Owned by the Ocean (8 page)

LaFleur
holstered his pistol and slowly drew his cutlass. “Clear some
room!” he shouted.

Roars of
approval erupted throughout the crew and Brant thought he might get
sick. Karl grabbed his arm though and dragged him to the outer edge
of the large circle that was forming around the deck, leaving only
Jacob and LaFleur standing, their blades glinting in the light of
the flickering lanterns.

The fight
began quickly, with clashing steel and the stomping boots of men as
they picked up the beat of the fighting men.

Brant watched,
fists clenched tightly at his side. He could see right from the
start that LaFleur was outmatched, if not in skill, then age. He
moved sluggishly compared to Jacob’s robust youth as he deftly
matched every step the captain made.

LaFleur was
good with the blade. It moved like an extension of his arm,
blocking Jacob’s thrusts and slashes effortlessly, at first. But he
was growing tired, slowing, while Jacob only pushed harder.

The fight
seemed to have only just begun, when LaFleur stumbled. Brant
reached for his sword, ready to leap to his aid, but Karl laid his
hand on his arm to hold him back.

It happened
quickly, but to Brant it seemed to move in slow motion as Jacob
lunged forward and his cutlass bit into LaFleur’s stomach and
protruded out his back. A dark stain slowly spread across his tunic
and he fell to his knees. His face paled and lips turned an
unnatural blue.

Brant tried to
lunge forward but Karl held his arm firmly. “No, boy. You ain’t
gonna do any good.”

Slowly, Jacob
pulled his blade from the fallen captain’s stomach and turned his
back to him, crimson betrayal dripping off the shining metal and
onto the deck. He said nothing, walking away from the mess he had
created and entering LaFleur’s cabin. He’d made his point.

Once the cabin
door shut Karl let go of Brant’s arm and he leapt forward, at
LaFleur’s side. He was lying on the deck, a pool of blood quickly
surrounding him, but Brant didn’t notice as he knelt in the warm
liquid and held the dying man’s hand.

“
You don’t do anything dumb now, you hear?” said LaFleur
through sputters and chokes.

Brant shook
his head. “This is wrong. They just turn on you, for what?”

“
I got soft. You and Karl tried to warn me but I was a
fool.”

Karl had
joined Brant at LaFleur’s side, but he stood, stalwart and calm. He
was no stranger to death.

LaFleur’s
breath grew shallow and his eyes fluttered and Brant thought he had
passed on when LaFleur squeezed his hand and his eyes opened again.
“You keep my girl safe and well, you hear me? You keep her sailing
strong.”

A ragged
breath ripped through his body, gurgling in his lungs as his soul
clawed its way to freedom. Brant had never stopped to watch someone
die. He’d always thought it was more peaceful and calm than this,
despite the pain of injury that brought it about. Instead, the life
tore out of LaFleur, escaping as his corporeal body fought to hold
on. It was in man’s nature to survive, it seemed that never went
away, not even in the last moment of life.

LaFleur’s jaw
relaxed, open, as if shocked at his own mortality. His hand was
limp in Brant’s.

Brant didn’t
look up as Karl walked away. He held tightly to his fallen
captain’s hand. He wasn’t a praying man. He’d never really been
religious, but his mother had taught him to pray for the souls of
those less fortunate and her words came to him now. Silently, he
mouthed the words that he hoped found their way to listening ears.
“Lord, have mercy on his soul,” he repeated over and over.

Brant clenched
his fists tightly and took a deep breath. “Sir, we should take this
route to Port Royale and unload. We’re sitting low in the water and
if a storm blows in—”

Jacob, the new
captain, held up his hand. “We’re not heading in yet. She’s a good
ship and she’ll weather a storm.”

Brant looked
over at Karl, silently begging him for help, but he just shrugged.
“Plot the course, Brant.”

Brant sighed
and collected his tools up from the desk that Jacob never should
have been sitting behind, and walked out of the cabin, Karl
following close behind.

