Art:AADM/Second round/Into the Black
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The Short
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Moonlight sparkled from the waves that rippled around a small sloop swaying gently at anchor in a quiet, peaceful harbour... a peace that was broken by the metallic sound of swords being drawn, the shattering of a cabin door, and the roar of a gloating voice shouting, "Ye'll not take another cargo from me, Garrison, ye thievin' bilge rat!" | 
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Shattered Peace (Bulwer-Lyttony) | ||
The Entry
Moonlight sparkled from the waves that rippled around a small sloop swaying gently at anchor in a quiet, peaceful harbor... a peace that was broken by the metallic sound of swords being drawn, the shattering of a cabin door, and the roar of a gloating voice shouting, "Ye'll not take another cargo from me, Garrison, ye thievin' bilge rat!"
The ruddy young man leapt from the chair in which he was slumbering and reached for his rapier, only to find the scabbard empty. He drew his pistol and raised it level with the swarthy, scarred face leering at him through the splintered door. His heart sank as brackish water trickled down from the barrel and wet his shaking hands. Defeated, Garrison let the gun clatter to the floorboards.
“Farrell,” he murmured, bowing his fair head and raising his hands in surrender. Captain Farrell stepped over the threshold and raised his sword to the young man’s throat.
“That’s my gold ye be counting whelp,” he growled as he swept a pile of doubloons into a pouch at his waist. “High’s the price far dipping year hand in his Majesty’s royal coffer,” Farrell continued, “I’ll be takin’ what’s mine, and the rest of yer cargo, as payment to my guards.”
Garrison’s eyes flashed as he glared into Farrell’s face. He’d targeted Farrell’s caravan. The notorious captain of the King’s navy made a habit of unofficial privateering, and everyone knew his spoils were never seen by his Majesty, or any of the citizens of Britain. No harm would come from distributing some of Farrell’s ill-earned wealth amongst the starving rabble from which Garrison had come. Or so he had thought. Amidst Farrell’s badgering and the clamor of the swords and screams from his men being slaughtered on deck, Garrison’s mind flew through his plan, searching for the fatal error.
He smelled the lilac perfume before he saw her face. A smell so familiar, that stirred within him all the passion and desire that he had shared with her in his quarters mere hours before. She materialized in the doorway, a hard-bitten smile on her flawless face; Jenny, his own beloved Jenny, was dangling his rapier from a hooked finger.
“Sebastian,” she crooned, batting her crystal blue eyes at Garrison, “it was quite a trick, don’t you think? Having my messenger intercept Captain Farrell just after your little theft? And I ’m quite thankful love, that you sleep so soundly. ’Twas hardly a challenge, really. A man should be more careful with his prized weaponry.”
Garrison blanched. He shook his head, dumbfounded by this treachery. Jenny giggled and moved towards Farrell.
“Come now Sebastian, a woman should be treated properly. You’d repay all of my affections by robbing the richest Captain on the Spanish Main and then dispersing the wealth to a mob of street filth? That’s not going to keep a woman happy for very long now is it?”
Farrell placed a tar stained hand on Jenny’s waist and tugged her towards him. Curling a lip to reveal stained yellow teeth he snarled, “That’s right, pup, and trust me, yer lady has earned her keep,” and he slid a piece of eight into Jenny’s corset.
Roaring, Garrison lunged and Farrell struck him with the hilt of his sword. Garrison fell to the floor, his shallow breath rippling the pool of blood spreading beneath him.
The stench was nauseating. Robert found himself choking back his morning meal while passing several cells. He had heard the rumors from Newgate Prison, but he had never really believed that any one place could possibly be so horrific. A gross error, he thought as he stumbled over the rotting corpses of prisoners whose families could not afford the fee to release the body. Several filthy women, bellies swollen with child, sat hunched in the shadows of the corridor, feasting ravenously on rotting potatoes and raw meat. They screeched as he strode by.
“Cor, loo’ at that fine piece of man, luvs!”
“I’d have ‘im ‘elp me plead the belly any day.”
“Care to sample Newgate’s finest, han’some?”
Robert shuddered and quickened his pace, following the convoluted passages as the gaoler had instructed. Just when he thought he could stand no more of the foul odor, festering sores, and wretched faces, he found his destination. It was a small cell, as were those that belonged to the poorest of prisoners. The iron barred door hung agape, but the inhabitant of the cell was inside, slouched on a mold-blackened wool blanket. Heavy iron manacles cut into his bare ankles. He was a well built man, wasted to a mere skeleton after five years in this hell. His blond hair was matted and long, flowing freely into a scraggly beard. An ugly scar marred his cheekbone. Infection had taken hold and run rampant in the wound, leaving a purplish red brand on the once boyishly handsome face.
