Cerulean Isle (2 page)
Soon the docks and harbor were far behind us. The blue sea rolled and rocked under our boat, gently lifting and lowering us with each passing wave. With every pull of the oars, we drew closer to the
Obsidian.
The
Obsidian
loomed over me. Our rowboat drifted close to the sharp, towering bow and soon we passed under the twenty-foot bowsprit. The sprit was as thick as a fallen oak. It tapered away from the ship to become a terrible point.
The figurehead mounted to the massive beam was a wooden carving of a man’s corpse, its wrists tied to the bowsprit and its feet nailed to the prow of the ship. His long tunic was torn from his shoulders and hung around his waist. The giant wooden corpse had lean muscular features, but his head hung lifelessly. Where his eyes should be were two gaping holes. As we passed under him I looked away, still seeing his distorted, reflected face in the moving water
The men rowed along the ship’s starboard bow. The lofty masts scraped the sky and sent long shadows over the waves. The hull was clean and dark brown with a deep red line painted across its length.
The rowboats stopped parallel to the ship. The crew onboard the
Obsidian
looked gaunt and sullied, like common thieves and beggars in ruined clothing. They tossed long rope ladders down to each boat. The pirates climbed up the swinging ladders and onto the ship. The last man off each tied two separate ropes to the rowboat; one on its bow and one on its stern, and tossed the free ends to the men on deck. The crew hoisted the empty boats from the water and secured them aboard the ship.
Tired, sore, and weak, I struggled to climb the rope ladder. The men shouted at me.
“Land legs troubling ya, boy?”
“Let the sharks have him, he’s useless.”
I slipped on the smooth wet decking, falling hard on my backside. The men laughed, jeered, and cursed at me.
When the captain spoke, the laughing stopped. “Be it known to all that this boy is here to serve our lady
Obsidian.
He knows naught of the tasks and customs. Be mindful of the shipboard articles of conduct you’ve signed. Now, where’s the quartermaster?”
An older man with curly gray hair came forward. He wore a blue ruffled blouse with a black belt and black pants. He was barefoot like the others. His piercing green eyes studied me.
The captain released his grip on my bruised arm. “Ah, Christoff. Top of the morning.”
“And the rest of the day to you, Captain.”
“I’m entrusting Jacob to you. Get him accustomed to his new home. Assign him as you see fit.”
“Indeed,” replied Christoff. “Tell me, other than this boy, what provisions were you able to secure in Santiago?”
“The men have brought aboard new arms as well as fresh bread, meats, and fruit. There are two barrels of rum and a carton of cheese. I did not make a full invoice.”
“Why not?”
“There was an unexpected turn of events. I killed a foolish would-be hero. He insulted me and tried to take the boy. You needn’t worry, Christoff. There is enough to last, and should it turn out otherwise, I’ll see to it that the stock be replenished. For now, take the boy and prep him to work under the boatswain.”
“As you wish, Captain.” Christoff turned to me. “Let’s get you something to eat. You’ll need your strength if you are to be of any use.”
Christoff was the same height as his captain, six feet. perhaps. He had thick forearms and rigid shoulders. He walked with confidence. The men on deck nodded to him as we passed, and he greeted them with a wave. His bare feet were calloused and scarred, as were his hardened hands. His gray swirling hair looked like the smoke that used to billow upward from my father’s cottage.
A lump of sadness filled my throat as I let my gaze wander over the sea to the island of Cuba.
My father is out there somewhere, walking around with a pouch of money. How could he abandon me? What did I do to dishonor him so?
Christoff led me toward the ship’s stern and down to a lower deck. When I smelled the food, my mouth watered. We entered a small room where a one-armed man salted a boiling stew. Two long wooden tables stretched out before me.
“Sit,” ordered Christoff.
I obeyed and watched as he went to the cook’s bubbling pot and scooped out a hearty portion of the stew with a wooden bowl. Christoff dropped a rusted spoon in the bowl and placed the meal before me. The stew was hot, foggy, and brown with chunks of meat, corn, peas, and cabbage swirling around. It smelled of ground pepper.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
Christoff nodded and sat across from me. He ran his fingers through his hair and rested his elbows on the table. “Eat. Captain Jean L’Ollon expects you to be strong.”
