Cerulean Isle (6 page)
“Give me your shirt, then. You’ll feel better with the spray of the sea on your back.”
I obeyed and handed him the garment. The edge of his mouth curled to a devilish half grin. He left me to my work without saying another word.
At first, I did feel better. The cool spray of the waves was refreshing, but it wasn’t long before I realized that I had been made a fool. I suffered terrible burns on my back and neck. The skin on my back cracked and bled.
Apart from the maltreatment, I continued to work as hard as I could. I found that if I focused on the labor, I forgot my woes, if only for a little while. Though terrified, I climbed the highest rigging to the top of the mainmast to check the condition of the lines. I handled buckets of volatile gunpowder, served the pirates their food and drink, and held watch over the sea so the ship’s navigator could take a few moments rest.
After several days of working the main deck, I grew fond of the sounds of beating lines and flapping sails. The pull of the wind, the rolling of the water, the moonlight casting a web of shadows on the deck—I enjoyed this part of life on the sea.
In the few fleeting moments I was permitted to rest and eat, I went to the starboard bow to look out over the beautiful azure sea. The tips and swirls of the dancing waves sparkled like my mother’s eyes. In my heart I could hear her last words to me:
I promise that I will watch over you always. I will be the sunlight that warms and the wind that cools. I will be the rustle of leaves and the stir of the sea. Feel these things through all of your days and know I am with you.
Remembering her comforted me. I pressed on with strength.
~~~~~~
“This isn’t so bad, Jacob,” Grant said.
We were down in the barrel hold helping the others check the food and other provisions. The stock was dangerously low.
“Better than being thrown overboard, I suppose.” I answered. “I like not being confined to the barrel room, but I don’t share your allure of the pirates’ life.”
“For many years, I picked pockets to survive. I lived alone, and when I lost my way, there was no one there to help me. I dreamt of sailing, dreamt of being free. This is it, my friend. The
Obsidian
can go anywhere.”
“Your devotion will not be rewarded. You’ll see. L’Ollon means to use us and then we’re dead. If not for his plans in Curacao, we would be dead right now.”
“When we get there, we’ll see how…” he paused, and then tensed. “Today is the day, Jacob. We should be entering Willemstad Harbor this afternoon.”
Grant and I stared at each other, suddenly frightened. A part of me wished we had another week to sail, another week of working the main deck instead of committing thievery with the possibility of being killed at any moment.
“Aye,” said a deep voice from behind us. Christoff looked imperial in his fine russet blouse and shiny black boots. His leather belt held a magnificent cutlass enclosed in a gold trimmed scabbard. On his fingers he wore dazzling jeweled rings that sent beams of color dancing on the walls. He needed to impress Captain Shanley, to convince him that he was a wealthy seaman interested in purchasing a ship. He looked the part as he stood in the lantern light of the barrel room.
“Come with me,” said Christoff. “Captain L’Ollon wants you cleaned up and readied for land.”
We went to the main deck where the crew was hard at work furling the sails. At dizzying heights, the pirates dangled from taut lines and swaying beams. They hollered and grunted as they hoisted the heavy, wind-catching fabric to long bulging rolls. As the sails were raised, I felt the
Obsidian
slow. Soon, the three great masts looked like naked trees, and the pace of the mighty barque was reduced to a drift. I looked over the starboard side and saw Curacao resting on the horizon. The island looked long and flat; we were close enough that I could make out the pointy roofs and colorful paint of the Dutch-built homes.
We followed Christoff to a small storeroom. He opened a long wooden chest to reveal bundles of clean clothes. Christoff drew out two clean, white linen shirts and handed them to us. Next, he gave each of us a thick black belt, a pair of soft leather shoes, and light brown pants made from soft dyed cotton.
“Dress,” he said. “Forget your tattered garments. These clothes are yours to keep.”
The pants were soft on my tired legs and the linen was cool on my burned back. The shoes fit perfectly. The soles cushioned my footfalls.
“Ah, an improvement to be sure, lads! Now follow me, Captain L’Ollon awaits us. You’ll be given your orders one last time.”
We found Captain L’Ollon standing tall at the bow in his knee-length brown coat and red scarf. He was peering out at the island through a small collapsible spyglass. When he heard us approach, he closed the glass and put it in his pocket.
