Port of Errors (2 page)
Authors: Steve V Cypert
Saint Drake arrived at Port of Errors within a week of Scurvy’s encounter with Sir Fouste. Black-Hearted stepped arrogantly onto the harbor. He was clearly broader than any other man aboard Saint Drake. While on Port of Errors, Black-Hearted consistently found himself at the auction house, as everyone came to know, auctioning off small ships
acquired
while out at sea.
Scurvy, having lost everything he owned, was in need of such a vessel. Being without money did not deter him, as he was a very resourceful and clever pirate. Upon noticing Saint Drake pulling up to the harbor with two small schooners in tow, Scurvy made his way to the auction house. Knowing that Black-Hearted had an eye for his daughter, Scurvy collected Isabel on his way there.
They entered the auction house through the side door with several vile men. Scurvy and Isabel stood there silent, waiting for the most significant opportunity. Black-Hearted finally arrived, walking in alone. He seemed well versed in the way things worked, stepping up to the auction block with a few forged titles to the two ships he had brought in to shore. In quiet conversation, the auctioneer took the two documents and promptly began the anticipated auctioning of the titles. Black-Hearted made his way to the rear of the small crowd to observe. Various merchants had come with the intention of negotiating, through the auction, a deal with Black-Hearted as they had many times before. For many, these ships were valuable real estate.
Before the auctioning-off of these two ships could really get underway, Scurvy interjected
his
proposition across the room to the auctioneer. “Against that there title I bid the offer of this, the handsomest young wench your eyes ever did see! It’s a grand deal, to be sure.” Staring the crowd down with an awful grimace, Scurvy stood silent for the answer.
Shocked at Scurvy’s audacity, the auctioneer shouted back in return with a faint and poorly spoken Scottish ascent, “Scurvy, you know you can’t just sell whatever you please! There be proper ways, Chum! And by proper, I mean gold and silver; never the likes of flesh and blood for such prized property.”
“You’ll learn to keep your mouth shut or I be learnin’ you a lesson in
considerateness
!” countered Scurvy. “She’s a fair young beaut and well worth the lookin’! So, if you don’t mind, she’ll stand as my offer and the only offer worth the price.”
“This here is me very own auction house. No one comes into my house and tells me where to piss. You best mind your ways ‘round here,” demanded the auctioneer. “Besides, who do you think you are in these parts?”
“You dare challenge me, you
patronizating
old fool!” replied Scurvy. “You know who I am. But it isn’t you I be speaking with; my business is with Hearted, the most feared man in all the Atlantic, both east and west! You’re nothin’ to be feared, Matie. Not like him.”
Black-Hearted kept silent for a moment longer, entertained by the banter, though he was growing bored.
The auctioneer motioned to four men standing poker-faced on either side of the auction block. Black-Hearted just yawned, listening impassively. As the auctioneer’s men cocked their pistols and portentously approached Scurvy, Isabel raised two fingers to her mouth and blew. She was such a small and petite young woman; no one expected such a loud and screaming whistle to sound. Even Black-Hearted woke up from his boredom.
Answering her call, a dozen armed men promptly stormed in through the side door. As they lined the inside of the auction house, Scurvy insisted, “Any protestations? Think hard, me hearties.”
The auctioneer’s men promptly disappeared as the auctioneer cowered, “No, none. No protestations by me, Scurvy.”
“Well then, I bid you my thanks.” Subsequently, attempting to conclude the negotiations, Scurvy cut to the chase and turned to Black-Hearted, making eye contact and motioning to him.
Tired of playing games, Black-Hearted made his way to the front of the house, taking Scurvy aside for privacy. Everyone in the house abruptly broke out into whispers as the two men stepped behind the scaffolding and out of sight. Scurvy’s men quickly descended on Black-Hearted from throughout the auction house. A few silent moments passed and Scurvy’s men, with a distinct look of alarm upon their faces, walked briskly back through the crowd and out the side door.
“What say you, Hearted,” asked Scurvy, without hesitation. “The wench for title and ship, which we both know were acquired by force and most likely at no cost but a few week and feeble men, if any at all.”
“I heard about your run-in with that privateer. I know he sunk your ship. But why is that my problem? Captain Drake and the rest of the crew will not take so kindly to losing a profit on either one of those vessels.”
