Kingston by Starlight

by Christopher John Farley

  “I’ve been shot seven times by seven men,” said Read. “This is no challenge to me, just another scar.”

  Bishop pushed Poop aside and strode toward Read.

  “First, I’ll dispatch of you,” he said. “But know this before you die— I will, after cutting you to the quick, return for your companion, and he, too, will join you in perdition.”

  “Xbalanque!” Read called up to the masthead. “Double my bet ’gainst myself!”

  “But this is my fight!” said Poop, in his seldom heard, small, thin voice.

  “It is mine now,” said Read.

  Poop started to draw a sword but Read grabbed his wrist, disarmed him, and kicked him backward. Poop stumbled into a bucket of suds, slipped, and splayed out on his back.

  The men, all around, including Bishop, broke into loud laughter.

  “You may be many things,” Read said to Poop, “but dangerous, you are not.”

  At this, Poop regain’d his feet and scurried from the quarterdeck.

  “I am dangerous!” Poop called back, over his shoulder. “You’ll see!”

  And so he was gone, and the proceedings continued. Read selected me as his second and Bishop selected Rackam, not out of friendship, but due to every crew member’s respect for the captain’s sense of fairness. A pirogue was launched with the quartet of us aboard. It was a silent ride, save for the sound of the oars that were manned by Rackam and by me. But as the oars lapped the water, there soon arose a serpentlike hissing, growing into a wolflike growl. It was Bishop muttering something under his breath that sounded like a cross between human speech and the wild sounds of the forest. Bishop, who was staring right at Read, who stared right back, continued to mutter and his voice grew louder and louder until he was shouting his monologue so all creation could hear it.

  He was engaged in a prayer of sorts. His words seem’d to be drawn from some psalm, but his tone was obstreperous rather than solemn, truculent rather than kind. He said:

  “Do you indeed decree what is right you Gods?

  “Do you judge people fairly?

  “No, in your hearts you lie.

  “Your hands deal out violence on earth.

  “The wicked go astray from the womb.

  “They err from birth

  “Speaking lies

  “They have venom like the venom of a serpent

  “Like the deaf adder that stays its ear

  “So it does not hear the voice of charmers

  “Or the cunning enchanter

  “O God, break the teeth in their mouths

  “Tear out the fangs of the young lions, O Lord!

  “Let them vanish like water that runs away

  “Like grass let them be trodden

  “Down and wither

  “Let them be like the snail that dissolves into slime

  “Like the untimely birth that never sees the sun.

  “The wicked will rejoice when they see vengeance done;

  “They will bathe their feet in the blood of the righteous.

  “Amen.”

  If the delivery of this redoubtable sermon had any effect on Read, he disclosed few signs. After staring down Bishop, who, in time, looked first away, Read fix’d his gaze out onto the water, and then, looking back at me, gave me a confident wink. He mouthed the words “ride or die,” and then smiled and winked again. Despite his bravado and confident gaze, I did notice beads of sweat building on his forehead. As the mist-filled day was not overly hot, I attributed the perspiration to be a sign of some inner anxiousness that he had, for the most part, successfully concealed.

  The mist parted, like a white curtain drawn open. We pulled the pirogue up onto a small islet. It was little more than a bar of sand, really; treeless, rising only a few feet above the waves and certain to disappear with the next great swelling of the sea. The ground was rocky and color’d steel gray; a few paces in, tho’, it exploded with color: some cousin of the passionflower flourished along every visible surface. The passionflower grows as a vine, largely along fences and walls; here, it ran along the rocks like moss, in varying shades of scarlet. Indeed, the earth seem’d ablaze with the five-petal’d flower, and the air was filled with the redolent perfume of its blossoms and the sweetness of the small, nectar-fill’d fruit the plant bears.

