King’s vicious assault had garnered the attention of the entire boarding party, and they began converging on him with weapons drawn. Several had flintlock pistols trained at him, while the rest stood back, their cutlasses raised in the air. A slow steady rage began to boil from somewhere deep inside King’s chest. He was tired of fighting. Just so tired of everything. For nearly three thousand years he’d been enduring one fight after another. All he wanted to do was be left alone. To sleep out the remaining years until he could once more be with the two people that were all the world to him. But no matter how hard he tried…no matter how far he ran…they always found him. Always threatened him. Always forced him to act. And he was sick of it.
Then he noticed one of the boarders slowly shift, bringing his pistol around to bare on Finkle. King was suddenly hit with a gut-wrenching realization. Something inside him clicked. Crouched down next to the body of the bleeding boarder, he let out a low growl of warning. His brow furrowed as every muscle in his body tensed. He wanted to tear each of these men apart, limb from limb, but he would give them one last chance to flee. It was taking every ounce of strength he had just to hold off his wrath.
Then, it happened. The one pointing his weapon at the old man pulled back the hammer of his pistol with a slow click-clack. King roared, leapt into the air and forgot himself in the carnage that followed.
16
Jim Brannan Finkle stood upon the forecastle, his mouth slack, as he watched with bone-chilling fascination and dread. He’d never in his life seen any man move the way Lanme Wa—this Jack Sigler—did. Like a fluid wave of energy lashing out at one boarder after another. While in France, Finkle had been treated to a number of ballets that had left him mesmerized at just how versatile and fluid the human form could be. The poise and balance of the dancers had been the pinnacle of human physiological achievement in his mind…until this very moment. Now, the old man realized that those dancers had been little more than toddlers compared to the grace and agility of the predatory spirit that inhabited this supposedly immortal pirate. Finkle shuddered to think what would happen if the pirate’s gleaming fierce eyes turned their gaze to him and the crew of the Reardon’s Mark.
The moment the pirate had leapt into the thick of battle, his motions had become a blur. Before actually meeting him, Finkle had supposed that centuries of life and war had nearly perfected the man’s skills at killing. He had not been wrong. In just under twenty-five seconds, with only a short dagger appropriated from his first victim, Jack Sigler had sliced his way through seven of the British sailors who had boarded the Mark. Five remained alive, and two now pulled the triggers of their flintlocks. With twin cracks, and two plumes of choking gray smoke, the pistol balls tore through Sigler’s chest like drill bits boring into butter. Blood erupted like geysers from the two wounds, and Finkle found himself gasping at the sudden turn of fortune. But Sigler didn’t collapse from the impacts. They didn’t even slow him down. Instead, as the two boarders worked to reload their weapons with shaking hands, he hurled his dagger into the nearest shooter’s chest and lunged at the second with a snarl. He grabbed the unfortunate man’s neck with his hand and squeezed until his fingers punctured the throat with a sickening wet slurp.
Then, he dropped the dead man and spun around to size up the remaining three boarders. Blood-tinged saliva oozed from the pirate’s lower lip as he heaved for breath; his shoulders hunched in preparation for another attack. But the opportunity never came. The three men, obviously terrified of the ferocity of this man who seemed so impervious to pistol balls, ran for the starboard rail and leapt into the placid sea below.
“That was…that was astonishing!” Finkle exclaimed.
Jack Sigler ignored the comment and dashed over to the starboard rail. Then, leaping over the bodies strewn along the deck, he ran to the port rail and leaned forward. After a moment, he pulled away and leapt up to the quarterdeck and took the wheel.
“Lower the main sails!” he shouted. “We’re out of time!”
Finkle glanced around, waiting for the crew members to obey the pirate’s orders. But there was no one left alive on deck. The few men on the main deck at the time of the attack lay in pools of their own blood. Needles still remained in the crow’s nest, apparently too mortified by the carnage he’d just witnessed to utter a single syllable in response. Finkle could hear pounding at the three hatches that were still barred. The remainder of the crew were still below deck, oblivious to just what had transpired a few seconds before.
