He was still lying there when Rowland tried to stomp his head in. Preacher got his hands up in time to grab the booted foot and stop it a few inches away from his face. With a grunt of effort, he heaved on Rowland’s leg, putting all the strength he could muster into the effort.
On the rain-slick deck, Rowland couldn’t maintain his balance as his legs shot out from under him. He crashed down onto the planks.
Preacher flipped over onto hands and knees and scrambled after Rowland. He always took a fight straight to an enemy if at all possible. While Rowland was still stunned by his fall, Preacher landed on top of him and rammed his knee into the tattooed man’s belly.
Rowland grunted and swung a wild backhand that clipped Preacher on the side of the head and sent him sprawling. Even the glancing blow packed power. Preacher used the momentum to roll over and come up on his feet again. Rowland was slow recovering, but he tried to lumber upright, too.
If Preacher had been worried about fighting fair, he would have waited until Rowland was standing again. But the blasted varmint had just tried to kill him. Preacher didn’t feel like extending the former keelboater any consideration. He clubbed his hands together, swung both arms, and walloped the blazes out of Rowland as soon as the tattooed man reached his knees.
Rowland went over backward and didn’t move again.
It would have been easy then, while Rowland was out cold, to drag him over to the railing, lift him, and tip him over. Mighty easy, Preacher thought. The sea would claim Rowland just as it had almost claimed Preacher.
The mountain man couldn’t do that. He was a killer many times over, but always in battle with men who were trying to kill him or harm innocent folks. He wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer, and that was what it would take to do such a thing.
He peered around through the rain and spotted a huddled shape lying on the deck a few yards away. He went over, dropped to his knees beside the figure, and rolled the young man onto his back. It was Tyler, all right. As the deluge struck him in the face, he started to sputter. Within a minute or two, he was awake and tried to sit up. Preacher put a hand on his shoulder to keep him lying down.
“Wha’ . . . wha’ happen?” Tyler managed to ask.
“Rowland tried to throw me overboard.” Preacher looked at the other men clinging to the railing along that side of the ship. “And you were the only one who even tried to stop him.”
“I . . . I didn’t even think about it. I just saw somebody about to grab you, so I yelled, and then I thought you were a goner. How . . . how in the world did you manage to save yourself?”
“I had a whole heap of luck,” Preacher said. “And thanks to you, I had a chance to get back on board before Rowland could knock me off again.”
“He threw me aside like I . . . I was nothing,” Tyler said. “I tried, but I couldn’t even start to put up a real fight, Preacher.”
The mountain man patted him on the shoulder. “You done good, son, and don’t think for a minute that you didn’t. I reckon I owe my life as much to you as anything, and I don’t forget things like that.”
The wind howled, and the rain still lashed at them as they talked. The waves tossed the Calypso this way and that, and sometimes the vessel tilted so much it was a wonder everyone on board didn’t slide right off.
Rowland was starting to move around as his senses returned to him.
Preacher helped Tyler to his feet and said, “Let’s go over to the mast and hang on there. That varmint won’t sneak up on me again.”
They staggered across the deck to the mast and sat down at its base. Preacher looked toward the rear deck but couldn’t see Jabez Sampson anymore. The wild thought crossed his mind that maybe Sampson had been swept overboard, but he thought it was more likely the captain had sought shelter from the storm somewhere on board. He gave the impression of having been a sailor for a long time.
Preacher figured Sampson knew how to ride out a squall.
It was difficult to keep track of time in the midst of such chaos. To Preacher, the storm already seemed like it had been going on for hours. But eventually he realized the rain wasn’t pelting them as hard as it had been, and the wind wasn’t howling as loud, either. The sea was still very rough and choppy, but maybe not as bad as earlier.
The men stumbled away from the railings as they figured out that they were no longer in imminent danger of being washed overboard. It became easier to see through the rain, another indication that it had slowed down considerably. Preacher looked for Abner Rowland but didn’t spot the tattooed man.
