The Far Horizon

by Marsha Canham

  "…do you suppose it means? Can it be over?"

  The man with the crushed toes joined them in staring up at the ceiling. "Means one o' two things, miss. Means they all be dead topside… or we've come in close enough to board 'er. If they was all dead, we'd've heard screamin' an' saw blood drippin' through the boards, an' since it ain't rainin' red, my guess be we won!"

  He spied the jug of rum Digger kept on a shelf for medicinal purposes and helped himself to a deep swig. He was about to pass the jug to Bella when they heard another commotion outside the cabin.

  Hobson Grundy was through the doorway first and grabbed the jug out of the mate's hand and took a few hearty swallows. His hands were red with blood, there were splatters and smears on his shirt and canvas trousers.

  "Make way, make way," he shouted. "Clear that table!"

  Two men came in carrying a plank stretcher between them. The body on it was soaked in blood and parts of his arms, legs, and chest were spiked with wood splinters. One particularly large sliver, as big around as a musket barrel, had gone clear through his leg just below the knee.

  Grundy pointed to the table. "Set 'im down gentle, lads, then move away. You!" he stabbed a gnarly finger in Bella's direction, "fetch more light. You—" he turned to Molly, who had gone as gray as ash at the sight of all the blood. "Jaysus wept, if yer gonny puke, do it somewheres else."

  Bella lit three more lanterns, making the cabin as bright as possible. Molly shook herself into action and ladled water into a basin. She carried it to the table, nearly spilling it when she recognized the shock of thick white hair and saw Digger's face through the blood. His cheek was sliced open and a red-raw flap of skin hung awry revealing the white jawbone below.

  Grundy stared hard at Bella. "Well girl? Don't just stand there gawpin'."

  "Me? I don't know anything about real doctoring!"

  "Do ye know how to sew?"

  "Yes, but…"

  "Then fetch a needle out o' the box." Grundy plucked several long white hairs from Digger's head and handed them to her. "Thread the needle and do yer best, lass." He looked at Molly. "Don't stand there gawpin' girl! We need to get them wood splinters out o' his leg. Cut away his breeks an' start prayin' to whatever God ye think might hear ye."

  ~~

  On the maindeck of the Tribute, lanterns had been lit and hung off the yards while the crew cleared away any debris and restored order. A carpenter was already at work measuring timber to replace the section of rail that had been damaged. As soon as the guns cooled, they were swabbed and the barrels closely inspected for cracks. The younger lads returned the unused balls and powder casks to the armory then washed the decks down with buckets of water.

  Some of the men were whistling while they worked, most of them were smiling and exchanging jibes. They all paused frequently in their work to stare out over the rails.

  The Spanish galleon was on fire. Pitch and oil had been spread across her decks then set alight by a flight of flaming arrows launched from the deck of the Tribute. The canvas sheets were first to catch, spreading the flames along the yards until it looked like a yuletide tree burning bright against the night sky. The captured crew had either jumped or been helped overboard and in the coppery glow cast by the blaze, they looked like fish churning up the surface of a pond as they splashed and swam for the shore.

  When the fire flowed down to the lower decks and reached the powder magazine, the ship seemed to rise up out of the water, sending a tall orange pillar of flame into the sky before the deck split and burst apart, throwing shattered timbers fifty feet in all directions. Two, three more explosions sent the burning hulk bow-first into the water, filling the air with clouds of smoke and steam as she sank beneath the surface.

  On board the Dutch ship, men were working furiously to douse any lingering fires and clear away debris. Carpenters were banging away on repairs; men were up in the yards cutting away the tattered sheets of canvas and replacing them with new sails. The wounded were everywhere, lying in puddles of their own gore. Crews searched out the dead and carried them into the bow where their bodies would be sewn into the old sails. The canvas cocoons were weighted with spent balls and battle debris so that when they were released into their watery graves, they would stay anchored in Neptune's graveyard.

