Chapter 2 - Scene 1

Sall went ignored and unfed for two days. His sleep was broken by hunger and swills of bilgewater washing up and down the deck from the ship’s rolling course. The constant noise, too, kept him from restful sleep. The crew were rowdy now they were back on the Obotema’s waters, where no navy would follow them, still riding high on the success of their victory against the Red. For those first two days they drank and sang and caroused long into the night.

There were a few other cells down in the hold. Only one other was occupied. He was an old man who must have been there for several weeks. His skin was pale and tinged bilgey green, his chest concave and hollow, and a thin crescent of hair hung grey from a balding crown. He was chained with his wrists above his head and said nothing to Sall. He only stared numbly at the floor.

The irons between Sall’s legs were half a yard in length. On the first day of his imprisonment he measured his cell, judging it to be barely over a metre square by taking four steps from corner to corner. He didn’t think he could rush his captors when they came for him in four short steps. He studied the iron for rust, wear, or bad welds he might be able to snap. He found nothing that could help.

Several hours after that, he asked the other prisoner, ‘You’ve been down here a while?’ and received no response. There wasn’t much light besides what came through cracks in the planks from the decks above, but over time his eyes adjusted to the murk.

By the second day he was fighting a twisting stomach and spending his time watching an unlit oil lantern swing from its ceiling hitch between the rows of cells. He would shut his eyes and count the number of swings the lamp would make and guess its position when he opened them. He listened. And counted. Three, swinging left. He opened his eyes and was correct. It was a boring game, but it was better than scratching at the itches that came with the fetid bilgewater or listening to the rumbles of his stomach. He played for a few hours, and then they came to feed him.

The hatch above the ladders opened and light poured in. Sall blinked at the bright lantern. Three pirates descended the ladder and swaggered down the line of cells, boots splashing in the bilgewater.

One of them tossed half a loaf of old bread and some sharp, crumbly cheese through the bars of the cell. Sall caught the bread, but the cheese landed in the water. He picked it out and shook it off. He’d had worse.

'You're fighting today,' a pirate said. He produced a key from the belt on his waist.

Sall chewed on a morsel, not taking his eyes off the key. 'Fighting every day,' he said.

The middle pirate was dressed darkly. He spun a gaffhook in his hands and stepped forward, readying the hooked end low. He gave a nod to the pirate next to him.

The pirate with the key, dressed in a filthy orange corduroy waistcoat, inserted the key in the lock. Sall didn’t take his eyes off him. He watched Sall closely in return. The one with the gaff let a toothy smile spread across his lips. They were silent for the sound of the key in the lock.

It clicked over and the ragged man came alive. His eyes snapped open, pupils narrowing into wild pinpricks at his chance at freedom. He lunged against the chains. He strained against them, his arms pinned back, gnashing his teeth such that saliva foamed and flicked out of his mouth.

He screamed at the pirates. ‘Take me! Take me, I’ll fight! Take me, let me die!’

The pirates were startled. Now was his chance. Sall sprang at the door, but as the pirate yanked it open he also stepped aside. Sall crashed into nothing, sprawling in a wash of bilge. The salty, stale water shot up his nostrils and sent him spluttering. The one with the hook circled and brought the hook into his leg chains. He yanked at the hook and flipped Sall on his back.

Sall tried to shake loose, but all together the pirates dragged him towards the ladder.

The old man howled and begged for freedom, but his screams turned to spluttering, inaudible mumbles and he slumped back into his chains, resuming his dumb stupor, breathing hard from the effort.

Sall shook his legs, but the gaff was twisted into the chain. He was stuck, caught, trussed like a prize fish.

It took the three of them to haul him up the ladder. It grazed his clothes and skin as they dragged him higher through the ship, and they grunted laughter at his vain struggles. ‘I’ll tell ya what,’ one of them said between breaths, ‘If I can pull some real money off this cunt I’m getting off this ship for good.’

‘Aye,’ another said. ‘The luck’s been real thin since Deadweight started showing up.’

Sall smelled the hot oil from burning lanterns before he saw their light. They dragged him up to the main deck, where drunken pirates filled the compact space. They had been waiting for him and cheered at his arrival. Drink spilled over cups and splashed on the planks. Pirates came around him and pulled him to his feet. He thrashed against them. This only pleased the crowd more. Their cheers became deafening, jeering roars.

He was shoved through the crowd and dumped on the floor. Space in the main deck had been made for him to fight in, about twelve feet around, and the crew occupied the rest of it, standing around or sat on crates and cannons moved to make way. He rose to his knees, overwhelmed by the heat and light and smell. It made him dizzy, and he was still hungry. He couldn’t think. Faces spun through his vision.