“Finkle! I said, lower the main sails! Now!” Sigler cried.
Gathering his wits, the scientist tottered down from the forecastle, and moved to the main mast, being careful not to step in any of the viscera painting the deck. After fumbling with the halyards for a few clumsy seconds, he managed to lower the sail to Sigler’s satisfaction. A moment later, the entire ship turned about to the northeast. Finkle grabbed hold of one of the lines to keep from tipping over with the sudden turn, then ran to the central hatch and unlatched it. Immediately, it popped open and the crimson-faced Reardon exploded from below.
“What in blazes is happenin’ up here?” he shouted, then he stopped in his tracks the moment he laid eyes on the corpses littering the deck. “Blessed Mary!”
“It’s a long story. We were boarded. Captain Sigler took care of them, and now is…”
BOOM!
A crack of thunder erupted from somewhere to the west of them, followed by a blinding flash of light.
“Cannon fire!” Needles shouted.
There was a whistling sound that streaked toward them before plunging into the water just yards away from their bow.
“Battle stations!” Reardon cried. “Gunners to the carronades!”
Eight men rushed to the four short-barreled, smooth-bored, rotating cannons mounted to the bow, port and starboard of the ship, and prepared the weapons for firing. Satisfied they were prepared, Reardon moved up to the quarterdeck with Finkle in tow.
“They’re running without lanterns,” Sigler said before the captain could question him. “Last spotted their ship on the port side, but they were coming about. I’ve managed to pull your ship out of range, but it looks like we’re up against an old galleon. They easily outgun us.”
“Then we’ve no choice,” Reardon said. His face was grim and pale in the dim light of the cloud-hidden moon. “We’ll have to outrun them.”
“How would you like to do that? They’re running three shrouds. We’ve only got the two. They’ll catch us in no time.”
The Irishman let out an indecipherable curse. “Then we have to stand our ground.”
Sigler smiled at this. Finkle couldn’t quite decide if it was out of sincere mirth or something more maniacal.
“That’s the first thing you’ve said since I’ve awakened that makes me kind of like you, buddy,” Sigler said.
“Buddy?”
“Never mind. But it won’t come down to us fighting it out with them.” He nodded off to his left. “Remember, I’ve got my own crew.”
Finkle and Reardon turned in the direction he indicated to see the silhouette of the immense frigate, the Presley’s Hound, coming alongside them and blocking any further cannon fire that might stray their way.
“They’re mad!” Reardon shouted. “Even a ship that size can’t stand a full barrage of cannon fire for too long against a galleon. What are they thinking?”
Sigler laughed. It was the first time Finkle had heard the sound come from his lips since they woke him, and this time, he got the distinct impression that it was one of genuine amusement.
“Three things, Captain.” Sigler was beaming now. “First, my crew is extremely loyal to me. And second, like me, they’re not exactly easy to kill.”
“And the third thing?”
Though the roar of the wind and the flapping of sails was near deafening, the trio atop the quarterdeck began hearing something else in that particularly chill night—the sudden eruption of terrified screams from several hun
dred yards in the distance. One by one, another voice joined in the symphony of agonizing wails carried on the sea’s winds from the enemy vessel.
“The third thing is that except for when I stopped them the other night, my crew hasn’t fed in almost a century. They’re famished, and that ship represents an all-you-can-eat buffet.” He turned to face Reardon and Finkle, still smiling. “Now, I think it’s safe. Let’s go to Florida.”
With that, he sailed past the Presley’s Hound, corrected course to a more easterly direction, and set his eyes on the horizon.