  There were no animals here, no wind, and no sound save that of our footsteps as we headed to the center of the islet. When we reached that place, John handed each of the combatants their choice of weapons; Read, a cutlass; next, Bishop, with his selection— a broadsword and a boarding axe, both of which were massive in their dimensions and newly sharpened. Read and Bishop stood a few paces apart with Rackam between them. A soft rain began to fall, and, all at once, the mist broke entire and the sun filled the sky like an immense and golden smile.

  “Let the combat commence!” cried Rackam.

  Bishop launched the first blow, charging forward and swinging his axe as tho’ he meant to fell a whole forest. Read easily avoided the blow, which struck the earth and sent splinters of rock and shreds of flowers flying ’round the air. Before Read could make his own attack, however, Bishop displayed unexpected quickness and dispatched another swing with his broadsword. Read parried the blow, but his weapon betrayed him, and, giving way to the ferocity of Bishop’s attack, the blade broke into a thousand glittering shards. One piece grazed my face, burning like a lit match. I put my hands to my cheek, looked at my fingers, and saw blood. Seeing Read weaponless, I drew my own cutlass to join the fray. Rackam stay’d my hand.

  “This fight is not your fight,” he said.

  Bishop was pressing his advantage against his weaponless foe; he reared back mightily once more and brought down his boarding axe, and when it descended, it was like a tree falling to earth. Read, however, used his speed and rolled to the right, evading the blow by the width of a whisker. Then he jumped to his feet and, even as Bishop prepared another blow, he set off arunning. Bishop quickly join’d the pursuit, and, thus engaged, the two circumscribed the islet, like Achilles pursuing Hector ’round the walls of Troy. Read was, indeed, fleet of foot, but the rocks were sharp and treacherous and tore at his heels; his blood was soon mixed with trodden flowers. Bishop, the slower of the two, seem’d impervious to the pain, and also untiring, and, even as Read slowed down, Bishop continued his pace, unflagging. Once again, I gripped my own cutlass, considering an intervention, despite Rackam’s previous admonition. But again, Rackam held my wrist, sensing my thought.

  “I have to do something.”

  “A man must fight his own battles,” said Rackam. “Or he will war with those that denied him.”

  At last, the pursuit neared its conclusion. The light in the sky had faded, moving from a lighter shade of gray to a darker hue, that near-black that comes just after the setting of the sun but just before the stars come out in their silver raiment. As the dusk arrived, Read stopped short in his tracks and so, too, did Bishop pause.

  “Thirty times have I pursued you ’round this island,” said Bishop. “Thirty times have you evaded me. What trickery do you now employ?”

  “I will run from you no longer,” said Read. “I am weaponless, and you are in possession of both a broadsword and a boarding axe. As a man, I ask that you allow me to die a fighter’s death: lend me but one of your weapons in which to defend myself with honor.”

  Bishop grimaced and, in response, readied himself for a final blow.

  “Then grant me only this,” said Read, and I could see his eyes were bright with tears. “Provide only that I be buried properly, in the Blue Mountains of Jamaica, which is a place that is dear to my heart, or see that I am interned in some green field in Oxfordshire, England, which is the place of my birth, and the region in which my parents resided, tho’ I have not been there in many a year. Just see to the disposal of my corpse and I ask nothing else of you— for the one thing I fear, I’ll admit, is being food for some pack of wild beasts on the land, or for the sharks and slimy things that haunt the deep.
”

  But Bishop’s face was grim, and his heart did not show pity at Read’s last words.

  “No mercy did Samuel show the Philistines when the men of Israel marched from Mizpeh and smote the armies of their enemies in Bethcar,” said Bishop. “No quarter did the men of Belial show Naboth the Jazreelite, when he blasphemed God the Redeemer and was therefore carried out of the city and stoned. No clemency, then, will be granted unto you. And now I read from the book of Acts chapter twenty-seven.” With that, his weapon still in his grasp, Bishop lifted his eyes toward heaven and said this by way of obsequies:

  “Now when much time was spent, and when sailing was now dangerous, Paul admonished them,

  And said unto them, Sirs, I perceive that this voyage will be with hurt and much damage, not only of the lading and ship, but also of our lives.