“Oh, come now, we both know that Captain Drake is sick with scurvy. Drake could very well keel over and die within the coming days. It’s my guess that he’ll not be captain for much longer. Face it, Saint Drake and her crew are under your command and everyone but your captain knows it. Come now, Hearted, you’ve an appetite for my Isabel and all I ask in return is a ship. ‘Tis the only chance I see of getting off this forsaken island without threat to what little crew I have left. I don’t plan on staying here forever. Like you, I belong on the sea and I’ll find no other such
gratificational
life elsewhere.”
Finally in agreement, Black-Hearted took Isabel as his own, negotiating in addition, ten percent of Scurvy’s booty attained over the next year, during which period Scurvy agreed to sail under Saint Drake’s banner. This deal would ensure that crew and captain would be more accepting.
They took a walk out to the harbor, where this mid-sized, square-rigged vessel sat. It was almost twenty-five meters in length, baring two masts and mounted with six twelve-pound cannons, making her a fairly respectable vessel.
“Your ship, Mate,” Black-Hearted pointed out. “She’s all yours.”
“So, how exactly did you come across that there vessel?” asked Scurvy, when he saw his newly acquired schooner for the first time. It resembled something he might have seen following a small skirmish, but more on the losing side. “It carries some true
character
.”
“How I come across the vessel is none of your concern. Take her, she’s yours. But, be mindful, your mainmast is a jury. The original was suddenly
retired
.” He shrugged his shoulders ever so innocently. “We rigged two sails to the mizzenmast, so she’s fast. She’ll carry fifty men and she’s fit for shallow waters.” Upon entering the bilge, several leaks were seen slowly running down her walls, prompting Black-Hearted to continue, “I call her the Weeping Lady.” The leaks were certainly noticeable, but too small to sink her overnight. “You’ll need to man the bilge pumps once in a week until repairs can be made.”
“I should not have a need to man the pumps,” complained Scurvy. “Such leakage should have been taken care of before the bidding.”
“Be grateful you have a ship at all. Is a woman worth the lives of two loyal men? That was the cost of this ship and don’t you forget it.”
Though frustrated, Scurvy was indeed happy to have a ship. The name suited the schooner just fine and therein remained her name, the Weeping Lady.
Though Isabel was used to purchase the Weeping Lady from Back-Hearted, she was strangely happy to be given to him. They seemed to be fond of one another, but never pursued a relationship, considering lifestyles and distance apart. But this deal did make the process a whole lot simpler, without such nonsense as courtship type of talk.
“She’ll be yours so long as she’s inclined to be yours,” mandated Scurvy.
“It’s done then,” finalized Black-Hearted. “We’re agreed.”
Within the next few days Scurvy, along with his crew, patched and repaired the Weeping Lady until they were finally able to set sail. Though, Scurvy still had to remain accessible to Black-Hearted, as their verbal contract had indicated.
Under Darcy’s watchful eye, Black-Hearted assured Isabel a safe home on Port of Errors, purchasing from Darcy a quaint cottage on the edge of his estate on the outskirts of the township. Black-Hearted and Isabel, from that time forth, were together as oft as was permitted by his timely visits to Port of Errors. In her presence Black-Hearted was not the ruthless monster that everyone feared. Isabel was a strong-willed and spirited young woman who managed herself quite well. Everyone that recognized this curious liaison never thought twice about looking at Isabel with undesirable intentions. Not one person living outside Port of Errors, with the exception of Black-Hearted’s closest friends, knew of their relationship and it was meant that way to keep her safe.
As quartermaster, Black-Hearted’s fame exceeded that of his own captain. In his ill condition, Captain Drake struck minimal fear into targeted ships, evoking fewer unforced surrenders. In turn there seemed to be less respect among several members of his wretched crew.
Two weeks after acquiring Isabel from Scurvy, Black-Hearted and four of his closest shipmates crept silently into the captain’s chamber in the dead of one cold and eerie night. Approaching his bedside, Black-Hearted whispered, “Aye, you’ve been a good captain –
Captain
.”
