Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella)

by Jeremy Robinson

  Finkle leaned forward, preparing to assist as well, but he was stopped by King’s strong hand against his chest. “No,” he said quietly. “They’ll take one, and only one.”

  “What? What are you saying?”

  King took a step forward and barked out an indecipherable order. The three shadows quickly stopped their assault. Their faces, covered by black fraying hoods, stared back at him. Their hissing, wheezing gasps of understanding could barely be heard over the sea winds. Then, without warning, they seized the sailor closest to the rail and disappeared over the side with their prize.

  14

  “What, pray tell, were those things?” Captain Reardon shouted, as he rushed over to Sigler. “You gave one command, and they obeyed you without question! What devilry did ye bring aboard my ship?”

  Jack Sigler, who stood a full foot and a half taller than the captain, stared down at him with a face of stone.

  “Captain, I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for this,” Finkle said. He could tell the hotheaded Irishman was about to do something rash. Something he’d ultimately regret. “We just need to calm down, and I’m certain Captain Sigler will explain what just happened.”

  Sigler turned from Reardon to Finkle, and shrugged. “I just saved the lives of your crew, gentlemen. Those creatures came here to feast. I only allowed them a small taste.” As if this was enough, the pirate began striding toward the hatch leading to the living quarters of the ship. “Now, I’m going to get myself cleaned up, and think about all you’ve told me, Mr. F…er, Finkle. For now, you can continue course to Florida. I’m not saying I’ll help you, but I am intrigued enough to consider it.”

  As the ancient pirate descended into the hold, Finkle couldn’t help but breathe a relieved sigh. There was something very dark in this strange man, who seemed older by far than even the tales indicated. But the darkness felt alien to him. Somehow Finkle knew, it just didn’t belong. It was, he believed, a darkness born of great sorrow, and despite the man’s flippant manner in regard to the life of the unfortunate sailor, Finkle feared the great Lanme Wa would only add his death to a mountain of sins that would fester in the man’s soul, unless something could be done about it.

  “So, you still believe havin’ that abomination on board is a good idea, boyo?” Reardon growled into Finkle’s ear. “’Cause I’m havin’ some serious doubts at the moment.”

  The old man kept his eyes trained on the hatch that Sigler had just descended, and shook his head. “I do. What’s more, I believe, though he may not know it yet, he needs to be part of this expedition for his own sake. No, we proceed as planned.” He then looked at the captain. “But I’d probably consider doubling the watch for the remainder of our voyage, if I were you.”

  King sat back in the bunk with a sigh. He’d commandeered the captain’s personal quarters. Had helped himself to the water basin to wash himself off as best he could, then shaved. He had finally begun to feel a modicum of himself again, except for the slight thumping of his heart against his chest.

  He hadn’t expected the hunting party. Hadn’t called them. Hadn’t planned on any of Captain Reardon’s crew being molested by them, while he had any say in the matter. Yet, against his wishes, they’d slipped on board and were now responsible for the death of an innocent man. For the first time since his awakening, he feared for his crew. What had the century without his guidance done to them? What had they fed on? Did they starve while they awaited his return, and now, famished, were they unable to repress their baser instincts?

  If that was the case, this expedition—on their fool’s errand—was doomed. Unless he could find a mutually beneficial means of dealing with the problem. But he wouldn’t know that until he had a chance to reunite with the Presley’s Hound and see his crew’s state of mind firsthand.

  So that’s what you’ll do then. Tomorrow, at day break, you’ll take a little swim over to the Hound and see for yourself.

  There was a tap at his door, breaking him from his thoughts.

  “Yes?”

  “Monsieur Lanme Wa?” The voice behind the door was Asherah’s. “May I come in?”

  King restrained himself from growling irritably, and opted to roll his eyes instead before answering. “You may.”

  The door cracked open, and Asherah’s large green eyes peeked around the corner at him. Trepidation and humility radiated from them. King felt the Creole woman was quite the actress.