Depositing his
tools on a table near the ship’s wheel, Brant turned to Karl and
threw up his hands. “He’s going to have us all at the bottom of the
ocean!”

Karl nodded,
his face grim. “He’s a fool and knows nothin’ of running a ship.
You see him after the last raid?”

Brant nodded.
Jacob had celebrated with the crew members a little too hard, and
had spent the entire day afterwards holed up in his cabin. No one
had been allowed to disturb him except to bring him coffee and
breakfast. The men had joked about how he was going soft, but if he
kept this up it wouldn’t be jokes for much longer. “He wants
respect, but he doesn’t want to give up his place among the
crew.”

“
He don’t start listening to someone, there’ll be another
mutiny before long. Mark my words.”

The scary
thing was; Karl was right. In the weeks since LaFleur’s murder—that
was what Brant had come to think of it as—Jacob had quickly showed
his true colors. He was young, and green. He knew nothing of what
it took to be a leader, or how to maintain control. He seemed to
think he could order the crew around like his word was law, sit
back and watch them do all the work, and then join in when it came
to fun. In all his years serving under LaFleur, Brant had learned
that as a captain you had to make certain sacrifices to
differentiate yourself from the rest of the crew.

LaFleur would
have a drink, maybe two, with his men. But he never overdid it and
he always remained in control. He never asked more of his men than
he was willing to give and he always pulled his own weight.

Jacob was
riding high on power, refusing to listen to reason or advice. Brant
and Karl had been patient with him, willing to help and offer
advice, but he wanted nothing of it. It seemed like he had branded
them traitors, followers of LaFleur, and didn’t trust them.

Brant spread out his chart and began working on adjusting
their course back into heavier trade routes. If Jacob wanted gold
and blood, he’d get it. He only hoped that it wouldn’t be
the
BlackFox
that
ended up washed red with the lost lives of men he called
brothers.

Karl tapped
his table a few times and clucked his tongue. Looking up, Brant
raised his eyebrow. “Yes?”

“
This island, you can bring us right by it?”

Brant looked
at where Karl’s finger was tapping and made a few quick
calculations. “Yeah. Can we unload our hold there?”

Karl shook his
head. “It be empty. Figure we keep it close by, just in case.” He
let out a sigh, like it was a great weight to let those words out,
then tapped the chart one last time before walking away.

Brant frowned
and looked back down at the map. Just in case. The way things were
going it wasn’t “just in case”, it was just a matter of time.

***

Brant sat in
the mess hall that night in silence, surrounded by men that had him
both disappointed and feeling a little sick. They had willingly
betrayed and murdered their captain, and now their murmurs of
discontent were rising up again; this time against the man that
they had put into power.

Their course had been altered to go near the island Karl had
pointed out, but they wouldn’t be near there for another week.
Brant hoped things would hold together until then. Another mutiny
would tear the crew apart. If LaFleur had three loyal followers,
Jacob easily had close to half the crew, but the other half was
growing more and more upset with his poor leadership. If it reached
a boiling point, the
BlackFox
would be washed in blood, and no one would make
it out unscathed.

A couple men
sitting beside Brant were muttering angrily to each other as they
ate stale bread dipped in stew.

“
This swill ain’t worthy of a dog,” muttered one man, tossing
the hard lump of crust aside. “We need to make port and stock up
and we ain’t near no harbor.”

The man beside
him nodded. “Cap’n don’t know what he’s doing. Picking on the wrong
ships. We ain’t had a good raid even once this whole season.”

Brant got up
and took his empty bowl to the washing pot and deposited it there,
then walked on deck. Karl was already up there, smoking his pipe in
the cool evening air.

“
Tis calm,” he said when Brant walked up to join
him.

“
Too calm. There’s a storm brewing.”

“
Aye.”

But Brant
wasn’t referring to the weather, and although it was calm out, the
belly of the ship was simmering slowly into a boil. “We won’t
weather this one well.”

Karl shook his
head, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe as he stared out at the
ocean. “One good raid, it’ll calm things for a time.”

“
Long enough?”

Karl
nodded.

