The Isle of Gold

by Seven Jane

  IV

  I was still stuffing bits of frayed rope and pitch between planks midship when the sun began its downward descent to the west. My back was aching and my fingers had been worked to the edge of bleeding, but after a bustling afternoon in the blazing Caribbean summer sun, the ruckus on deck was finally growing still and the sky was fading to lighter shades of indigo blue. As a lazy quiet fell, the sounds of the waves could be heard again as they lapped gently against the sides of the ship, and the evening wind blew a cool breeze against the sweat-drenched fabric of my clothing. I arched my back like a midnight cat, satisfied by the popping sounds and yielding twinges of my spine as I stretched upward. When that was done I inhaled deeply, simultaneously clearing my nose of the bitter scent of the pitch and oakum tar and refilling it with the delicious salty scent of the sea at dusk.

  As was custom, the captain had been the last to board the ship, and had come aboard only moments before. When he’d arrived he had walked the length of the deck, stern to forecastle, several times over, surveying the crew’s work and occasionally barking an order or adjusting a bit of rope or canvas himself while the men assisted. The rank of captain aboard a pirate vessel was a democratic one, earned and kept by bloodshed and wit, and pirates were not widely known for their appreciation of hierarchy. However, Winters’ men seemed to regard him with a deference that I had not expected—and with a sort of unspoken agreement that suggested to vote him out of command would be no easy matter, nor ultimately to their benefit. To my great relief, as the captain roamed the ship he only casually glanced at my caulking work and had not shown any special interest in me since. Neither, for that matter, had anyone else—save for Tom Birch, who’d appeared briefly only once to refill my supply of tar and then rejoined the rest of the more able-bodied crew on other ship ready tasks.

  Once satisfied with the condition of the Riptide and the preparations necessary to make way, Winters had disappeared below deck and then reappeared briefly for a final inspection, speaking shortly with Tom Birch and Brandon Dunn, and then retired to his cabin with a flagon of rum in each hand and a heavy slam of the door. Another twenty minutes had passed and now at long last the small boats had been secured and the remaining crates and barrels stowed below deck or lashed to the walls of the interior of the ship. Most of the crew, their work finished for the time being, had receded to the galley to eat and rest before the heavy work of manning the capstan to lift anchor was given. A few men still hung about the deck, working with the rigging or dozing to the surprisingly relaxing sound of blades being sharpened on hard stones. Even though we had not yet formally returned to the water, the Riptide’s crew seemed now to be a more subdued lot than they had been the night before. These were men born and bred of the sea; it was as if just moving about on the swaying decks of the anchored ship had returned a piece of their souls that had been held in escrow during the time they’d spent on land.

  We’d set sail at sunset. It was the captain’s habit to weigh anchor as the sun slipped beneath the horizon and the strong gusts of the evening wind gave life to the sails—or so I had noticed from my many watches of his ship as it came in and out of Isla Perla’s harbor. Our heading was set out of the islands of the Caribbean and into the open waters of the Atlantic Ocean, and the ship was to lie with her head northeast. This last I’d heard in the chatter around me while I remained more or less unmolested in my work, finishing the tedious task of caulking the last planks of the edge of the quarterdeck. I’d covered nearly the whole of the length of the ship, about forty-seven meters in total.

