The Pirate King

by J. P. Sheen

  “I should like to come, too,” murmured Eselder, his eyes wistful and far-off. That innocent remark made Blake feel very strange, and he shifted on his bench.

  Spurred on by Eselder’s undisguised admiration, Blake went on to tell all about his voyages with the indomitable (and usually reluctant) Brandon Tolger throughout the Giesting Sea and eastern Midlantic Ocean. He described diving for pearls in Boa Coa, exploring the uncharted fjords of Bakara Falls, and sailing through the cursed sea caverns of Mallachad.

  “According to local legend, the figureheads of ships come alive inside those caverns,” Blake explained, “Spirits from the realm of Faery enter them and serve as guides through the dark, because let me tell you, boy, below the water’s surface lie rocks that have sunk many ships and killed their crews. But are these mysterious spirits trustworthy, or are they tricksters? No one knows for sure. Some say they’re the guards to the lost doorway into Faerie, and that they’ll murder a crew rather than risk them finding that magical portal. That’s all pure speculation, of course…because you see, no ship that ever entered those caverns has come back to tell her tale.”

  “You said that you went in,” Eselder pointed out.

  “Aye. And?”

  “Well, you came out alive…unless you’re telling a tall tale.”

  “Aye, we got out alive…barely. But the Queen Katharine didn’t.”

  That was clearly an unsatisfactory answer, for Eselder pressed him relentlessly, “But what happened, truly? Did your figurehead come alive? Did you find the doorway into Faerie? Did everyone die?”

  Blake just grinned and, no matter how hard Eselder begged, refused to answer his questions. A frustrated Eselder eventually gave up, and their discussion drifted down to warmer waters, to the western Selenic Ocean and the sunny islands of Laki’makani.

  “Got these there,” Blake boasted, rolling up his shirtsleeves and brandishing his forearms. He watched with amusement as Eselder gaped at a blue moon eclipsing a flaming sun, and an ink-black star. The boy looked guilty, scandalized, impressed, and intrigued all at once. Blake shoved his sleeves back down and went on jauntily, “And there’s a reason it’s called a “Sailor’s Paradise” by seamen near and far. White shores, mild weather, and plenty of drink and companionship for the thirsty seaman. It ain’t your prim Eliothan port town, that’s for sure. There, the native women go topless, and most help a man to feel right at home—”

  That was when Blake noticed Eselder’s expression. It had lost much of its wide-eyed admiration. Now it looked guilty and vaguely pained, like he was uncomfortable with what Blake was saying and didn’t dare say so. All at once, Blake felt positively venomous. Well, if the gutless little prig didn’t want to hear about his scandalous exploits, he ought to speak up instead of cowering there looking constipated! Who knows? Perhaps the boy never heard such things before, kept sheltered and safe at home by his rich papa. A nice, respectable lad with nice, respectable parents who taught their pampered brats to mind their manners and say a blessing before meals. A squeaky-clean little lad who knew nothing of the world and had been taught to turn his powdered nose up at the filth and vermin that lurked right outside his ivory palace.

  Blake looked at Eselder with contempt. He could teach the squeamish boy a thing or two about the ways of the world! Hell, he’d been made an expert by the time he and Jaimes had set foot on Elioth’s refined soil! Blake clenched his fists under the table, struggling not to show Eselder how furious he had suddenly become. How sweet that the boy had managed to cling onto his innocence for so long! How damn lucky for him! But he bloody well wasn’t going to make Blake feel guilty that his life hadn’t been so pristine! How old was the boy, anyway?

  Blake searched Eselder’s thin face, but it was impossible to say. There was something about that face that evaded his question. During their conversations, it alternated so rapidly from jaded sophistication to wide-eyed wonder that Blake felt at a loss. The boy was what? Twelve? Thirteen?

  At that, Blake’s heart softened a little. That was still young. Still the age where a lad thrilled to hear about swordfights and sea battles…and nothing more than that.

  Blake took a deep breath. Quenching his temper, he changed the subject, because he recalled a shaggy-haired urchin who had felt much the same way but had ended up learning a lot more than that, far too soon.

