by H C Storrer
Anna poured the jewels back into the tiny bag. “What is it, Jack?” She sounded apprehensive.
Jack grimaced at her tone. “I am not just me anymore. I found something else on that island, something that has been lost to this world for too long.”
Chapter 41
T he shadows were long as the sun sank behind the large brick buildings that lined the wharf along the Isle of Dogs. The tall masts of the Royal Navy ships that sat in the lapping water moored two lanes over from where he stood looked like sturdy pickets silhouetted high above the rooftops. Jack enjoyed the cold autumn air wafting over him as the welcoming smell of roasting fowl and salted fish drifted through the lanes with beckoning frequency. Along the cobbles and dirt alleys, a few sailors milled about smoking long clay pipes. It had been a day of revelation soaking in his surroundings with new eyes, the shadow feasting on the modern world. Jack could feel its giddiness—like a child with a ball.
Jack had also learned that the jewelers of London were not much better than the bankers: a conniving, thieving lot all too willing to relieve him of his precious gems for a fraction of their worth. Some even went as far as trying to pocket his stones. In each case, the shadow had a knack for convincing the jewelers to a more generous price. His pocketbook brimming with a small fortune, Jack made his way along the wharf, the shadow guiding him to his next goal.
“Ahoy matey, is you lost?” An old salt caught Jack as he stepped up the rickety wooden stairs of a pub.
“Me finks yous is look’n fur the milk maids,” a second man’s voice rumbled low and gravelly, his fur-covered hand appeared like the paw of a bear as it caught Jack in the chest. “This ’ere hall is fer cap’ns an’ mates. You best turn to.”
Jack hardly paid attention to the men. He could feel Benning was close, the shadow emphatic that he sat at a table in the establishment.
“Is you deaf?” The burly man shoved him back, the force of the blow bringing Jack and the shadow back to the present. “Shove off, lad, if’n you knows what’s good fer ya.”
A half smile lifting his cheek, Jack gripped the man’s hand with such speed and force that he could feel the bones snap with the impact. Swinging the burly man’s arm behind his back, Jack hurled him into the filth of the cobbles like a stone on a pond. Turning to the elderly man behind the bar, Jack explained simply, “I have business here with Captain Benning.”
“Me finks he’s in the back.”
“Thanks.” Jack flipped the man a shilling and continued in. Captain Benning, Jack laughed to himself. The idea of it left an odd sensation on his tongue. In the dark, he quickly stood above the man, his blue coat disheveled and faded. “Well, you’re a hard man to find.” Jack smiled down on his friend.
“What buishnesh is it o’ yours,” Benning slurred without looking up.
“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” Jack asked.
Slowly, the captain raised his head, squinting up through bloodshot eyes as if he were staring into the sun. After a series of blinks and a slap of his face, his lips began to stammer.
“No, I’m not a ghost.” Jack started to laugh. “You’re not that drunk!”
“MR. PETERS!” Benning was on his feet, his hands shaking Jack’s shoulders. “Is it really you? How? When?”
“I was marooned on an island.” Jack started to explain. “I couldn’t have imagined there was a single other survivor of the Faversham.”
“Ha! True that is.” Benning reached over and lifted a free chair from one table to his own. “Here, sit, sit!”
“How did you make it?” Jack queried. “When I floated away, the Faversham was a burning wreck.”
“How did you make it? They blasted the longboats straight away.” Benning stared back with incredulity.
“Fair enough. I gathered bits of planking from the shattered boats and made a sort of raft. I was adrift for days, then during a storm I washed up on a beach in the Spanish Main. I was quite alone for years, eating from the island and sea until a merchantman found my fire and picked me up,” Jack lied. He wanted to just keep it simple. “Now, for your tale.”
