Blood Captain

by Justin Somper

  I owe you one. Was that all this meant to him? Moonshine had nearly been killed. His actions had placed both Connor and Cate in extreme danger. He’d nearly blown the entire raid. And now Connor had taken a life on his account. But all this was like so much water off the back of the pirate prince. He was all cleaned up and ready to put the incident behind him.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Cate said. “I can see it in your eyes. We’ve all been there. It’s going to take time for you to deal with this. But you will, Connor, you will.” She hugged him again.

  More members of the attack squad came up to offer their thanks and congratulations. Their words and faces began to blur. He felt like a fog was coming down, separating him from them. They reached out and touched him, squeezed his hand, punched his shoulder. And yet they could have been in another world altogether. He felt like he was utterly alone, cold and exposed. He couldn’t stop shivering.

  “Hey,” Cate said. Connor turned to realize she wasn’t talking to him but to Bart, who had appeared at their side.

  “Hey guys, how are you doing?”

  “Connor’s not doing so good,” Cate said. “But it’s no surprise under the circs.”

  “No,” Bart agreed, sitting down on Connor’s other side. He put his arm around Connor’s shoulder. “We’ve all been through this. And now we’ll get you through, too. It’s a difficult journey, but we’ll get you through.”

  “He didn’t deserve to die,” Connor said. “He didn’t need to die. If Moonshine hadn’t gone off like that . . .”

  “You can’t think that way,” Cate said. “You can’t rewind the scene. It happened the way it happened. It’s regrettable that we had to do what we did. But you saw how readily those two guards pulled their daggers. That’s the world they live in, the world we live in. Live by the sword, die by the sword.”

  Was that it? Was that the extent of Cate’s philosophy? Because it wasn’t giving Connor any comfort. No comfort at all. Suddenly, he felt like a deadweight, as if all the adrenaline had completely drained from him and he was ready to drop.

  “I’m so tired,” he said, finding he was barely able to get the words out.

  “Here,” said Bart. “Why don’t I take you down to your bunk? We’ll get you cleaned up and then you should rest. There’s bound to be major celebrations tonight and you’ll be the hero of the hour.”

  “No celebrations.” Connor shook his head. “There’s nothing to celebrate. I’m a kill —”

  “No!” Cate said. “You can’t think like that. There will be celebrations tonight, Connor. And the best thing you can do is to be a part of them. So off you go — clean up and get some rest. And we’ll see you at dinner.” She turned to Bart. “Take him to my cabin,” she said. “He’ll rest better behind closed doors. Stay with him if you think it’s helpful.”

  “Come on,” Bart said, rather more gently. “Come on, Connor. Let’s get you downstairs.” He helped him up onto his feet. Connor’s body felt like clay — heavy, formless, and awkward. He hadn’t any injuries but still he leaned on Bart as they made their way across the deck.

  As they passed the high-spirited attack squad, his comrades turned and continued to pass on their thanks and congratulations.

  “Good goin’, buddy!”

  “Man, you got cojones!”

  “Moonshine Wrathe owes you his life!”

  The words washed over him. They meant nothing. In his mind, he could only see his hand reaching for the rapier and plunging it between Alessandro’s shoulder blades. And then the blood — the blood spraying up and soaking Alessandro’s shirt and his own, binding them together. The eternal union of the killer and the killed.

  “Connor! Connor! Connor!” Bart turned him around to face the crowded deck as each man and woman joined in chanting his name. Connor’s eyes swept across the deck. There was something feverish in their chants. In his head, their words and expressions suddenly changed. Now, their eyes were angry and they were chanting, “Killer! Killer! Killer!”

  “Stop!” he cried. “Make them stop!”

  “Come on,” Bart said. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Connor was back in the lighthouse. He was seven years old and he was surfacing from a deep, comfortable sleep. As he forced open his eyes, he saw that there were presents at the foot of his bed. It was like his birthday or Christmas — no, both, rolled into one! There were presents everywhere — bright packages bound with ribbon, occupying nearly every space on the floor.

