Blood Captain

by Justin Somper

  “Now what?” he asked, sitting back down again.

  Immediately, Connor heard his father’s voice inside his head. He turned to Bart. “Now,” he said, “we learn to trust the tide!”

  Bart looked at him curiously but Connor said no more. He simply settled back into his seat, leaning against the side of the small wooden boat.

  They sat like that for a time, none of them speaking — the only noise the slap of the water against the side of the boat. The sea was unusually calm and the boat became a cradle, rocking three tired infants gently to sleep.

  Until, with no warning, the water became suddenly choppy. Connor’s eyelids had slowly drooped shut but now, instantly, they were wide open again.

  Bart too was alert and glancing about. “The sea’s getting awful rough awful quickly,” he said, unable to disguise his alarm.

  “Maybe,” Connor said with a smile. Somehow he had expected this.

  Bart looked at him inquiringly. “What are you thinking, Tempest?” he asked.

  “Just wait,” Connor said.

  The force of the waves started twisting the boat. They began spinning around, slowly at first, then with increasing momentum. The motion was dizzying.

  “What is this?” Jez cried. “Are we in some kind of maelstrom?”

  Bart was unable to hide his own panic as their small boat spun faster and faster. “You know they say that many boats have gone missing in the vi-cin-i-ty of Lim-bo Cree-eek . . .” The boat was spinning so fast now, it almost hovered above the water.

  Connor shook his head, exhilarated by the ride. “Nothing bad’s going to happen to us!” he exclaimed, unsure where this confidence was coming from. “Be patient!”

  “Be patient?” Bart roared, his voice fighting against the raging water. “Trust the tide? Are you sure someone didn’t slip you something strange back at the blood pub?”

  Connor smiled and shook his head. His hair was soaked through. So was the front of his shirt. But, glancing up again, he noticed that the dizzying movement of the boat was rapidly subsiding. Then the waves that had spun them around began pushing them forward with an equal force.

  “What the . . . ? What’s going on?” Bart asked.

  “It’s the Vampirate captain,” Connor said, with some satisfaction. “He’s leading us to the ship.”

  It wasn’t exactly a smooth journey across the dark ocean. They had no need to steer, only to hold tight. But their boat was small and all three of them had to cling to it tightly to prevent themselves from going overboard. For Connor, it brought back uncomfortable memories of the storm that had changed his life. At the same time, he felt somehow protected. He knew that the Vampirate captain was in control, just as surely as if he had been sitting beside them as the fourth passenger in the boat. He remembered something — that fleeting moment at Ma Kettle’s when he had met the captain and shaken his hand. The strange sensation as the captain’s gloved hand had enfolded his own and how he’d felt sure that he’d held that hand before.

  Suddenly, Connor felt icy cold. He looked up, shivering, and couldn’t see a thing. They were surrounded on all sides by a veil of mist. The boat seemed to have slowed, but perhaps this was only a visual deception. The mist rapidly became so thick he could only barely see his two companions. They were no more than silvery shapes — a ghost crew.

  “I suppose,” Bart cried, “that this is all part of the plan?”

  “Yes,” Connor called back, his voice echoing in the void. He found himself smiling at another sudden memory. The first time he’d seen the Vampirate ship, it had been ringed by mist. They must be close now, very close indeed.

  The mist began to clear. As it did so, he realized that his senses had not been playing tricks on him. The boat was traveling more slowly. Which was a good thing, because one wouldn’t want to collide with the majestic galleon that crested the waters only twenty or so feet away.

  “There it is!” Jez cried, his face clear again as they broke through the mist. “That must be it!”

  Connor nodded. There, before them, was the Vampirate ship. Just as he’d known deep down that it would be. The captain had said that he’d always be able to find it when he needed to. And he had told no lie. As their boat came up close, Connor glanced up at the prow of the ship, expecting to see the beautiful wooden figurehead he had glimpsed on the night of the storm. Her painted eyes had seemed to watch him, but now she was nowhere to be seen. The front of the ship, where she had been suspended, was empty. Connor grinned, remembering Grace’s tales. The figurehead came to life at sunset. It was well after sunset now. No wonder she had abandoned her lookout post for the night.