Benning sat quite still for a long moment, his cheeks stretched back in a smile. He had grown older, heavier, over the years. Unlike the Benning of Jack’s memory, his face was covered in thick stubble, every stitch of his uniform out of place or dirty. It was obvious that his was a life out of sorts. Slowly the smile receded, painful memories filling his thoughts. “Ah, well, you remember Mr. Wells, the tutor of the midshipmen? Him and me we took the last small dingy off the starboard side when all them balls were raining over the deck. During the confusion, we slipped off into the current. We laid there dead as the grave an’ covered over with a canvas, me on top of ’im so the little boat sat wonky in the wake. It was enough that they didn’t spend much of an effort on us. A few balls splashed close, but we were let go unmolested.” Benning suddenly grew melancholy, sobering as he shared the story.
“Without food or provision, we was left to the mercy of the sea. Mr. Wells, he succumbed twenty-two days out. We had only a raw little fish I was able to swipe out with my bare hands and a gull that had blown in from a storm. We drank its blood, but it wasn’t enough.” Benning cleared his throat.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jack consoled.
“Awe, well… A French frigate found me two days later, quite mad. They buried the rest of Mr. Wells at sea.” Benning stopped, his eyes darting behind his lids as he blinked at the memory incessantly. “You hav’ta understand, Jack, I was alone, hungry…” Staring at Jack, he looked for some sort of absolution for his deeds. “What am I saying, of course ya understand. Blasted, if anyone understands, you would.”
Jack nodded slowly. “You were hungry. It wasn’t like Mr. Wells was going to mind.”
“Aha!” Benning slapped the table. “True, true! I knew yous would take me side. Blasted, not a bloody sailor on the waves knows it until he’s been!” Benning took another long draught, finishing the tankard to the pewter bottom. “Man of the house, another mug for me and my friend!”
“You were plucked from the water by a French man-o-war?” Jack pressed for the story.
“Oh, aye... aye. Stark mad, I was. They told me I was trying to keep bits of me mate in me pockets, not sure if there was going to be food enough on board. They were bloody good chaps, though. Cleaned me up an’ sat me down under flag of truce…” Benning’s thoughts started to trail as his lips muttered silently, “Legere.”
“What was that?” Jack pressed.
“Oh, never you mind. Them frogs was good gents.” Benning took the fresh mug from the bar wench, handing the other tankard to Jack.
“I was told you were made captain?” Jack asked as he took a swig.
“Ah, well…” Benning shuffled for his coat, checking the epaulettes at the shoulders. “I guess that’s what they says. Captain of an old leaking nufin’. That’s how they treat heroes: wif a pat on the back, a healthy commission, and a seat out the way.”
“Out of the way?” Jack looked at him slyly. “As I heard it, you’ve been commissioned to finish with the work of the Faversham.”
Benning narrowed his eyes. “Aye, some foolhardy adventure of the admiralty. You and I has that same smell ‘bout us. Being the first to ‘unt down that cursed ship. I’s no wish to be the last.”
Jack sat back, his face puzzled. Benning was different in more ways than his appearance. Gone was his wide-eyed wonder and courteous ways. Even his speech had become lessened; absorbing coarseness closer to the common sailor.
“The royal French navy frigate, Legere. That’s who picked me up Mr. Peters. Do you know what I ’eard the very first day when I reported to the admiralty?” Benning leaned forward and answered his own question, saying, “The Legere had been sent into the Spanish main to search for an unknown pirate. A vile, black-hearted man who left no survivors so as to never have a witness to his murderous deeds. The Legere had disappeared wifout a trace, and the French ambassador was asking to know
if it had been taken or sunk by our boys of the Royal Navy.”
Jack nodded silently. “Rogers.”
“Aye. There’s not a ship that’s come up against Rogers who’s survived the battle. They’s all just up an’ disappeared, never to be ’eard from again.” Benning leaned back, hands over his chest. Slowly, a smile returned to his face. “Well, that’s enough dour talk for one evening. It’s not as if a crew will be line’n up behind me anyway. I’m a Jonah, after all. Curse to men and ship alike.”
“Well in that case,” Jack raised his mug, “count me in as first mate. First mate of the cursed…” Jack paused, “… what’s the name of our ship anyway?”
“Ha, she sits down the dock. The sixth-rate HMS Fox.”
“To the men and crew of the Fox!” Jack bellowed.
“To the Fox!” Benning brought his mug up hard.