  Somehow, his dad and sister made it through the sea of presents to the side of his bed.

  “See, he’s awake!” Grace said. She was carrying a milk shake. At the top was a thick scoop of ice cream with chocolate flakes and hundreds of thousands of sprinkles. Carefully, Grace set it down at Connor’s bedside table.

  Then his dad joined them. In his hands was a big plate of lamingtons — thick, chocolate-dipped squares of sponge cake, dusted in fluffy white coconut. They were his absolute favorite!

  “We made these for you!” Grace said.

  “To help you celebrate!” his dad added with a smile. “We’re so proud of you!”

  They both leaned forward. “Congratulations on your first kill!” they said.

  As their faces leaned closer, Connor let out a cry. Opening his eyes, he found he was in unfamiliar surroundings. It took him a few moments to adjust. I’m on a pirate ship. The Diablo. This is Cate’s cabin. I’m a pirate now. I’m a . . .

  He couldn’t say the word, not even to himself. If only he could go to sleep and not wake up — though if his last dream was anything to go by, even sleep wouldn’t offer him any solace.

  He stretched up in bed and that was when he saw it, lying on the blanket beside him. It was a small wooden carving in the shape of a man. He reached out and grabbed it. As he drew it up to his eyes, he saw that the figure was stained with blood, right where its heart would be.

  Connor’s own heart started racing again. His head suddenly felt like it was going to crack. What was this carving? Who had come into his cabin, while he was sleeping, and put it there? What did it mean?

  39

  THE BLOOD CAPTAIN

  Connor’s hands began to shake as he stared at the crudely carved figure. Rough-hewn as it was, there was no doubting that it had a human shape. Nor was there any doubt that the red mark was right where the figure’s heart would be. As Connor stood transfixed, he became sure that the dye was blood. Blood changed its shade from wet to dry. Connor’s head was filled with the sight of Alessandro’s blood spraying out from the open wound onto his own shirt. He’d never forget that color. Trembling, he gripped the wooden figure tightly. He had to focus. Danger was imminent. Someone was sending him a message. This was voodoo — or, if not exactly voodoo, then some other kind of curse. Someone was planning revenge, and not only had they signaled their intent very clearly, but they had managed to get onto The Diablo and into this cabin. Maybe they were still on board now . . . A hand came to rest on his shoulder. He froze.

  Suddenly, somehow, Connor drew all his attention to his fists. He swung around and whacked his opponent in the face. He heard a cry of pain, felt the hand release, and heard the body slump heavily to the deck. As he turned, his heart sank. Lying on the floor, his nose bleeding profusely, was Bart.

  “I’m sorry,” Connor cried.

  Bart shook his head. “It’s okay, buddy,” he said. “I should have known better than to come up behind you like that.” He lifted his sleeve to stanch the blood flow. “You were trembling. I wanted to comfort you. I didn’t think.”

  Connor shook his head slowly. He didn’t know who he was any more. Everything was out of kilter. Adrenaline was pumping through his veins. His body felt foreign to him, out of control. He had delivered a nasty blow to Bart. What might he do next? Had becoming a killer unleashed a previously unrealized bloodlust in him?

  “What’s that?” Bart asked, pointing to the figure Connor clasped in his hand.

  “I don’t know,”
Connor said, crouching down and bringing the figure closer to Bart. “It was on the blanket when I woke. Look, it’s got blood on it. It’s voodoo or something.”

  “Give it to me,” Bart said. He reached out for the figure, but as he did so, his head began to roll and he slumped back against the deck.

  “Bart! Bart, are you okay?” Connor knelt down and began patting his friend’s face. “Bart, Bart, wake up!”

  “Whaaaat?” Slowly, Bart’s eyes opened again. “What happened?”

  “You fainted. But only for a second. You’re back now.” Connor’s eyes roved around the floor for something to prop under Bart’s neck to make him more comfortable. He reached for one of Cate’s pillows. As he squished it under his friend’s neck, his thoughts turned to his first ever night aboard The Diablo. Bart had given up his bed for him that night and slept on the floor, using his knapsack as a pillow. Connor trembled. That was only four months ago, but so much had happened since. He had been a boy then. Now, he was something else. A man? He wasn’t sure about that. Did killing someone automatically make you a man? It didn’t feel that way. If anything, he felt more like a wild animal. So much had changed.