17
St. Johns River Basin
Ninety-Two Miles Southwest of St. Augustine
Three Days Later
The rest of the trip had been relatively uneventful. However, because they’d been attacked at sea by a British vessel, it was generally regarded as a bad idea to attempt sailing into Matanzas Bay under the banner of any flag. Instead, they’d found a secluded lagoon several miles south of St. Augustine, and had set anchor with a regiment of sailors to guard the ship.
Now, the rest of the crew—totaling around twenty-three men—along with Sigler, the mambo bokor and Finkle, hacked at the heavy vines and undergrowth of the Florida jungle as they followed a small tributary of the St. Johns River.
“How much farther do you think the main river is?” Quartermaster Greer asked, dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief before swatting away a cloud of gnats. “These loathsome insects are maddening!”
Why did Reardon insist on bringing this limp-wristed fop along for the final leg of the expedition? Finkle rolled his eyes. He was nearly forty years the Englishman’s senior, and even he was having an easier time navigating the dense vegetation than the younger sailor. “We’ll get there when we get there,” was the only reply he deigned to muster.
In hindsight, Finkle could hardly blame the man. They’d been trekking for the better part of three days with only a few brief stops to replenish their water, to eat from their poorly stocked rations and to catch a few hours’ sleep at a time. Even though they were swiftly approaching nightfall, the heat was blistering. The humidity was even worse, sapping their strength as quickly as it sucked away the moisture in their bodies. Their clothes were thoroughly soaked from sweat, chafing the skin beneath like wet sandpaper. And if the gnats didn’t pluck the flesh from their bones, the mosquitoes and vicious yellow flies certainly would. That was, if the voluminous alligators or snakes that haunted the basin didn’t devour them first.
“Finkle,” Sigler said, coming to a halt and bringing the company to a dead stop behind him. “Better check our notes.” He glanced down at the compass in his hand. “We seem to be veering slightly off course.”
Finkle squeezed past the line of men, surrounded entirely by stands of ancient cypress, their roots extending up from the ground like the legs of some spindly monstrous spiders. The illusion was complete when he crouched to pass under a low-lying branch and was brushed by the web-like fronds of Spanish moss that hung like ancient beards from the trees’ limbs. Finally, he sidled up to Sigler, pulled his journal from his pack and opened it.
“Unfortunately, this section of Florida hasn’t been well-explored,” he mumbled, rifling through the pages. “Not many trustworthy maps to choose from. All I had to go on were the pilfered pages of Guerrera’s journal.”
“I’m aware of that.” Sigler took a drink from his water bladder. “But something tells me we’re too far east. I think we need to move more inland.”
Finkle’s finger traced the poorly scrawled handwritten notes in his journal. He shook his head. “I don’t understand. We should be dead on course. We’ve already passed several of the landmarks Guerrera wrote about. If the difference was due to land erosion, we’d be closer, not further away.”
Sigler tapped the compass with his palm. “Okay. This is strange.”
“What’s going on?” Reardon asked, as he came up to them. His pale cheeks were rosy red from heat, and his Irish red hair was nearly dark brown from sweat.
“I’m not sure.” Sigler tapped the compass again. “We seem to be in some sort of odd magnetic field. It’s not pointing north.” After a few more slaps with his palm, he sighed. “Look, it’s getting dark. It’d be best to move on up until we can find a decent clearing and make camp. Then, I’ll try to figure out what’s wrong with the compass.”
They agreed with his assessment, and within another forty-five minutes, they had set up camp in a small half-acre clearing next to the bank of the tributary. As the men worked to secure the camp, Sigler found a spot on an overturned tree and sat down to examine the compass. Finkle, feeling more in the way at the moment than anything, moved over to the pirate, pulled off his backpack and sat down.
“Any idea what’s wrong with it?”
Sigler let out a soft chuckle. “You’re the scientist. You tell me.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t dedicated much time to the science of magnetism.” He lit his pipe and took in a deep puff. “Seems rather more a novelty than anything really useful. Just never been interested.”