  Cornelus Janszoon van Salee, captain of the Gulden Dolphijn, was welcomed on board the Tribute. Most of the blond hair on his head was either singed to nubs or blackened by spent powder. His thigh was slashed and bound in bloody strips, his left arm was broken and cradled in a sling; several ribs were bruised making it difficult to say more than a few words without gasping at a breath.

  "Jonas Dante. Never have I been so happy to see your ugly face."

  Dante grinned and responded in perfect Dutch. "Nor I yours, old friend. It would appear both you and your ship took quite a beating." His expression sobered as he studied Janszoon's face. "We saw the white flag run up your mast."

  "We had already weathered four bloody storms since leaving Capetown and we were done for," he admitted. "I could not justify the loss of more lives. We had no steerage. She had damage below the waterline and the pumps had broken down so that she was wallowing like a hog in a pool of mud. The Netherlands have a treaty with Spain and I thought it would deter the vipers to fly the Dutch flag, but I guessed wrong. I should have flown the red half-moon of the Turks; that might have given them greater pause, although I was beginning to believe we were not fated to reach Algiers."

  "Algiers?"

  Janszoon smiled weakly. "An honest merchant working for the almighty Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie can barely earn enough to make the voyages worthwhile. The Company takes everything, and expects one simply to be grateful for the privilege of sailing to foreign lands. Both my father and I have established a new base in a dusty little desert hole called Marrakech where the Sultan of Morocco is appreciative of our talents. Be damned if he has not made my father Governor this past year."

  Jonas shook his head and laughed. "I remember your father well. He is the only man who has ever bested my father in a drinking match. Two bottles of rum and he could still stand to piss his name in the sand."

  "I will send over a crate of Turkish araki. Two cupfuls and you forget how to stand, nevermind piss."

  "I can send some of my crew over to lend a hand with repairs. I still owe you a great deal for helping save my brother's life."

  Janszoon managed a chuckle. "Loan me a flag with the Dante colors. That seems to have sent the other dog running with his tail between his legs. Or—" his eyes widened and he stared at something over Dante's shoulder. "You could send that over and I would consider any outstanding debts paid ten times over."

  Dante followed the Dutchman's stare and saw Bellanna emerging from the after hatchway. Her hair was once again tied at the nape but that only served to emphasize the soft curve of her neck. The way the torn halves of her shirt were criss-crossed tightly at her waist accentuated her slender shape even more than the brocaded corset had done. There were smudges on her face and spatters of blood down the front of her shirt, which startled Dante momentarily until he realized none of the blood was hers.

  He raised his hand and reluctantly beckoned her to join them, then switched to English for introductions.

  "Captain Cornelus Janszoon van Salee… Lady Bellanna Harper."

  Janszoon bowed over her hand and brushed it with kiss. "Such loveliness amidst such chaos." Lapsing briefly back into Dutch, he added for Jonas's benefit, "I have seven wives in Marrakech, but there is always room for one more if you have a mind to part with this exquisite beauty."

  Bella affected a polite nod and a perfunctory curtsey, but gently eased her hand from Janszoon's grip. "Mr. Grundy sent me to find you, Captain. The doctor has lost a great deal of blood and he had a score or more slivers of wood buried in his flesh. We have sewn the gash in his cheek back together, but the wound in his leg is bad."

  Dante turned abruptly to the Dutch captain. "You will have to excuse
me, Cornelus. I am needed below."

  "Of course."

  "There is an inlet on the other side of the island. It should provide you with sheltered anchorage until your repairs are made. If you need anything… timber? Canvas?"

  Janszoon waved the offer aside. "You have already done more than enough and I can see why you would wish to keep such a prize to yourself. We may, indeed, consider our debts to each other paid in full."

  Dante barked an order leaving Artemis Franks in charge. He then hurried down to the surgery, passing a few dozen crew who were crowding the companionway waiting to hear how Digger was doing.

  The cabin was hot from the excess number of lamps burning, and the air smelled like smoke and pitch and burnt flesh. Grundy was packing the wound in Digger's leg, winding linen strips around it. Molly was attempting to wash the blood off his face without disturbing the thick layer of unguent covering the recently stitched slash on his cheek. Digger's eyes were shut. His naked, boney body was dotted with smears of pitch, used to seal up the myriad smaller wounds. Someone… not likely Grundy… had laid a square of linen over his groin in an effort at modesty.