“Yonder waits Curacao,” began L’Ollon, “and in its midst is Captain James Shanley. He owns several ships, all of which are docked in the wharf. Shanley only sails two of them these days: his new brigantine
Kraken’s Bane
and the schooner
Eternity.
There are four other ships in the harbor belonging to him; two sloops, another schooner, and a fishing boat. These vessels are for sale.
“Christoff will take you to the island in a rowboat; I don’t want anyone to know you have come from my ship. The
Obsidian
will approach the harbor an hour after you have made it to land. Once in the town, you will go with Christoff to Shanley’s villa.” L’Ollon reached in the left pocket of his coat and took out a bundle of thin, metal strips. He handed them to Grant. “You will use these tools to assist in accomplishing this mission.”
“Lock picks,” exclaimed Grant in awe.
“When Christoff leads Shanley away, use them to enter the villa and private quarters. Retrieve my sea chart and the leather book, and then make for the harbor immediately. Christoff will turn on Shanley and take him aboard the
Obsidian
where the bastard will suffer for his betrayal. And as for you—” He pulled the long curved dagger from his belt. He turned the blade away and handed me the hilt. “Take my blade. May it serve you well, young swordsman, but if you fail, this steel will be your death.”
With a trembling hand, I accepted the heavy weapon. I realized it was more than a long dagger; it was a short sword. I tucked it in the left side of my belt. L’Ollon reached in his pocket again and withdrew a bulging coin purse, reminding me of the brown pouch my father weighed in his hand. My left hand tightened on the handle of the blade.
He tossed the pouch to Christoff. “Enough gold to buy the larger of the sloops should Shanley want proof of payment. Don’t give him so much as a reale. Bring back Shanley, and that purse is yours.”
“Understood, Captain.”
“Now, ready yourselves in any manner you see fit. Christoff, feed the boys and round up a few men to row you to Willemstad.” L’Ollon shifted his gaze to us. “Good luck in Curacao, and while you’re skulking around with Death chasing your heels, remember poor Beelo. Ha! The fall of Shanley’s empire has begun.” Turning back to the bow, he peered at the island through his spyglass.
Christoff, Grant, and I were secured in one of the rowboats and lowered to the waves. Four pirates joined us and they worked the oars steadily, pulling the rowboat away from the ship’s dripping, barnacle-laden hull.
As the boat swam roughly over the water, I looked back at the
Obsidian.
Its gruesome figurehead seemed real, its lifeless arms tied at the wrists to the bowsprit, its dead head drooping sadly and defeated with that gaping mouth and those empty eye sockets. Jean L’Ollon, the
Obsidian,
and the legacy encompassing it meant three things to the people of the Caribbean: wealth, power, and death.
The island of Curacao grew larger as we approached. Grant’s freckled face was pale as he nervously fiddled with the bundle of lock picks. I looked down at the blade that rested in my belt, a blade that had undoubtedly killed many men. Today I would kill or be killed.
L’Ollon’s pirates rowed our boat into the wharf. All around us were glorious ships of varying shapes and sizes; some bore red flags, others blue and yellow. Crests of distant countries adorned the banners, and as we drifted in, I heard an assortment of languages.
The harbor was deep enough to accommodate even the grandest of vessels. Christoff pointed at one of the finest ships in the bay. “There is Shanley’s brigantine,
Hydra’s Bane.
A brigantine is very similar to a barque. There isn’t much difference between
Hydra’s Bane
and the
Obsidian.
Our barque is a bit shorter in length but our masts make up for it. The brigantine and the barque are the preferred ships for our trade, you see. Shanley’s fleet is fast and maneuverable. His ships are all large enough to hold a tough crew, several cannon, and room for cargo.”
Grant turned to me and whispered, “Trunks of gold and jewels, I’d say.”
“I’ve seen many modified ships, as well,” continued Christoff. “Some seafarers employ carpenters to alter the forecastles, quarterdecks, and holds to suit the needs of the captain.”
“Some pirate captains even build prisons in the lower holds,” Grant said to me.
”Now look yonder, lads,” Christoff directed. “There rests a mighty galleon. Jean L’Ollon had one just like her years ago. The galleon is built to hold large quantities of cargo and a large crew. It is a warship to be sure, lads, but speed it does not have. It takes heavy firepower to best a ship like her. ‘Loot her and leave her if you dare get close,’ say the best pirates, ‘she won’t be giving much chase.’”
