by Paul G Mann
packs of Rippers roaming about. It never ceased to amaze him why people congregated in the hovels the way they did rather than look for a better living in the woods and forests, but they knew their business best and far be it for him to try and change their minds.
Once he had finished with the Rippers, he boiled some water and washed and stitched his wounds before infection could set in. Picking up his pack he made his way back to his camp listening to the animal sounds around him; soothing in their peacefulness; he knew from them that danger wasn’t near and nothing was lurking behind trees and bushes ready to attack him. It would be an hour at least before he made it back to camp, an hour in which the tranquillity set his mind wandering back to how he first came here. Wanting adventure he had defied his father and ran on his fourteen year old legs away from his home in Devon to Plymouth. He wanted to fight with the Privateers against the Spanish. Disappointed he made it to Plymouth as news of the victory against the great Armada of ships was being shouted about the town. Undeterred although a little downcast at missing the action, he joined the first ship that made it back to Plymouth signing on as a lowly deck boy.
The Spittal Head was a three masted vessel captained by the infamous Captain Jack Cooper, who it was rumoured was a noted Privateer, some said pirate, who had joined the privateers to have his deeds under the Jolly Rodger pardoned by the Queen. He was a strict disciplinarian who would use the cat of nine tails as a punishment for the most frivolous of reasons and Fred learned very early in his sea going life to behave or suffer the consequences.
His proficiency with a bow was soon discovered when they attacked a Spanish Merchantman off the Azores. Two archers had been struck by the Spanish opening flight of arrows and the captain had quickly reinforced their positions with the nearest crew members. Freds’ first arrow fired from over a hundred yards away embedded in the heart of the Spanish Captain; his second a few heartbeats later found the eye socket of the officer standing next to him. Both arrows noted by Captain Cooper before he turned his attention to ordering a broadside at the leaderless ship.
He was thankful to his father; it had been his wish that he take up the bow in the Queens service; the matchlock guns had never really been used in warfare, they were not accurate, they were cumbersome, totally useless in wet weather, took an age to reload, and were only really effective at close range or used by soldiers in volley fire. The bow on the other hand was true, light, and easily fitted with an arrow that could find a mark at 150 yards. Alfred or Fred Marchland as he was known liked the bow and abided by his fathers’ wishes mainly because it helped to keep the peace at home; his own wish however was to explore the world; hence his place on board the Spittal Head. Now what was once a mere proficiency with the bow was honed to a fine art with hours of practice each day; a whole morning watch would be set aside for the archers to hone their skills; a skill that much later set him apart on Newth.
Their luck ran out in the South Pacific when the mother of all storms damaged and sank the Spittal Head. She went down quickly as timbers broke and smashed through decking and hull; sixty foot waves pounded and flooded the stricken ship and Fred was tossed into the sea, washed overboard as a wave crashed down on the deck he happened to be standing on. Stunned and dazed he knew little of what was happening as he was tossed about by the huge angry seas. More than one lungful of water was taken in as he struggled to stay afloat, and he began to come to terms with the fact that only a miracle could keep him alive.
Something hit him in the side and fearing sharks he turned in a panic to see a spar as it was about to crash into his head. His arms flailed at it, and with luck born out of desperation he managed to get a grip on it and haul his leg over the spar and astride the lifesaving wood. He looked around as best he could but saw nothing of the ship or crew; it had gone, sank or sailed away he never found out but judging by the damage done before he washed overboard his assumption was it had sank. Rope and halyard still clung to the spar and with difficulty he used the halyard to lash himself to the drifting wood. Once done he relaxed and let the ocean take him where it would, hoping it was toward land.