  The quartermaster glanced up long enough to shake his head at Dante. "He ain't cheated the devil yet."

  Digger had been on board the Tribute for the past twelve years and while no one sailed or fought under notion they were immortal, it was nonetheless difficult for Dante to ask. "Will he live?"

  Grundy raised a blood-stained hand and scratched at his scalp. "Skewered all-overish, he was. Cheek will heal up nice thanks to the lass." He nodded in Bella's direction. "She stitched it like it were a proper Sunday sampler."

  Bella blushed softly as Dante glanced at her.

  "Now the leg," Grundy continued, "has a hole ye can stick a finger clear through to the other side if ye've a notion. Ankle is busted up bad. Lump on his head damn near cracked open his skull an' if he wakens at all, which don't look good at the moment, he'll be hearin' bells for a long time."

  "I'll thank ye not to be spreadin' rumors o' my death just yet," came a hoarse croak from the body on the table."

  Grundy leaned over him. "Digger? Ye're alive then, are ye?"

  "Aye, ye stupid bastard. Climbin' on the rail like that, given 'em a ripe target. Stupid Irish bastard… an' me the more so fer standin' anywheres near ye."

  "Scottish, ye damned heathen." Grundy said through a scowl that quickly turned into a grin. "By God, I should've known yer skull was too thick to break."

  "Bah, stop all that blatherin' an' give a thirsty man a tot o' rum. My face feels like it's afire." Digger twisted his head around to see the doorway. "The ship? The crew?"

  "All is well," Dante assured him. "The Spaniard is on its way to the bottom of the sea. The Dutchman has enough of a hull left to limp home. And the only damage the Tribute took was to a length of rail where some mad Scotsman was standing and dancing on it."

  "The lassies took care of the wounded men whilst ye were lollygaggin'," Grundy added. "Three o' them bunged up, not countin' you."

  Digger twisted his head a little more to try to see where Bella and Molly were standing, but a stab of pain in the freshly stitched cheek brought the dark-haired maid over to the table instead.

  "Please, you should not move around."

  "Don't plan to, lass," he gasped. He reached up with a wavering hand and clamped his fingers around Molly's wrist. "I'll just bide 'ere a while. Be right as rain come mornin'."

  "I'll send in another jug to help ease the pain," Dante said.

  "Two jugs," Grundy murmured. "We still have to strap up that busted ankle an' he'll be wailin' like a banshee if we do it when he's awake."

  Dante glanced at Digger's foot, which was not only blue and swollen to twice its normal size, but turned the wrong way.

  "Aye, might have to cut it off," Grundy said quietly, answering the question in Dante's eyes.

  Digger's eyes popped open again. "No ye bluidy well won't, ye skrint-eyed, spaven-legged bollock. I'll be goin' to my grave wi' all my parts where they should be, thank 'ee very much! Now, where's 'at bluidy rum!"

  "Do as the man says," Dante nodded. "But keep a close eye."

  "Aye, Capt'n, that I will. That I will."

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was still dark when Dante gave the order to get under way. The glow in the sky from the burning galleon would be visible for miles and there was no way of knowing if there were other ships in the vicinity curious enough to take a closer look. The second galleon had fled into the night and there was no telling how far he had run or if he had made repairs and would be returning. As far as that went, the Gulden Dolphijn was on its own and if Janszoon had to fight his way back to Algiers, so be it.

  The wind was steady and strong out of the east, pushing the Tribute well out into the vastness of the ocean-sea. They sailed clear of the smothering cloud cover and the sky soon became awash with stars. The air was crisp and salty-cool, making it difficult to believe they had been embroiled in a hot, fiery battle not a few hours past.

