As Mr. Twain had suspected, it wasn’t long before the pirates lay all over the beach, passed out. The only people awake were those tied alongside the ship. And, of course, the great red ape.
Mr. Verne pulled the cruiser into shape, and we mounted up, glided down from our hiding place, me at the controls, Mr. Verne holding the pistol. Mr. Twain had the machete, and Passepartout held his club. It suddenly occurred to me that as much as I had wanted to fight, we were not the most apt group. Neither Verne nor Twain were young men, and Passepartout, though younger than they, did not appear to me to be the fighting type. And I, alas, was a seal.
The firelight from the blazing palm gave the shore an unearthly look, as if we were floating along a corridor of hell. The cruiser was quiet, and not one pirate stirred. The prisoners saw us coming but remained quiet. It occurred to me we might slip in, free them, and escape without ever being heard.
We arrived in front of the prisoners, and with me staying at the controls, the others dismounted. Mr. Twain used the machete to cut the rope, and then to free individual bonds.
When I was on the beach, Bull and Cat saw me. Cat almost cried out, but stifled it by placing a hand to her mouth. I could see her smile at the edge of her hand, the firelight in her eyes. Bull looked up and made with a soft grunt. For Bull, that was pretty excited.
After Mr. Twain cut the prisoners free, I counted them. Including Bull and Cat, there were ten.
One of the men, an official-looking fellow in what might have been a blue military jacket and very worn blue pants, came over to us. The other Indian came with him.
The man spoke softly, said, “My name is Bill Beadle, and this is my friend, John Feather. We are glad to see you, as you can imagine.”
Twain said, “Thing for us to do is to get out of here quick.”
“That’s why I’m talking to you,” Beadle said. “The ape. He can assist us.”
“He can?” Twain said.
“He is not like other apes. But there is no time to explain that. If we free him, he can drag the ship into the water, out deep, and we can sail away on the night tide. The wind is up, and we should be able to make good time. This man,” Beadle pointed at a tall, lean fellow wearing a dirty cap and soiled whites, “is the captain. He’s called the Dutchman.”
The Dutchman nodded.
“But the ape,” Mr. Twain said. “Why would he help us, without whips I mean?”
“Trust me for now,” Beadle said.
Bull said, “Borrow knife.”
Without getting an answer, Bull took Twain’s machete, and stalked toward the sleeping pirates.
Twain called to him as softly as possible, but Bull wasn’t listening.
Faster than you could say let’s scalp somebody, Bull began to systematically cut the throats of sleeping pirates.
All I can say is we were stunned. We stood there amazed as he went quickly and quietly from one to the other, and soon the ground was littered with gurgling, thrashing pirates, clutching at their oozing throats.
He must have cut the throats of seven or eight before any sort of alarm was aroused, and by this time, he had picked up one of the old-style rifles from the ground, and had stuffed two cap and ball pistols and the machete into his belt.
He immediately went to work with the firearms.
Bull lifted the rifle and shot one of the pirates full in the face, from less than twenty feet away. There is no need for me to describe the gruesome results, other than to say the fellow, not a pretty sight to begin with, went from grimacing and growling and drawing a sabre to suddenly looking as if a cherry pie had exploded in his face.
Bull tossed the one-shot weapon aside, drew the pistols, and as bullets rained around him, shot first one man in the temple, by walking right up to him (and keep in mind, this man was firing away and seemed to be in a position impossible to miss Bull, but did) and when this man fell from Bull’s shot, another who was armed with a sword decided to make a run for it. Bull gave him a warning shot. Right in the back of the head.
Now we were all scrambling for a hiding place. The bullets were storming about us like windblown hail. Twain darted for the opposite side of the ship, and I followed with the cruiser, but what we found there were more pirates, staggering up from their inebriated slumber.