Jabez Sampson appeared from wherever he had ridden out the storm and started bellowing orders. “Get those sails unfurled, Mr. Holland!” he ordered the sailing master. “We’ve got a fair wind now, and we’d best make good use of it!”
“Aye, sir!” Holland responded, then began calling names of sailors and telling them to get aloft. Preacher was a little surprised he and Tyler weren’t among the men being ordered into the rigging.
He said as much, and Tyler laughed hollowly.
“That’s because you and I really aren’t very good at handling the sails. I know what to do but I’m not strong enough to do it efficiently, and you’re plenty strong but don’t know what to do. Between the two of us, we added up to one fairly mediocre sailor.”
That made Preacher laugh, too. He had never been accused of being mediocre at much of anything in his life—but he knew he wasn’t cut out to be a sailor.
They wound up on one of the oars, once the long poles had been inserted in the oarlocks again. Above them, the riggers unrolled the sails and fastened them in position. A loud booming sounded as the canvas caught the wind and billowed out. The Calypso, which had been wallowing in still heavy seas, began to pick up speed and cut through the waves again, instead of being tossed around at the whims of nature.
The wind was strong enough that the oarsmen were ordered to bring the oars back in. Preacher and Tyler stowed the one they had been using with the others, down in the middle deck that Tyler called the orlop.
“Is there a name for that place up there on top of the cabin where the cap’n and the steersman stand?” Preacher asked.
“That’s the poop deck,” Tyler replied. He smiled. “You keep learning things and we’ll make a sailor out of you anyway, Preacher.”
“Not likely,” the mountain man growled.
They went back up onto the main deck. Preacher’s clothes were soaked and uncomfortable, but he didn’t have anything else to change into and there wouldn’t have been a point to it, even if he had.
They barely had time to step out onto the open deck, where Preacher noticed the late afternoon sun starting to break through the clouds here and there, when a loud, angry voice proclaimed, “There he is! The scum who tried to murder me!”
CHAPTER 31
Preacher turned toward what he had just learned was called the poop deck. Abner Rowland stood there with Captain Sampson.
Rowland pointed a finger at Preacher as he went on. “Tried to throw me overboard durin’ that blasted storm, he did!”
“That’s a lie!” Tyler exclaimed, then immediately looked shocked for speaking up defiantly. But then a determined expression appeared on his face, and he went on. “What really happened was just the opposite. Mr. Rowland tried to kill Preacher. He nearly did it, too!”
“What’s wrong with you, boy?” Rowland growled. “You tired of livin’?”
“Hold on, hold on,” Sampson said. “We’ll get to the bottom o’ this, I promise ye that.” He beckoned to Preacher. “Come on up here. The two of ye should settle this face-to-face.”
Preacher didn’t think that would do any good. He didn’t believe Sampson would ever accept his word over that of Rowland. Of course, Preacher had another witness on his side.
That thought made him look over at Tyler. Quietly, he said to the redhead, “You don’t want to get mixed up in this. Rowland’s likely carryin’ around enough of a grudge against you already, just because you helped
me before. If you stick up for me now, he’ll wind up hatin’ you almost as much as he does me.”
“But what I said was the truth, Preacher,” Tyler objected. “You know that.”
“Yeah, but that ain’t the only thing you got to worry about. One way or another, I ain’t gonna be on this ship that much longer, and when I’m gone, you’ll have to deal with Rowland by yourself.” Preacher paused and gave the youngster an intent look. “Unless you think that some of the other crewmen might be willin’ to stand up to Sampson and Rowland?”
“I . . . I don’t know about that. Some of them might. There are quite a few of us who don’t like what we’ve gotten mixed up in. I’ve been talking to them about that.” Tyler shook his head. “But regardless of that, I’m not going to lie just to protect myself.”
“I know the feelin’, son. Bein’ honest can be blasted inconvenient sometimes.”
From the raised deck, Sampson said, “I told ye to get up here. The two o’ ye have done enough jawin’.”
