Chapter 2 - Scene 3

Sall had to keep moving. Find his way up, then find his way out. He rose in the dark, feeling his way beneath the low ceiling. Moving quietly, he bumped something tall and moved fast to steady it from falling. It was spare rope kept in spools, stacked and tied down. Moving further, taking small steps, he felt his way through more stores of drygoods. Above the waterline these were kept safe and dry; the sacks of flour, rice, and legumes created a starchy atmosphere that contributed to a cough he stifled as he found the door.

Light glinted through the keyhole. He’d only caught glimpses of the layout of this ship, but he knew there were three decks below the weather. Above was the main deck, and below was the hold. He could still hear them rumbling about down there and their calls as their search for him drew on. He’d be falling over them to get out if he hesitated until they came back up. Hopefully there weren’t many ahead. As he’d learned, he couldn’t fight all of them. He kneeled to peek through the keyhole.

Movement. They’d come up on him quiet. It looked like one of them was walking ahead of the other. His slim frame eclipsed the light and Sall could see nothing more. He dared not move, not even draw a breath. A heel twisted against a plank and drew a short creak. He heard them whispering.

‘They’ve flushed him out, I’m tellin you.’

Another voice was muffled, further away. It sounded like there were only the two of them.

‘There is a hatch in there. I was in there a week ago. It’s right at the back. Shut up and listen. You go left, I’ll go right, we’ll work him like a river croc.’

‘You go for the tail, then.’ said the other voice, behind the first, deeper. They were coming in. He had to move.

The door swung open fast. Sall was too slow. He was struck by the door and in his surprise he scuttled backwards, bumping into the stack of rope spools, sending the topmost one teetering. It fell. As the door flung all the way open, the top spool landed flat between his parted legs. Light spilled in, and Sall looked up.

The light revealed him accosted on his rear and blinking at the brightness. The one in front was shorter than the other, who stooped to look at him through the doorway. They were both barefoot, explaining their quiet step. By the look the short one gave him he couldn’t believe his luck. The taller one crouched under the doorframe with a lamp he set down on a stack of crates and both of them spread to cover the exit. Sall backed away further, but could only go back a foot or two. He was cornered.

Their faces went cold, lines sharpening out of them, and their shoulders burled, tightening with the budding, predatory quickening of their hearts. They’d caught Sall off-guard. This was their chance.

Quick as a flash they were on him, the little one a sandy-haired blur, having a plucky go at planting himself across Sall’s legs while he was down. Sall pushed him off with his shins, but before Sall could grab him five wide, calloused fingers were reaching for his throat.

He wrestled himself aside and threw a wild hook between them. The taller one reared away, but he was unfazed and lunging back. The way they moved, reacting to his movements, they were trappers for certain. They chased him back further into the wall.

They kept boxing him in, the little one keeping low, Sall’s returning pressure preventing him from getting a good position, but he reared and dodged and kept trying to strike. The taller one kept his hands up and stood over his smaller partner. He’d go for the takedown the second his mate had him low, for now wary of Sall’s fist catching him across the head. They prevented any escape. Whenever Sall saw a gap past one the other was sliding into it.

The little one darted in now, coming in fast. Sall’s roving feet found something solid and booted the fallen spool at him. The little one dodged it but no sooner was he away than the taller one was scooping it up. With a grunt he swung it high over his head.

‘Move, Campion!’

Sall shrunk backwards and found himself against the wall. No way back. The imposing figure of the pirate wielding the spool loomed. He swung it down at Sall.

Sall had space on his right. He scrambled as the deadly swing brought the spool crashing into an overhead rack, splintering a shelf and sending junk flying. It would have smashed his skull. Sall used the distraction to put distance between them, skirting the outside for the open doorway. He fell sideways as he rose, fell again into the bulkhead and stumbled as he regained himself.

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The shorter one, Campion, threw his hands up. ‘The fuck was that, Markham?’ He scrambled to block Sall, producing a knife from his belt. Sall froze short, but Campion didn’t realise Sall was looking past him. The taller one dropped the spool and hastened to Sall, planting a hand on his shoulder and grabbing his wrist. Sall didn’t budge. He wasn’t going to move.

Campion leveraged the air with the knife’s point. ‘Watch it, big fella, or I’ll fuckin cut you,’

Markham followed Sall’s line of sight. His voice went hoarse. ‘Almighty,’ he said, face going white. ‘Campion, don’t move.’

Campion turned his head and saw. ‘Oh, no.’

The lantern Markham had brought in sat on a stack of crates marked with a noticeable stencil pressed into its front, reading EXPLOSIVE. Their scuffle had knocked the top crate and its lid had come loose. The lantern was balanced on the edge, precarious over the crate’s tightly packed, volatile contents. A powder charge bathed in the yellow light of the lantern mere inches away.