Mr. Verne, who had come around on that side with us, went to work with the pistol, fired five shots in rapid succession, popping off three pirates, sending the other two shots somewhere out into the ocean, or perhaps smacking into a palm tree. He jerked the box of shells out of his pocket and began reloading. While he was about this task, a pirate with a sword charged down on him. Mr. Twain leaped forward, and luckily slid up under the attacker’s arm before the sabre could come down on Mr. Verne, caught the pirate’s wrist, and began to wrestle with him. I scooted around behind the pirate on the cruiser, and knocked him down.
Mr. Twain stepped on his hand, liberated him of his sword, and stuck him with it through the throat.
“The ape. Come now.”
It was Beadle. He had picked up a piece of driftwood, and I could see that it was covered in blood and brains. Mr. Twain leaped onto the cruiser, as did Beadle, who said, “Fine device,” and we flitted over to where the ape was chained to the wheel.
All around us pirates were yelling and attacking, but those Bull had killed provided weapons for our group, and considering what they had seen the pirates do, the folks from the trotline attacked with a fury generally reserved for sharks, who I hate, but I believe I have mentioned that.
I saw Cat leap on a pirate, take him down, and with her teeth she tore at his throat. A spray of blood leaped high and wide and splattered her, coating her black hair with gore. But she was already up, springing onto the back of another pirate.
Down the beach a bit, I saw Beadle’s Indian friend on top of a pirate, pounding him in the head with what may have been a coconut.
The air stank of blood and shit, and just the faintest hint of salt spray and fish from the ocean. Believe it or not, the smell of fish made me hungry.
A bullet tore past Mr. Twain’s shoulder and grazed my nose. It made me mad. I wished I could have a pistol, because with my flipper backing it, using my thumb, I knew I could fire it. But I had what I had. My head and my ass, and so far, pretty good luck.
When we reached the ape and the wheel, Passepartout was already there. He had secured a sabre from one of the pirates, and was chopping away at the wheel where it connected to the chains on the ape’s wrists.
“Good man,” Beadle said.
“I can’t stand to see such as this,” Passepartout said. “Even if he chooses to kill me, I must set him free.”
The ape was very close to Passepartout, and watched the Frenchman at work in a way that could only be described as grateful; unlike most apes, his face was full of human expression. In fact, on close examination, he seemed less apelike than he had appeared from a distance.
There was something different about the shape of his head, the very human eyes (which, later, in better light I saw to be green), the thin lips and the full ears with lobes. He stood more upright, and unlike apes, who have small penises, this guy had a goober that looked like a four-foot switch handle hammer, testicles like grapefruits.
I want to add here that I couldn’t help but notice. I mean, it was hanging out there for all to see. It’s not that I go around checking out other people’s or creatures’ equipment, but this couldn’t help but be noticed. Really. It was big. No shit.
By the time we arrived, Passepartout had chopped away enough of the wheel that the great ape could tug with the chains and cause the wheel to creak and snap, allowing him to pull his hands (paws?) free of it. The chains still dangled from his wrists, and chunks of the wheel dangled from the chains.
While we floated about, keeping a kind of guard, Passepartout went to work on the lower part of the wheel where chains were fastened to the ape’s ankles. In short time, he had made swift work of the wood, allowing the ape to jerk those
chains free as well.
The ape turned toward the remaining pirates. The chains that were on his ankles were also hooked together, so he could not move swiftly, but he could move quickly enough, in a hopping fashion.
As he hopped, he swung the great chains fastened to his wrists, the chunks of wood fastened to them. He swung them and struck pirates and knocked them about. Shots were fired at the ape, and no doubt at least a couple of them hit him, but it didn’t slow him down. He hopped and swung and shattered flesh and bone like a mad wife smashing dinner plates.
I looked up and saw that the pirate captain was hustling up the hill and making good time in spite of his peg leg. I made a barking noise, pointed with my flipper. Mr. Twain saw the Captain’s back just before he was enveloped by the lush greenery at the top of the hill.
“It can’t be helped,” Mr. Twain said, stepping down from the cruiser. “It doesn’t matter now. Our business here, bloody as it is, is through. It’s not what I had in mind, but after Sitting Bull got the ball rolling, there wasn’t much choice.”
