attention Emily, a petite six-year-old girl, had been giving him. She was a sickly little orphan, as were they all. Her hair always hid her soiled face, but she was as cute as they came.
Grim was so envious of Davy that he ratted to Mistress Riley, the head mistress, about the boys’ sinful thievery. Grim secretly warned Mistress Riley as to when they might steal again, just to have a chance to be alone with Emily once they were caught. Emily had no feelings for Grim, but he didn’t care so long as she could be seen with him and not Davy.
Mistress Riley kept a keen eye on the three boys. She soon caught them red handed and prudently swatted their hands with a large wooden stick. She busted the stick across Davy’s knuckles, breaking his right index finger. Amazingly enough, Joseph sustained the same exact injury. They both cried out in agony and ran to their quarters followed by Charley, who was punished in the same fashion but came away with nothing more than a small bruise.
“There be no grub tonight for the lot of you,” said Mistress Riley, as she forced them into their room, concluding, “You thievin’ little devils.”
She then forcefully shut and locked the door until the rest of the children could finish their supper. Witnessing the entire ordeal, Emily ran to her quarters and cried into her bedding, unwilling to eat until her friends were released.
Grim approached her as she lay alone. “Why are you crying?”
Emily sat up with tears swelling in her eyes. “You did this to them. I know you did. You told Ms. Riley, didn’t you?”
“They deserved it,” he replied, smiling with satisfaction.
Grim’s sister, Elizabeth, meandered innocently in. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” snapped Grim, glaring back at Emily. He slammed the door on his way out shouting, “nothing!”
As Davy lay weeping under his covers, Joseph took the rag that he kept in his pants pocket and wiped away the tears from Davy’s eyes. It was the same cloth that Joseph had used to wipe away Davy’s tears the night his father left him, almost five years ago.
The next morning was Sunday. Father Whittaker took a good look at the boys’ busted fingers. He bandaged them with some old rags, using small wooden sticks as splints. Their fingers never did properly heal.
As soon as Father Whittaker left their quarters, Davy approached Grim, who had a big smirk on his face. Without saying a word Davy slugged him in the jaw with his injured fist. “Don’t you ever do that again. I’m not afraid of anyone, least of all you. And if you ever chance to hurt me or my friends again, not even Mistress Riley could stop me from walloping you good!”
As Davy stood dominantly over Grim, Elizabeth wept for her big brother, the only family she had left. Upset and angry, she clinched her fists, biting down on her lip in silent rage. She truly detested Davy.
Davy promptly departed the room, wandering down the hall and out of sight, doubling over in agony as he held his fist tight to his belly. Placing his mouth to his arm, he muffled his cry, yelling out in pain and tearing slightly.
Later that night, Mistress Riley brought the boys a small piece of bread and a cup of water to share between the three of them. “It’ll do you good to confess the evils of your thievery,” she strongly advised. “You’re sure to be damned. Mark my words. Only Purgatory awaits such sinners unless they confess.”
Charley took Mistress Riley’s hasty words to heart and went to Father Whittaker to confess for fear of Hellfire. Following a lengthy confession and meaningful discussion, Charley did feel better, but Father Whittaker could sense he may be ready for a more lasting commitment.
“Will you accept the Good Lord into your life, me son?” asked the father.
“If I do, can I go to heaven, Father?”
Father Whittaker laughed, “Of course you may, me lad.”
“There’s more to lose if I don’t, right?”
“Ah, to be sure. ‘Tis true.”
“Done,” said Charley, stretching out his hand to seal the deal. Father Whittaker simply placed his hand in Charley’s. When he let go, Charley found that the Father had placed a piece of jewelry with in the palm of his hand. It was a small silver cross, which hung from a frayed old string.
“That there symbol tells me and the good Lord above that you’ll live the rest o’ yur days in a manner befitting a saved soul. Wear it at all times and let it be a reminder to you all yur days.”
Charley’s eyes lit up. “Wow! – My very own symbol from God! Thank you! Thank you very much Father!” He then ran to tell Davy and Joseph everything that Father Whittaker had told him. Both Davy and Joseph expressed how proud of him they were. From that day forward Charley was never seen without his beloved cross.
Father Whittaker taught many of the children how to read and study the Holy Bible. Most of the childr
en grew in faith. Davy did believe, but eventually became skeptical. He was satisfied only with things he could see and feel. Joseph became further converted to Father’s Anglican Faith. The priest’s faith was peculiar considering his Irish Catholic heritage.
Emily was also a girl of strong faith. It was amazing that she took to Davy the way she did, considering his lack of any faith. As time passed, Emily and Davy were seen together more oft than not. Emily soon joined Charley, Joseph and Davy in their boyish games.
Joseph caught Davy and Emily holding hands a time or two but didn’t speak a word of it. Within their eyes could be seen the pure and innocent love they felt toward one another. Grim only grew more jealous and envious of their relationship.
In the following months, Charley became stricken with a sudden illness, forcing him bedridden. After a few months he could no longer stand on his own. He asked Joseph and Davy to read a portion of scripture to him nightly. Joseph would often elaborate on the readings, while Davy read only out of respect.
One morning as Davy was reading, Charley had a visit from the town doctor. Davy was asked to step aside, without bothering to excuse him from the room. Davy stood and watched as the doctor bled him to rid his body of the ills. Over the next few hours, Davy watched as Charley began to slip from life.
Port of Errors Page 2