  Not long after there arose against the ship a tempestuous wind, called Euroclydon.

  And when neither sun nor stars in many days appeared, and no small tempest lay on us, all hope that we should be saved was then taken away.

  Amen.”

  As if struck by the ecclesiastical words, Read dropped to his knees and bowed his head, exhausted and agape in the shadow of his great and unvanquished opponent. Sweat was pouring down Read’s face like rain off a leaf after a shower; his white shirt was soaked with his effort. This was no longer a duel, but an execution. Bishop dropped his boarding axe on the rocks, and it fell with a mighty clang. He raised high his broadsword, and, it seemed to me, in the dying rays of the sun, that flames ran down the blade.

  Just then, even as Bishop lifted his weapon, Read grasped the sides of his own shirt and, pulling them apart, ripped his sweat-soaked top down the center. At that moment, his bosom was exposed, which was full and womanly, with pale flesh and nebles as red as blood drops. Bishop’s eyes grew wide as hens’ eggs, and in his surprise, his swing went wild. Read reached into his waistband and, in a blink, pulled forth a small dirk and thrust it into Bishop’s heaving chest, puncturing his heart. Bishop now fell to his knees, clutching at the wound. With an easy gait, Read walked over to Bishop’s broadsword, caught hold of the huge hilt with both hands, and, with one swing, cut deep into Bishop’s neck. And yet still Bishop would not die. Tho’ his head was half sever’d, he held it on both sides with his great hands, keeping it in place, tho’ all logic said death was inevitable with such a mortal wound. Dancing ’round his foe, Read swung again, and with this cut, he lopped Bishop’s head clear from his shoulders. The giant’s body, spurting its essence, collapsed onto the rock and, recumbent, watered the passionflowers.

  Read paused for a second and, it seem’d, sobbed a little, overcome by emotion. But he quickly regain’d himself, tying his shirt in place and bursting into loud song, which he continued as we walked back to the pirogue to make our way back to the main ship, where fires were lit up in celebration of the duel’s victor. Here went Read’s song:

  “Hail! You are welcome home!

  Hail! You are welcome home!

  Hail! You are welcome home!

  Summer is fast approaching!”

  It was “Oro Se Do Bheatha Bhaile,” rendered in the English tongue. When we reached the ship, the men grieved not for Bishop, who drove the fellows hard, and without humor, but instead took up with Read’s tune, which was known by some of the men and quickly learned by the others. How those notes thrilled my soul! Yet I held to my oath and did not sing, tho’ the blood in my veins pounded along to the rhythm of the song.

  “Welcome O woman of constant sorrow!

  “To our grief you’ve been shackled,

  “Your great lands possessed by wrongdoers

  “You yourself sold into slavery

  “My greatest wish would be to see

  “Even if I died a week after I saw it

  “Grace O’Malley and her mighty warriors

  “Declaring banishment to the attackers

  “Hail! You are welcome home!

  “Hail! You are welcome home!

  “Hail! You are welcome home!

  “Summer is fast approaching!”

  Given his canniness and skill with a blade, the men were not surprised that Read had come back the victor. There were a few murmurs as to why we were singing such a song by way of celebration, but any inquiries were washed away with grog and soon the ship’s company was belting out other merry tunes as well. Poop did not join in; after being informed of the particulars of the fight, he scurried off to sulk in the bowel of the ship, shamed that he had not fought his own battle. His absence was hardly noticed. On and on the songs went, making sport of death and of capture and of heaven’s inevitable justice. The revels, as are their custom, would have continued until the last draught was drained, but Xbalanque rushed down from the masthead to deliver a message that he would only whisper into Rackam’s ear. The news spread through the ship soon enough:

  Spanish colors, off the larboard quarter!

  The black galleon, at last, had been spotted.

  chapter 23.