About that time the gentleman of mention appeared, blood-splattered, a fistful of scalps dangling from his left fist, the machete in his right hand. Cat trotted alongside him, her beautiful, gore-stained black hair wadded up around her head.
Bull gave the blood-covered machete to Mr. Twain, said, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Mr. Twain said, tossing aside the pirate sabre to take the machete. “I suppose.”
“Little dull. But cut fuckers good.”
“I’ll have it sharpened.”
“Bull do it. Get done right.”
“Thanks. I’ll let you.”
Mr. Verne arrived. “It looks as if we have won,” he said. “We have killed most of them, and the others have darted into the woods. Who would have thought it?”
“I think Mr. Bull killed about a third of them himself,” Mr. Twain said.
“Kill more,” Bull said, “but tired. Hungry. Got anything to eat?”
“I’m afraid not,” Mr. Verne said. “But perhaps now we can find something.”
The ape appeared. The chains made his movements jerky, but he looked happy. The ape said, “Now, that is exactly what I’ve been waiting for. The precise moment to take my vengeance on these low-grade sea urchins, these coconut heads of the ocean. And I must tell you, I enjoyed every bloodthirsty moment of it. I am invigorated. After being so tired at the wheel, I thought I might drop down and die. Now, I feel as if I could beat the living shit out of twenty more, fuck a hole in a watermelon, and give head to a pack of monkeys.”
Our group sat in silence. Me, because I had to, Bull because he preferred to, and Cat because she thought the incident funny. I could tell the remainder of the crowd was shocked that an ape might speak, and that in so doing would have such strange and vulgar language at his command.
I, being a seal who could write and think like a human, and who had experienced many an adventure with beasts who had been transformed into men or women (Cat was an example) and who could talk, was less impressed.
“You would do that?” Mr. Verne asked the ape.
“Do what?”
“You know? With monkeys.”
“It’s an expression,” the ape said. “I really don’t have a thing for monkeys. Or watermelons.”
“Damn,” Mr. Twain said. “A talking monkey.”
“I am neither monkey nor ape,” corrected the red-furred creature. “And the name is Rikwalk.”
“That’s quite a name,” Beadle said.
“Well, it’s really very common where I come from.”
“And, if I might inquire,” Mr. Verne said. “Where is that?”
“Mars,” said the ape.
We all stood on the beach considering that. I thought I was beyond surprise, but this did surprise me. We remained hushed and still, listening as it were to the crash of the sea on the shore, the cry of the birds and the loud thudding silence of death.
Sixteen: Ned’s Journal: The Ship Sails Again, the Thing in the Hold, Rikwalk Gets Pants
“Did you come with the invaders?” Mr. Verne asked.
“Not exactly,” Rikwalk said, “but it is a long story.”
“I suggest we wait on it,” said John, “push the ship to sea. Lest our escaped pirates return, possibly with reinforcements.”
“I doubt he had any,” Beadle said.
“Still, I have had all of this island I prefer,” said John Feather.
“Speak good white man talk,” Bull said. “Like me.”
“Thank you,” John Feather said. “College.”
“And like our friend Rikwalk here, I presume you have quite a story yourself,” Mr. Verne said, smiling at John Feather.
“Oh,” said John Feather, laughing. “You can not imagine. But like Rikwalk’s story, Beadle and I will save it for later.”
Rikwalk said, “I will pull the ship to sea, and then it is up to the Dutchman here to sail it.”
“I can do that,” said the Dutchman. “The remainder of my crew will help me, and they will train the rest of you where your assistance is needed. But that will be minimal. It takes few to sail my ship.”
“Work for me,” Bull said.
Using tools from the ship, Rikwalk was released from the chains, and we all loaded onto the ship, taking what weapons we could scrounge from the remains of the pirates.
The great ape, using the chain attached to the front of the ship, pulled us out to sea.
He had a bit of tough sledding at first, but when he reached the water, and the ship glided in behind him, it went well. He waded until the water was beneath his armpits and we were enough at sea to let the waves carry us out, then he swam back to the ship, scuttled up over the side like, well, like an ape. His weight was such that this maneuver caused the ship to list to that side.