Sigler stopped and looked at the old man, a look of incredulity across his face. “This? Coming from you?” He shook his head in obvious amusement. “You’d be amazed at how much magnetism goes along with the other research you’ve done.”
“Really? Do tell.”
“Sorry, Professor. Space-time continuum and all that.”
“You have the strangest speech patterns, my boy. Most of the time, I have no idea what you’re going on about.”
Jack Sigler laughed again. It was a good laugh. Warm even. Then Sigler looked down at Finkle’s pack, and his smile widened.
“What, pray tell, is that?” Sigler pointed to the eight metal rods jutting out of the backpack.
“Ahem. Oh, that.” Finkle could feel his face flushing. “Just some scientific accoutrements I’ve brought along for the expedition. I figure once we find the Fountain, we won’t be able to bring it back with us, so I want to be able to study it before returning. The rods are part of an experiment I plan on trying once we get there.”
Sigler shook his head, obviously amused at the answer. “That’s so like you. Or at least, how I always imagined you to be.”
Finkle thought of that for a moment, pondering just how much about himself the pirate actually knew. The man seemed to be almost intimately familiar with him, though he had no idea how. After a few minutes pondering this notion, an idea struck him. He cocked his head, then cleared his throat.
“What happened to you that last night on the ship, Captain Sigler?”
Sigler held up the compass, moving right to left, then clapped it on its side before looking over at Finkle. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve changed.” He exhaled a plume of smoke and continued. “Three days ago, you were ambivalent toward our cause at best. Then the…er, attack came.” Finkle shuddered at the memory of Sigler’s bestial assault on the unsuspecting boarders. “Your attitude was decidedly different afterward. You seemed more committed. Clear headed. And if you’ll forgive my saying so, infinitely more pleasant.”
“Ah. That.” He tucked the compass into his vest pocket and looked up into the tree canopy above him. The cries of strange birds and jungle fauna echoed through the trees, creating a sort of wild lullaby in preparation for the night. “It’s simple really. As you know, I’m old, Mr. Finkle. Very old.”
“I’m quite aware of that.”
“Yes, but not aware of just how old I am. Try to remember something from your childhood. The best day of your young life before turning five years old. Where I’m from, it would be Christmas morning, but I know you celebrate the holiday differently than we do. So just think back to the happiest memory you have.”
Finkle paused, closing his eyes. He pondered the question. His happiest memory. Bits and flashes sprang to mind, but sifting through each memory was troublesome. He could recall broad strokes of those memories, but the details were vague. Hazy.
“I remember the firs
t time I was allowed to go hunting with my father.”
“Good. Tell me about it.”
“Well, I nearly shot a squirrel. Missed it ultimately, but I was damned close. I remember my father being so proud of…”
“What color was the squirrel?” Sigler interrupted.
“Pardon?”
“The color. Of the squirrel.”
“Well, er, brown, I suppose.”
“You suppose?”
“It was a long time ago. How can I remember something that trivial?”
“Let’s make it something easier then. What color was your father’s coat on this hunting trip?”
Finkle hesitated. “Uh, well, I believe…”
“It’s fine that you can’t remember,” Sigler said. “That’s my point. Now imagine that you’re nearly three thousand years old. Three thousand years of memories that fade as time goes on. Imagine how that would make you feel. Imagine the pain of losing memories of the people most important to you. How would that make you feel, Mr. Finkle?”
He considered the question for a moment, and finally understood. Lanme Wa was old. Far older than he’d ever imagined. Three millennia. And no matter how fast the man healed or how fast or strong he might appear, he was still human. With a human mind. Though Finkle was not a biologist—had never studied the human brain as some of his contemporaries had—he’d read theories that there was a limit to the amount of information it could contain. After a while, some of the information would be expunged, so that new memories could take root. What would such a lifespan do to someone? How might it corrupt their soul? That invisible essence that made an individual who he was, based upon experiences. Could such a man as Lanme Wa be the same man he was when he was Jack Sigler?
Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) Page 9