Shattered Moments (35 page)

October 1626

Somewhere in the Atlantic

The sun was blinding after the darkness of the hold, and Cameron closed his eyes against its merciless rays as the two sailors dragged him across the deck and toward the main mast.  They tied him securely in place, and sent a young cabin boy to fetch the captain as the rest of the crew assembled to watch the entertainment.  It wasn’t often that a stowaway was discovered on a ship, and the reckoning could be the most fun the crew could ask for on the long voyage. 

Cameron leaned his head against the mast and
sucked in lungfuls of fresh, ocean air as the seagulls circled over his head, their calls muted by the sound of jeering men and the waves crashing against the hull of the ship.  Cameron was almost glad he was tied up since he surely would have fallen down, unaccustomed as he was to the rolling of the deck beneath his feet.  The food had run out yesterday, and the water the day before, making it impossible for him to hide any longer.  As it was, he was weakened by hunger and thirst, having allowed himself only a few bites of bread and cheese twice a day and a few sips of water.  Cameron’s stomach felt permanently empty, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth from being so dry.  He hadn’t taken a piss since the day before, which was a sure sign that time wasn’t on his side.  Cameron allowed himself to be found a few minutes ago by a sailor who regularly came down to the hold to inspect the cargo, and now it was time to face the consequences of his actions. 

As Cameron’s eyes finally adjusted to the light, he was able to look out over the water, noting the vast expanse of ocean and sky all around the vessel.  They were far enough from land that he couldn’t be returned to Virginia, but still
many weeks away from Europe.  Cameron silently prayed that the captain wasn’t a cruel man, but he hadn’t known much kindness from strangers and didn’t expect miracles.  He tried to focus on the faces of the sailors to distract himself from the clenching of his stomach muscles and the pounding in his head.  His heart was hammering against his ribs, making it almost impossible to breathe, but he forced himself to take slow, measured breaths until he was able to achieve a modicum of calm.  It never helped to show fear. 

The jeering stopped
, and the crew parted like the Red Sea to allow the captain to pass.  He was a stocky man of medium height with hair that must have been black once, but was now faded to the color of ashes left over from a roaring fire.  His eyes appeared to be much the same color, as was the beard that hid the lower part of his face.  Cameron noted the lines around the eyes, which could be a sign of someone who enjoyed a good laugh, or a man who spent countless days squinting at the horizon as he sailed his ship.  The captain just stood in front of him, his expression hard to read.  The murmuring of the crew had stopped, a dead silence enveloping the deck as everyone waited for something to happen.

“Identify yourself, sir,” the captain said at last, his voice gravelly and cold
, but full of authority. 

“Cameron Brody, stowaway.”

“Yes, I gathered that, Mr. Brody.  Do you know what we do to stowaways?” the captain asked in a conversational tone, making the sailors snigger as they eagerly watched Cameron for signs of panic.

“I hazard to guess,” Cameron replied, knowing full well what the captain was talking about.

“Then I take it you’re not a seafaring man.  We throw stowaways overboard.  If they are lucky enough to be close to land and can swim, they might have a chance of survival, but this far out to sea, they become food for the creatures that live in the deep and feast on human flesh.  What have you got to say to that, Mr. Brody?”  The captain was watching him, amusement playing about his lips.  It made Cameron angry that the man was enjoying himself at his expense.

“I say that’s a terrible waste of an able-bodied man, sir,” Cameron replied.  “Throw me overboard and ye’ll have a few moments of entertainment
as ye watch me drown, but allow me to stay on board and ye’ll have an extra pair of hands working for no wage and not uttering a word of complaint.  I only need enough food to survive yon voyage and can sleep in the hold.”

“And do you have knowledge of boats or sailing?” the captain asked, his head cocked to the side as he studied Cameron.

“Nae, sir, but I’m quick to learn and stronger than most men.”  Cameron glanced meaningfully at the members of the crew, who were mostly thin and sickly-looking from months spent aboard a ship and living on salt pork and dry biscuit.

The captain didn’t say anything in response, just
studied him in silence for a few minutes, weighing his options.  At least he was considering it, Cameron thought as he lowered his eyes respectfully.  Some of the sailors looked disappointed, having no doubt expected the captain to order him tossed overboard immediately, and angry to be cheated of their amusement. 