  Connor was excited at the thought of seeing Grace. His head had been so full of other things, but now that he had reached the ship, he realized he needed nothing more than to see his sister, give her a hug, and talk about old times. A great big dose of normality. Yes, that was what he needed right now.

  Coming up alongside the ship, he could hear voices on the deck and see the glow of lanterns up above. The ship’s vast winglike sails flapped slowly back and forth — their curious texture occasionally sparking with light. Connor turned to the others. Bart looked dazed. Jez’s eyes glowed bright with expectation. Connor knew that the ship represented Jez’s last hope. He sent up a silent prayer that the captain would be able to help his lost friend.

  “So how d’ya reckon we get up on deck?” Bart asked.

  Connor lifted their lantern and pointed to a rope ladder running down the side of the ship.

  “What were the chances?” grinned Bart. “After you then, buddy. Youth before beauty.”

  Connor shook his head and reached for the rough twine of the ladder. As he climbed out of the boat, he turned to the others and smiled. “One for all,” he said. Bart laid a hand on Jez’s shoulder.

  “And all for one,” they answered.

  Then Connor turned around and began to climb. He didn’t even think of the height. Though the waters below were swirling and spitting at him, the ship was strangely still. It was as if, Connor thought, it was hovering upon the waters, rather than within them. Just as it had been when he’d seen it that first time. Then, in his head, he heard a whisper — as soft and elusive as a trickle of water. “Welcome, Connor Tempest. You took your time.”

  27

  THE VAQUERO

  After Johnny left, Grace realized that she was reading to herself. She looked over at Lorcan, wondering how long he had been sleeping. Oh well, she thought. He needed his rest. It was the reason they were here at Sanctuary. She hadn’t reckoned on what a lonely place it might be.

  She reached out to Lorcan’s nightstand to find something to mark her place, then closed the book. Rising from her chair, she decided to take it with her. She could sense the sleepless hours ahead and she might have need of it. “Sleep well, Lorcan,” she said, reaching forward to kiss his forehead before slipping out into the corridor.

  She had a fancy for some air, so she followed the corridor up toward the courtyard. She stepped out through the central doors and, sighing, breathed in the cool, fresh air. It was a clear night. Perhaps she’d walk down to the gates and look down the mountainside.

  But as she set off across the courtyard, she heard a cry.

  “Hey! Little lady! Grace, ain’t it?”

  Turning, she saw that Johnny Desperado was sitting on the courtyard wall. Tonight, he was out of his Sanctuary robes and dressed, instead, in boots, jeans, a checkered shirt rolled up to his elbows, and a Stetson. He lifted his hat and waved at her.

  “Hello, Johnny,” she said.

  “Where’s ol’ Lorcan tonight?” he asked, helping her up beside him.

  “Sleeping,” she said, sitting down on the wall.

  He nodded. “So, you had a touch of the lonelies, did ya?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Well, I was feeling kinda the same, so I guess we’re lucky we both craved a bit of fresh air.”

  She nodded. Looking down at his hands,
she noticed once more how callused they were. Then above one of his hands, on the inside of his forearm, she saw there were markings. It looked like writing, but she couldn’t be sure.

  “What are you looking at?” he asked.

  “What’s that tattoo?” she inquired.

  “Oh, that!” He extended his arm and held it steady for her.

  “The ride is far from over,” she read.

  Johnny removed his hand and ran his fingers through his thick, unruly hair. “Reckon that tattoo just about sums up my story.” He turned back to Grace, his eyes boring into her. “Don’t you think so?”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, a little alarmed.

  “I mean, you know all about me, don’t you? You had my ribbon. You read it. Mosh Zu told me. It’s kind of a private thing, your ribbon.”

  Grace felt deeply embarrassed. She realized that she had trespassed into hugely private territory. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to. I was given your ribbon.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Ol’ Johnny’s not angry with you, Grace. Not a bit of it. Why, I’m just surprised — and flattered — that you’d sit with me, knowing my story and all.”