There was a voice from somewhere Sall couldn’t see, but he knew its tone. ‘He’s hungry!’ it said, an announcement. ‘He’s tired! He’s thirsty!’

It was their punta talking. Wilbur, he recalled. His voice quietened the crowd to a susurrus of eager chatter. ‘He is a big bastard, isn’t he? Big enough to crush your head like a melon, but there’s fifty shekels if you can tame him! Who wants to see what they got?’

The crowd roared. Wilbur came out of them and threw his arms in the air, soaking up their energy as their master of games – and more importantly, their fortunes.

Wilbur gave an order. ‘Uncuff him! Let him stand!’

Half a dozen pirates piled on him to remove his shackles. They brandished swords and pistols as he pushed them off and lunged to his feet.

Evil grins everywhere he looked. A few less grins, more sneers, all bright with anticipatory satisfaction and drink. He stalked out the space, knowing he could not break through without copping a gutful of steel. The punta moved back into the crowd and stood on an upturned crate. He looked over them all. His gaze was narrow and concealed, now watching Sall stalk the ring. He looked down to take the band off a stack of betting slips. Sall met his eye.

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‘Is this why you saved me, only to watch me die?’

He sneered. ‘No, you’ll win us some money first! Gentlemen, place your bets!’

A voice perked up from the back of the room. 'Tommy’ll do him! I’ll put ten on Tommy!'

'I'll take that!'

More voices piped up in agreement. The punta spread his arms in gracious question. 'Tommy, raise your hand if you'll fight!'

A small hand directed attention by lifting a wooden mug above the crowd ‘Aye! I’ll fight!’

Two pirates swept under him and brought him lightly and easily to their shoulders, and with the crowd’s whooping Tommy finished his drink and passed the mug down. Though he was small, his body was wiry lean, and his narrow belly was exceeded twice in size by his chest and shoulders. He had stiff black hair that framed his pinched face. He pulled a piece of string from his pocket and tied his hair behind his head.

A group of pirates brought him to the ring. He stepped down to the planks. Wilbur scribbled out a few slips and passed them out as Tommy and Sall sized each other up.

The bets were in quickly, and the punta raised a leather flask to catch their attention.

'This isn’t a tourney, fighter, there aren’t any rules here except one. You win, you drink! May the badder man win! Now, fight!'

They closed in. Sall threw a left hook. It was a test, seeing how quick his opponent was. Tommy dodged it, snapping away to Sall’s unprotected right. Sall brought the fist back and retreated, expecting Tommy to drive one of those bony fists into his stomach. He didn’t. Tommy was testing him too, finding where to hit. He skirted around Sall’s reach.

Tommy’s eyes flashed and he darted forward, making to catch Sall across the side of the head. His arm came in from underneath, zipping up his shoulder.

Sall swung his elbow and blocked most of it, but Tommy's hand was open. The blow slapped Sall across the jaw. The strike sent laughter through the crowd. Tommy was trying to shake him, the weasel. From his easy, balanced posture it was obvious he thought Sall, trained boxer written all over him, would fight like a boxer. Tommy darted in again and tried to strike him low.

Tommy was wrong. Sall had known street fights before he’d ever seen a ring. He feinted right and stepped with his elbow, catching Tommy offguard. His elbow cracked across the side of Tommy’s head, splitting his brow. Tommy spun back across the circle, almost losing his feet. He caught his balance, stepped out of his fall, and lunged back at Sall.

Now he had a short, dirty knife in his hand. The blade was pointed down towards his wrist, but he made no attempt to hide it. Sall leaned away from a slash. Sall was on his back foot. Tommy’s hand returned a blur. Sall stepped back. He drove Sall to the edge of the ring, where pirates caught him and pushed him back. Tommy recoiled, but at the same time slashed out quick and far, scoring open a shallow wound in Sall’s forearm. Pain flashed red through his vision.

Blood splashed the planks. The crowd cheered. Sall glimpsed the punta’s expression, it curious, with some degree of concern. He was hoping Sall would survive. Sall stumbled, and Tommy struck for his killing blow.

It was luck that saved Sall. His hand was in the right place to catch Tommy’s wrist and stop the blade an inch from his nose. The smaller man could not hope to match Sall’s strength and break his grasp. For half a second they were both motionless, until Sall twisted his grip on Tommy’s wrist. Bones and cartilage together made a horrible snap.

The knife fell between them. Tommy collapsed, screaming, staring at the place where his wrist was turned in the opposite direction. He fainted. A couple of pirates came forward to check over him, but couldn’t rouse him.

