by H C Storrer
Below decks, the big cannons were being cleaned and prepped. Mallets thumped against the bulkheads, removing the wedges that held the gun ports closed. The powder monkeys, boys of twelve and thirteen, formed a fire line with shot and ball, stacking the munitions from the magazine next to each gun. Before he knew it, and with the muskets sent topside, Jack found himself in the line with some of the older sailors who were eager to get the work completed.
“Finally!” one sailor whispered. “I would ’ave died from boredom if we ’adn’t seen somfin’ soon.”
“I was prayin’ the o’fer way, Saul.” A second, more experienced man tried to keep his hands from shaking.
“You worry too much, Jo. Why, we has thirty-six gun on this ’ere ship. What pirate would go toe to toe wif a frigate o’ his Majesies navy.”
“Pirates is smart,” Jo replied curtly.
“Ha,” Saul mocked, tapping Jack with his elbow. “We’s in the comp’ny of a right trembl’n lady! They try an’ fight an’ we will send ’em down to meet ol Hob.”
“The angel o’ def is wif us, you see.” Jo kept his eyes on his tattered breeches as he hauled his shot. “I feels the grave in me bones.”
“Then why did ye come if you ’asn’t the gut for a fight?” Saul laughed, wiping his face with a speckled rag.
“I wouldn’t be ’ere if not for them press gangs.”
Jack remained silent. He didn’t know who to believe, and so he just kept working, even when Saul smiled and jabbed him again. Once topside, Jack noticed that the distant report of cannon fire had all but died out. Finding a spot with his shipmates, he crouched lying in wait.
“At the ready, Mr. Peters. Officers stand ready for the fight,” Benning commanded as he passed.
Jack nodded hesitantly, stood, and slowly surveyed the main deck. The marines were in an ordered line, Lieutenant Durphy checking them before battle, the sailors crouching along the railing out of sight. “Why did they stop firing?” Jack asked.
“I believe they were intent on taking their prize until they finally got a good look at us and decided the fight wasn’t worth it,” Benning replied.
“So it’s pirates, then.” Jack’s heart took a small stutter at the thought.
“Aye,” the lieutenant replied. “A French privateer by the look of her,” he added, as if that explained everything.
“White sails on port side!” The sailor at the forecastle called back. Like an echo each man in turn relayed the message.
“All hands clear the deck for action, ahoy!” The Captain barked. By him, a small boy on a drum beat to quarters.
“Stand to the guns!” Mr. Howard yelled below.
The Captain turned to Benning. “It’s a merchantman, rather badly mauled to starboard. The other vessel flies no colors, or at least it struck colors as soon as they saw us on the horizon. A sloop of war by the look of her, eighteen guns… or more. They are putting sails and running.”
“Will we be able to catch them?” Benning asked.
“Aye, easily. They’ve taken damage, looks like the fore rigging has been shot to pieces,” the Captain replied. “We should be on them in little under half an hour.”
As the ship pitched in the windy sea Jack had nothing to do but watch nervously at the rolling waves as the high whiffs of cirrus clouds filled the otherwise blue sky. There was a moment of excitement as they passed the merchantman flying the Union Jack, the sailors waving and hooting as their compatriots raced by in the Faversham. Besides the festive exchange, there was little to do other than stare at the clouds. In the pitch of eagerness, it seemed like every minute passed on through frozen molasses. When the sailors on the sloop were clearly visible with the naked eye, Benning came up to Jack’s side and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Here, take this pistol.”
“Do you think I’ll need it, Sir?” Jack asked, hefting the gun.
“I hope not,” Benning sighed. “If it comes to it, stay close to me.”
Jack nodded, running nervous fingers over the trusty karambit tucked behind his back for comfort.
“Load a broadside and run ’em out,” the Captain ordered.
“Load!” Benning yelled down to the bos’n.
