Legends of The Vengeance
The First Adventure
Chautona Havig
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Copyright © 2014 by Chautona Havig
Smashwords Edition
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Chautona Havig lives in a small, remote town in California’s Mojave Desert with her husband and eight of her nine children. When not writing, she enjoys paper crafting, sewing, and working to finish educating the rest of her children so that she can retire from home education.
Edited by: Haug Editing
Interior fonts: Times New Roman
Art font: “Jellyka Delicious Cake” and “Charlemagne”
Cover photos: S-E-R-G-O/iStockphoto
Kylie088/shutterstock.com
Cover art by: Chautona Havig
The events and people in this book, aside from any caveats on the next page, are purely fictional, and any resemblance to actual people is purely coincidental and I’d love to meet them!
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All Scripture references are from the NASB. NASB passages are taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE (registered), Copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation
Fiction/Christian/Youth/Adventure
Chapter One
Siracusa
Alone in his quarters, watching the busyness of the nearby docks, Sebastian seethed. Water lapped the sides of the ship and gulls cried overhead as they swooped and dodged, fighting one another over the same fish tossed aside by a fisherman. The rowboat carrying members of their crew hit the docks, and the sight sent a fresh wave of fury over him.
It was the same in every port. They arrived, dropped anchor, and the first wave of the crew hurried ashore—a taste of freedom Sebastian could only imagine. His father stepped on to the dock first, followed by Jaime. A smile tried to surface as Jaime turned and waved to him. His friend knew he would be watching; he always did. When you are left behind at every port, what else is there to do but watch?
Observing the rest of the crew held no interest for him. He turned from the porthole and crossed his arms defiantly. Why? Why could he not go ashore too? Why was he always left alone with the half-blind cook and the sleepy skeleton crew? He was twelve now—hardly a child.
Strolling out on deck, Sebastian saw Giorgio whittling in his usual place on the gun deck and a couple of the others playing dice. Cook probably snoozed in the galley as usual. He didn’t want to listen to Giorgio complain about being in port again. The man was only happy when out to sea.
The others, below deck or above, looked deceptively lazy and uninterested in what happened around them. There were few ships in port—none that would threaten a pirate ship such as theirs. However, if one arrived, those on land would be notified in a trice. Paulo, hidden from view, kept watch.
A shout turned his head and Sebastian watched with a longing he couldn’t identify. Several boys—a little younger than himself he guessed—chased another boy all along the wharf, dodging between barrels and boxes. Men shouted at them, and two of the boys found themselves jerked off their feet when a dockhand grabbed their shirts as they passed.
Dissatisfied with his lot, he stormed back to his quarters and flung himself on his bed. Just as shame over his childish and rebellious behavior crept into his heart, an idea formed in his mind, locking out that initial remorse. His eyes slid toward the boots in the corner, and he peered out the porthole again. This time, excitement filled him.
“No boots,” he muttered to himself. “They’re too heavy. I might need money, though.” A few coins from his father’s cabin satisfied him.
It took some time to find a long enough piece of rope, a safe place to tie it, and then creep silently down the length and beneath the water. Jumping would have been swifter, but the chance of him being overheard was too great. He held on to the rope for a moment, adjusting to the temperature of the water and warming his leg muscles until he felt confident. It wasn’t far to the docks—just a couple hundred yards.
Sebastian took a deep breath, and pushing off from the side of the ship, swam underwater until his lungs felt as though they’d burst. He rose, took a deep breath and continued, not waiting long enough to hear if someone saw him and called for him to stop. It took longer than expected, but he managed to reach the docks undetected.
When he hoped no one was looking, Sebastian pulled himself on to the wharf and wrung the water from his clothes. He tried to act nonchalant as he made his way among the workers and bustle, but several men called out to him, teasing him. “Fell in, did you? Take better care next time or you’ll drown.” His ears burned. Sebastian was a good swimmer. He didn’t fear drowning in the least.
Unwilling to risk giving himself away as an outsider, Sebastian hurried away from the docks and away from the castle that seemed to threaten him with its imposing authority. Who lived in the castle he didn’t know or care to know. He desired only to avoid it.
The sun and the sea breeze helped dry his clothing as he crept through the town, hiding from as many adults as possible for fear they’d be able to identify him. Children ran past him, giggling as he stepped out of the way and watched their games. Sometimes they hid from one another, and in a sense, it made him feel as though he were a part of their play. After all, was he not running and hiding from his father and the rest of the crew?
A church—magnificent to his inexperienced eyes—beckoned him. His father hated churches. As if one act of defiance required every other possible act, he marched up the steps and pulled open the great door, stepping into the cool interior. Sebastian had never seen anything like it. The beauty of it made his heart ache.
