Chapter 1 - Scene 2

It was a dog’s day. The seas were high, brightened by a white morning sun into a glaring sheet of bluish silver rolling with the promise of a hard day at sail. The waves made a boundless plain of shifting hills and valleys. Where they met the horizon was dressed in a haze, and so the ocean seemed to go on forever. These formless lands were only interrupted by the odd rocky burr rising grey and stark from the sea on their starboard side. Before Sall’s time those jagged grey stacks once formed a strong line of mountains, until the world shifted and those were shattered, and for a hundred leagues the earth deep below chewed them down and drowned them below a roaring tide. On one side of the world the tide rushed out, never to return. On the other side the tide rushed in, swallowing an entire nation, its people, and its treasures.

All those lands were the Obotema now.

The wind picked up early. The same buffeting gusts that filled the sails and played at the lapels of his shirtfront turned out the crests of the waves in rushes of white foam. The Red was keeling at the steady crosswind. Today they were rounding the mouth.

‘Hard up the Doubleyous, gentlemen!’ their hawkish captain stood with his coat hung loose over his shoulders, so his empty red sleeves brushed against his sides. His arms were folded across his chest, his bejewelled fingers glittering from behind the coat’s folds.

Sall kept his bag of gold tied to his belt. He didn’t trust keeping it anywhere but at his side. Now he and several others were working the boom under the watchful eye of the sailing-master.

‘Tie that bouncer down, sport,’ the sailing-master said. ‘Keep it off its center, then be about those clews. Give the mains a bit of length,’ he chewed tobacco and after he spoke spat a gob from beneath a white moustache. The spit struck a bucket and slid into mucky water.

Lines of bristly hemp rope ran through Sall’s palms. He ignored the complaints from his bruised hands. He’d been awake since before dawn, when the first muster roused them groggy from their hammocks. He’d come up nursing a few aches, but after a few hours of moving about his blood was flowing and the pain in his joints and muscles was pushed to the back of his mind.

Still, it wore him to hold in one place for too long. He finished tying a line and stretched, his spine popping as he flexed to his full height. The bag jingled at his side. Several of the scabby swabs around him found their eyes drawn to it.

Sall put his hand on his belt and settled into an easy posture. ‘Nothing but open seas,’ he said, scanning the horizon. ‘And noone but us around.’

They turned their eyes back to their work. The day passed mostly like that. They were a friendly enough bunch, and one or two could whistle a tune, but a high swell kept them busy. All day they hauled lines and caught spray in the sways of the Red’s passage. The wind blew nearly at their side.

Misting sprays off the waves kept the crew cool in the heat of the sun. Sall wiped his forehead, stealing a moment to listen to the other sailors’ chatter.

‘Sea eagle’s been following us all day,’ one said, working a knot while he looked up at it. Trained hands drew the knot tight on the bitt and he stepped away, shading his eyes to observe the bird circling the sun.

Sall followed his gaze. ‘That’s an osprey,’ Sall said. ‘It’s a seahawk.’

The sailor looked at him. ‘You’ve got sharp eyes,’ he said.

Sall nodded. His reason for knowing it wasn’t an eagle was not because he could see it any better than the sailors around him. He knew it was an osprey because that bird had been following him for several days now. ‘Ship’s good fortune, isn’t it?’

The sailor shook his head. ‘That’s albatrosses,’

Sall shrugged. ‘Never been much of a seaman,’ he said.

The sailing-master stepped in. ‘That’s clear,’ he said, looking at the quality of Sall’s knots. ‘Go use those hands to fetch us some water,’ he said. ‘I’ll shout if I need something lifted.’

Sall collected their flasks without complaint and hitched their worn straps around a finger. Together they made a dull chime.

He descended into the muggy dark below decks. Light split through gaps in the wood, cutting narrow rays across a dozen red faces turned to watch his jingling descent down the ladder. The off crew’s murmurs went silent. They were in close quarters. The Red was a decent frigate, but it was a tight fit. They stood shoulder to shoulder, those leaned against the bulkheads, while others lounged on stools and crates, all waiting the shift change. They turned back amongst themselves, and the low sound of conversation resumed. He weaved between them and the beams, steadying himself against the ship’s motions with one hand on the ceiling.

‘Alright,’ he said, nodding at a sailor who met his eye.

‘Ahoy, fighter,’ he said, patting Sall on the back as he passed.

There was already someone there. A ring of fat hugged his hips beneath his singlet, and his hairy shoulders stunk like a tavern floor. He drank two cups while Sall stood patiently propped against a ceiling support. He appeared to be under the weather, punctuating his gulping draughts with groans.

Sall cleared his throat. ‘Any water left?’

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The man wiped a drop from his chin. ‘No water, only grog.’ He moved aside and sat down on an upright barrel beside it. He sunk into a slump, putting his head in a hand. ‘Might’ve overdone it,’ he said, his breath souring their confined quarters. His eyes glazed over as he pondered his misfortunes.

Sall unhitched one of the flasks and popped the cork. He held it under the tap and turned the wooden tab. A weak mixture of grog flowed out, splashing across the flask’s lip and his knuckles. His nose tasted the sweet aromas of the rum.

He filled the first flask and the drunk came leaning across the barrel, commandeering the tap for another mugful. Sall had to wait again. The drunk leaned back to swill it, spilling some into his beard. He mopped it into his shirtfront, mumbling to himself.

Sall said, ‘Saints, man, pull yourself together. You’ll have to drink the whole cask to get a lean.’

The sailor leered. ‘I’m the quartermaster. There’ll still be enough for the journey if I permit myself a sip, so save your advice, cockswab.’

Sall went still. The quartermaster sat languid over the barrel, peering at Sall through squinting eyes. It was the smell of rum in the air. It was a hot spark in his nose.