  As Blake grew accustomed to Eselder’s presence during mealtimes, he was astonished to discover that he actually sort of liked the boy’s company. It was highly entertaining to tease somebody too scared to tease back, and Blake confessed that he did so mercilessly because of a fact he couldn’t deny…

  Eselder reminded him fiercely of Jaimes.

  From his solemn brown eyes to his stilted way of speaking, the resemblance was striking, and Blake couldn’t help but take an evil delight in saying something that made those eyes blaze with indignant wrath or widen in mortification. He also couldn’t help but recall that King Jaimes’s rotten little heir was also named Eselder. This was probably a coincidence; nevertheless, Blake intended to find out more about this particular Eselder and his lineage.

  Soon enough, however, he found out more about Eselder than he would ever have cared to know. He learned that Eselder liked reading, had a fondness for Lady Brighton tea, hated scrubbing greasy pots and greasy decks, and was, in general, a short, soft-handed, but rather likeable little pansy. He was also the person responsible for carving the tiny “o” into Thug Kurzon’s sign of shame, correcting its misspelling. That made Blake’s respect for the swabbie go up a few notches. The boy had a spark of courage in him. In a passive aggressive, girlish sort of way. If his pansy ways got thumped out of him, he might even pass for a decent seaman.

  Blake thought that curing Eselder of Kingston’s influence was a worthy venture, so he took every opportunity he had to engage in this work of charity. For instance, over a meal of gag-worthy burgoo, Blake told a very personal story about how, having nothing else to eat, he had once mucked down a whole slew of deep-sea worms (leaving out the deep-sea part). This was part of his noble effort to strip the young aristocrat of his squeamishness.

  “The damn things gave me diarrhea for a week!” he declared, pounding his fist indignantly on the table, “Do you know, boy, how very painful diarrhea can be?”

  With his face scrunched up, Eselder looked like he wished he could find a new messmate.

  “Especially when you’re stuck underwater with no way of getting out in time,” Blake added. Eselder cried out in disgust and hid his face in his hands.

  “To clarify,” Blake went on loudly, “I was literally swimming in my own shi—”

  “Don’t go on, I beg you!” Eselder interrupted wildly.

  Blake didn’t, but he grinned mischievously as Eselder looked at his brown burgoo with a face that spoke volumes.

  Now that Eselder was no longer a stranger, Blake was delighted when the boy got assigned to his team as powder monkey during cannon drills. That meant more misery for Eselder and more fun for him.

  “You’ve been promoted,” he said gleefully over breakfast, “Aren’t you proud? Don’t you feel just so lucky to be serving in the Navy?”

  He slapped Eselder on the back as hard as he could. Instead of protesting, as he usually would, the cabin boy merely grunted. Blake beamed as he sat down opposite Eselder.

  “Three cheers for the new powder monkey! Hip hip, huzzah! Hip hip—”

  “Shut up!” Eselder snarled. Normally, the belligerent command would have made Blake angry, but since Eselder was obviously nervous, he let it slide. Instead, being the kindhearted soul that he was, Blake took every opportunity to reassure his squeamish crewmate with vivid descriptions of six to forty-two pounders wrecking havoc upon ship and shipmates alike. Midway through a cheerful monologue about flying grapeshot and guts, explosions of wood and flesh, and pools of saltwater and blood, Blake voraciously wolfed down his rations, but Eselder laid aside his hardtack with an ill countenance.

  “Is this wha
t you delight in?” he demanded angrily, “Making people lose their appetites?”

  “Are you going to finish that?” Blake asked him.

  Eselder shook his head. Blake reached out for his bowl and helped himself.

  When the crew heard the command to “Beat to quarters!” there was a sudden flurry of activity. Sailors folded up their tables, cleared away anything lying about, and assumed their positions next to the black cannons that lined the middle gun deck. Blake gave Eselder an encouraging slap on the back (which was supposed to hurt) as the boy hurried off with the other powder monkeys to the grand magazine down in the ship’s lantern-lit hold. Meanwhile, Blake resentfully grabbed his rammer and glared at his gun captain, Mr. Lindsay, Lieutenant O’Shea— whoever happened to look his way.

  The powder monkeys returned with their flannel cartridges. As Eselder handed his cartridge over to their team’s loader, Blake had an inspiration.