Jack could feel the adrenaline coursing from his feet to his head. He checked behind his back on the karambit once more, and then pushed the pistol into the front of his pants. The few fisticuffs he had gotten into as a street boy had felt nothing like this. Some of these men were going to die. Looking over the port side, he watched as the Faversham crept ever closer to the crippled quarry. He could hear the pirate captain barking out orders to his men as they ran about the ship. There was a familiarity to the gruff tone of the man’s voice; Jack didn’t want to believe what he already knew to be true. His heart pounding, he made his way forward; he was going to put eyes on the rogue. Jack was entranced by the sea-worn wood of the pirate ship, scanning the crafts deck as he leaned over the railing. The vessel was a terrible sight: the gun ports open and ready for a fight, a few pirates in their torn, disheveled breeches, gathering behind an odd assortment of deck guns. The captain was right, it was an eighteen-gun sloop of war, but she was packed to the brim with even more cannon. He counted at least four more heavy guns to just the starboard side. Jack was sure this was going to be more like a street brawl than an ordered line of war.
“Move it, ye swabs! Me want’s a line o’ fire ready for the battle. They finks they can cage us?” the Pirate Captain barked.
“NO!” the resounding cry tore the air.
Immediately, Jack’s eyes were upon the man who had caused him so much pain. Like the dog he was, Nathan stood at the deck, whirling about with orders, a pistol in one hand, a gleaming cutlass in the other. He wore a twisted mustache, his face golden with stubble and his bad eye covered over with a leather patch tied around his head. Stunned that it was truly him, Jack stared, his heart thumping. He was so intent on his thoughts of vengeance that Jack didn’t even notice when white puffs began to billow from the aft quarter of the Jolly Roger. A single ball cut the air, zipping past him close enough to smell, and smacked into the planking just beyond his head. Jack neither flinched nor took his eyes from Nathan.
“Best keep out of view, young Sir.” A sailor pulled him back. Stepping into Jack’s spot, he swung a Brown Bess up to his eye. The flint sparked, and then the musket pounded a shot in return. Like the devil’s hailstorm, lead balls whizzed back and forth.
“Ahhh.” The scream was piercing as one of the marines dropped back, holding his shoulder as blood seeped from the wound around his fingers. Jack tore his gaze from the pirate to the marine, stunned at the gore of battle.
“Jack!” Benning yelled. “You help Mr. Gregory load muskets.”
The call to arms brought Jack to the present. Dashing to Mr. Gregory’s side, he grasped a spent musket and ram rod. He had practiced this, but as the battle heated, his hands shaking with excitement, he found the process difficult. Soon the whole of the deck was awash with the acrid smoke of gunpowder. He wondered how much more the clouds would waft when the cannons started to fire. “BA BOOM!” The answer was quick. Soon, the forward guns started to pound into the pirate vessel’s aft planking, the black boards of the ship splintering as the boat skidded under the impact.
“We have them now!” one of the marines yelled in jubilation, Jack and the crew replying with a resounding ‘huzzah!’
No sooner had the word escaped Jack’s lips, washing away his worry, when the Faversham suddenly ground to a stop. Jack tumbled head over feet, finally coming to rest against the mizzen mast. “Man overboard!” a voice called out in the confusion. Everywhere, men slowly gained their feet. Below decks there was a tapestry of foul language, men screaming as the big guns crushed and pinned them from being tossed like sticks with the jarring full stop.
“It’s a shallow water reef!” a sailor yelled.
“We’ve run a’ground!” the Bos’n yelled back up to the captain.
“I know what�
�s happened, blast it!” the Captain yelled back. “Get this mess cleaned up! I want men on the boats. We’re going to have to tow off!”
Jack, holding the bump on his head, slowly worked up to his knees and then feet. Making his way to Benning, he helped the lieutenant up. “There isn’t any land, how did we run aground?”
“The gulf is full of these shallows,” Benning replied under his breath. “They’re easy enough to see, but in the heat of battle…” He gave a knowing nod.
Jack was up on his tiptoes, watching as Nathan sailed on into the distance. Full of frustration, his question sounded more like a complaint, “Well then why didn’t they get stuck?”
“They have a shallower draft,” Benning replied.
Jo’s words rushed into Jack’s thoughts. ‘Pirates is smart.’