  “Why wouldn’t I sit with you?” she asked, frowning at the thought.

  “I done some real bad things, Grace,” he said. “But there I go again. You know that already.”

  “Actually,” Grace said, “it seems to me that you had some very bad things done to you.”

  He smiled. “That’s how you see it? That’s really what you think?”

  She nodded, smiling back at him. Then she had an idea. “Would you tell it to me? In your words?”

  “My story?” He shrugged. “But you know it already.”

  “No,” she said. “I had a brief window into your life and . . . death. But I want to know if I was right. And I want to know more.”

  “You do?”

  She nodded. “I’d love to hear it. I love hearing people’s histories.”

  “Well sure, if that’s what it takes to win your company for a while. Best get yourself comfortable though, because I’ve a good deal to tell you.”

  Grace smiled, drawing her sweater around her for added warmth as Johnny began to tell his tale.

  “I was born in Texas in 1869. My given name was Juan, but the ranchmen always called me Johnny. I grew up on a ranch, see. Me, my dad, and my brother Rico. I guess my mama was somewhere around, too, but I didn’t spend too much time with her. They used to tease me that I thought the horses were my real parents. They reckoned I could ride before I could walk. See, I wasn’t just any kind of cowboy. I was a vaquero! A Mexican cowboy — the very best kind of cowboy you can be! Horsemanship was in my blood — like my brother and my dad and his daddy before him. Rico and my dad, they trained me up. I took part in my first trail drive at the age of eleven.

  “That was when my life took its first downturn. You grow up fast on a trail drive. You get used to foul, fickle weather, stampedes, and death. Rico and my dad led that drive. We went all the way from Texas to Denver before this major stampede broke out. It was snowing badly. The cattle were goin’ plain crazy. Rico and my dad did all they could to prevent it. But we were climbing a mountain, see, and the idiot cattle started throwing themselves off the cliff.” He paused. “That day, we lost three hundred and sixty-one cattle and two horses to that abyss. Fell ninety-five feet to their death. We lost two men, too . . .”

  “Your brother and father?”

  He nodded. “You shoulda seen their bodies, Grace. I’ve never forgotten that sight. Never will.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “Ranchers are a bit like family see, so though I’d lost my dad and Rico — and soon after my mama, too (they say she died of a broken heart) — they took good care of me. Real good care of little Johnny. Even then, they knew I could outdo any one of them with my lariat. By fourteen years old, I was in demand on those Texas ranches. I was a bronco buster by then. You know what that is? It means I broke in the meanest of the horses. It was fun for a while knowing I could run rings ’round men twice, three times my age. But bronco bustin’ is dangerous work for not enough pay and I wanted something better outta life. And that was my first mistake. Shoulda stuck with what I’d been given, even if it didn’t amount to a whole lot.”

  “What did you do?” Grace was fascinated.

  “I set off from Texas, riding the trail. And I never went home. I moved around the country. It wasn’t all work, neither. There was time to play, too. I had some crazy times. There were fiestas and street fairs.” He smiled and closed his eyes for a moment, and she knew that in his head he was right back there. When he opened his eyes again, they were bright. “The food at those street fairs, Grace, you never tasted better — tamales, tortillas, and dulcies. And whiskey! Lots of whiskey.” He laughed. “Funny, ’cos that was the name of my first horse, now I think about it.” He paused for a moment, lost in his journey again.

  “So that was my life, really. I’d ride the trail, make some money, then find a thousand ways to fritter it away. I gave rodeo riding a go, too, but that was before it became so big. In the end, I decided I needed the wide open spaces. And that was mistake number two.

  “Guess I’m just a real bad judge of character!” He shook his head. “I was eighteen years old. Winter of 1887, it was. I was up in the South Dakota badlands. And I hear about this job going with two cattlemen tending a herd. They want a horse wrangler, they like my style, and they put down good money — real good money — on the table. What could possibly go wrong? It looked like the best deal of my life. Turned out to be the worst.”