  “I’ll get help,” Connor said.

  “It’s okay,” Bart replied. “I’ll just rest here for a bit. Here, pass me my water bottle, would ya?”

  Connor grabbed the bottle and unscrewed the cap for his comrade.

  “Thanks,” Bart said, thirstily swigging from the bottle. “Ah, that’s better.”

  Connor looked across at his buddy. “I’m really sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Bart said, raising a smile. “No need to apologize. You’re going through a tough time right now. I know that.” He reached out his hand and grabbed Connor’s. The strength of Bart’s grip instantly pulled Connor together.

  “Connor,” he said. “What you’re going through. It’s the hardest thing you’ll ever have to deal with. But we’ve all been there. We can help.”

  His words were clear. He might just as well have said, “You’re a killer, now. We’re all killers on this ship. But now you’ve killed once, it will be easier next time. And the time after that. Soon you’ll be dispatching death without so much as blinking your eye.”

  “One for all,” Bart said.

  Connor was lost in his reverie.

  “One for all,” Bart repeated.

  Connor looked at their joined hands. He couldn’t look into Bart’s eyes, couldn’t show him the mixture of fear and sudden repulsion that was there.

  “All for one,” he mumbled.

  “That’s right,” Bart said. “We look out for each other. Just like we always did. Just like we looked after Jez, in life and afterward.”

  Suddenly, Connor needed to be free of Bart’s grip. He needed to get out of this claustrophobic cabin. Feeling the carving in his other hand, he came to a swift decision. “I have to go,” he said. “I have to go and see Captain Wrathe.”

  “Sure,” Bart said, smiling as if nothing had happened. He released Connor’s hand with a final squeeze, then lay back and closed his eyes. Is this how easily he could dismiss death? Well, Connor wasn’t there yet and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to be.

  The door to Captain Wrathe’s cabin was open. Connor darted inside, pushing forward through the familiar assortment of treasures Captain Wrathe had acquired on his voyages and raids.

  Connor could hear voices, including Molucco’s. They were coming from the back of the cabin. Sure enough, as he walked past a familiar jeweled elephant, he found Captain Wrathe and Cate sitting drinking wine, surrounded by their fresh booty. Scrimshaw was lazily entwining himself around a Michaelangelo statue as though checking out the quality of the goods.

  “Aha!” said Molucco, glancing up with a grin. “The man of the hour! Some wine for you, Connor?” He lifted a silver flask but Connor shook his head.

  “What’s the matter, Connor?” Cate asked. “You’re shivering.”

  “What’s this?” he said, holding out the figure toward them.

  Molucco took it from him and turned the figure around in his hand.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked.

  “It was on my blanket,” Connor said. “I was sleeping on Cate’s bunk and when I woke up, I found it there. Someone must have come in while I was sleeping —” he broke off. “It’s real blood on it, isn’t it?”

  Molucco lifted the figure nearer to his eye and nodded. “Yes, that’s definitely blood.”

  “It’s voodoo,” Connor said. “They’re coming to get revenge on me for what I did. For killing that guard. How did they find me? How did they get aboard the ship?”

  “Calm down, Connor,” said Cate.

  Calm down? How could she talk about being calm when there was an enemy aboard the ship? When at any time, not just Connor but the rest of the crew could be under attack?

  “Sit down, Connor,” said Molucco.

  “But —” he protested.

  “Sit down!” commanded the captain, and this time it was clear it was an order.

  Connor sat on one of the floor cushions. His legs refused to stay still though, jiggling away as if at any time they would be ready to make a break for it.

  Molucco cradled the carved figure in his hand. “I know what this is,” he said. “And I know where it came from. I know whose blood it is.” He smiled. “Now . . .” He lifted the flask of wine and poured a small amount into a goblet. “Drink this. It will calm your nerves.”