***
It was just after noon, the tropical sun burning intensely high overhead, as Jack put his might into the oar, pulling it to him. The cannons had been righted and the stores sent aft to try and lighten the ship off the reef. What had started as two small boats trying to pull the Faversham off the shallows had turned into an armada of long boats and a dingy. They were all roped to the rear of the frigate, nearly every sailor at the oars. Jack was no exception, pressing an oar in boat three.
“Put yer backs into it!” Mr. Howard yelled.
It didn’t help that the vessel had taken on water; every man not working to tug the ship back pumped feverishly at the bilge pump. Mr. Gordon, the carpenter, had it worst of all; knee deep in water he fought to caulk the worst of the leaks below deck.
“We are going to have to lighten the ship,” The captain grumbled as he watched the men struggle at the oars.
“Sir?” Benning asked.
“I know when I’m beaten, Lieutenant. Send the order. Keep just the essentials.”
“Sails on the horizon!” a sailor called.
“Sails?” the Captain put the spyglass to his eye.
“What is it Sir?” Benning asked.
“Square rigged, looks like a small frigate, or a large sloop.” The captain dropped the glass once again. Quickly, he put it back to his eye. “They have a full head of sail.”
“Should we run up the distress?” Benning chewed his lip, turning to give the order.
The Captain blanched as he gripped him by the arm. “Damn! Lighten this ship now, Lieutenant! You men in the boats! Heave to! Pull us off this blasted reef!” Bringing the glass back to his eye, he watched in horror. Whipping in the wind, the blood-red flag with a black heart mocked as the sloop returned.
“Eyes in the boat! Ya heard the cap’n! Heave!” Mr. Howard’s voice cracked like a whip, “Put yer backs into it, ye swabs!”
The sweltering sun beat upon those at the oars as well as the crew tossing what they could over the side of the Faversham. “Sir, everything not nailed down has been tossed, the only thing left to drop is the shot and cannon,” Benning advised, his eyes caught on the floating chests that bobbed at the ship’s side.
“Make it happen.” Before Benning took two paces, the Captain’s voice clapped like thunder. “He’s run out his guns! Either tow us out or bring those boats back in!” His face pale, he turned to Benning. “Will the rogue give no quarter?”
Jack could feel the nervous tension of his oar mate as their paddle began to tremble. All around, the sea grew silent as the incoming vessel made a wide arch just off the edge of the shoal. Turning its starboard side to them, its nameplate on the forecastle mocked in great white letters, Jolly Roger.
“Heave, ya swabs!” the Bos’n yelled, twisting in his seat panicked. “Heave!”
‘BA BOOM!’ the first gun sounded, and then in quick succession another twelve guns down its side followed suit. A fountain of water exploded right next to Jack, covering him and his mates in a wave, swamping their boat immediately. Overhead, more balls burst into the cabin of the Faversham, splinters of wood and glass raking the air in large sprawls.
“Get us off this rock, Mr. Benning. Heave the guns if you have to!” The Captain’s voice turned shrill. It was his last order as a ball tore the planking from under his feet, hurling him into the rigging above, his limp body crashing through the grate that covered the hold.
“Back to the ship! Run out the guns!” Lieutenant Benning barked out orders from the deck as the other boats turned, cutting tow ropes and scrambling back to the Faversham.
‘BA BOOM, BA BOOM, BA BOOM!’ The Jolly Roger continued to rain cannonfire upon the Faversham and her crew.
Geysers of water burst all around Jack as the salty brine of the sea choked his throat. The panic at not having learned how to swim became lost in survival as he scrambled for a thin plank of wood to keep him afloat in the chaos. Grasping at whatever debris he could, he gathered a half raft as the current pulled him to open water. Jack watched in terror as the Jolly Roger slowly pounded the back of the Faversham, and then slipped at an angle to the port aft quarter, raking the deck of the helpless boat. Closing his eyes against the shrieks of dying men and splintering wood, Jack let the current carry him away towards the black storm clouds on the horizon glowing with flashes of lightning. His one chance at sinking the karambit into its original owner’s heart was lost as the cannon fire ceased. “I failed you, Maman.”
Part 2
Nisí Poté and The Shadow
Chapter 21
“I don’t know how he came to be here. The sea brings us gifts from time to time.”