“
What if we don’t get that raid?”

Karl smiled
and pointed ahead. “Can’t see her yet, but I saw a ship from the
nest through the glass. She’s sittin’ low. We’ll be on her tomorrow
sometime.”

Brant smiled
slightly, but it was bitter sweet. He wasn’t sure he could stomach
more blood, but Karl was right; it would blow off enough steam to
keep the men under control until they were in a better
position.

“
If a stray bullet found the captain—” Brant trailed off. He
could end things tomorrow if they were in a raid. No one would
notice that friendly fire had taken down their captain.

“
There’ll be a power struggle for who be captain. Best we let
things be until the last possible moment, then take public action.
Establish leadership.”

Brant reached
into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette, slightly bent and
wrinkled. He lit it and inhaled the smoke. Karl was right, if he
ended it during a raid, in secret, it would tear apart the crew
more than any mutiny would. They had to be perfect in their timing
and act just at the point before boiling, when the men were good
and ready to accept a leader who would present himself but not
quite ready to draw blood. The only problem was finding that
perfect moment.

***

Karl was
right, there was a raid the next day. But it didn’t go as expected.
Jacob was over eager, making the wrong calls at the wrong time and
refusing to take advice from the more seasoned sailors on his
crew.

Brant took
second watch that night. He wandered the deck, cigarette hanging
from his lip and staring out at the water on all sides. He couldn’t
look down at the deck, still stained with the blood of crewmembers
that shouldn’t have been screaming in pain, dying, bleeding out on
the deck boards of their home. The raid today had been a blood
bath. They’d lost three men. Three! Three good men that shouldn’t
have been lost if Jacob had just let his pride go and allowed men
with more experience advise him. There were another two in the
infirmary. One had lost a leg, the other had a stab wound.

There had been
no celebration tonight.

Jacob had
tried to bring out the rum and start festivities, but the men had
only somberly taken a swig, said a few words for their fallen
mates, and passed the bottle off. Once it had made its rounds the
remainder was poured into the ocean, a kind of peace offering.

Maybe it was
then that Jacob realized that he had made a mistake. One of his
mates had pulled him aside and since then Brant hadn’t seen him.
The glow of the oil lamp had shone from the captain’s cabin window
until well past midnight, but now in the wee hours of the morning
it was dark and silent. Brant hoped his dreams were haunted by the
blood on his hands, by the screams he had caused.

Brant hadn’t
had a chance to talk to Karl yet, but the fact that the raid had
gone so badly meant they were short on time, and it was unlikely
they’d make it to the island before things blew up. They had shared
a look earlier, when the men had been paying their respects to
their fallen comrades. Brant had seen the tired look in the old
man’s eyes, the look that said he was losing hope for the crew and
ship.

“
Hey, Foxton, yer off for the night, go get some shut eye,”
said Curly, a red headed Scotsman that had found himself on the
crew just last season.

“
Thanks, Curly. Not sure I’ll be able to sleep
though.”

The Scotsman
clucked his tongue but nodded. “Aye, I been tossing and turning
myself. Yesterday don’t sit well.”

Brant nodded,
but didn’t encourage the conversation.

“
Cap’n… he made some bad calls and a lot of the men are
beginning to talk.”

“
Maybe the men should be content with who they put in charge,”
spat out Brant. It still didn’t sit well with him how they had
turned on LaFleur.

“
Aye, you were close with LaFleur. I can’t help but think we
were better off with him, even if he was gettin’ soft.”

“
You aren’t the only one with that sentiment,” muttered Brant,
but he’d had enough of the conversation and he walked away, taking
the ladder below deck where his bunk was waiting for
him.

If men like
Curly were beginning to come forward and speak openly of their
unhappiness with Jacob, then they had less time than Brant had
hoped. They were looking to recruit men to their cause, make sure
sympathies lay in the right place. It wouldn’t be long now. A ship
was a small place and people knew where your allegiance lay pretty
quickly. The question was; who was heading it all up, and when were
they going to make their move?