The captain finally stirred as he came to a decision, “Mr. Brody, I can only assume that you’re a criminal, a runaway slave, or both, and likely deserve no mercy.  Had you been older or less brawny, I’d have consigned you to the waves immediately.  As it happens, two of my crew died on the previous crossing and I haven’t been able to replace them during my stay in Jamestown.  I will allow you to stay, but will work you to the bone with no pay.  You will be fed, however, and will sleep below decks with the rest of the crew.  I will decide what to do w
ith you once we reach England.”

Cameron’s shoulders sagged with relief, but the captain wasn’t
quite finished.  “Don’t congratulate yourself just yet, Mr. Brody.  I said you can stay; I didn’t say you wouldn’t be punished for your transgression.  Twenty-five lashes, Mr. Sewell, if you please,” the captain commanded the tall man who stood to his right, possibly the quartermaster. 

“Yes, Captain,” Mr. Sewell replied,
turning to the nearest sailor.  “Untie him, remove his shirt, and turn him to face the mast,” he ordered.  “Bring me the cat o’ nine tails, Jones, and make sure all crew is on deck.”

Cameron sucked in his breath as two sailors quickly untied him, ordered him to remove his shirt and tie
d his wrists to the mast above his head.  He was glad he’d had the foresight to hide Jenny’s ring in the hold before allowing himself to be found.  If anyone had seen it hanging around his neck, they’d assume he’d stolen it and would most likely take it from him.  He would retrieve it later, once he was free to move around the ship.  Cameron closed his eyes and rested his stubbled cheek against the cool, smooth wood of the mast.  He’d gotten off fairly easily, but he still had to take his punishment. 

The captain had been merciful in sentencing him to only twenty-five lashes, but they were to be administered by “The Cat,” which made the punishment considerably worse.  The whip had nine separate tails, rather than one, and turned twenty-five lashes into more like two hundred.  Still, it was a small price to pay for being allowed to live, and he would take it like a man
— silently.

A ripple of excitement went through the crew as Jones
brought the whip and handed it to Mr. Sewell, who was to act as Master at Arms. “Ready, Mr. Brody?” he asked, a note of amusement in his voice. 

Cameron wasn’t sure that anyone could be truly ready for a flogging, but he kept his voice calm as he answered. 
“Aye, Mr. Sewell, proceed.” The sooner it started, the sooner it’d be over. 

Cameron
thought he knew pain.  He’d been beaten savagely during his time in prison and on the voyage to Virginia, but this was something different entirely.  All air left his lungs as the first lash struck his back, the multiple tails of the whip whistling through the air ominously before making contact with bare flesh.  It felt as if a hundred hot pokers were applied to his skin, stinging and burning, tearing and savaging.  He had just enough time to draw breath before the second lash came, and the third.  The pain multiplied with every stroke, driving all thought from his mind.  Cameron’s already raw back was torn apart by the knotted ends of the whip which was now dripping with his blood as the crew cheered Mr. Sewell on.  The captain watched from the side, his face a mask of bland indifference.

Cameron tried to count the strokes, but he was unable to focus after the first few, the lashes
coming with barely any time to recover between them, and leaving him gasping for breath and unable to see as salty tears stung his eyes. 

“Jenny,” he whispered to himself.  He tried to conjure up her face, but couldn’t as another lash came down on his back with agonizing brutality.  Had it even been twenty yet?  Cameron hardly even noticed when the lashes stopped.  He was in a state of semi-consciousness, the only thing holding him up the rope tying his wrists to the mast.  Someone untied him and walked him from the deck to a small cabin below.  It was dim, the only light coming from a small porthole cut high into the hull.  Cameron stumbled
and nearly fell as he was laid on his stomach atop the dirty linen.  Someone, he couldn’t see the man, began to administer ointment to his flayed back.  Cameron just closed his eyes and allowed himself to float, the pain washing over him in hot waves that left him breathless and shaking. 

“You got off lucky, my boy,” a
gruff voice said somewhere above his head.  “Other captains might have ordered as many as forty lashes.  I’ve seen it done, I have.  Captain Doyle is a good man, and ‘tis a privilege to sail under him.”

Cameron didn’t feel particularly
privileged at the moment, but no answer was expected as the sailor continued to gently dab a poultice on Cameron’s back.  “You just work hard and prove your worth and the captain will see you right.  I know he will.  Now, try to sleep.  ‘Tis the best thing for you.”