  I slathered on a final stroke of pitch and was just sitting back to rest on my haunches when two shadows descended upon me, blocking out the last rays of setting light. I looked up to find Misters Tom Birch and Brandon Dunn towering over me, boatswain and quartermaster both observing me with the same bothered looks on their faces as though they had just stumbled across a suspect rodent and were unsure whether to kill or capture it. Dunn had added a worn leather vest and a dirty neck scarf to his attire along with a long, basket-hilted sword; Tom was now wearing a linen shirt overhung with a baldric that boasted a pair of polished flintlocks that lay heavily against the muscular swell of his chest. I’d come aboard with only the clothes I’d been wearing the night before, not that I’d owned much else or would have brought it if I had. It had been a job enough for Claudette and I to scavenge the items we did. The only extra articles I had were not visible on my body: a ring with an odd cow’s milk white stone—the same strange hue as the one the captain wore around his neck, and a small leather journal tucked deep in one of the low pockets of my coat. The shape of a sand dollar was etched on the cover of the book. These had been the only clues to my identity when I’d arrived at Isla Perla. The ring had never left my body, although fearing theft I had always kept it hidden within my inner garments and never worn it on my hand. I had debated on bringing the book with me, but in the end decided that my notes were too important to leave behind. They were the accumulation of my life’s work as I’d cobbled together hints to my past and myths of the ocean, and I expected the notes within those pages might be of critical importance on this journey. If anyone were to stumble across my diary, I would try to convince them that it was nothing more than a stolen keepsake. If it came to the worst, I could simply toss it overboard and return its secrets to the sea.

  I set my hand against my side, comforted by the thick feel of the leather book against my hip as I looked upward at the two men. Working my fingers in the cloth, I could feel the outline of the ring, tied with a length of string and wound around the book.

  “He’d make a decent deckhand,” Tom observed with a tone of approval, his eyes contemplating the swatch of deck beside me while I tried not to get sucked into their path. It would not do well for the man to notice the way I couldn’t help but look at him. No man had ever caught my attention the way he did, and the magnetic pull of it made me uncomfortable. He stooped down to look closely at the job I’d done caulking and gave a sharp nod of confirmation while I fumbled about, wiping bits of crusted blood from my fingernails onto the fabric of my pants. “Aye, we won’t sink from leaks anytime soon if we set him to the shoring up what’s needed in the hull. Plenty to keep him busy down there.”

  The praise was gratifying, although after having spent a day on deck in the sunshine the idea of being sequestered in the ship’s dank underbelly was less than appealing. The sounds and smells of the water were addicting, even after only a mere few hours, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being locked away from them in the stale darkness of the ship’s womb. I opened my mouth to say this, but the two men continued to talk about my fate as if I weren’t present, so I resigned to listen and hope for the best and stood, dusting granules of sand from my pants. When I reached full height, I was pleased to see that Mister Dunn was only barely taller than I, although nearly thrice as wide and densely stacked like a Bahamian pine. Birch loomed over both of us still, his lean, limber frame swaying in the evening breeze.

  “Aye,” Dunn was saying now, although he sounded uncertain as he observed me in kind, taking into account my slim stature. A disdainful grimace contorted one side of his face so that the ring of white around his mouth nearly met that which marched down the side of his ear. “He’s done a good job of it, he has, but ain’t no one below deck to keep an eye on him other than Jomo,” the two men exchanged a knowing look, “so it might be best not to send him down that way.”

  “Right,” Tom agreed, shortly. He lifted one eyebrow and crossed sinewy arms across his chest, then adjusted his footing on the deck.

  The men, for the moment, fell silent, each considering what was to be done with me—Tom Birch with his studious gaze and Brandon Dunn with his more suspicious smirk. Finally, desperate to fill the silence I asked, “Who’s Jomo?” So far, his was the only name I’d heard that was sufficient enough on its own to not be preceded by the weight of an honorific.

  “The cook,” they answered, nearly in unison, as if that exp
lained it all. I made a mental note to decide once I met the man for myself. I wouldn’t have guessed that the portly man I had seen directing the haul of meat earlier today would have been so formidable a companion below deck, although now I was not so sure that I was eager to make his acquaintance if Dunn and Tom Birch thought I was better off outside of his path.

  “What else ’an you do, lad?” asked Dunn.

  I almost said cook, but then I remembered Jomo. Serving pints would not do, nor would washing clothes. These were womanly tasks, and I feared they would give me away if I took to them too comfortably. “I can help with the equipment,” I suggested, eager to learn my way around handling the weapons on the ship. “Sharpen blades and stack cannon balls and the like.”