Preacher and Tyler climbed the narrow flight of steps at the side of the deck. Sampson had turned the tiller back over to one of the sailors, who held the ship steady as the wind continued filling the sails. Sampson stood waiting with his hands on his hips, while Rowland was beside him, glowering.
“All right, Mr. Rowland,” Sampson said when Preacher and Tyler were facing them. “Tell these two what ye told me a few minutes ago.”
“It’s simple,” Rowland declared. “Durin’ that storm, Preacher slipped up on me from behind, like one of those red Injuns he lives with in the mountains, and tried to throw me overboard. I never would’ve made it if I’d gone into the drink.” He crossed his brawny arms and sneered. “Luckily, I was able to fight him off, even when that one”—he nodded toward Tyler—“tried to help him.”
“That’s your story?” Sampson asked.
“Aye. And every word of it is true.”
“Every word of it’s a blasted lie,” Preacher said. “I’m the one who nearly got throwed overboard, and Rowland’s the one who tried to do the throwin’. All Tyler did was try to make him stop while I was clingin’ to the rail. Rowland was doin’ his best to kick my hands off it.”
Tyler moved up alongside Preacher and said, “That’s the truth, Cap’n. That’s just the way it happened.”
With his scrawny body, weak chin, and reedy voice, Tyler wasn’t much of a candidate for heroics, but at that moment, Preacher was proud of the young man. Standing up for what was right and true was something that everybody had in them, no matter their size or shape or age or anything else. It was just a matter of whether they also had the courage to go with it.
The odds were against the two of them, however, and Preacher knew it.
“Did anybody else witness this incident?” Sampson asked.
Some of the other men along the railing must have seen something, but in the middle of that terrible storm, they honestly might not have known exactly what was going on.
Preacher had a hunch some of them did. “You’d have to ask the other fellas who were on deck.”
“That’s exactly what I intend to do,” Sampson said. He raised his voice so it carried out over the main deck. “Did anyone see what happened between our guest and Mr. Rowland? Anyone at all?”
Guest, Preacher thought wryly. That was one way to refer to him, he supposed. Better than prisoner destined for a short, miserable life as a slave on a sugar plantation.
He and Tyler turned to look along the deck as they waited to see if anyone was going to speak up in support of what they had told Sampson. No one did, but several of the men looked down shamefacedly at the planks.
They wanted to say something but were afraid to, Preacher thought. Maybe a few of them would find the courage to make a stand, if they had somebody to lead them.
Sampson shook his head slowly and said, “It appears that what we have here is a case of two sides tellin’ different stories. As the captain of this vessel, ’tis up to me to decide which side is tellin’ the truth. Since Mr. Rowland is the boatswain, and as such an officer of this ship, I have to give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“That don’t come as any surprise,” Preacher said.
“I imagine it don’t. So, mister, ye stand accused and now convicted of tryin’ to murder one of my officers—”
“Wait a minute. There was no trial.”
Sampson snorted. “Indeed there was, just now, with me as the judge and jury.”
“And executioner, I reckon,” the mountain man said in a low, dangerous voice.
Sampson shook his head. “There’ll be no execution, although under other circumstances, the penalty for what ye did would be death. I’d keelhaul ye and be happy to do it.” He sighed. “But ’tis not what the African said our mutual employer desires, so I’m forced to take other measures.” The captain’s voice hardened. “I thought I might get some work outta ye, but ye’ll spend the rest o’ the voyage in chains instead. Take him!”
Sampson barked that order at several sailors who had gathered at the foot of the steps while the conversation on the poop deck continued.
In response to the command, they swarmed up the steps and charged at Preacher, who whirled around to meet the attack. He had halfway expected Sampson to try something, so he wasn’t surprised.
The men were armed with belaying pins, but as the one who was closest to Preacher drew back his weapon, the mountain man struck first. A knobby-knuckled fist lashed out, caught the sailor on the jaw, and threw him back against a couple of his companions. Their feet and legs tangled together. Two men fell, but three more continued the assault.
Tyler tried to get in the way of one of them, but the man poked him hard in the stomach with a belaying pin. Tyler doubled over and fell to his knees, gagging and retching.