  “Lanme Wa, I’ve come to offer you my most sincere apologies.” He waved her further inside, and she complied, closing the door behind her. From the oil lamp burning in the corner of the room, he could make out her firm, slender form underneath the cotton fabric of her dress. Sweat glistened off her bare shoulders, and ran down her neck toward the valley of her two breasts. When he looked up into her eyes, he caught the briefest of smiles on her face. She’d caught him noticing, and obviously enjoyed it. “I be truly sorry. I’ve done dishonored both you and my grandmamma. But when dey came to da island, I didn’t know what to do. Dere were so many of ’em. Wit’ guns. Dey were goin’ to take you, whether I liked it or not, so I made dem take me along. To protect you how I could.” She moved over to the bunk in which he was lounging, leaned forward and gently traced her fingertips across his bare chest. Her eyes stared into his with a lustful hunger. “I’m here for you. Your servant.”

  Faster than humanly possible, his right hand shot out, grabbing her by the wrist, and he shoved her away in disgust.

  “Don’t mistake me for a fool, witch.” He sat up, whipping his legs over the edge of the bed, and planting his feet on the floor. “You can’t charm me with your wiles, the same way you can the others aboard this ship. And I won’t be played. Remember, I’ve known you, your entire life. And I know what you did.”

  Her eyes widened at this revelation. “Monsieur? How do you know dis?” King detected the slightest of tremors in her voice, a far cry from the confident vixen she’d been upon entering his cabin.

  King snarled a derisive laugh. “You’ve been ‘serving’ me from the time you were first able to walk. Feeding me. Watching me. And all that time, I was, in a manner of speaking, watching you as well. Most of the time, it was unconsciously, but I was paying attention. I observed you grow up. I felt the selfishness and greed well up inside you.” He stood up and stalked over to her, backing her into the corner of the room. “And I heard you, too.”

  With a nervous gulp, she made the sign of the cross with her right hand. “H-heard me?”

  Feeling his anger rise like bile into his throat, King growled and lashed out at her, grasping her by the neck and giving a gentle, but stern squeeze. “Heard you kill her. Heard you murder your own grandmother. Heard you declare yourself the next Asherah.”

  At this, King felt her muscles relax. It was only the slightest of differences, but he felt it nonetheless. Whatever she’d been afraid he had discovered, this wasn’t it. She didn’t mind him knowing about the murder of her grandmother. No, there was something else she was keeping from him, and that unnerved him more than anything.

  “Monsieur, I can’t breathe.” The witch’s caramel-colored face was now an ashen gray, and her sultry, emerald eyes protruded from her skull, as she struggled to take in the simplest of breaths. King wondered if the world might not be a better place if he simply ended her life there, or at least forced her to tell him what she had planned. But something in the back of his mind railed against such an action. It was something that Lanme Wa might very well do, but not the man he once was. Not what Jack Sigler, callsign: King, would ever even contemplate.

  Slowly, he eased his grip from around her throat, then stepped away. “You need to leave,” he said, returning to his bunk. For several moments, she stood there, heaving for air while rubbing her bruised neck. Though obviously physically distressed, her expression was unreadable beyond that. If he’d made an even worse enemy in his actions today, she wasn’t going to let him know it. “But before you go, know this: I’m watching yo
u, witch. I’m not sure what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, but I won’t offer my back to you the way your grandmother did. Mark my words on that.”

  After a few more labored breaths, Asherah straightened, sniffed at the air and moved toward the door. When she opened it, she paused. “You can watch me all you want, monsieur.” She turned to face King with her familiar alluring smile. “I love da thought of dose delicious eyes on me. But understand something. You may know me, but I know you just as well. Though you have great strength and skill in battle…though you seemingly cannot die…you still are just a man, in da end. A sealed tomb kept you in a prison of your own making. Others might know ways of doin’ da same.”

  Before he could respond, she gave a curt nod of her head and slipped out of the cabin, closing the door behind her.