He
felt as if someone had dumped burning coals onto his back and fanned the flames, but Cameron tried to breathe evenly and relax.  His thoughts were jumbled and his cheeks covered with dry salt, either from tears or seawater that sprayed his face when he was on deck.  For some reason, his muddled brain turned to his grandfather’s funeral.  His granddad had died when Cameron was six.  It had been during a particularly hard winter, and the old man had been outside for hours chopping wood for the fire.  They had just sat down to supper when the old man made a gurgling sound as saliva frothed from his mouth, grabbed his heart, and fell to the floor, writhing in agony.  It lasted only a few moments, but it felt like hours as Cameron and his sisters watched their beloved grandfather die.  Cameron’s mother began to weep, but his father was strangely calm as he made the sign of the cross over his father’s forehead and sent Cameron to fetch the priest. 

Cameron couldn’t remember the actual funeral, but he remembered the sin-eater.  His mother had insisted on getting one since
granddad had died suddenly and wasn’t shriven.  The sin-eater was a thin, miserable-looking man who was no more than a beggar.  He looked to be very old, but underneath the dirt and rags, he might have been no more than fifty, which was still old to a boy of six.  The sin-eater nodded to his parents as he came into the house on the day of the funeral, ready to do his job.  The girls had hidden in the loft, terrified of the strange man, but Cameron wanted to watch and hid in the corner.  Cameron’s father placed a crust of bread on granddad’s chest, and passed a cup of ale over the corpse before handing it to the beggar.  The man drank the ale and ate the crust of bread off the corpse before collecting his payment and disappearing into the wintry landscape.  Cameron had been fascinated and repelled at the same time. 

He didn’t think he was dying, but he suddenly wished that a sin-eater would come to him, and relieve his soul of the terrible sin of murder.  He’d confessed to Jenny, but she didn’t
have the power to grant him absolution, and he wanted to be shriven in case he died during the voyage.  He wanted to be forgiven for his sin, he thought wearily before sinking into blissful oblivion.

Cameron supposed that Captain Doyle was merciful after all since he’d allowed Cameron several days to recover before putting him to work.  The old sailor known as “Gimp” who tended to him, brought him food and water every day and fed it to him so that Cameron didn’t have to sit up unnecessarily, but eventually the reprieve was over, and he was ordered to report to Mr. Sewell. 

The first few hours had been pure agony as the newly
-healed scars tore open and blood seeped onto his shirt and dried in the cold wind, sticking to Cameron’s back.  As he moved, the fabric was torn away from the wounds which began to bleed again.  By the time he was finally allowed to return to the cabin his shirt was a bloody mess, as was his back.  But he was healing, and after a week the bleeding finally ceased, and he was able to ignore the soreness and itching as he worked.  Surprisingly, the captain and the crew made no mention of his flogging or his stowaway status and accepted him as one of their own, some even glancing at him with grudging admiration and clapping him on the shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie.  It was odd that the same men who were baying for his blood only a week ago were now treating him as a friend, but that was human nature for you, Cameron reasoned as he went about his work.

The weeks passed in a blur of exhausting days and cold nights. 
Cameron stumbled to his hammock at night and fell into a dreamless sleep which seemed to last only a few minutes before it was time to get up and face another day.  The captain had been true to his word and worked Cameron to the bone, assigning him the lowliest tasks and the longest hours.  Cameron was either sweating profusely, or shivering with cold since he had no coat to keep him warm against the bitter breath of the Atlantic.  The clothes on his back were the only things he owned, aside from Jenny’s ring, which he kept safely hidden and wouldn’t sell for anything.  At least he had a thin blanket to cover himself while he slept, but it did little to keep out the biting chill of the autumn wind.  The weather grew stormier and colder as they neared England, and the weak sunshine that sparkled on the water offered no warmth or comfort. 

Cameron didn’t complain.  He was lucky to be alive, and as long as he was dutiful and hard-working, he had a chance.  The captain never spoke to him, but there were times when Cameron felt the captain’s eyes on him, watching silently as he stood on the bridge
; one hand on the wheel, and the other holding the pipe that rarely left his lips.  Mr. Sewell, on the other hand, went out of his way to single Cameron out for his displeasure, but Cameron wouldn’t take the bait, replying only with “Aye, sir,” “Nae, sir,” and “Right away, sir.”  If Sewell hoped to find a reason to punish him, he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. 