  Connor took the cup in his hand. One glance at the red liquid made him feel nauseous, reminding him once more of blood, but he could tell that Molucco would not tolerate any refusal. He took the smallest sip, then set the cup down.

  “Okay?” Molucco asked.

  Connor nodded.

  “Right then. This figure, my lad, is called a Blood Captain. It’s not a curse. Quite the opposite. It’s a gift, an ancient pirate tradition that some ships still maintain. When a young pirate makes his first kill, he or she is given a Blood Captain. As you can see, it’s carved in the shape of a man, though” — he glanced across to Scrimshaw— “it’s clearly no Michelangelo! But the blood is genuine enough. And it’s the blood of the ship’s captain.”

  Connor frowned. “This is your blood? You gave it to me?”

  Molucco shook his head. “No,” he said. “I don’t continue this tradition. This came from my brother. The blood is Barbarro’s.”

  “But why?” Connor said.

  “It’s an honor,” Cate said. “Captain Wrathe and his wife are both acknowledging your bravery and thanking you for saving their son’s life.”

  Connor shook his head. “They’re honoring me for killing?”

  “It’s not as simple as that, Connor. You didn’t simply kill that guard. You performed an act of true courage and bravery. You took only what action was necessary to save your comrade . . .”

  “Moonshine?” Connor said, laughing in spite of himself. “I don’t even like Moonshine. In fact, I loathe him.”

  “All the more reason,” said Molucco, “for us to thank you. For putting aside those understandable, personal feelings and acting for the good of your crew.” He held the figure out to Connor. “Take it,” he said. “Take it, boy, and keep it with you. It will remind you of the day you became a true pirate.”

  Connor’s head was spinning. He had had such romantic ideas about piracy. He had dreamed of captaining his own ship. And, in those dreams, there had been plenty of fighting. He loved the fighting, the bravura display of athleticism and swordsmanship. But not once, not once in those dreams had he stolen another man’s life. Not once had he stood and watched as a dark river of blood gushed out of another man’s veins. This was not what he had sought. It was not what he wanted.

  He looked down at the carving, stained with Barbarro Wrathe’s blood. A gift. He had no desire for such a gift. The evil figurine would only be a daily reminder of the single most terrible deed of his young life. As he t
ook hold of it once more, he felt hot tears prick the back of his eyes. He couldn’t cry, not in front of them. He closed his eyes. As he did so, he had the clearest image of his sister’s face. She was looking at him with an intensity only she could muster. There was no escaping her stare.

  “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I’ve done something terrible. I’ve let you down.”

  There was no mercy in Grace’s eyes. They met his with icy pools of emerald green as she nodded. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, you have.”

  40

  TWO LETTERS

  Dear Captain Wrathe,

  I’m sorry but I have to go away. I know that it’s breaking the articles but I don’t know what else to do. I’ve lied to you and all my friends on board THE DIABLO. I didn’t mean to deceive you. I thought I could make a go of being a pirate but now I know that I was kidding myself all along.

  After what happened at the fort, people are acting like I’m some kind of hero. But I’m not any kind of hero. I know what I am but I can’t bring myself to write down the word. I can’t even find it in me to say it. Cate and Bart told me that I’d come to terms with this in time. Maybe I will, but right now that feels an impossibility. I wouldn’t be any use to you if I stayed so it’s better I go away and work this out somehow if I can.

  I don’t know where I’m going. I guess that’s kind of the point.

  Thanks for everything,

  Yours truly,

  Connor Tempest

  p.s. Cate and Bart — thanks for all you’ve done for me. You’re the best friends I’ve ever known. I should have written you both letters too, but I don’t have time. I have to get away from here. I hope you understand. I hope you know what you both mean to me. C

  Connor scanned the note then folded it into an envelope and addressed it “Captain Molucco Wrathe.” Next, he took up his second letter and read it a final time.

  Dear Grace,

  I really don’t know why I’m writing to you. It’s not like I know how to get this letter to you. But somehow, something’s compelling me to put this down on paper so I will go with it.