  This did not interest either of the men; there were over two dozen others onboard who could have carried five times my weight without breaking a sweat, as well as a gunner and carpenter on the crew who already managed these jobs. “I can handle tasks as needed on the ship,” I tried again, racking my brain for skills that might be useful at sea. “I can sew fair enough, so I can mend the sails if need be. Learn the rigging and try my hand at knots.” I hid my bloody hands behind my back. Many of these tasks were under Tom’s domain, as the ships boatswain.

  Dunn grunted at Tom and he shook his head. “Sails are fresh and we’ve spares in the hold,” the latter noted. “Won’t be much to do there until we’ve been at sea for at least a month.”

  I thought back to my duties at the brothel. Tidying the rooms and keeping up with the kitchens had accounted for the bulk of my work, but as the only female who did not take clients I was expected to earn my keep by completing any other tasks that needed done. One of these, an unfortunately regular duty, had included seeing to the women’s minor medical needs—bandaging, ointments, and even on the rare occasion, stitches or bone resetting—and so next I offered, “I know my way around treating an injury. I can aid your ship’s doctor with mending bandages and the lot. I’ve not had any formal training, mind you, but I don’t mind the messy bits.”

  “Mister Clarke is our medic onboard,” Tom informed me with a tightening of his arms. He crooked one arm upward to scratch idly at his perfectly squared jaw and I resisted the urge to watch the veins dancing in his arm. “But he’ll not have much use for you until the time comes … and when it does, you’ll probably need attending to yourself.” Then he added, somewhat doubtfully, “If you survive, that is. You’ve not seen a rough night at sea yet, not that a strong gust of sea wind wouldn’t be enough to carry you off.”

  I shrugged. The only other tasks I’d performed in the brothel had been a bit of record keeping when I’d, on occasion, help Mrs. Emery’s failing eyes catalog receipts from the women’s business and check expenses in the brothel’s log. This duty, I knew, was largely the responsibility of Mister Dunn onboard, and if there were one man who I expected wouldn’t be interested in my company, it would be him. Nevertheless, I noted the skill, lest I be resigned to shoring in the hull next to Jomo’s kitchen after all—or worse, with Jomo himself. “I can read some and perform a little math, so I could help with the books, if you so wish it. I don’t know the details of the ship’s—”

  Dunn and Tom exchanged startled glances before curiosity slipped out of Tom’s mouth and tumbled downward in my direction. “Oi, you can read?”

  I squinted up at him beneath the brim of my hat. “Aye, I can.”

  “Any good, or do you just be knowin’ yer letters?” I didn’t have to look at Dunn to hear the skepticism in his voice, though I looked anyway. When I did I noticed a shimmer had appeared in his beady eyes. Most men on the island were not learned men, but then again, I was no man—not that the matter would be of help to me here.

  “Nay,” I replied firmly, and then restated with all the confidence I could muster, “I can read.” I’d learned to read the same place I’d learned to handle a sword, not that it was any of his business.

  For the first time since I’d met him, Mister Dunn’s faced contorted into what I suspected might have been a smile. He nudged the much taller man beside him with a hooked elbow. “I think we ’an find a place for you aboard the Riptide yet, Mister Rivers.”

  Once the order to weigh anchor had been given, the men had slid the long planks into the hungry mouths of the capstan and pushed it until the anchor had been totally lifted, a job which took the better part of two hours, and the Riptide had slowly begun to make her way out into the twilight waters of the open sea. Mister Dunn found me watching as the last vestiges of Isla Perla faded into the distance. Even shrouded in the darkness, the crystal blues of her bays and the lush, swaying palms at her shore were majestic, and my heart tinged with unexpected sadness to see her go. Nevertheless, in the space of a few seconds, the sea had risen above her on the horizon, leaving nothing but a stretch of white-crested blue. For the first time I understood what it meant to be surrounded by water. The ship rocked gently on the calm waters, and I gripped the railing as we sailed through the bioluminescent bays of the Caribbean, a trail of glowing blue light left in the ship’s wake. It was a beautiful sight, and more lovely than I could have imagined in my nights longing to be free of the island. My nascent sea legs were as wobbly now as my man’s legs had been last night on the walk to the tavern, but they would steady in time. Luckily, the motion hadn’t stirred any sickness in my stomach, as I had expected it would. Rather, the sensation filled me with a thrill unlike I’d ever known, rushing through me like water pouring into an empty vessel. As I stared at the expanse of never-ending blue waves, a surreal sort of feeling that I had always been meant to be on the water struck me—or, more accurately, I felt as if I had finally returned to a home I had never known. On a whim, I pulled the hat away from my head and allowed the salty gales to whip through my dark tresses while I sucked it in through greedy deep breaths that filled my lungs until I feared they might burst. I closed my eyes, letting myself become lost in the sensation.