The foaming surf licked into Jack’s face, his thoughts caught somewhere between twilight and dream. The memory of lightning splitting across a black, stormy sky flashed over his eyelids. As the thunder receded from his mind, Jack forced his fingers to curl around the sand to see if it was real before he would allow his eyes to open.
“He’s alive? Ewww—” It was another tiny voice, different than the last, higher pitched, feminine.
Jack popped his head up as his eyes flicked. “Anna?” His voice was rough, his throat raw. Blinking against the bright sun, he shielded his vision with his right hand as a white, sandy beach stretched to either side. Before him, a grand palisade of heavy mangrove roots formed a barrier to a lush green island that expanded into an emerald mass above the clouds. “We shouldn’t allow him to stay,” the small woman voice called again. Yanking his legs from the surf, Jack scrambled to his feet; in a deft spin he reached for the karambit, his heart sinking when his fingers splayed across the empty space where it should have been.
“Who is it? Where are you?” Jack yelled as he lowered to a defensive crouch, his sluggish mind finally catching up with the words—there was one place he knew he would not be welcome, given his history. “Is this heaven?”
The thrumming waves breaking over the reef was the only reply.
“Hello?” Jack called, less sure of the voices he had so clearly heard. “Hello!” he yelled once more, the force of it causing his head to throb. Confused, he tripped into the dry grit beyond the water’s edge, wanting to be rid of the pulling surf.
He had only gone a dozen or so yards when the odd sensation that he was not alone returned. Spinning on the spot to catch his followers unawares, Jack’s legs gave out as he crashed to the sand. Days spent rolling aimlessly on the open sea coupled with the lack of water had left his limbs weak and unsteady. As he lay panting, the dry scorch in his throat inflamed while the salty sting of ocean pricked his eyes. It was the pain that confirmed this was no heaven—but he knew that if he didn’t find fresh water he would be there soon. Forcing his muscles to work, Jack sat up, suppressing the desire to fill his innards with bitter seawater. Unbidden to his mind came the image of the clear, cool brooks outside of Penzance. He could almost hear the water bubbling over the smooth stone rock bed.
Shaking the madness from his mind, Jack froze at the gushing stream of the clearest blue water he could have imagined; joyfully, it tumbled over stones rounded smooth from the bubbling stream that rushed from the jungle only a handful of feet away. Without concern, Jack stumbl
ed headlong from pure instinct, his last ounce of strength sending him tottering into the cold wet. Burying his face into the crystal brook, he sucked deeply at the sweet surge of water until the desire for air only marginally superseded his need for hydration.
When he could fill his belly no longer, he rolled on his back and lay in the shallow creek as it licked the crusted salt from his hair. Overhead, the cloudless blue sky was a melancholy sight. It was a great expanse of nothing that was a constant reminder of how far away he was from home, and Anna. Too soon, the sun crested higher in the azure expanse, the tropical burning heat scorching the top of his head. Sitting up, Jack took a moment and picked at the loose skin that had started to peel from his forehead and around the edges of his lips, looking for shelter from the sun. Like a fly to sugar, he scurried to a lone tree at the edge of the mangrove palisade and slunk under its sanctuary. The burst of expended energy and reprieve of the blazing sun became all that was needed to sap his consciousness from him.
Jack woke with a start, the sensation of falling ripping him back to his island world. Hours had passed. The island mountain behind him was like a great sundial, casting a dark shadow out beyond the bay. Within his belly a very real growl gurgled with pain, as if his stomach and spine were about to meet, but before he could move, an oblong orange and yellow fruit dropped from the air directly into his palm. Jack stared interminably at his hand, shocked from the stinging blow it had taken. He finally moved when the dripping nectar, leaking from splits in the ripe, fruit’s skin, had slowly meandered between the cracks in his fingers and dripped into the parched sand. Overcoming his concern, he slowly brought the yellow liquid up to his lips, the sweet treat bursting across his tongue. In a frenzy, he tore away the thick rind and gnashed into the soft mango flesh, the fibers gripping tight between his teeth. It wasn’t long before the pit looked as if it were a bleached bone, the desire for a second overcoming the miracle of the first. With a thud, another of the strange fruits dropped at the base of his feet.