Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) (7 page)

11

“No sign of ’im, Cap’n!” Leighfield cried, leaning over the port bow. He jumped as a clap of thunder cracked overhead, followed by a near-blinding streak of lightning. He whirled around to face Reardon and Finkle. “Yikes! Cap’n, how long you supposin’ we need to keep lookin’ for ’im? Surely those sharks got ’im, and the storm is nearly on top of us!”

Reardon glanced over at the old scientist. Finkle was uncertain how to answer the unspoken question from the captain. The one thing the Irishman had in common with his English quartermaster was that he hadn’t liked the plan to seek out Lanme Wa from the very beginning. He’d thought it a complete waste of time. But Washington’s, as well as his own influence had convinced Josiah Reardon’s patron to accept the expedition’s terms. The rewards had been just too good for the privateer’s commander to pass up.

However, Finkle had seen the look in the captain’s eyes when he had gazed upon the shriveled remains of the dead pirate. Rationally speaking, there was no reason to believe the man had actually been sleeping for nearly a century. The very idea was preposterous to any learned man.

But Finkle was convinced. He’d studied the legends. Scoured dozens of old documents spanning centuries. The pirate known as Lanme Wa had been around far longer than anyone guessed. The miracles that were attributed to him were beyond anyone’s imagination to concoct, and Finkle knew without doubt that if the man was still alive, he was the only one who could lead this expedition to its prize.

“Just a while longer,” Finkle said to the captain. “Give him a few moments more.”

Reardon glanced over at the witch, who merely shrugged indifferently before saying, “Da man is truly as immortal as anyone can be,
mon capitaine
. I doubt a few toothy fish in da sea could do much to—”

“Witch!” Someone shouted from the stern of the ship. The voice was deep and guttural, as if each syllable had been sifted through a pile of wet, marble rubble. “I’ll have words with you, witch!”

Everyone turned toward the quarterdeck to see the most ghastly of apparitions. Lanme Wa leaned against the rail, his back hunched down in fury…and possibly pain. His left leg was gone below the knee. Or was it? Finkle pushed his spectacles up onto his beak-like nose for a better look. There appeared to be the beginnings of a fetal foot growing from the already-healing tissue. Bone seemed to lengthen before their very eyes.

Winfield, the wheelman, leapt back with a cry at the sight. Now without hands to guide it, the wheel spun wildly to port, turning the ship back in the direction of the storm.

“Winfield!” Reardon shouted. The captain’s eyes hadn’t left the sight of the once-dead man crouching angrily on the deck of his ship. The wheelman, still keeping carefully out of reach of the newcomer, obediently took control of the wheel once more, and steered the ship back on course.

Finkle continued to stare at the man. His skin was still as black and leathery as when he’d first been dropped into the ocean, but now it glistened with moisture. It seemed to breathe on its own, as if it were taking on nutrients from the salty sea air to mend itself. Flesh, blood and bone mended together quickly, reforming the man as though God Himself were sculpting a new Adam from clay. The pirate’s eyes were no longer cloudy, but instead were bright. Sharp. The irises as orange-brown as tanned leather. Long clumps of tangled hair hung down far past his shoulders, half-covering his face. But despite the obstruction, there could be no doubting the rage building within the man. Rage directed solely on the Creole mambo bokor.

For her part, the witch doctor took a single step back, then held her ground. She stared back at him defiantly, though she gripped the strap of her medicine bag tightly in her hands.

No one spoke. No one moved.

Finkle wondered if anyone had even taken a breath. But the pirate didn’t seem to notice. His dark eyes were fixed on the witch as he took a single step from the rail, and came down on a perfectly formed, non-mummified foot that hadn’t been there a moment before.

“Asherah,” he growled. He spoke in an archaic form of French that Finkle could barely translate. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to explain what’s happening here.”

The mambo bokor swallowed. She tried to pull her own eyes up from the deck to look at him, but she didn’t seem to have the strength to do it. When she opened her mouth to speak, Lanme Wa interrupted.

“You see, I thought I’d made a deal with your grandmother. I wasn’t to be disturbed. Not until I either awoke on my own or…” The man’s death’s-head face appeared to be mending itself even as he spoke. The ghastly grin was already beginning to slip away behind a veil of flesh-like lips, making his words more articulate, if not menacing. “Or after three hundred years had passed.” He waved a bony finger around the ship. “This doesn’t look like the end of the twentieth century to me, Asherah, now does it?”

“
Monsieur
, I…” The bokor took another step back as he approached, lumbering down the steps of the quarterdeck directly toward her. Water dripped from the rags of his clothes with each shamble. “It’s just dat…”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Finkle said, stepping in between the grisly pirate and the witch. He spoke French, but wasn’t sure he could match the older style well enough to explain. Still, he had to try. “I’m afraid it’s actually my fault that your slumber has been interrupted.”