  “Firs’ time out to sea, I expect?” the rasping voice of the quartermaster interrupted my thoughts. He appeared beside me suddenly, chewing on the unlit nub of a thick cigar as he cast his eyes out over of the water with mine.

  I shook my head, waking myself from my watery reverie. Quickly I slipped my hat back into place and pushed the lengths of my hair into the neck of my shirt. “It is, aye.”

  “It’s a whole big world beyon’ that lit’le island, lad. Not so big as one might expect, but a mite different from a life safe on land.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, so I simply nodded.

  “Ye not be leaving much behind then, I expect?”

  Claudette’s lovely face blinked into my mind’s eye, and quickly vanished. “Not compared to what I hope to find.”

  “Aye,” he sighed, as if I’d said something familiar, and then gave me a sharp, considering look as he clipped the head of his cigar and let the cap roll between his feet. He struck a match on the handrail, brought it to the tuck end of the cigar, and took a slow puff, letting the taste of the smoke sit in his mouth. A few seconds later he blew it out again, setting silver rings to sail over the water. Returning his eyes to the water he said, “Although be warned that sometimes the things you be settin’ out lookin’ for don’t be what you end up findin’. Or might be the things you’re hopin’ to find be better off left unfound, if ye catch my meaning.”

  I didn’t, but I didn’t want him to know that. Unsure of what to say to Dunn’s cryptic comments, I nodded again, trying to appear agreeable. An odd feeling rose up within me—an impression that Dunn knew more than he was willing to say. The thought was unnerving, but as there wasn’t much I could do to test my theory, I left it alone.

  For a moment we stood side by side in silence as Dunn drew deeply from his cigar in long pulls, sucking in smoke and loosing it back out. I counted the smoke rings as they floated upward and then dissipated into the mist above the waves—one, three, seven, nine.

  “The sea be a different place than land, y
oun’ Mister Rivers,” he repeated at last, a thoughtful expression pulling at his features. He stared at the water in the direction the smoke rings had gone. “Have ye ever heard the stories of the beings that inhabit these waters?”

  I studied the man’s profile. Each pull on the cigar cast him in a brief orange glow, making him look less than entirely human. It was a fitting caricature for a conversation that had wandered into the fantastic.

  “Aye,” I answered. Indeed I had.

  “Ever be thinkin’ they might be more than jus’ old sailor’s stories?” he asked without looking at me.

  I scoffed but didn’t mean it. “Do you mean like beautiful mermaids and sea sirens that lure sailors to their deaths with their songs and magical islands that appear and disappear, never in the same place?” I thought seriously on the question as I stared at the bottomless blue water. “I suppose I do,” I said. Given my circumstance and that I had signed to sail under the command of a man who sought to win his love back from the gods of the sea, it would have been foolish to say otherwise.

  “Aye,” he said. “Mermaids and magical islands be one thing, but there be other things that lurk in these waters, too.” He snubbed out the end of his cigar and tucked what was left of it inside his vest. “Not everythin’ be pretty fish and songs, lad. There be evil things that live in the deep.” He sighed solemnly, talking around the smoke in his mouth, and even in the dim light I could see a shadow move through his eyes. “Dark things that don’t much be carin’ for the likes of men in their territory, they are.”

  A final smoke ring wafted like a lonely spirit atop the waves and disappeared. “Ashrays and devils,” Dunn muttered gravely.