The wooden dock wobbled under us. The afternoon was warm as the sun began tilting to the western sky. We found the main road connecting the harbor to the town.
Curacao was not much different than Cuba. The streets were littered with peddlers. Peasants and nobles alike crowded the taverns; the sounds of the smithy’s hammer-falls rang like church bells. Fragrant fruits and flowers sweetened the air. I could hear music, laughter, and cheers coming from a nearby square. The townsfolk paid us little mind. They brushed by, unaware of our criminal intentions.
No one seemed to notice the dreadful sword hanging from my belt. It was commonplace for a boy to carry the arms of his father or master—a symbol of faithfulness and pride to follow behind bearing his trusted weapon should he need it. Perhaps Grant and I looked like Christoff ’s sons. Walking with him in the far away town of Willemstad was like walking with a powerful lion. I felt safe now that I was away from Jean L’Ollon. Even the feeling of the solid, un-moving earth beneath my feet was rejuvenating.
We entered a smoky tavern. Christoff instructed us to sit at a round table and speak to no one. He weaved around the drunkards and servers in the hazy room to a lone man sitting in the far corner, a fat man wearing a patched gray shirt. His arms were tanned and his grimy face was round. He and Christoff shook hands. Christoff took the chair across from him and they spoke for several minutes. I watched their mouths and tried to guess what they were talking about.
Grant leaned over the table toward me. “Jean L’Ollon’s quest has begun, and we are a part of it!”
“What about this quest? You haven’t told me the rest of the story.”
“Where did I leave off?”
“The night of the storm, L’Ollon’s men opened fire on the Water People.”
“Right… L’Ollon panicked just as his men had. He called for the cannon to be manned and set. Soon, the galleon
Hydra
let loose its terrible wrath.”
“He shot at them? Why?”
“L’Ollon thought only of his fortune. He assumed that the Water People had come for it. The
Obsidian,
with its twelve shots, fired freely. The sloop
Cutlass,
with its six, blasted the dark waves. On they fired until they were out of ammunition. It was then that L’Ollon and his crew realized their mistake.
“A vicious boom rumbled from the bilge of the
Hydra.
The men working below ran up the companionways and onto the main deck screaming, ‘The
Hydra
is taking water! The hull has been torn open!’
“The sounds of men drowning below deck filled the stormy night. L’Ollon looked to his other ships. The
Obsidian
drifted on the water unscathed, but the
Cutlass
was sinking, too. L’Ollon gathered his sea charts, filled his pouches and pockets with gold, and abandoned his beloved galleon. He slipped into a small rowboat and cast away over the water. He rowed alone and watched the warship sink. The
Obsidian
was his only chance for escape. The crew hoisted him aboard and L’Ollon immediately gave orders to make sail. They obeyed and took wind despite the raging storm. The Water People did not follow.
“Six days elapsed, and soon the island of Puerto Rico took shape in the distance. L’Ollon called for a feast before landing. He told his men that they deserved a good meal for their trials and faithfulness. The galley prepared a fine stew using the last of the provisions, provisions that L’Ollon had poisoned.”
“Poisoned?”
“Ah, Jacob, keep your voice down.”
“Sorry.”
“He wanted to kill the remaining crew. You see, they had seen the Water People. They were all on the brink of madness, even L’Ollon. He knew his crew would begin telling of the horrors they had witnessed to anyone who would listen. By killing his crew, L’Ollon would be the only one who knew the truth.”
“Did they die?”
“From what I’ve heard along the waterfronts, yes. They drank the stew and died in minutes. In Puerto Rico, L’Ollon made repairs to the
Obsidian
and bought slaves to help him sail to Jamaica’s port town of Kingston. Kingston is full of seafarers from the fallen Port Royal, and L’Ollon found it easy to recruit another ruthless crew. He set sail once more and pirated the surrounding waters.
“After some time, L’Ollon began to catch word that one of the crewmembers survived the poison and told the officials what had happened at sea. The man was locked away and labeled mad, so little harm was done. You know who else heard the news that the gold-laden
Hydra
and the
Cutlass
sank?”