Lanme Wa stopped mid-stride, and turned to look at him. Finkle’s heart thumped against his rib cage at the dark stare, but he managed to hold his ground. “You see, we’re on an expedition. A search for something absolutely mindboggling, actually, and perhaps our only means of beating back the British from our land. From my research, I came to believe you were the only one on Earth able to guide us to our prize.”

The man stared at Finkle, and cocked his head as if confused. “I know you.” This time, the pirate spoke in a strange dialect of English the old scientist had never heard before.

“No. No, I don’t think you do.” Finkle cleared his throat nervously. “Jim Brannan Finkle’s the name. At your service.” He gave a quick, polite bow.

The pirate, his attention no longer on the bokor, stepped toward the old scientist. “No, that’s not your name.” He rubbed a long, thin finger across his brow. “It’ll come to me, but I do know you.”

“I don’t know how that’s possib—”

Thunder boomed overhead, nearly simultaneously with a blazing trail of lightning streaking through the sky.

“Gentleman,” Josiah Reardon said, approaching Lanme Wa cautiously. “There’ll be time for explanations later. For now, we need to navigate around this storm, and to do that, we need ye, Cap’n, to grant us safe passage past your ship.”

The pirate glanced to the bow, a grim indecipherable smile spreading across his face.

His new lips are working well for him
, Finkle thought.

“Just sail past them,” the pirate said. “They won’t attack. All they’ll do is slowly trail you, giving you a wide berth.”

“What?” Reardon asked.

“It’s their nature, Captain. They’re patient. Slow to act, unless provoked. Plus, they’ll still be following my orders.”

“And those were?”

“Should anyone abscond with me, they were to follow and see what manner of mischief laid about. Then, after discerning what my grave robbers had in mind, they could act.” He nodded past the port bow. “At the moment, they’re simply watching. They’ll not attack ’til they’re sure.”

Reardon stared incredulously at his guest, then looked past the man’s ever-broadening shoulders. “Winfield! Set course around that ship!” He spun around. “All hands to battle stations! Needles! Keep yer eyes fixed on that frigate!”

“Aye!”

The deck of the ship erupted in a blur of activity as the crew saw to their captain’s orders. The rain was already starting to come down. If not for the pitch coating the deck’s planks, at least two of the crew would have been swept overboard as the ocean beneath them began to swell.

“Cap’n, would ye care to join me at the wheel?” Reardon asked Lanme Wa. The Irish captain was putting on a good show of not appearing intimidated in the slightest by the pirate’s cadaverous appearance.

Lanme Wa only nodded his assent, then followed Josiah Reardon up onto the quarterdeck and to the wheel. Relieving Winfield of his post, Captain Reardon gripped the wheel, and steered around an oncoming swell, making his way steadily toward the
Presley’s Hound
.

Finkle was watching this when he sensed someone slide up next to him. “He doesn’t seem to like you very much,” he said to the vodou bokor.

“I am sure he’s just disoriented from his long sleep,
cher
.”

“Or, perhaps, he’s a good judge of character.” The old man turned to look at her and found her emerald eyes burning with contempt. “Strike a nerve, did I?”

“Lanme Wa definitely be a good judge of character.” She sniffed while clutching her bag more tightly. Her mop of unruly hair was now soaked from the sudden downpour, only helping to intensify her wild countenance. “I’d say you best be on your own guard ’bout dat. Make sure your
own
character is shiny ’nough to make da cut.”

He wasn’t sure what to make of her comment, so he ignored it, and moved on to the question he really wanted to know. “Can we trust him?”

She wiped the rainwater from her forehead with one hand, then grabbed hold of a rope to steady herself against a sudden lurch of the ship. She stood silently for a moment, then shrugged. “He’ll do what is right by his reckoning, I s’pose. But don’t cross him—
or me
—or you might just regret it.”

Finkle turned back to the port side rail, and watched as they carefully sailed past the gray sails of the pirate ship a mere two hundred yards away. As Lanme Wa had predicted, the
Hound
, its deck lifeless and devoid of crew, let them pass without incident, and soon the crew of the
Reardon’s Mark
were moving out of the storm, and heading directly for the mysterious shores of Florida.

12

“It’s time you explain yourselves,” King said, pushing his cleaned plate away. He leaned back in his chair, and looked up at his three hosts sitting around the captain’s table.

Captain Reardon, Quartermaster Greer and Finkle stared back at him with wide wonder-filled eyes, no doubt mesmerized by the speed with which his body was mending itself. Already, the hard mummified leather of his flesh was being replaced by the more supple skin and muscle of a living person. His leg was completely whole once more. His hands were free of scars. And though he hadn’t seen his reflection in more than a hundred years, he imagined his face was already beginning to resemble that of Jack Sigler once more—or at least, it would, once he had a chance for a proper bath and a shave.