  15

  Twenty Miles Off the Florida Coast

  Two Days Later

  An unseasonably chill wind whipped against King’s face as he climbed onto the main deck. A blanket of dark clouds blotted out the night sky and the pale illumination from the quarter moon. The moment he materialized on deck, he was accosted by a slight, redheaded sailor running up to greet him.

  “Master Sigler,” the sailor said. His eyes wouldn’t quite look King in the face. “Master Finkle needs to see ye on the fo’castle immediately, sir. If’n ye don’t mind that is.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Don’t rightly know, sir. Just sent me to fetch ye, sir.”

  Without another word, King strode toward the bow of the ship, and took the three steps up to the forecastle deck in a single bound. Finkle stood next to a chart table with a sextant in hand. A lantern swayed back and forth above the map resting on the table, making it difficult to see much with any real clarity. When Finkle heard King’s approach, he turned and greeted him with a sober nod.

  “It’s a bit late for you to be up charting our course, isn’t it?” King said to the man. It was approaching the third watch of the night. The captain and most of the crew had long since retired for the night. Now, only a skeleton crew remained on deck.

  “I’ll sleep when our expedition is at an end. We’ll be in Florida by mid-morning,” he said.

  “You don’t look very happy about that.”

  The scientist shook his head. “We’ve got a problem. Needles, our lookout, spotted sails a few miles west of us, just before dusk. It was too far away to identify its colors, and now that it’s dark, there’s no way to know where it is in order to avoid it.”

  King pondered this for a moment. “This is a privateer vessel, right?”

  Finkle nodded.

  “So it’s been given letters of marque.”

  “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”

  “Simple. As a privateer, you’re not required to hoist American colors. You could, for example, hoist the Union Jack, if you’d like. Or the Spanish flag. If the ship out there is an enemy, make sure you’re their friend when you sail past.”

  “But that’s…”

  “What? Unfair? Dishonest? That’s one of the major advantages of employing a privateer. Guerrilla naval tactics, if you will.”

  “What kind of naval tactics?” Finkle asked, confused.

  “Nevermind. I say you use every advantage you have, considering the size and armament of a ship this small.” He smiled at the round old man. “It’s how I was going to suggest sailing into St. Augustine. The British currently are in possession of it, if my history’s correct, right?”

  “Yes, they are,” Finkle said, then cocked his head. “History?”

  “Point is, we need a plan to get into Matanzas Bay, and a British flag will do just that. Do we have any spare canvas aboard to fabricate one?”

  Finkle nodded. “I believe so. I’m just uncertain whether Captain Reardon is going to be particularly open to any of your suggestions at the moment.” He leaned against the rail near the bowsprit and sighed. “Truth is, that attack by those creatures the other day has him even more wary of you than he was before. He doesn’t think we should trust you.”

  “And what do you think?”

  The old man shrugged. “By your own admission, you’re not exactly committed to this expedition. Furthermore, you are a pirate, after all…no matter how much I’d like to think otherwise.” He shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. What should I think, Captain Sigler? You haven’t exactly been forthcoming with me.”

  “And why should I be? You abducted me. I was satisfied where I was. Not harming anyone. Letting time pass me by in peace, and you ripped me away from that without so much as a ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ For all intents and purposes, I’m a prisoner on board this ship…albeit a far-from-helpless one.”

  “I’m truly sorry about that,” Finkle said. From the tone of the man’s voice, King believed him. “But I honestly felt I had no choice. I believe in what we are trying to do with this revolution. I believe in everything our nation stands for, and this belief drives my every action. So I guess a better question to ask you is, what is it that you believe in? Answer that, and I’ll know exactly if I should trust you or not.”

  “I’m not sure I believe in anything anymore.”

  “Really?” Finkle said. His voice was a mere whisper of amazement. “I’ve lived for seven decades, and not once have I ever met a man who believed in nothing at all.” He chuckled. “As a matter of fact, I’m not sure I believe that it’s even possible to not believe in at least one thing in this world.”