‘Put it away, Embry, let him fill his flasks,’ came a voice from near.

The quartermaster shrugged. ‘I’m just winding him up.’ Red eyes looked at Sall a little closer. ‘Aye, aye, I know you. You’re the one who beat Donny Syr,’

‘I am,’ Sall said.

Embry raised his eyebrows. ‘And if I hadn’t put money on him I’d have never had to drown my sorrows so firmly.’ Still, he moved off the cask and let Sall fill the next vessel.

He was quiet as Sall filled and hung it with the other full one off the smallest finger on his other hand. He brightened at a new opportunity to poke him. ‘Mind the drips,’ he said, noting a flask Sall hadn’t properly corked.

His eyes glinted. Sall shook his head and kept filling.

Once they were full Sall took his own share from an empty mug, relishing the bare traces of rum in the cool water. He gulped a full cup standing there beside the quartermaster, whose eyes followed him. Not a single drop spilled down his chin. When Sall was done he stacked it on top of the cask and touched his forehead with a curled finger. It was the accepted mark of respect to a superior officer, though Sall had never served in any navy. From what he’d seen they were worse than the street gangs.

Sall stooped under a beam and took his leave. He heard Embry reach for another drink. The wooden tap squeaked as he turned it. No trickling noise followed. Embry groaned and cursed. ‘Bastard. You! Boy!’ his bark made a young man flinch. ‘Fetch another cask.’ His voice directed at Sall. ‘I hope you’re not planning on staying aboard long?’

Sall spoke over his shoulder as he stepped onto the ladder. ‘Not if the quartermaster can’t even manage to bring water,’ he said, coming above to the sound of bells.

Bells like that meant trouble. Activity stirred beneath him, and Sall hurried above as the crew came to action. First there were the bells, then came shouts.

‘Ship sighted! Two points off starboard!’

Sall hurried up the ladder in time for a rush of sailors to follow behind him.

The captain shouted from the helm, ‘All hands on deck!’

A voice shouted from the bow. ‘It’s the Bitter End!’

Sall hurried with a group of sailors to the starboard rail. One shaded his eyes and pointed at a rocky outcrop in the distance. ‘I see it, off to the left of that rock. What’re they thinking, hunting a navy ship in its own waters?’

Sall squinted. Gliding out from behind the grey stack came the proud carvel lines of the pirate ship. Smooth in the water, it took only moments at full sail to cruise halfway into their bearing. It was moving to head the Red off.

Through the excited hubbub Sall heard a metallic clink. The captain closed the spyglass and put a hand on one of the helm’s pins. ‘Hard to larboard! Don’t let them steal our weather!’

Below him, the sailing-master spun into a roar. ‘All hands to the rigging! Change course!’ he shook his fist above the crowd’s stampeding rush to stations. ‘Work every scrap of wind! Turn it, turn it, turn it!’

The sails wheeled to catch the wind and direct them into the new course. Veering this way allowed them to command the same advantage the Bitter End held, and might hopefully let them outrun the other ship.

The captain shouted again. ‘They’ll not bother us. They know they have fewer guns. Man the cannons, and if they come broadside we’ll give them every ounce of lead we have. Show those sore losers their measure!’

The Bitter End came swift, however, too swift for the larger, slower warship. They were on course to overtake within the hour. None of the crew could believe the pirates were coming after them. It was ludicrous, foolhardy, or stupid, nobody could figure it. Sall fetched cannonballs from the hold with the powder monkeys while the crew chattered and prepared. Sall went racing from deck to deck, lumbering under the heavy shot racks he delivered between the gun crews, every so often catching a glimpse of the Bitter End gaining on them. Excited sailors packed cartridges into their rifles while others buzzed about the ship arming themselves with pistols and swords. They couldn’t wait for a battle.

Sall brought a rack up to the main deck. Buffeting waves of spray came up from the bow and the ship swayed with it. Red ran directly with the sea, coursing up and down its rolling humps. Sall tottered towards a gun and set the tray down beside it, panting. The gunner finished tying his long hair back, told him to fuck off out of his way and took the first off the top. Another man wadded the gun while Sall stepped back.

Sall leaned over the gunwale. The Bitter End was slicing through the waves, making a hellish pace. It was much closer now, the blackguards on its decks nearer and more defined, their bawdy yells and curses carrying across the half-mile between them.

‘Just let us turn and face the bastards, let me sink my teeth into em,’ the man with his hair tied back said, growling.

‘We haven’t had a battle in months,’ another said.

Sall left the gunwale to the sound of cannonballs sliding down barrels. One by one the cannons were loaded. Riflemen lined up behind the gun crews with the marching sounds of feet, two rows of them along each side, standing stiff and ready. Only some of them wore their colours, the splashes of soiled reds appearing among the tan lines of grubby seafarers.

A man in the masts spoke. ‘They’re coming up short.’ Sall peered with the rest. The Bitter End was coming into a sharp turn a few hundred yards short of the Red, instead of trying to pass.

The captain laughed from the helm. ‘I told you! Too afraid to do battle! Hard to starboard now! We’ll beat them back where they came.’

The helmsman threw to starboard, and the sailing-master’s bellows signalled a course change.

It was the wrong move. Sall saw the position of the sun, and where it was setting. Captain Strommken was making it difficult for the gunners aboard the Red to line up the End’s profile, as it now had the Red on its broadside. It had already outmanoeuvred them. It would only be a moment.

A loud, furious voice shouted an order that echoed across the distance. Sall’s gut clenched.

From inside the afternoon sun’s setting glare the Bitter End’s first fiery shot ripped the captain off the helm, destroyed the wheel, and left the crew in a struck horror that soon turned to chaos.