  What a long, heavy pole I’m holding!

  The loader was busy jamming the cartridge down the cannon’s muzzle, and the gun captains awaited the lieutenant’s next command. Blake innocently shifted his weight, adjusting his grip on his rammer. Unfortunately, he wasn’t paying attention to those around him and “accidentally” whacked his powder monkey about the temples. Eselder grabbed his head and shot Blake a furious glare, but Blake was checking the deck above for gashes and didn’t notice.

  When Lieutenant O’Shea gave the order, Blake shoved his rammer down the cannon’s muzzle, ensuring that the cartridge was in place. After he finished, he was disappointed to find that Eselder had already gone to retrieve another cartridge. He had been hoping to give the boy a farewell blow.

  Pummeling cabin boys. A much better use for this stick!

  The self-conscious young lieutenant shouted, “Shot your guns!”

  The cannonball was loaded, and Blake’s gun captain, a beefy man with obnoxious sideburns named Habersham, pricked the cartridge and roared, “Home!”

  “Run out!”

  Blake unwillingly assisted in hauling the cannon over to the porthole. Habersham lifted his hand, signaling to the quartermaster that their cannon was ready to fire. Blake and the other seamen scrambled out of the cannon’s backward path.

  “Fire!” shouted Lieutenant O’Shea.

  One by one, the cannons discharged with earsplitting blasts. Smoke poured out through the portholes. Blake’s heart did a somersault as he caught sight of Eselder scuttling forward with another cartridge. He lunged forward, grabbed the dimwit by his collar, and yanked him back as the ricocheting cannon flew inches past his toes. The boy gasped, dropped his cartridge, and had to go running after it.

  The cannons were wheeled back into place, and Habersham shouted for another cartridge. Blake smartly rapped Eselder’s skull with his rammer again. Eselder took the time to offer him a look of deep disgust.

  “I beg your pardon,” said Blake.

  “Come on, boy!” snapped Habersham. Blake grinned as Eselder was forced to go deliver his cartridge. He affectionately fingered his rammer. He was enjoying his position on this gun crew much more than he had anticipated. From the look of his red cheeks and traumatized expression, his powder monkey was not.

  After the weekly cannon drills concluded, the gun crews got to work cleaning up their mess, and Habersham started berating Eselder for his sluggishness.

  “That’s the shoddy pace that’ll find you lyin’ in a puddle a’ yer own blood, yer limb blown clean across the deck! Our last powder monkey, what was ‘is name—”

  “Abercorn, poor lad,” supplied the loader as he cleaned out the cannon’s sooty muzzle.

  “—‘ee never got the ‘ang a’ the job, and that’s what ‘appened to ‘im. Leg torn clean off, found it lyin’ on the other end a’ the deck like a great, floppy rag doll’s! And that’s what’ll ‘appen to you if you don’t leg it, I guarantee it, lousy!”

  Eselder’s face betrayed his fright. Blake frowned repentantly at his rammer.

  “We ‘ad no use fer the lad after that – Kurzon tossed ‘im overboard at Kingston. I ‘ate to think ‘a ‘ow ‘ee’s farin’ now.”

  Blake watched the ragged boy recoil at Habersham’s apathy.

  “Yer lucky to ‘ave replaced ‘im!” the gun captain snapped, “Laziness ain’t ‘ow you show yer gratitude, lousy!”

  It was obvious that Eselder was struggling not to cry. Blake was overwhelmed with the desire to smack Habersham with his rammer. Instead, he made sure he had a grin on his face when Eselder turned toward him. He swung his rammer slowly enough that the boy had time to duck. Eselder came up smiling, so Blake’s duty was done.

  “Stop foolin’ around, and give us a ‘and!” snapped the loader, and Blake turned to assist him with a scowl that Eselder associated with his alter ego, Mr. Evil Brigand.

  But there was more to the seafaring life than wild adventures.