  He paused again. “Those winters of 1885 to 1887 were brutal. It was just one blizzard after another. Storms so harsh they killed millions of cattle on the Great Plains. Three quarters of the northern range cattle perished. It was the end of an era. They called it ‘the Great Die-up.’ It was the last of them long trail drives and roundups. And it was the end of an era for me, too.

  “It was a tense time. Cattle were dying left, right, and plumb center. Any cattle you still had, you prized them. And like I say, these guys that hired me, they had a good-sized herd. Only trouble was, it was a stolen herd.”

  Grace gave a small gasp.

  “I know. But you gotta believe me, I didn’t know that when they took me on. I didn’t know it right until the end. Then it all came into focus. Why their money was so good. I was paying over my life to those two rustlers. And all the time I was working my butt off, tending to their cattle, we had vigilantes on our tail. Sent by the rightful owner of that herd to exact revenge.”

  Grace was pretty sure she knew what happened next. She hoped that he’d be sparing with the details.

  “Those vigilantes caught up with us. They hanged both those cattlemen. I told ’em I didn’t know the score. They talked about letting me go but, in the end, they decided they couldn’t take that chance. Guess I couldn’t blame them. They hanged me from the same tree.”

  The picture in her head was too vivid — just as it had been when she’d read Johnny’s ribbon. But now, instead of looking out from the tree, she was looking at Johnny, hanging alongside the two rustlers who had cost him his life. It made her feel sick. “So you died at age eighteen,” she said. “In 1887?”

  He nodded. “It was a bad winter for cattle and for dumb vaqueros who shoulda asked a few more searching questions.”

  “So,” Grace said. “What happened next? How did you cross?”

  Johnny smiled at her. “You love all this, don’t ya?”

  “Do you think that’s weird?” she asked.

  He paused to consider for a moment, then nodded his head. “Yes, Grace. Yes, I think you’re a definite freak.”

  She was cut to the quick for a moment, but then she saw the broad grin sweeping across his face. He laughed. And she laughed with him. And the laughter cut through any awkwardness that might have been between them.

  “Way I see it,” Johnny said, “you’re in
terested in people. Interested in what makes people tick. We could all do with paying attention to that kinda thing. Why, if I’d paid a little more attention a ways back, well . . .” He paused, ruminatively, running a finger along his tattoo.

  “I’m fascinated by these crossing stories,” Grace said, pleased to be able to freely express her excitement. “Actually, I’ve started writing some of them down. I’ve been a bit slow getting started. I’ve got Darcy’s — that’s Darcy Flotsam. She’s the figurehead on The Nocturne. She was a singer on a great ocean liner, which crashed into an iceberg. During the crash, her soul became fused with the ship’s figurehead.”

  Johnny beamed. “That’s a great story!”

  “Yes, and then there’s Sidorio. He lived in Roman times. He was a pirate in Cilicia, this pirate stronghold, which threatened the Roman Empire. He and some accomplices kidnapped Julius Caesar when he was a student.” She paused. “You know who Julius Caesar was?”

  Johnny smiled. “When I was alive, the only names I knew were those of my friends and family. Maybe the odd rodeo star. But since I crossed, I’ve read a few books.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Well, Sidorio actually kidnapped Caesar when he was a young man on his way to the university.”

  “Cool!” Johnny said. Grace was starting to see what Johnny meant about not being the best judge of character.

  “What wasn’t so cool,” she continued, “was that Caesar turned the tables on his kidnappers. He had them all killed.”

  “Still,” said Johnny. “If you’re going to be killed by someone, might as well be by a great Roman Emperor.”

  Grace rolled her eyes. “Oh yes,” she said. “You should have heard Sidorio on the subject. He wears it like a great badge of pride.”

  “Is he on The Nocturne too?” Johnny asked. “I wouldn’t mind meeting him.”

  Grace shook her head. “Oh, Johnny, you wouldn’t have wanted to meet him. He was evil. The captain had to throw him off The Nocturne because he started to rebel. He wouldn’t take blood in moderate quantities. He always wanted more. He killed his donor!”