***
If Benning had not been drunk when Jack first found him in the pub, he was well past inebriation when he dragged him down the pier towards the Fox. Standing before the frigate, Jack looked around to make sure he was not being watched, then easily lifted his captain like a baby and flew up and over the side of the vessel. Landing softly, Jack carried Benning into the captain’s quarters and tucked him into bed. Quietly stealing out of the room, Jack surveyed the ship’s condition. It was clear even from a distance that the masts leaned to port, the sails and rigging dangling sadly from the moisture that collected about them. The sloped deck of the listing vessel agreed with every other assessment as Jack walked its tired planks. Descending below, he was not entirely surprised to see every cannon shifted to the port side of the gun deck. Jack kicked aside the empty crates strewn about, then tipped over a half-full barrel of moldy apples. Shaking his head, he could see that the admiralty really did want Benning out of the way. Returning topside to inspect the rigging, Jack found that most of the ropes and a few of the sails showed signs of dry rot from the sun and disuse. “How long has this ship been here?” Jack spoke to himself.
“Tha’s a good question.” Spinning to the words, Jack’s gladius pointed at the heart of the intruder, the shadow surrounding the man, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. “Easy, laddie, I don’t mean no trouble.”
“State your name and business here.” Jack stood resolute, the tip of his sword unmoving.
“I’s no one of importance, jus’ Cap’n Benning’s steward. The name is Sam Benson, only the Cap’n ’as taken to call me Sampson ’cause of me long ’air.” He removed his cap and pointed to his greasy strands of black. Jack quickly sheathed his sword but kept the shadow where it was.
“I see. I wouldn’t think the Fox warranted a steward, Mr. Benson.”
The man shifted uncomfortably, looking over his shoulders. “True, True... It feels like somfin’ be walk’n over me grave,” he said to himself.
With a wary eye, Jack removed the shadow. Like having a crate of tea lifted from his shoulders, Sampson sighed and straightened. It was obvious the experience lingered as he remained still, searching his limbs for answers.
“You were saying, Mr. Benson,” Jack pressed.
“Sampson, you can call me Sampson, if you would like.”
“Very well, Mr. Benson.” Jack rolled his wrist, inviting him to continue.
“Not mister…” Sampson stopped as the fire of annoyance in Jack’s eyes was impossible to ignore. “Well anyways, the Cap’n has had a rough go of it. You ever ’eard of the Faversham, well of course you ’as. Everyone’s ’eard of the Faversham. Since then, they’s let me stay with the Cap’n an’ takes care of the poor bloke.”
“Well, Mr. Benson, you will not have to go it alone any further. My name is Peters. Jack Peters. I will be coming on board as First Lieutenant.”
“Beg’n your pardon, Sir.” Sampson shifted uneasily again. “Me finks yous gonna be the only lieutenant. The Cap’n ’as nairy a crew to sail the Fox.” He looked up and smiled apologetically
Jack grimaced a smile in return. “So I hear, but not to worry. I’m sure we can round up a crew in no time at all. Good evening, Mr. Benson.” Jack dipped his head and sauntered down the gangplank as Sampson stared with incredulity.
The Fox was in need of help and Jack knew just the boys to provide it.
Chapter 42
“I ’m not the council! Why do you all keep coming to me with these problems?” Tristan, covered in ash, floated in the middle of the burnt-out council tree as a handful of other fairies flitted nearby.
“We beg your pardon, Tristan, but you are the guardian. You are the only remnant left of the council.” Crincias said, then hesitated.
“The guardian of what.” Tristan scoffed. Tink had warned him that this was coming. There were only a dozen or so fairies that had survived Jack’s fire, and they were desperate to regain some semblance of their former life. “The council is gone, in case you haven’t noticed. We will never be as we once were, do you not understand? Never!”
“That may be,” Danig chimed in. “But we need a new leader and we have chosen you.” The surrounding fairies nodded in agreement.
“GAA!” Tristan threw his hands up in exasperation. “I would think you would have wanted the position for yourself, Danig, considering the company you were in the last time we met.”