A few of the crew members tried to befriend him, but Cameron answered politely, but kept his distance. 
What was there to say?  He wasn’t interested in their stories, and didn’t care to share his own.  Every day he survived brought him closer to home and closer to his future, if he had one, that is.  He was sure the captain would inform him in due time what he’d decided to do with him, or perhaps he would just turn him over to the authorities as soon as they docked, and Cameron would be sent back to Virginia to fulfill his contract and face his punishment.  All he could do was wait and hope.

After about eight weeks at sea, Cameron began to sense excitement among the crew.  They were days away from docking in Liverpool, and the sailors were anxious to get home
, hopefully in time for the Christmas celebrations.  The crew would be dismissed until the first sailing of the spring, and the men longed to see their families after many months at sea.  Some would be coming home to children who’d been born in their absence, and others would learn of the passing of loved ones, having had no word from home since they left the previous spring to sail to the New World.

As the day of arrival drew nearer, Cameron found himself unable to sleep.  His body was worn out, but his mind wouldn’t settle down and allow him to rest.  He’d managed to escape the plantation and actually get to England, but now all his efforts might be thwarted if the captain chose to be spiteful. 
Cameron tried to put the thought from his mind and go to sleep, but after an hour of trying to get comfortable in the narrow hammock he gave up.

Cameron suddenly felt as if he couldn’t stay in the dark, smelly space any longer.  He was surrounded by snoring men who hadn’t bathed in weeks and farted constantly in their sleep, mostly due to the severe constipation caused by their diet. 
He needed some air.  Cameron grabbed his blanket and made his way on deck.  The bitter wind chilled him to the bone in a matter of seconds, but Cameron couldn’t bear to go back down.  He wrapped the blanket around himself and stared up at the crescent moon, hanging in the heavens at a jaunty angle and surrounded by a sprinkling of stars.  The moon painted a sliver of silvery light on the black waters of the Atlantic, a magical pathway that beckoned to him like a siren song.  If only he could get off the ship and make his way home.  He was so tired of being at the mercy of others. 

Cameron barely noticed as a dark figure materialized next to him, only the smell of the pipe identifying his companion as the captain.  Cameron stiffened and was about to
take his leave, but the captain put a hand on his shoulder bidding him to stay.  He had no idea what to say, so he remained quiet, just looking at the moonlit path and wishing himself anywhere but where he was.

“We dock tomorrow, Mr. Brody,” the captain said at last. 

“Aye, I ken that, sir.”  Cameron’s shoulders and neck tensed as much from the frigid wind as from the uncertainty of his situation.  Was the captain just toying with him?

“Mr. Brody,” the captain said, his gaze drawn to the moonlit water, “I’m not without compassion.  I can only imagine how desperate a man must be to put himself into the position I found you in.  You knew when you came aboard my ship that you
would have a much greater chance of dying than surviving.”  The captain grew quiet, waiting for Cameron to say something.

“Aye, sir, I did, but I had nae choice.”  Cameron’s voice sounded gruff, almost defiant.
  He had known, but he’d done it anyway because that was the only path to freedom; at least for him.

“I’m not going to ask you what you were running from or what you’re running toward.  As long as I’m not aware of your crime, I’m not duty-bound to report it.  You’re worked very hard, and as far as I’m concerned, you’ve earned your freedom.  I wish you Godspeed, Mr. Brody.”

“Thank ye, Captain,” Cameron whispered, amazed that the man was willing to let him go.  Was it really possible that as soon as tomorrow he would be on his way north?  The captain drew something out of his pocket and held out his hand to Cameron.  “Here, you’ve earned this.” Cameron stared at the coins in his hand, unable to believe his eyes.  He gazed up at the captain, overcome with gratitude.  Cameron opened his mouth to speak, but had no idea what to say to convey the depth of his feeling, so he just shut his mouth again and bowed to the captain.

“Mr. Brody, I can only assume that you’re on your way to Scotland.  You’ll need food, a coat, and a horse.   This will help.”  The captain clapped him on the shoulder and walked away, leaving Cameron agape with shock. 

“Thank ye,” he whispered to the heavens, not sure if he meant the captain or God.  He couldn’t believe that he might actually be home within a few days.  Cameron opened his palm and stared at the coins.  He wasn’t sure exactly what they would buy, but he intended to find out.  He knew he must be frugal, but he didn’t want to show up at home looking like a convict.  A new shirt and a coat would go a long way to improving his appearance, as well as a hat.  He must have a hat.