  King leaned against the rail next to Finkle. He had no obligation to the old scientist. Had no reason to even consider helping him. From his experience, King knew that the Revolution would be fought. The Americans would defeat the British, and the United States would prosper. No matter what he did, that much wouldn’t change. Of course, there was also the undeniable fact that perhaps the Continental Army’s victory over the British was a direct result of his own participation. But if that was the case, then there was hardly a decision to be made at all. He either would or wouldn’t get involved, depending on how history originally played out.

  It was all so confusing. Even after living thousands of years…after experiencing victory and defeat so many times…he still wasn’t entirely sure how it worked. But in the end, he knew, he still wasn’t obligated to win over this little man. Or the captain, for that matter. The problem was, there was something—he couldn’t quite explain it—deep inside him that wanted this man’s approval. Wanted this man’s acceptance of him. Finkle, or whatever he chose to call himself, was a great man. Someone that King had looked up to since childhood. He needed this hero to like him. To see him as he truly was. If only King could remember just what that man really looked like.

  “I…I believe in this,” King finally said, reaching inside his shirt and withdrawing a metal chain with a small metal pin attached to it. “And the promise it represents. The promise to stop an evil man, no matter what it takes.”

  “Sounds like revenge to me,” Finkle said. “Not sure that’s a wise standard on which to build any trust.”

  King nodded. “It’s not so much revenge, though. It’s my mission. And it’s essential to saving the world...somehow.” While the major players of his future history lingered at the fringes of his long memory, the details had grown vague, like looking through fogged glass. He slipped the pendant-like pin back into his shirt. “But when I think about it, that’s only part of it. I keep that thing around my neck to remind me of what’s at stake when I return home. I can’t always remember the details, but I definitely know the stakes.” King turned to look at Finkle. “The two women of my life. My fiancée and my daughter. They’re who I fight for. They’re who I’ve survived all this time for, and the reason I hid myself away in a grave.”

  “Ah, now love is something I can fully support.” Finkle gave a sad smile. “But why live in death because of it? I don’t understand.”

  Before King could answer, there was a cry of alarm from the main deck. The two
men wheeled around to see six black-clad figures climbing over the port side. Another eight scrambled over the starboard rails, and immediately set to work barring the hatches leading down to the sleeping quarters, then skewering the few crew members still on the main deck with cutlasses.

  “Boarding party!” Needles shouted from the crow’s nest. “To arms! To arms!” Instantly, the clattering of an alarm bell could be heard from all over the ship, followed by the sound of surprised men being shaken from their sleep. With the hatches barred from the outside, however, reinforcements wouldn’t come anytime soon.

  “Are these your men again?” Finkle asked, but King was already bounding down the steps, running unarmed into battle. “I suppose not.”

  The boarding party wore dark colors, helping them blend into the night and making it impossible to tell their nationality or purpose. But since the Golden Age of Piracy was long gone and the ship was so close to British-controlled waters, King guessed these were British forces and not pirates. They’d obviously approached in long boats under the cover of darkness, which meant their ship was somewhere nearby, ready to fire their cannons and scuttle the Reardon’s Mark if these men were unable to commandeer it.

  King veered for the nearest boarder, who had just impaled one of the Mark’s crew with a sword. He slipped in from behind, wrapped one arm around the man’s head and gave a swift jerk. The man’s neck snapped with ease, and his boots clattered on the deck, drawing the attention of two of his companions. They raised their pistols and prepared to fire.

  Still holding on to the dead boarder with one arm, King spun around, letting the momentum hurl the corpse at his attacker on the left while leaping toward the one on his right. Before the man could fire, King crouched low, lashing out with a sweeping kick that took the assailant’s legs out from under him. In the same motion, King slipped a dagger from his boot, rolled forward and sliced the man’s throat with a flick of his wrist. A bubbling fount of crimson surged up from the jagged slit.