‘You were in here last week, Campion?’

Campion’s jaw clenched. ‘Aye.’

‘And what, pray tell, were you doing?’

He cleared his throat and nodded at the crates of powder charge. It was enough charge to blow the ship clear out of the water, reduce it to bare wood and nails and spread it across a mile of sea. The sharks would have little trouble with their portions.

Sall reached over Campion’s head and took the lantern off the crate. He kept it in his hand, gestured Campion aside, reached a hand into the crate and drew out one of the canvas bundles. ‘Don’t move,’ he said. This charge the size of his fist was enough to blast him out of his boots, along with anyone standing near him.

Markham raised his palms slowly. ‘Not moving,’ he said.

‘They’re kept dry, you know?’ Campion’s face was stuck in a wince.

Sall stayed quiet. His mind worked. They were still making noise downstairs. Campion met his eyes.

Campion said, ‘Where are you gonna go? We’re leagues from any land.’

Sall watched Markham. His expression was stoic, unreadable. There was steady machinery ticking behind those eyes.

Sall pointed at the planks beneath them. ‘Half of your friends down there want me dead. They’ll hang me before the punta can spit. If I go back into that cage I’ll be dead before the night is through.’

Markham nodded. ‘He’s not wrong. I heard them talking about it, Carney and them,’ he said. ‘They want his blood. Wilbur’s not the Captain, and the Captain’s got more on his mind tonight. I reckon we keep him alive for Wilbur, he’ll be good for some gold.’

The noise below had become subdued, but started back up as the pirates came back for the ladders. The door was wide open. They’d see him.

‘Hide me, that’s the only way you’ll see a penny.’

Campion nodded and stuck his hand out. ‘Give over that lantern,’ he said. Sall obliged, handing it to Campion. His eyes darted to an open crate stacked with sacks of potatoes. It was big enough for Sall. ‘Quick, shove it over,’ he said.

He, Sall, and Markham tipped the crate over, emptying a dozen sacks of potatoes onto the ground. Sall climbed in and the pair covered him over. Sall could see nothing. His nose filled with the smell of hessian and earth, and he tried not to sneeze. Shifting all those potatoes made a noise and that caught the attention of the pirates coming above decks.

Markham dropped a sack of potatoes on Sall and reacted with a start as angry voices came blustering in.

‘You’ll get it now you grub, where are ya? Come out!’ There was a pause. Sall waited in the dark. ‘Campion? What’re you two doin here? What’s all that noise?’

Grumbling pirates came milling about the doorway. Campion spoke. ‘Larson, how are you. Fetching potatoes for chef, fell over when the ship moved there, hah.’ He pointed at the fallen shelf, its strewn items. ‘It’s a mess in here.’

Sall’s pistol, still tucked into his belt, prodded into his kidneys. He dared not move, and barely breathed. His breaths were soon hot and wet in the small space. He still had the powder charge in his hand, absorbing the clammy sweat from his palms.

‘Fuck you are, chef would rather let a rat into the stores. For thieving Granger’ll have your neck.’

Guttural exclamations called for their justice. These dogs wanted blood, and they didn’t care whose it was. Sall was cramping.

‘Thieving? Fuck off Larson, nobody’s looking for trouble over potatoes. Don’t be a pain.’

‘Potatoes,’ Markham said. Sall clenched his teeth. Markham’s voice was not suited to lying.

‘Aye, I smell bullshit in here. Fucking scrubs, the both of you. Granger’ll have you in chains and I’ll make sure of it.’ There were rounds of agreement. It seemed the pair weren’t popular.

Campion’s tone took on a sneer. ‘Go to Granger, then! Tell him to fuckin march down here, we’ll show him something!’

There was a long pause. ‘Show him what, Campion?’

‘Fuck,’ Markham said. ‘Campion?’

‘Nothing-’ Campion said, but it was too late. ‘Hey-hey-HEY!’ There was another scuffle, and two thumps against the bulkhead.

‘Where is he now?’

It was Markham’s voice now, sighing. ‘He’s in the potatoes. We were gonna hide him until we could get a reward. Fuck’s sake Campion, just keep your mouth shut for one second.’

Sall could hide no longer. It was time to go. He stepped up, shrugging off the sacks. A bag spilled open and potatoes fell across the floor. The pirates froze. He had the torn satchel of gunpowder in one hand. The other was holding his pistol, the barrel upside down, its hammer cocked and resting in the powder. ‘None of you are getting anything but a big fucking surprise if you don’t get out of my way.’