“’Bastian?” Robert whispered, hunkering down next to the shell of his twin brother.
Garrison looked up, his face puzzled. “’Bert. They said you were coming….but I didn’t believe….” He sputtered on the last words and placed his head in his brother’s lap. Robert sat, his frame shaking in time with his brother’s sobs.
The sun was just rising over London when the two men approached the dock. Charlie Putnam was wandering through his shipyard, picking his teeth with a splinter and idly sipping ale from a large wooden cup. He perked up when he saw them, chatting idly and casually surveying the litter of absconded vessels in several stages of repair and outfitting.
Putnam prided himself in his business: the restoration and fortification of ships taken by carriers of the royal marque. Many of England’s privateers brought their prizes to Putnam’s Yard to be patched up, improved, and added to their own fleets. These young fellows, however, were no corsairs.
They were compact men, rosy and fair haired, with easy smiles and confident gaits, though one of them was slimmer and walked with a shuffle, as though he was uncomfortable taking long, full strides. The two men were nearly identical, save for the ugly crimson scar marring the cheek of the slimmer one. The larger man had introduced himself as Black, but had offered no Christian name, and as the two were quite obviously brothers, Putnam began thinking of them merely as the Brothers Black. They had approached him earlier in the year asking about abandoned ships for sale and it happened that within weeks of their initial meeting, Putnam came into possession of a severely ravaged cutter that was of little use to its captor. He offered it to the brothers at middling price, as they were polite young men who expressed an interest in attempting to become small time private merchants. They stopped by the yard frequently and Putnam became quickly fond of them both. They were friendly and genuine, often staying for a drink or a game of cards after inspecting the progress on the cutter. This morning upon the arrival of the Brothers Black, Charlie Putnam raised a hand in greeting, unable to suppress a satisfied grin.
“You boys’ll be happy to know, yer ship is finished and can set sail with the tide,” he crowed.
He led them down to the lapping waters of the Thames and presented the ship with a flourish. The slighter Black brother paled, and the mark on his cheek nearly glowed in contrast. His face twitched, a smooth mask, barely containing the frenzy within. As he shuffled up the gang plank, the larger Black gave Putnam a look of admiration and produced a leather pouch from his satchel.
“Here’s yer pay, my fine sir, and may I say, as a former member of his Highness’ Royal Navy, a finer vessel cannot be found on these waters. We’ll have our crew ready to sail by tomorrow’s sunrise.”
“A former member of his Highness’ Royal Navy?” Garrison mocked in a nasal tone, prodding Robert with the butt of his pistol, “ye left out the part where ye lead a mutiny on his Highness’s largest galleon and changed yer name to escape a rightful hangin’.”
Robert chuckled and took the helm. “Perhaps ye’d preferred that I kept the spoils, rather than bail you from Newgate then? And this loyal crew, ye think they sprung from the earth like Adam?”
Garrison blushed and tucked his chin to his chest. Though Robert had suffered greatly at the hands of a tyrant captain in the Royal Navy, he had had a bright career in front of him serving King and country. Garrison knew that Robert’s act of treason was driven by the knowledge that somewhere in the bowels of London’s most insidious prison his twin brother lay wasting, taken prisoner by the feared Captain Farrell.
His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from the main mast, “Straight of Dover ahead Cap’n, clear sailin’ from here!”
Smith squinted into the darkness, straining to make out the flag waving gently at the top of the main mast on the quickly looming merchant galleon. He produced a small spyglass from one of the loops on his belt and extended it to the fullest length. Peering through the lens he managed a glimpse of scarlet and gold and hissed through his teeth. He scrambled down the rigging and landed softly on the deck, replacing the spyglass before trotting to the Captain’s quarters. He knocked quietly and entered. Two men sat at a shabby table, their heads nearly touching as they conferred with one another. The larger man seemed to be protesting something, but the other was patting him on the shoulder in an assuring manner. Both men looked up from their discussion simultaneously, enhancing the illusion that they were but the mirror image of one man. Smith approached the one with the flaming scar on his cheek.
“Cap’n Black,” he stammered, lowering his gaze to avoid staring at the captain’s hideous mark, “I spotted the ship yer after, sir. A merchant galleon coming from the South, likely from Cartagena. She’s Spanish sir….shall we sack her?”
Garrison smiled thoughtfully and replied, “I’ve got bigger plans fer this one Smitty. Put out the lights and ready the men. Swords only, no guns. And ‘Bert, you have the helm.”
The cutter sliced through the gentle chop of the Caribbean and slid shadowlike alongside the galleon. Black’s pirates lined up along the starboard rail and sent a flurry of grappling hooks sailing upwards into the timbers of the gunwale. They made their way swiftly upwards and crept into the maritime giant alongside the cannons that would have cut through their vessel during the light of day.