Preacher ducked under a sweeping blow and lifted an uppercut of his own under his assailant’s chin. The punch rocked the man’s head back and buckled his knees. Preacher snatched the belaying pin out of his hand and used it to block a swipe from another sailor. He leaned aside and kicked the man in the belly, knocking him all the way off the poop deck. The man crashed down onto the steps leading below to the captain’s cabin.
The whirlwind of action continued as the men who had gotten tangled up and fallen down regained their feet and again joined the assault on the mountain man. Preacher twisted and turned, the belaying pin in his hand flashing back and forth as he blocked the blows aimed at him. A few years earlier, he’d had to defend himself in a sword fight, and this battle somewhat resembled that one—parry, thrust, and slash, only with a bludgeon instead of a blade.
Preacher heard a bone snap as he cracked the pin across a sailor’s forearm. The man dropped his pin and staggered back, howling with pain.
Knowing Sampson and Rowland were behind him, Preacher expected a treacherous blow from one of them at any moment. They stayed out of the fight, though. Evidently they enjoyed watching him battle against overwhelming odds.
The problem was, where Preacher was concerned, five to one odds weren’t necessarily overwhelming. As a matter of fact, he had already whittled them down to three to one. That became two to one as Tyler recovered enough to tackle one of the attackers around the knees and knock the man off his feet. At that same moment, Preacher smacked another man on the side of the head with his belaying pin and knocked him senseless to the deck. In a continuation of the same move, he hooked a foot behind the ankle of the remaining man and jerked his legs out from under him. Preacher raised the belaying pin, ready to rap the man on the head and put him out of action for a while.
A pistol boomed. The ball struck the belaying pin in Preacher’s hand and knocked it out of his grip. The violent impact made the mountain man’s hand go numb. He grimaced as he tried to shake some feeling back into his fingers and turned toward the sound of the shot.
Rowland had a pistol in each hand. Smoke curled from the barrel of the one in his right, which he lowered to his side. The gun in his left hand
pointed at Preacher. From the looks of it, it was loaded, primed, and ready to fire.
So was Abner Rowland.
Preacher sensed that he was close to death, despite the fact that Simone had wanted him delivered alive to the sugar plantation.
Before Rowland could squeeze the trigger, Sampson said, “Hold your fire there, Mr. Rowland, unless that devil tries somethin’ else. Then ye have my leave to shoot him.”
“Give me a reason,” Rowland said to Preacher in a low voice. “Please.”
Preacher stood stock still.
Sampson reached under his coat and brought out a pistol as well. He cocked it and aimed it at Tyler, who had struggled back onto his knees.
“’Twas quite a brawl,” Sampson said, “but ’tis over now. Unless ye’d like me to shoot this young friend o’ yours.”
“Leave him alone,” Preacher said. “He’s not part of this.”
“This is twice now he’s tried to help ye. I’d say he’s made hisself a part of it.” Sampson shook his head. “But I’m a merciful man. Everyone says that about me. I’m willin’ to overlook the lad’s transgressions . . . provided ye cooperate.”
Tyler said, “Don’t do it, Preacher. Not on my account.”
Preacher ignored him and asked Sampson, “What do you want?”
“Now, that’s more like it,” the captain said. “Mr. Rowland, see to it that he’s clapped in irons and tossed back in the bilge.”
“My pleasure,” Rowland growled.
Preacher stood there while manacles were brought to the poop deck. A couple of sailors roughly jerked his arms behind his back, then another man snapped the manacles in place around his wrists.
“Leave his legs free for now,” Rowland ordered. “We’ll put the shackles on his ankles the last thing before we drop him into the bilge.” He gestured with the loaded pistol he still held. “Get down those steps, mister.”
Preacher went, seething but knowing he had to cooperate for the time being. If Sampson and Rowland ever completely lost patience, they would kill him out of hand. Worse, they might easily do the same to Tyler, and Preacher didn’t want to be responsible for that happening to the young man.
Preacher's Frenzy Page 19