He stood at the back, his eyes taking in every curve of the windows, the artwork, and the majestic ceilings. A statue of a beautiful woman stood in an alcove, candles lit around the stone skirts covering her feet. As if compelled, his hand reached out to touch it, but he snatched it back again. A man wearing long white robes strolled down the main aisle, greeting him sternly. Panicked, Sebastian fled.
Though not pursued, his feet slapped against the streets as he tore through them, hiding behind trees and buildings anytime he thought he saw someone from the ship. It took some time, but at last, he found himself beyond the crowded streets and walking along a path leading to places he could only imagine.
His lungs filled with air that was only faintly tinged with salt and sea. The breeze was cooler here, and Sebastian couldn’t imagine what the sweet, fresh scent was but he wanted more of it—much more. A woman shooed a dog out of her house and then stopped to stare at Sebastian.
“What are you doing there, boy?”
The words were familiar but sounded a little strange. Feeling self-conscious, he glanced around to see that she really did speak to him and then shrugged. “I’m just taking a walk…�
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“You sound funny. Where are you from? You are not from here.”
Sebastian couldn’t announce that his father was captain of the pirate ship, Vengeance, so he shrugged. “My father is from the north of Italy at Parma.”
“You are far from home. Is your father a merchant?”
“He is in trade…” At that moment, the dog crept back toward the house. Something in the woman’s eyes, weariness it seemed, prompted him to chase the animal for several dozen yards. Once the animal did not seem inclined to return, he turned to wave and saw the woman beckoning to him.
A new feeling overcame him as he dragged his feet back down the road—dread. The woman waved him into her yard. “Are you hungry? We are going to eat.”
“Um—”
The woman, Rosa she said her name was, ushered him into the house. “My son Angelo will be in soon. He’s out painting again. Ah well, it makes him feel useful. There is even one of his paintings hanging at the castle. The lord of the castle’s son says that my Angelo is a genius.” On Rosa prattled as she cooked small bits of stuffed pasta in a vegetable sauce.
“Have you seen much of the town?”
“I saw the docks and the cathedral.” Sebastian found himself on a bench with an orange in front of him. As he peeled the orange, he described the things he’d observed. “But that statue of the woman—she was so beautiful, so serene.”
“Aaah, Maria. The Holy Mother. Yes, she is beautiful. I have asked Angelo to paint her, but he says he cannot. He is not worthy. For all his faults, my Angelo is humble.”
“I wish I could see someone paint. I can’t imagine what that must be like. The art I saw in the church was so…” Try as he might, he couldn’t find an adequate word to describe how he’d been affected by the paintings and frescoes.
“You ask Angelo when he comes. He will show you.” The woman sawed off a hunk of bread and set it before him. “He is late. Eat. He sometimes works through and forgets. If he doesn’t come by the time we are done, I will send out his meal with you. Then you will see how brilliant a painter he is.”
A shallow bowl of ravioli appeared before him as he finished his orange—so delicious. Savory and sweet pasta filling combined with herbs and vegetable sauce was something he’d never tasted, but he wanted more. It would be rude to ask, or would it? He didn’t know.
“You eat like you are hungry. Oh, the boat. They say cooks on boats make disgusting food.” She ladled another heaping portion into his bowl. “Eat. You are too skinny.”
By the time he finished eating, answering a question out of the side of his mouth every half minute, Rosa had a deeper bowl full of the little pasta squares, a towel with a spoon and bread wrapped in it, and a small flask of wine. “Take this to Angelo. Follow the trees and then up that little hill. He’ll be at the top.”
Sebastian hurried out the door and through the trees. A painter! What fortune! He had always wondered how people could see something beautiful and recreate it on canvas and now it seemed as if he might have the chance to see it himself.
The man worked exactly where his mother said he’d be. Now Sebastian understood why he hadn’t come home—why he didn’t work in the fields, groves, and vineyards. He had only one leg, a mangled left arm, and as he turned, only one eye. He frowned as Sebastian approached.
“What do you want?”
“Your mother sent me with food.”
“Mama is a worrier,” Angelo sighed as he bent to clean his brush. “She usually brings me something herself. I tell her not to, but you know how mothers are…”
Sebastian didn’t. He did not remember his mother. “She seems very proud of you. She said…”
Angelo poured a little water over his hands and wiped them dry on his shirt. “And who are you? I have not seen you around here.”
“Sebastian Soranzo. We just docked for supplies.”
The man’s eyes pierced Sebastian’s until he nodded. “Your father is Nicolo Soranzo, isn’t he? The pirate captain of The Vengeance. I have heard of him.”
“I should go.” Despite his best efforts, Sebastian could not keep longing out of his eyes and hidden from his voice.
“You like art? You wish to paint?”
He shrugged. “I doubt I could. I have never—”
“If you want to draw, you must draw.” Angelo searched Sebastian’s features before he added, “It is in your soul; I see it.”