Silence wrote itself across the flickering faces. From their silence came a hollow clattering. The flask landed at Sall's feet. He picked it up by a piece of worn leather wrapped around the neck and uncorked it. Those who had bet on him began to cheer, but without spirit. Barely half a mouthful eked out of the end, but it was fresh and clear, and he savored each drop. After the last fell on his tongue he tossed it underhand back to the punta, who caught it in his chest. His unconscious opponent was dragged away. ‘What is the meaning of all this? What do you want of me, punta?’ Sweat ran down his brow. He wiped it with his bloody arm. He couldn’t stand this muggy heat. He couldn’t breathe through it.

The pirates between them rose their cutlasses, keeping Sall from stepping through. Wilbur looked at Sall and called after the pirates, ‘Take Tommy to the physician, won’t you?’ His tone was blithe, his gestures dismissive. ‘If he’s not too drunk already. And tell him there’ll be more before the night is through. So who will fight our man next? I’ll offer him seventy-five bits if he wins!’

A voice broke the silence. 'I'll take that offer.' A man in the back raised his hand. The crowd parted. He was tall, solid across the chest, tanned a deep brown from the sun, and kept a sabre at his belt. He was about Sall’s height. He passed his coat to the man beside him and loosened a button at the top of his shirt. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. Sall cracked his knuckles.

Wilbur clapped and a pencil produced from his sleeves. ‘Alright, Dreyfuss is up next!’ Cheers followed him.

This new opponent unsheathed the sabre. Sall acknowledged it. 'Where's my sword?'

He received laughter in return.

'Nobody promised you a fair fight.'

He was confident, maybe a little brash. Sall would find out. Brash made mistakes.

'I guess not,’ Sall said, aware of the blood coursing down his fist from the cut to his arm.

'That’s the spirit!' the punta said, as though hearing him for the first time. ‘Taking bets!'

The crowd roared. Banknotes were produced from pockets, and treasures, gold coins, jewellery, even the odd looted gold tooth. They were shouting their bets across the ring. The punta waved his arms, announcing over them all, ‘Hey! This isn’t your local fucking two-up, all bets go through me! One at a time!’

The crowd was confident in their new man. The betting was hurrying by, the punta’s hands a blur. Dreyfuss circled to raise his sword to the crowd and drum their support. Sall looked over him. Past the mass of stinking pirates two ladders rose to the open deck hatch. Moonlight showed through it, beckoning him, luring him with thoughts of fresh air and open sky. It beat going back in a cage.

Dreyfuss was still turned away from him. It was arrogance, then. Sall decided that if this wasn’t going to be a fair fight, then he didn’t have to play by any rules. He moved forward, lowering his stance.

Dreyfuss turned slowly as eyes in the crowd slid past him. Sall built speed, dropping his shoulder lower into a lumbering charge. He let out a roar as he and Dreyfuss collided. The pirates on the other side of him, who raised their weapons to defend themselves, took care of the rest. Dreyfuss was pincushioned.

Sall broke their line using Dreyfuss’ body as a ram. The ones ahead of him fell away. Sall dropped the body on top of them and stepped through.

A shocked pirate appeared in front of him. Sall swung his fist, knocking him down. He swung again, knocking away another as he tried to mobilise. He still had them by surprise, but he was only one man.

‘Grab him! Bring him down!’

‘Aubrey, bring the chains!’

Hands clutched at his clothing. He yanked himself away and grabbed a pirate by the neck, swinging him into the next closest. They both went down, and Sall advanced over them.

Wilbur’s voice cracked with excitement. 'He can do this all day!' he started laughing. He drew a pistol and fired a shot into the ceiling, either out of excitement or to make calm. It went unnoticed.

A heavyset pirate attempted to draw a knife on him. Now Sall had it, and the pirate had a broken sternum. He kicked the next one into two more, knocking them all down. He was almost through. With a guttural shout and a series of furious, blind swings he put several more behind him. A breath of cool air was closer now.

He wouldn’t die in that ring tonight, nor later in a cage. He kept his pace through their ranks. Several more fell.

Strong hands clasped around his right wrist. He attempted to pull away, but another pair fixed his left. A pirate tackled him around the waist, knocking him down, and the second his body hit the floor he was caught. He froze at the touch of cold steel upon his neck.

They pulled him to his knees. The point of a cutlass trained on his throat, along with more at his chest, and several at his back. A dozen or more pricked his skin.

Sall held his breath and watched the punta.

The punta’s eyes sparkled. Whatever it was, somehow he had got what he wanted. 'Back in the hold, and with a full flask! And bind his wounds! It’s the pits for this one for sure, for sure!' he tossed the flask to a nearby pirate, and as they carted him back to his cell the punta laughed again at how many it took to handle him, and that laughter echoed, following him back to the depths of the ship.