  There was also the wanderlust that seized the soul of every born sailor and held it captive. There were the sunny days on the high seas and the clear nights on the mast top, staring with awe at the star-strewn heavens. There were the white sands and silver shores; the golden pathways leading across the water to golden horizons; the vibrant sunrises and melancholy sunsets; and the solitary bumpback’s whistling cry, which pierced the silence of the Northern seas. There were the palm trees rustling in a clement breeze; the howling winds and raging storms; the lightning and the thunder; the pounding rain of the South Giesting and the driving hail of the North; the adventure and the danger; the longing and the wonder; the breathtaking beauty of the ocean and the maddening desire to possess it, or have it utterly possess you.

  “What haven’t you done, sir?” Eselder finally burst out one morning.

  Blake thought about it, smiled, and proclaimed unabashedly, “Still haven’t learnt my letters!”

  “Who needs them if you’re having adventures most only read about?” cried Eselder, and Blake quite agreed. With a self-satisfied grin, he folded his arms, leaned back, and basked in the glow of his messmate’s jealous admiration. Yawning contentedly, he asked, “And what about you? What’ve you done with your young life?”

  “Nothing,” Eselder muttered. His tone made vinegar seem sweet by comparison.

  “Surely, you’ve done something.”

  “Nothing of note,” sniffed Eselder, and Blake felt a jab of annoyance.

  “You know, you’re a right pain in the arse sometimes, boy!” he snapped.

  “You’d not be the first to make that observation.”

  His haughty tone did not lessen Blake’s irritation.

  “Tell me, boy. Did your pa get sick of your cheek and sell you to the Royal Navy himself?”

  “He may have been tempted on occasion, but no,” Eselder replied coolly, “In fact, he may still be laboring under the happy delusion that I’m safe in Kingston right now.”

  Blake raised an eyebrow, and Eselder flushed. He looked down, picked at the gray lumps in his burgoo, and went on, less heatedly, “That may seem like an exaggeration, but you see, my father, he’s…an important man. He has…responsibilities that don’t leave him time for much else. I’m here to pick them up and carry them on after he’s gone. I am…or rather I was…receiving the finest education to that purpose. It was dull, I suppose, but not worth complaining about.”

  Eselder sighed morosely. After what looked to Blake like a remarkably feeble struggle, he proceeded to complain all about it.

  “I did try…I may not have extraordinary talents like some, but I fancy myself quite observant. I took note of the things he approved of, and I tried to be one of them. You said that children should be seen and not heard…or not even seen. I was that child. A model of juvenile comportment, obeying my elders and studying in my chambers when I could have been playing outside.”

  Eselder paused. Then he shrugged bitterly.

  “It did little good, however, and one day, I just got tired of it all. Now I ignore him, and he ignores me…probably because I’m a disappoi
ntment to him, I know I am.”

  Eselder spoke in a light, flippant tone that wouldn’t have fooled a toddler. Blake couldn’t help but wonder whether all boys felt the same way about their fathers, whether they lived in a palm rush hut on a remote island or a lavish mansion in the cosmopolitan districts of Kingston-town. He bit back a snide remark as this subject interested him for reasons of his own.

  “I used to imagine running away to sea, though…”

  Not betraying his true sentiments, Blake pretended to perk up. With an air of mild interest, he inquired, “Oh? Then I was mistaken in my belief that you hated everything about the sea?”

  Eselder turned red to tips of his ears.

  “That was not…quite truthful,” he confessed, “I used to be quite fascinated by the seafaring life. I suppose it sounded like an exciting way to escape my duties and my f…”

  He clamped his mouth shut.

  “It all comes back to the father, I see,” said Blake shrewdly, “Just who was this unforgivably neglectful cad?”

  Eselder looked startled. After a beat, he replied, “Lord Eselder Birkenbee.”

  “Of Birkenshire,” he added when Blake narrowed his eyes, “He’s a member of the House of Lords. That’s why we live in Kingston…except for the holidays. Then we return to the estate.”

  “The estate,” Blake mimicked back at him before he had a sudden, bright idea.

  “He must have met the King, then,” he remarked, joining his hands innocently on the table.

  “I’m sure he has, many times.”

  “And has his son?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “And how did you get on with His Majesty?”

  “Cordially, I suppose,” said Eselder, recalling the yelling and fist banging during his last meeting with His Majesty.

  “Is he looking well these days?” Blake wondered if he was overplaying his nonchalance.

  “The last I saw him? …Aye.”

  “Does he look…happy?”