Something in Sebastian’s face seemed to capture Angelo’s interest. “Stay there. Do not move. Keep thinking of whatever it is that you are thinking. I want to paint that.”
“We are not staying. I cannot—”
“I will remember. I just need the basic lines. Think. You’ve lost that yearning I saw. I want the yearning back.”
Apparently, his concentration did little to bring back the expression that Angelo sought, but with questions, instruction in how to see light and dark, shadows and highlights, something must have returned because the scratches on the canvas grew frantic—almost feverish. “Yes, yes, that it is it. Perfect. This will be a masterpiece. You will return someday, and I will give it to you. Promise?”
“I can try, but my father—”
“Even if it is twenty years, thirty, I will wait. Promise me you will return for it. You will see then what I see now.”
“I—” A promise seemed such a serious thing, but he had to try. It seemed so important to the artist. “I promise that I will do everything I can to return. I can promise that.”
A long silence followed as Angelo drew line after line, some short, others long. Once he was satisfied, he beckoned Sebastian to come see. “Look. What do you think?”
The face on the canvas was simply drawn but expressive. The longing in Sebastian’s heart showed around the eyes and in the lines of the mouth. His long nose seemed prominent, thanks to a partial profile, but his unruly shoulder-length hair was so familiar he couldn’t help but smile. Once painted, if Angelo managed to capture the right hue of red-brown, it would be a perfect likeness.
“I cannot imagine how you can get such life into a few lines on paper.”
“Draw, Sebastian. On the ship—there must be some place you can draw. Burn a stick and use the charred end to practice. Try large and small. You have the desire. That is the most important thing.”
As much as he wanted to stay, Sebastian said he had to leave. With one last glance at the painting that lay abandoned on the grass and the new sketch on the easel, he turned back toward the town. A new spark burned within him—the desire to create.
Chapter Two
Nicolo
His men scattered for taverns, eager for music, wine, and news of what was happening in the world. Nicolo would not follow. Instead, he strode through the streets as if he owned them, his head high and his best coat and hat signifying wealth. An observant person would recognize the source of that wealth, but in a port like Siracusa, it could mean many things—something he relied on at times.
At a church, he counted the streets and turned right. The message said three streets and right and then another street right and then the first house on the left. There it was. The man spoke only Spanish. Bile rose in Nicolo’s throat, but he knocked confidently. A call came asking who had knocked, but he answered with only one word. A name. “Nicolo.”
It took several minutes, but at last, the door opened. Never had Nicolo seen such a large man tremble and cower as Hector of Spain did. “Come in, quickly.” His eyes darted up and down the street before he pushed the door shut behind them. “You are here sooner than I expected.”
“My man said this week.”
Hector reached for a bottle but Nicolo shook his head. “Wine only.”
“I heard that you do not drink.”
“I would risk the trust of my men if I were to become a slave to it. Wine is best.” Nicolo’s eyes traveled around the filthy room. “How long have you been here?”
“Some weeks now. Once I escaped, I came here where Jo—”
“Do not speak names. You did well. How did you get here?”
Hector fidgeted. “I did not wish to stay so long in Spain where they might capture me. Instead, I went from Gibraltar, across land to Tunis, and then over the sea to here.”
“Have you been on the water before this?”
The man grimaced, showing bad teeth. “No. It wasn’t pleasant.”
“You will have to adapt. It can be many, many times worse when you are farther from shore. Can you do that?”
With a trembling hand, the man reached for his drink, obviously seeking comfort from the amber liquid within, but Nicolo stopped him. The enraged roar the captain expected didn’t come. Instead, he whimpered, begging for a drink.
“I don’t allow drunkenness on my ship. We will try to help you, but you must first promise to stop drinking while on my crew. Kill yourself with it later if you must—”
“They tortured me for years. You cannot know what it is like to be trapped in their prisons, trying to agree to anything they claim you did just for the freedom of death.” Hector broke down weeping. “No matter what crimes I confessed to, they wouldn’t kill me like the vermin they think I am.”
Fury burned in Nicolo’s eyes, but his voice was as calm as a windless sea. “You would have been kept there indefinitely. The point was to torture, not to kill. This was not about heresy or justice. It was about revenge, but you will have yours now, will you not, my friend?”
“Do you really think you can—”
“I have news of when the next ship comes from the Americas.” Nicolo waited until he had the other man’s full attention and then added, “It might be a long wait. Ships can be months overdue or not arrive at all. This one coming will be full of silver from the mines. It will be a heavy blow to all of the investors—particularly the Crown.”
“I’ll do it.”
“You’ll have to work. You are not used to work.”
The man shook his head. “I am not used to living like a whipped pauper either, but here I am. I will do anything to restore my fortunes, and if I can gain revenge in the process, all the better.”
Legends of the Vengeance : The First Adventure (9781310742866) Page 1