I snatched the spoon and began to eat. The steaming broth ran down my throat. It was a good and comforting meal.
~~~~~~
“Why was I taken from my father? Why did he agree to this?”
“Only your father knows why. Perhaps he was tired of caring for you.”
My mother died shortly after giving birth to a lifeless infant. She had worried when the baby seldom kicked or squirmed. I recalled many times when she tried to tell my father, but he would not listen, refusing to believe her.
I always listened to her. I listened to the bedtime stories she told and the songs she sang as she combed her hair. I listened when she cried out as the quiet baby was pulled out of her.
So it was that I always understood. Every word she spoke meant something to me, but it was her dying words, her promise, that would mean the most.
“Are you a captain as well?” I asked him.
“No, lad. I am the quartermaster, second in command of this vessel. My role is to oversee the actions of the captain and fellow crewmates. I make sure there is order while at sea. I am the only crewmember the captain must consult with and only man aboard with authority to challenge his decisions. As much as L’Ollon prefers to keep his affairs private, I prefer to be in the know. What else do you want to know about your new life?”
I shook my head, afraid to ask all that I wondered about.
The quartermaster prompted me. “Go ahead, lad. You better ask me your questions than another who would beat you as soon as look at you.”
I swallowed hard and asked, “Are the men aboard this ship slaves?”
“The men who work the
Obsidian
serve her by choice and proudly at that. Captain L’Ollon’s crew consists of dangerous men, each capable of guiltless violence and unspeakable cruelty. With men like this, organization and respect is essential. I, the quartermaster, give this respect and in turn, I gain their trust. I am their spokesman, their representative to L’Ollon.”
As Christoff spoke, I relaxed. “How did you get so much authority?”
“I was elected by the crew. You see, there are many positions that must be filled aboard any ship, lad. Captain, quartermaster, navigator, and boatswain are but a few. Some are voted upon, others are appointed by the captain. All crew members agree to a contract of rules and a code of conduct. As wicked as these men are, they have all sworn peace at sea and camaraderie; well, as much as can be expected.
“You are aboard the ship
Obsidian.
A grand ship, indeed. A three-masted barque fitted with twelve powerful cannon, the
Obsidian
has become known as one of the fastest and fiercest ladies on the water today. Captain L’Ollon has made it his life’s work that his name be spoken with dread on every shore. We are proud to sail with him.”
“How can you be proud of someone who can kill so easily?”
“Ah, you have a sharp tongue and much to learn, lad. You must first understand a man before you can pass judgment. Captain Jean L’Ollon is the grandson of the most ruthless pirate to ever set sail, Jacques Jean-David Nau, known throughout by his professional name, Francis L’Olonnais. Do you know anything of him?”
I shook my head.
“Well then, there’s a yarn to be shared, but I’ve rambled on for too long. There’s work to be done.”
“What will become of me?” I had heard stories of how slaves were treated on distant lands, starved, beaten, chained and killed when no longer needed.
“You are the property of Captain Jean L’Ollon. He has ordered me to assign you as I see fit. You will work, lad. You’ll begin your service among the cabin boys helping them clean the ship from deck to bilge. The cooper will teach you how to make barrels, and while doing so, you will answer to the boatswain. He is in charge of inventory and repairs. You will do all that you can to keep the hull free of rats and insects and you will frequently inspect the provisions, ensuring the quality. Perform these tasks without fail. Be it known, lad, the consequence for failure is dire. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Follow me.”
Christoff led me down a narrow companionway to a lower deck. Light streamed in through iron grates overhead, but even so, the corridor was shadowy and dank. A heavy musk filled my nose and my bare feet splashed through cold puddles. The floorboards creaked.
I heard harsh arguing from pirates above. “Testing me patience again, heh?”
“Stay your dagger, mate. I won, right as rain! To the victor go the spoils.”
“Take the prize and deal another hand before I cut yours off.”
The ship pitched and yawed. At times I held the walls for stability. Christoff was surefooted and needed no assistance. His body moved with the subtle rocking while I wobbled and staggered behind.