Captain Vasquez lay sleeping in his quarters when a muffled thud stirred him from slumber. He opened his eyes to complete darkness and cursed the slaves for allowing his cabin light to burn out. As he made to rise from his bed, cold steel was pressed to the base of his throat. Paralyzed, Vasquez allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark and found himself face to face with a young buccaneer, looking smug, though not unkind.
“I won’t harm ye if ye cooperate Cap’n,” Garrison said, drawing his rapier back slightly. “I’ll be having yer crew, of course, at least the ones that are willing to stay for a share of the riches on board. And you sir, you now own the fine cutter Freedom. May it carry ye safely back to wine, women and song. Do ye find that agreeable?”
Vasquez hesitated, trying to measure the sincerity of the fair haired Englishman. This was unheard of. A pirate capturing a treasure ship and giving the captain a ship in exchange? Granting him permission to make his way home? He thanked God that his guts had not already been spilled across the floor of his quarters. He nodded acquiescence and asked if he could keep his officers with him for his return journey. Garrison nodded and stood in the doorway while Vasquez dressed and collected his possessions. He escorted Vasquez and his officers to the deck and watched as they boarded the cutter and prepared the ship for its voyage back to Cartagena. He turned around and raised his sword in the air, buffeted by the roars of approval from his now sizeable crew.
Captain Farrell stood near the helm of his brigantine, barking orders to his sailors, “Be ready mates, we be approachin’ the Santa Margarita, and she be loaded down with Spanish doubloons and gems the likes ye never seen! It’s ours for the takin’.”
His gunners jammed powder and shot into the cannons and set the fuses. They leapt back as the brigantine sent a volley of cannon fire into the side of the Spanish galleon, splintering the timbers along the side of the foredeck. The galleon pitched and veered from the brig, and Farrell gave chase, quickly closing the gap between his vessel and the ailing Margarita. He called to his gunners and they fired a round of chain shot, puncturing several sails and tearing through yards of rigging. Farrell smiled in amusement. These Spaniards were getting easier to beat every month. This one barely put up a fight at all. As the brig swung parallel to the galleon the first mate gave the call to board and sailors leapt from the rails, hurling themselves onto the deck of the treasure ship, blades drawn. The crews clashed, sword to sword, they fought, snarling and slashing, gouging and pummeling with any weapon in arm’s reach. Farrell sidestepped the bloody fray and made his way to the captain’s quarters. His men would get their usual cut of the booty, but he always made sure to cull the finest items for his own personal collection. The door to the cabin was slightly ajar and the swarthy man kicked it open carelessly, entering with a swagger. He began rooting through the papers in the desk, searching for any valuables the captain had left behind. Immersed in his pillaging, he did not see the door swing shut behind him. He started when the latch clicked shut and wheeled around to find himself staring at a wretched ghost of the past. It only took a moment for the seasoned scoundrel to regain his composure.
“Garrison,” he snarled, brandishing his sword, “I thought I’d seen the last of ye when they threw yer sorry arse in Newgate. I see I left ye something to remember me by.”
Chuckling, Farrell continued, “Don’t grieve yer pretty face, pup. Yer darlin’ Jenny certainly didn’t.”
The captain’s taunts were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He spun again to face another man, identical to Garrison, but for the scar.
“Aye, ye filth,” Robert spat, “from what my brother tells me, we have a bone to pick with that wench as well. Surely ye’ll tell us what we want to know. We can make it short, or we can make it hurt. Choice is yours.”
The tide had turned above deck. Black’s men had slaughtered most of Farrell’s crew and had pushed the rest into the corner of the main deck. As they bound the few remaining assaulters they began to hear high pitched screaming from Captain Black’s quarters. The cries grew increasingly shrill until finally one word could be heard: “whelp”. It was followed by a wet gurgle and a thump. The Brothers Black emerged from below deck a few moments later, blood soaked and somber. Robert wiped his brow, staining his sweat soaked hair crimson.
“Set a course for Port Royal,” he hollered, tossing what remained of Farrell’s’ head into the sea.
It was a typical house of ill repute, situated atop one of the many drinking houses that lined the side streets of Port Royal. The house Madam was a beautiful woman who had risen swiftly through the ranks and made herself quite famous for having some of the most famous clients in town including Bart Roberts and Henry Morgan himself. She was curvy and had grown somewhat soft in the past few years, but was still the most desirable woman of the house. She reserved herself for only the wealthiest of men in town, and bedecked herself in sapphires and topaz to draw attention to her most catching feature, her eyes.
It was late in the evening when the young slave who greeted the customers came to the Madam’s chambers.
“Pardon Miss,” she said, “but there is a man here to see you.”