King drank from his cup of rum, savoring the warmth spreading through his body after the first full meal he’d had since his hibernation. Though the food had been bland, and the bread stale and filled with grubs, he’d enjoyed every bite more than he could remember of any meal before. However, now was the time to finally get to the bottom of all this. Time to find out why he’d suddenly awakened submerged in the Atlantic Ocean, attacked by a trio of hammerhead sharks.

He turned his attention on the older man of the group. Finkle felt so familiar to him, but the man had been right when he said there was no way the two could have possibly met before. King had sequestered himself to the grave thirty years before the old man had even been born. Maybe more. But his round face and high forehead were just so…familiar. There was something about the man’s name that struck a chord as well. But that was the least of his concerns for the moment, so he shelved the thoughts for a later time. He repeated the question directly to the scientist, who seemed to be in charge of the expedition.

“Mr. Finkle? How about you? Please explain what this is all about.”

Slowly, Finkle tore a piece of meat from a chicken leg, and chewed while he pondered the question. He then set the leg down, swallowed and leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table.

“Well now, that’s all a bit complicated…”

“I’m a fast learner.” King slammed a fist down on the table. “Mr. Finkle, you woke me prematurely. You stole me from my protective bed. You attempted to drown me…or feed me to the sharks. Don’t play me for a fool. I suggest you stop beating around the bush and get to it.”

“Yes, I understand completely.” Nervously, the man took a sip of his wine, washing the remaining chicken down, then cleared his throat. His obvious trepidation seemed so ill-fitting for the man. Like a suit two sizes too small. King guessed Finkle—whoever he really was—was not someone who frightened easily, nor was one usually at a loss for words. “It’s like this, Mister…I’m sorry. I’m not quite sure what to call you.”

“I was born Jack Sigler. You can call me that if you’d like.” Though most of the years he’d been wandering the world, he’d used pseudonyms or names given to him, he’d stopped really trying to hide his true identity a long time ago. At first, it had been a matter of protecting the time stream—of not inadvertently doing something that would change future events. The longer he’d lived, though, the more King realized that nothing he did ever truly managed to change anything. No matter how much he tried…no matter what evil despot he attempted to overthrow or well-known tragedy he fought to avert…nothing changed. He soon came to realize that history was fixed, and nothing he did would change the outcome, because he had always been a part of it. That included using his real name when the time called for it.

“Ah, Mr. Sigler…a German name, is it not?” Finkle asked with a delighted smile. “I thought I detected a slightly Germanic accent in your tongue.”

“I’ve developed a few accents in my travels, Mr. Finkle. Now get on with it.”

“Oh, yes. You see, Mr. Sigler, we are on a very important mission for the Continental Army.” He paused, then cocked his head briefly. “No, no, no. This won’t do. I forgot you’ve been asleep for so long. I’m sure you’re familiar with America…the colonies of Britain… Well, we are…”

“I’m familiar with the colonial Revolution, Mr. Finkle.” As King’s body regenerated, so did his mind and the memories of his many pasts with it, including the names of those most dear to him at last: Fiona and Sara.

The three other men at the table gawked at the response.

“Y-you are?” Finkle asked. “But how? If you’ve slumbered for so long, then how could you possibly…”

“Just trust me on this. I’m very familiar with the uprising in America. With George Washington. And with…” King allowed himself a smile as he gazed at the old man. “And you.
That’s
where I know you from.” He chuckled while doing a few mental calculations. “
Jim Brannan Finkle
. Very clever, that. But then what should I expect from you?”

Finkle looked at his two companions nervously, cleared his throat and fiddled with the cravat adorning his neck. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

King leaned back further in his chair, and confidently kicked his feet up onto the table. “Don’t worry, old man. Your secret is safe with me.” King couldn’t help himself. The realization had utterly changed his attitude toward the man. Where before, he’d been irked by the premature release from his tomb, now he found himself fascinated. Perhaps a little awestruck. “Now go on. Tell me.”

Finkle nodded. “It’s a race, actually, and we’re losing. The British are searching for a place of immense power. Power enough to turn the tide of our rebellion as easily as one might shoo a fly. Power enough for them to spread their empire over the very face of the Earth.”

King swung his feet off the table, and sat up. Interested. Though his memory of history was fading from the long years of living it, he didn’t believe there’d been any recorded event where the British forces had discovered anything remotely as powerful as Finkle claimed. But that didn’t mean the threat wasn’t there.

“What kind of power?”

Finkle narrowed his eyes, then gave him a nervous once over. “Immortality.”