How long he drifted he didn’t know. The storm lasted two days by his count, but the time after the storm was a haze as the burning sun would knock him unconscious. In an effort to protect himself he wrapped one leg of his trousers around his head, the other around his neck; it wasn’t much protection against the blazing orb in the sky but as luck had it, it was enough. Eventually he was woken by a gull; the scavenging seabird viciously pecking on his neck in search of a meal. Flapping his arms in righteous panic, it flew away and he looked up to find himself in a lagoon no more than a hundred and fifty yards from a golden beach. His strength was nearly gone; he hadn’t eaten or drank in what seemed like a week and his cracked lips could barely make a sound. The halyard had swollen in the sea making the release from the knots difficult, but he eventually cut himself loose and swam slowly towards the shore and life preserving dry land.
It was a large island measuring some five miles in length and two, maybe three across. Life there while not idyllic was pleasant enough, game roamed the island; small wild pigs, birds even a herd of wild goats; how they had managed to get here he could only guess at. Fruit trees were here in abundance and water ran clear and fresh from a spring no more than two hundred yards from the shore. It was a lonely existence but he was alive with the hope of a rescue sometime in the future. That rescue came when the Hunki landed. He never saw their craft, just a dozen or so small creatures camped on the other side of the island. Curiosity drew him from his cover; he had never laid eyes on the likes of these beings before and beginning to walk towards them was amused at the waddling run they used when running about; His appearance as he casually sauntered towards them created panic and confusion, his last recollection was being pointed at by a brightly shining stick that discharged a blinding shaft of light at him.
He dropped unconscious to the floor, his amused grin still on his face as the Hunki weapon laid him out midstride; his next waking moment was here on Newth, he came too naked as the day he was born, bemused as people stood over him. That was over a hundred years ago and he still cursed the day the Hunki brought him here.
As he neared his camp the birdsong and animal noises changed alerting him to possible danger; to who or from what, human, Hunki or animals was yet to be seen. He stopped, senses on alert; the faint whiff of wood smoke floated on the gentle afternoon breeze. Without thinking he knocked an arrow in the bow, wood smoke meant fire, fire meant trouble either in its natural form or from one set by man or Hunki. The latter he discounted, it was too far into the tree line for them to be hunting and the lack of noise as they crashed through bushes and shrubs confirmed it.
A natural fire would be accompanied by the screams and calls of birds and animals as they fled, the lack of which only confirmed his assumption. Somewhere out here was another hunter and the question had to be asked; were they hunting the wild life or him? He had made more than one enemy in his time here and this wouldn’t be the first time a pack of idiots had come to try and kill him. He dropped his heavy pack and silent as a ghost he moved forward following the smell of smoke. It led him towards his own camp and the goods he had there ready for trade, all his wood and bone carvings, painstakingly carved over the winter months, were packed ready for trade in Haroldstown.
As he drew nearer he caught the sound of singing. Whoever was in his camp was making no effort to conceal their presence, but never one to trust his fellow man he wondered why. He left the game trail that led to his camp and silently made his way through the brush and trees. His senses were on full alert; keen eyesight looking for the slightest sign of another’s presence. His hearing dismissing the singing in his camp as he listened for sounds that would show someone else was here.
It wasn’t long before he identified three others hidden in the undergrowth, all with wicked looking crossbows loaded and ready for firing. Their smell on the wind let him know that whoever they were they had li
ttle or no experience of hunting and from the way they sat waiting for him they were careless. He made his way back to where he had discarded his pack and quickly selected half a dozen strips of rawhide he used for binding poles when making an overnight camp. Killing was not a problem for him; given the need he would kill without question but until he found out why this bunch lay in wait for him, the need was not now.
The first one he crept up on and rendered unconscious with a swift blow to the head; tied him hand and foot in less than thirty seconds and then gagged him to ensure his continued silence if he came too earlier than expected. The second looked as if he was no more than a teenager, but on this planet Fred knew appearances could be and probably were deceptive. Once more a blow to the head led to him tying the young looking man hand and foot. Two down with one to go with the other assailant still blissfully unaware of him; the singing from his camp never let up and Fred wondered how the man never lost his voice. The song and tune was unknown to him, the singing voice was bad but none stop singing like this meant that the ambushers