The nature fairy swallowed hard. “Pistil was my friend. I was with him, not Fer… and not the others. I am not one for the job. You are.”
“Hear! Hear!” the small group of fairies chimed in.
“I don’t plan on staying on this cursed island.” He heard a gasp and could make out Tink’s silver glow but continued. “Pick someone else to be your leader.”
“This is Nisí Poté. You cannot leave. We are safe here.” Another fairy darted forward.
“Safe, Nixi? Safe?” Tristan spread his arms, gesturing to the black walls that surrounded them. “Don’t be naive. Those days are gone!”
Tink had had enough and shot forward, wrapping her arms around Nixi, who had begun to cry. “You don’t have to be cruel, Tristan. If you don’t want to be here, then why don’t you just leave!”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do, but you all won’t let me be!” He could see his words hurt Tink most of all, but he needed the fairies out of his wings if he was to find what he had been looking for.
“Fine, Tristan. I guess you have more Peter in you than you thought.” Tink choked back a sob and followed the remaining fairies fluttering up and out of the tree, leaving Tristan alone with his feeble gold glow.
“His name’s Jack!” he barked behind them.
Tristan floated back to the bottom of the tree and began to shift the debris he was moving when the fairies had first interrupted him. They were not wrong. He technically had been part of the council, though his seat had been so far removed from the main body of the elders that his vote rarely counted, even if he had wanted to participate.
Growing slightly to lift a larger branch, Tristan spied what he was looking for. Quickly tossing the branch aside and darting forward, he brushed his hand over the ash-covered door. Within the path of his digits a glittering trail of rubies glowed from the black carbon. Tristan flapped his wings hard in excitement, the air blasting the intricately carved mural clean. The top of the door held a relief of Pan standing above the very council tree in which Tristan now stood, Pan’s arms stretched wide as differing streams of brightly colored gems flowed into open chests beneath the council tree roots. Tristan knew what the citrine, ruby, and sapphire trails represented: pixi, redsleeve, and bluebell. He was curious as he felt the emerald trail. Turning the golden knob, Tristan pushed the door open.
Deep below Tristan spied several cases lighting the chamber with red, blue, green, and golden glows bleeding into one another. Landing before the golden chest, Tristan lifted its lid revealing a treasure trove of glowing yellow dust in rolling hills piled one atop another. Taking a pouch made of leaves from beneath his tunic, Tristan dipped it into the chest and hefted it out full of the sparkling powder, the
n closed the lid. He floated to the red chest and repeated the process with a second pouch. Quickly, he shut the lid and moved to the tiny blue chest, but shook his head then flitted to the exit, securing the door behind him.
***
“Are you really leaving on that? Why don’t you just fly?” Tink was floating next to Tristan as he stood on Jack’s beach, staring at the sloop the man had built as it bobbed in the lagoon.
“It’s my only choice. If I’m going to find Jack in this endless ocean, then my wings alone won’t be strong enough.” Tristan pulled the pouch of gold dust out from the simple green tunic he had exchanged for his guardian-crested one.
“You can’t. It’s forbidden.” Tink stayed his hand, aghast.
Tristan was sick of this argument. “Who’s here to punish me, Tink? There is no council. There are no rules!”
“Okay! Quit shouting at me, Tristan!” Tink crossed her arms defensively. “We’re all hurting.”
“Sorry.” Tristan turned to her, chagrined. She didn’t reply, and after a moment he looked back at the boat. “Have you spoken to Tigerlily lately?”
“She won’t speak to me. She refuses to believe Peter or Jack did it, she loves him.” Tink glanced at Tristan.
Tristan kept his face impassive. “Hmm.” He suspected Hukapapa wasn’t the only one in love. “It’s always hard to see the real person when you get too close. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.”
“Are we still talking about Hukapapa?” Tink’s voice got even smaller. “I didn’t mean what I said earlier. You don’t have to go.”
“But I do, Tink.”
“Why? Why does it have to be you?” Her silver orb began to pulse.
“Because I am the guardian… and Jack… I need to fix what I broke, that’s all there’s to it.”