  The sail had been spotted about five leagues distance to windward, bearing south by east. The decks were alive with sea-dogs scurrying to their stations. Rackam took to his place on the poop deck, and First-Rate stood beside him; Rackam motion’d me to take the place formerly fill’d by Bishop at his other side, while Read and Poop mann’d their gun. Rackam twirled his black die about in his left hand as he consider’d the situation and measured the variables. By Rackam’s reckoning, the black galleon had not seen us as we lay in her way, and so he thought it best that we maintain distance until nightfall; there would be a full moon out tonight and plenty of light to steer our course. Surprise and speed, tho’, would be of the essence. First-Rate issued the command to add a sail to the foremast, and thus gain the needed celerity. “Up top, a-hoa!” he called. “Lace on your bonnets, and keep ’er sharp!”

  At that, First-Rate turned to Rackam.

  “She draws more weight than us, and yet she’s the faster in the water,” said First-Rate. “She’s the biggest game we’ve yet to hunt— and the most dangerous.”

  Rackam smiled, and yet his look was still one of firmness and resolve.

  “If we catch this prey,” he responded, “we’ll not need to hunt again.”

  We chased the ship through the day, keeping ’er on the horizon but not out of sight. Then night came and it was clear and the stars were out and the moon was bright and we continued to keep ’er in our sights. The light was all silver that evening, and it lent all a ghostly feel. ’Round midnight, a fleet of flying fish off larboard flashed argent and violaceous hues and kept the night watch fair company. Rackam and First-Rate remained vigilant throughout the dark hours, leaning on the rails and discussing various stratagems for taking the vessel come the morning.

  The day came again, and it was bright with no clouds and a fresh gale of wind at southeast by east, but despite the breeze it was violent hot. The sun was already a quarter up in the sky when we gave chase leeward. Rackam ordered every item not essential to the chase at hand to be thrown away— books, trinkets, broken and unfixable weapons, refuse of any sort.

  “Lighten the load, you sea-bitches!” he howled. “All you fine ladies will replace what you lost soon enough!”

  Rackam’s eyes were bright, his mouth was set, and he was clearly eager for the contest to commence. The men, too, were full of energy and emotion and threw away their unneeded flotsam and jetsam with nary a complaint or whimper. The black galleon! This was the stuff of legend; taking her would make this voyage worthy of a song. A sea-dog’s life is lived in hope of taking possession of great wealth; hope, however, differs greatly from the facts of the matter, which are that a sea-dog’s existence is most typically an impoverished one, with the bulk of the prizes taken being such things as victuals and other basic supplies. Ofttimes the most a privateer can hope for is seizing hold of a store of wine so that, in the last, he may drink and dream of someday capturing finer things.

  But now, sailing in
the wake of the black galleon, the prospect of real treasure— the gold of the Indies, the jewels of the Aztecs!— made the heart of every hand on board pound as if that organ would burst through the walls of flesh and bone that confined it. The black galleon! We had no idea exactly what baubles we would find on board, but we knew our reward would be great. It was almost not to be believed that on this wide sea, we had found our prize!

  “Haul taut! Mainsail haul!” cried Rackam.

  The yards on the mainsail and crossjack were, accordingly, swung around together and, with as much alacrity as could be mustered, braced up sharp for the new tack. We were bearing down hard on ’er and we had the element of surprise in our favor. Now I could see her colors in full: the flag of Spain and the ebon sail of the black galleon. Ha! Well, we had our own dark colors to display. Now, closing still, we hoisted the Black Flag. She flew high and strong and flapped in the wind. To our surprise, the opposing vessel, at the sight of our approach, came to immediately, and signaled that we could send over a boarding party at our first convenience.

  Now, I had been told it was the custom of and policy of certain ships to submit to another craft flying the Black Flag rather than to run the risk of conflict and casualties. Not every captain had the stomach for sea-battles, and loss of stores was often seen as preferable to loss of life. But I assum’d such policies were more common with vessels of a smaller size, and ones less able to put up a defense. For so grand a vessel as the storied black galleon to give up so readily seem’d to defy sense and explanation.