Once on board, however, the ship balanced out nicely. A breeze came up, the sails were hoisted. The wind caught in the canvas and took us out quickly.
When I looked back, I saw, sailing above the jungle, a strange colorful creature that looked more reptile than bird, and yet, somewhat birdlike as well. It was our old friend the pterodactyl, or one just like him.
The cruiser had been put up, and I was raised up on my ass, leaning against the rail. I reached over and tugged on Mr. Twain’s coat.
He turned for a look, said, “I’ll be goddamned.”
Mr. Verne and the others looked now.
Bull said. “Firebird. Me hear of it.”
The pterodactyl descended into the mist that covered the island, and was gone.
“I would like to know what other beasts dwell there,” Mr. Verne said.
“I’m glad we left,” said John Feather. “The pirates were beast enough for me.”
“I wonder where they came from,” Mr. Verne said. “They looked, well, out of time. In fact, this ship, this crew, looks out of time as well.”
“They are,” Beadle said. “But again, I’ll explain what I know later. Each for different reasons. For now, I suggest we get well out to sea, rest a bit, see if the Dutchman has some food, and afterward we can talk.”
“Yee haw,” Bull said out of nowhere.
Most of the sailing was left to those who knew how to sail. In the battle with the pirates, not a man from the ship had been lost, and each of them knew his business. They scuttled from rope to canvas, and the Dutchman, tall and noble-looking, stood at the wheel. If he didn’t know what he was doing, he sure looked as if he knew.
We helped where we could, but after a point, we were more trouble than we were worth. That being the case, a number of us naturally drifted together. Mr. Twain, Mr. Verne, myself, Mr. Beadle, John Feather, Bull and Cat, and the great ape Rikwalk.
Mr. Beadle determined that we all (I dismiss myself from this group) might be a smidgen more comfortable, as he put it, if we could talk Rikwalk into wearing something over his sizeable member.
It is my belief that this had less to do with modesty than with embarrass
ment. Comparatively, human penises are worms while Rikwalk’s member was an anaconda. I read about them in books. They are big snakes, by the way. Real big snakes.
I, who am not particularly endowed, do not go about with my tool poking out except when I mean business, as you might surmise. And I do not wear clothes, unless, for some reason, I feel sporty. I do like my fez, though. I thought it made me look like a seal with an attitude.
However, I must admit, in all honesty, when I was not mentioned as someone who should wear something over myself, I had a flash of insecurity. A sort of, hey, if you want him clothed, what about me? I’m naked as the proverbial jaybird here and no one’s concerned.
But I let that go. I reached down inside myself and found that reservoir of strength I knew I had, and pulled it up tight, secure in my manhood and in the necessary size of my equipment.
After all, I am but a little seal, so what should one expect?
Right?
Rikwalk is a giant. Proportionately, there is no real difference.
Well, maybe a little.
Perhaps more than a little.
Still, it’s the not the meat, it’s the motion.
Right?
That’s right, isn’t it?
I believe that’s right.
I really do.
Anyway, the matter was broached, and Rikwalk took it well. In fact, he seemed to like the idea. Some sailcloth was found, and some rope, and Rikwalk was appropriately tricked out in a large diaper-style adornment. Cat said she didn’t see it as an improvement. Bull thought this was very funny.
When Rikwalk was attired, Mr. Beadle said that he had something interesting he wanted to show us in the hold, and that there was a story to go with it, but he thought it might be interesting to have Rikwalk tell us his story first, and upon its completion, he would take us into the interior of the ship, show us what he wished to have us view, then tell us a tale about himself and John Feather.
This all seemed rather exciting (less exciting than our previous experiences, but a sort of excitement you could look forward to), and so we gathered ourselves on the deck near the mainsail, the moon low down and bright, the sail above us beating in the wind like a hummingbird’s wings, a cool salt spray blowing across the deck, and we sat, and Rikwalk talked.
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