Captain Drake slowly opened his eyes only to find Black-Hearted standing above him. Before Captain Drake could call out in distress, Black-Hearted shoved a cloth into his throat, busting his lips in several places against his shattered teeth.
Stephen, Eric and Gunner, restrained Captain Drake to keep him from thrashing about. A grotesque sound of gurgling moans filled the emptiness of the room, as the ocean splashed violently from without, rocking the ship up and down. Saint Drake’s every hinge and loose board seemed to come alive with an eerie composition. Suddenly there was only silence.
Black-Hearted pulled the moist rag from Captain Drakes open mouth. Thick salivation pulled stubbornly away from his bloodied lips, clinging to the soiled rag. The smell of vomit and death fill the space within the walls of the captain’s chamber.
“Stephen, Eric, retire to your quarters,” whispered Black-Hearted, “In the morning you’ll have a real captain.”
“Aye, Hearted,” they replied, walking cautiously and carefully off. Black-Hearted held the other man back for a brief moment. “Gunner, you’ll be quartermaster. I’ll have none other.”
“Aye and you’ll need no other,
Captain Hearted
.”
Chapter III
Black-Hearted’s election to captainship was sure with the death of Captain Drake. Black-Hearted closed his tired eyes, unremorseful and proud.
The night grew bitterly cold as Saint Drake continued to sway. Fading off to sleep, he recalled the fond and bitter memories of a childhood that led him to this point in his poignant life; memories that have haunted him for years. His eyes began to flutter in a whirlwind of excitement as the past came flooding back.
It was an early February morn. The day was gloomy and wet, blanketed with a thick layer of fog carried in by a slight westward breeze. Torn, broken and without hope, Henry
approached the large wooden doors to the old cathedral. Tears swelled deep within his troubled eyes. It was the only place of worship in the small township of St. Thomas. Henry held his little son, whom he’d loved and cared for, for all of his five years, cradled within his lifeless arms. Although this orphanage was within the walls of an old cathedral, the boy’s odds of living a good life were not in his favor.
Heavily dispirited, Henry spoke to an elderly Irish priest at the cathedral doors. Father Whittaker was a kind old fellow who hadn’t the means to truly care for all the children in the orphanage. His white hair was thinning and his skin discolored from age and experience. He spoke boldly with a broken accent and his voice was noticeably as old as he, raspy but somehow still intimidating. He hunched slightly and walked with a mild limp. He’d lived within the walls of this cathedral for a goodly portion of his life. And although he could not realistically provide for the children, he testified in good faith, “The Lord will provide, me old friend.”
The boy’s father, crushed and tattered, whispered forlornly, “The boys name is Davy. Tis the only thing I ask to be left him of me. I’ve nothing else. Where I go now, the child is to know nothing of.”
“How has it come to this?” replied Father.
“Just remember, you’ve never seen my face; you don’t know me at all. Take the boy. Please, make him a better life than was mine.” He broke down and lowered his head, placing his brow upon his son’s tiny chest.
“Henry,” addressed the priest, “will you not come to find him again?”
Henry lifted his head and without a trace of emotion, replied, “He can never know what has come of me. I’m already dead.”
“
Dead
? You stand before me and tell me that you’re dead? What’s become of you?”
“I’ve been marked. If it weren’t for my son, I would have died long ago. Things change. I thank you for your help and your silence.”
“It’s done then?”
“Aye, ‘tis done, says I.”
“Then say no more, for even these walls have ears. Go now, before you be discovered.”
Taking a few steps backward in an awkward shuffle, Henry shamefully lowered his head in self-disgust, voicing one last time, “Fair well, my boy. I’ll always love you.”
Davy awoke, looked up and saw his father walking away. The priest held him close. Davy shouted out with a deafening cry, “No!”
Although he deeply ached to, his disheartened father, now too far away, covered his ears and sobbed. Yet in vain, Davy hollered out with a painful plea, “Da!” But to his astonishment, his father faded into the dimness of the morning light until he was completely out of sight. The doors gradually closed. At that very moment, the world that Davy once knew was suddenly stripped away. Shouting out and wiggling about for his release, Davy was carried off to his new quarters, being that of a large soiled room. He was set gently down on a small nest of bedding beside a few other lads. Before he could get up, the door was slammed shut and locked.