“Send him away Isobel, I want to retire early tonight,” the woman replied, settling back against her silken bed sheets.
“He’s quite insistent Miss…says he will pay double your highest fee for the honor of your company this evening, and he is quite handsome, if I may say so.”
The Madam smiled and stretched luxuriously. “Well, how can I possibly refuse such an offer? It would be my honor to welcome this stranger to our fair town…properly.”
With a quick nod the slave departed, returning again with the wealthy stranger. He was well dressed and groomed, hair combed back and tied, beard trimmed neatly. He wore a fine ivory silk shirt and rust colored trousers. A bulky leather satchel hung from his broad shoulder. He bowed deeply to the Madam and upon rising, flashed her a mischievous grin. She smiled in return and drew closer to him, warming to his twinkling eyes. And suddenly, she knew him, the recognition hitting her like a bucket of ice water.
“Isobel,” she breathed, “you are excused.”
The girl backed out of the room and shut the door behind her. Jenny tossed her chestnut hair and put a hand out towards the man. He took it in his own and kissed it, lingering a moment, inhaling the scent of lilacs.
“Sebastian,” she murmured, “I never thought I’d see you again. Farrell told me you were to be executed in prison.”
“Farrell was a swine and a fool,” he replied, gesturing towards a plush armchair. Jenny curtsied lightly and took a seat. She rang a small silver bell and Isobel opened the door.
“Yes Miss?”
“Be a dear and bring….” she flicked her eyes to her guest.
“Black,” he responded, “I go by the name Black.”
“Bring Mr. Black and me a cup of tea.”
Isobel nodded and departed. Jenny leaned toward Black and fluttered her lashes, quickly recalling the small trifles that set her old lover’s heart to beating.
“So tell me Sebastian, what turn of fortune brings you here to Port Royal?”
“I would ask you the same,” he replied.
Jenny bit her lip and focused her gaze on one of her sparkling rings before answering.
“Well, you’re quite right, Farrell was quite the swine. After you were sent to Newgate, he promised me riches beyond my wildest dreams. He gave them to me too, in exchange for…well….in exchange for some personal….pleasantries. I endured that well enough, until the wretch grew tired of me. We were here when he decided I was no longer useful, and it is here that he chose to leave me. So I took what money I had and came to this house. The Madam took me in and I found ways to pay for my room and board. After awhile I suppose I showed a flair for the business end of things and when Madam was ready to retire, she handed the house over to me. I…I am not a bad person Sebastian. I only did what I thought I had to do. I am not proud of some of the things that I’ve done. Perhaps you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
There was a pause and then Black put a strong hand under Jenny’s chin and lifted her face so that he was looking into her eyes.
“I am only here for the night on business Jenny. I’m here to exchange some rather high priced commodities with a local trader. But when I heard of the Madam with the eyes of an angel, I knew it had to be you; that somehow fate led me back to you. I came here to see for myself….to just….just look at you one more time. My heart is full of forgiveness. Seeing your face has been worth the price that I offered to see you. How we spend the rest of my time here is up to you.”
Jenny’s eyes flicked briefly to the leather satchel, now lying near the foot of her bed. He was the same Sebastian; so foolishly trusting and naïve. You’d think his time and prison would have sharpened his suspicions, but perhaps it was to her advantage that it had not. She rose from her seat and took his hand, leading him towards the bed.
“I think,” she murmured, “ we shall spend the time doing what we always did best.”
She woke before dawn, roused by a draft from the open window. She reached over, felt the warm, slowly breathing body next to her and smiled. Rising from the bed she donned a light dressing gown and kneeled down by the satchel. It was empty. Alarmed, Jenny sprang to her feet and looked around the room. There was a figure gazing out her open widow, his back turned to her, hands clasped loosely in front of him.
Jenny composed herself and approached the figure, casually sliding an arm around his waist.
“Sebastian dear, I didn’t hear you get out of bed…” she began.
The man turned to face her and she stumbled backwards, crying out. This was Sebastian’s face, but livid and marred by a vivid purplish scar that slashed through his cheekbone.
“That, my dear, is because I didn’t.”
Jenny paled and wrenched her gaze over to the bed where the man from the night before was sitting up, and reaching under the bed to retrieve the full satchel that he had hidden there as she lay sleeping. Her head flew back and forth between the almost identical men.
“But you…” she sputtered, facing the man in the bed, “you said you were…”
Robert gave Jenny a wry grin.
“I said my name was Black. I never once said that it was Sebastian.”
“Robert,” Jenny whispered, taking a step back. She felt suddenly ill.
“That’s right, darling,” Garrison said as he turned to face her fully, “it was quite a trick, don’t you think?”
He raised the pistol he was holding in shaking hands.
“And let me assure you Jenny, this time it is not filled with water.”