  As was his habit, Dante made a complete circuit of his ship, inspecting every level. Satisfied over the lack of any real damage, he took one last look in the surgery. Digger was asleep on the table, his leg bound in a wooden splint. Grundy and Will'um of the crushed toe were sprawled in drunken stupors on the floor beside him, having obviously shared his need for the numbing effects of the rum. All three were snoring like elephants.

  Dante assumed, since he saw no trace of them, that Bella and Molly were also asleep somewhere. And by somewhere he had to acknowledge the fact he wasn't exactly certain where Bella would be. Wary of making the same mistake as before, he opened the door to his cabin as quietly as he could and peeked inside without any high degree of expectation.

  She was there.

  She was lying belly-down on the berth, her arms and legs askew. Her head was turned to the side and her hair was loose. Threads of it trailed across her cheek and throat like a wispy veil. She had not bothered to undress or even remove her boots and for a moment Dante was tempted to do both for her. That same temptation brought him closer to the berth and he stood for several minutes watching her while she slept. The soft light cast by the oil lamp painted the contours of her face in amber shadows. He studied every curve and crease and lash then exhaled a slow breath and walked over to his desk.

  He pushed aside the log books he had taken from the Spanish galleon then slid open one of the drawers and took out his box of charcoal sticks along with the leather-clad folio that held his sketches. He spread a blank page on the desk and swept the side of his hand across it to clear away any dust.

  Two hours later, with the first hint of blue-gray light glowing through the gallery windows, he had filled three pages with lines and shadings. So intent on sketching had he been, that he was not aware of Bella waking until she was standing beside him, peering over his shoulder.

  "Why… that's me! I heard all the scratching and assumed you were writing in your log book again. But you were drawing! You were drawing me while I was asleep!"

  Dante bristled at being discovered. "Easier than drawing you when you are awake and constantly chattering or moving about."

  He started to put the sheets back into the folio, but she laid a hand over his to stop him. "These are quite good, Captain, though I think my chin is not so pointed. And you've made my chest—" she paused and looked down as if to reassure herself what was real and what was not— "somewhat more generously endowed."

  Dante grumbled something under his breath and pushed to his feet. As soon as he vacated the chair, Bella took his place and pulled the folio closer.

  "May I?"

  "They are, as you said, just scratchings."

  "Please?"

  "Suit yourself." He strode to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of wine. He glanced over once when she started turning pages, then several times more as she seemed to take an inordinate amount of time studying the drawings.

  His mother, Isabeau, knew of his
penchant for sketching. She had encouraged it, in fact, when he was younger and serving his apprenticeship on board the Black Swan. His father, brother, and sister had little interest in inks or charcoals or preserving landmarks and island people on paper. Aside from the value of keeping pictorial records—some of the craggy faces he had drawn were long gone—it helped pass the time during the long and endless days weaving around the islands hunting for Spanish booty.

  As if plucking the thought out of his head, Bella held up a page that bore such a startling likeness of the wizened quartermaster, it only needed breath to bring it alive.

  "You have a marvellous talent, Captain, for capturing the character of your subjects in a few strokes."

  "If you are finished picking through my private papers—?"

  She looked over, her eyes wide and darkly violet in the lamplight. Instead of closing the folio she held up a sketch of a beautiful woman standing at the bow of a ship, her long hair streaming out behind her, a sword strapped to her waist, leather belts with knives and powder horns criss-crossing her chest, a pistol held in an outstretched hand. Half of her left arm was missing. The bottom of the sleeve was tied in a knot and used as a convenient sheath for a jewelled dagger.

  "Who is this, please?"

  "My mother," he said over a sip of wine. "Isabeau Dante."

  "The Black Swan herself," Bella whispered in awe. "But surely she does not sail or fight anymore?"

  "Surely she does. And she does it well. If her temper is high she can even best me with a sword."

  "You have her eyes."

  "Her eyes are blue."

  "You have her chin."

  "She has no knack for growing a beard. Now, if you don't mind…?"

  "Yes. Of course." Bella tidied the sheaf of sketches and replaced them in the leather folio. That done, she leaned back and looked at him. "You have not slept at all?"

  "There was someone in my bed."