We stopped at a wooden door. A deep voice barked and cursed, then I heard a slap and a thud.
“Damned scallywag!” Christoff kicked open the door. A boy lay on his side clutching his left ear. Thin streams of red trickled through his fingers. A greasy man with stringy brown hair recoiled as Christoff entered.
“What goes on that justifies such an outburst?” Christoff demanded.
The pirate did not answer. He looked down at the bleeding boy, then over at me. I froze under his dark eyes. I recognized him as one of the men who had pulled me from my father’s side. He had carried me out of the tavern and thrown me in the alley.
“You can answer to me or you can answer to the captain,” said Christoff. “Make your choice.”
“The boy don’t do what I tell him. I speak and speak but he listens to naught. Teaching him a lesson is all, sir.”
“Is that so?” Christoff walked over to the boy, shoving the pirate as he passed. The man toppled backward and landed hard among a stack of empty barrels.
The others in the room made way for Christoff. They watched me, a few of them nodding a silent greeting.
“Easy now. Let me have a look.” Christoff pulled the boy’s left hand away from his swollen, bloody ear. Christoff touched it with his thumb. “You’re from San Juan. Am I not mistaken?”
The boy did not respond. He cupped his wounded ear.
“Speak up, lad. I say you’re from San Juan. Is that so?”
No response. Christoff hardened his jaw. “Answer me!”
“I am,” the boy muttered incoherently in a slurred, flat voice. “I am deaf.”
Christoff reached into one of his pouches and produced a small clean rag, which he folded and pressed to the bleeding ear. The boy bowed his thanks and backed away. A groan came from under the barrels.
“Strike the lad again and you’ll answer to L’Ollon. Now all of you listen here,” he said to the room of young men, “the lad in the doorway is named Jacob. Be fair to him, as you would have fairness in return.” Christoff turned to me and said, “You’ll do as the cooper instructs and as the boatswain commands. The cooper is the older of the lads, an experienced barrel maker, and the boatswain? Well, he is the one under the barrels.”
Christoff made for the doorway, but before exiting, he turned and looked me square in the eyes. “Welcome aboard, lad.”
The stale, salty air was tinged with body odor. Barrels of all sizes, some sealed and others broken, were stacked along the walls. Piles of wood scraps and metal bands lay on a large worktable. The cold floor was free of puddles.
A hand touched my shoulder, and I spun around. A young man stood before me. Behind him the other children gathered, the deaf boy among them.
“Good day, Jacob,” said the young man, extending his hand for me to shake. “My name is Grant. I am the cooper, the barrel maker. Welcome aboard.”
A man emerged from under the barrels with a groan. He rubbed his head and glared at us. Muttering, he left the room.
“That’s Beelo. He’s the boatswain, down here as punishment. No mates want to work the lower decks.”
“What is a boatswain?”
“The boatswain looks after the stock and tends to the ropes, rigging, and equipment.”
“What did he do wrong?”
“He got drunk a few months ago and insulted the captain. Captain L’Ollon commanded him to serve below deck, so the crew calls him ‘Beelo.’ Despite the conditions, we take care of each other down here.”
I nodded. I guessed that Grant was two or three years older than me, fifteen, perhaps. He had a pale complexion with curly red hair that came just below his ears. He wore a patched gray shirt and tattered brown shorts. On his feet were crude but sturdy-looking wooden sandals. All the children here wore them.
“Your sandals,” I said. “Where did you get them?”
He smiled and wiggled his toes. “I made them. Would you like a pair?”
“Yes, indeed.”
Grant nodded to one of the boys among the crowd. The boy hurried to a barrel, opened the lid, and withdrew two wooden sandals. He tossed them to me.
I put them on at once. A soothing feeling overcame my entire lower half as I stood in my new sandals. No more cold floor. No more sharp splinters jabbing my toes.
“No worries. Come, there is work to do, and you must learn quickly.” He pointed to a stack of wood on the large worktable. “A good barrel is tight and strong to hold food, drink, and powder. The captain wants the food barrels replaced every six months. Great care is needed when constructing a barrel. The stock must stay fresh and free of rats.”
