Panic overtook him. He tried to run, pushing between the men in his haste to get away, but they ignored him. That frightened him more than anything else could have. If they ignored him, it was because of only one thing: they’d become fixated on someone.
As he glanced over his shoulder at the quarterdeck, his eyes met those of his father. They held one message—run and do not come back. More terrified than ever, he pushed through the crowd, running, stumbling, falling, crawling. No one seemed to notice as he sprinted for his cabin and shut the door. He fumbled in the box for the hairpin and struggled to make it work—to lock the door instead of unlock it. Though it took several minutes, he finally managed before collapsing against the door, hand shaking. How could he manage to lock something with shaking hand and in full panic but not be able to unlock it at other times?
He stared at the hairpin, turning it slowly in his fingers as he considered his options. What if he should have gone to the corner under his father’s cabin? The moment he gave full thought to that idea, he knew he wanted to do it. Determined, he turned to work on the lock again. It felt futile. He’d never managed to unlock it before and certainly not with any speed. A small part of him hoped that he might manage to do it quickly, but again he worked and worked without success.
A knock made him jump, jerking the hairpin from the lock and jabbing it into his hand. He cried out in pain but tried to cover it by calling for whoever it was to enter. “It’s locked, though.”
Jaime pushed the door open as Sebastian scrambled away from it. “Trying to get out again?”
“I seem particularly talented in locking doors, but I am hopeless at unlocking them.”
“Your father wanted me to make sure you were locked in.”
“Are the men still angry?” he asked, nervously.
“Yes. He is concerned for you.”
Sebastian sighed. “I think he sees me as a target in order to avoid the fact that he is the real one.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“He brought us out here to kill us!” Hector cried to the group of angry sailors.
Nicolo smiled. A snicker preceded a chuckle before he erupted in uncontrolled laughter. The men stared. Soon other snickers, chuckles, and laughter rocked the boat. Hector stared at all of them as though they were crazy.
“Don’t you care?”
“To kill us,” the man nearest Hector gasped between guffaws, “would require him to kill himself too. Bringing us out here might kill us,” the man glared at Nicolo before another snicker escaped, “but it certainly wasn’t his intent.”
“You are all blind. I trusted this man. I trusted him. What kind of idiot trusts a pirate! I must be mad!”
“He said it. I didn’t,” Nicolo muttered.
Eduardo’s hand rested on Nicolo’s shoulder. “Let me try something,” he murmured. To the rest of the group he said, “I should tell you all that I knew we were going to the Americas. I agreed not to tell you.”
“Why!” This time Turk shouted out the question. The young boy, not much older than Sebastian, looked terrified.
“Because I agreed that it was safest for us if no one could accidentally mention where we were going.”
“We haven’t seen anyone!”
Eduardo shrugged. “But we could have. That is the point.”
“What about the Victoria?” Hector whined. “You let those Spanish dogs live!”
The captain nodded. “That I did. To a novice, that probably seems foolish. However, what your inexperienced mind cannot fathom is that we left them forced to limp back to Spain. They will look foolish. They will be forced to admit that pirates overtook them. What do you think will happen then? What will the Crown do to those who allow pirates steal from it?”
“You think you have an excuse—”
Jaime shook his head. “Hector, this man risked his life to help you. Either be grateful and shut up or jump overboard.”
A cheer arose from the crew, showing that their annoyance had shifted from Nicolo to Hector. This Nicolo would not fight. He answered questions as some of the men shuffled below deck. The group thinned slowly, and as it did, he relaxed.
“Is Sebastian safe?”
Jaime nodded. “He got in his room and locked himself in.”
“How did he do that?” Nicolo’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. When Jaime didn’t answer, he prodded, “Jaime…”
“I showed him how to pick the lock.” The young man snickered. “It seems he’s unable to get himself out, but he did manage to lock himself in.”
“Why would you do that? Why did you not ask me?” The attempt to control his temper failed, but at least he had tried.
“Because he’s old enough to know. He’s old enough to get himself out if we’re captured. It seemed as if he needed the tools to help himself if we got ourselves killed.”
“You should have asked me first.”
“Yes,” Jaime agreed. “I should have been able to ask and have you consider it rationally. We both know you would have said no and not thought of it again until he was old enough to figure it out himself or until he died because we didn’t prepare him.”
“That is—”
“The truth,” Eduardo interjected, climbing back up the steps.
Jaime seemed to ignore the quartermaster as he added, “You don’t like to acknowledge it, but he isn’t a child anymore. He’s not a man, but he will be one before you know it.”
Nicolo ignored the comments of his men and stormed to his cabin, slamming the door. He gripped the table, closing his eyes as he fought to control the rage that threatened to overwhelm him. Too many years of giving in to Jaime had come to this. The man had stepped much too far over the line.
He could find what the boy used to pick the lock. He could take it away. If he didn’t, Sebastian would be sure to use it at the wrong time. Had not Siracusa proven that? Why didn’t Jaime remember these things when he made these decisions?
Sticking his head out the door, Nicolo called to Jaime, “Bring Sebastian here.”
The young man nodded and hurried to the boy’s cabin. When they returned minutes later, Jaime said, “Remember, Nicolo. I showed him. That wasn’t his decision. Don’t take out your anger with me on him.”
Nicolo shut the door, gesturing for Sebastian to be seated. “I give that young man too much leeway.”
“He means well, Papa.”
His fists clenched until his hands went numb as Nicolo tried to control the rage that smoldered within him. “Why didn’t you tell me that he’d taught you how to pick a lock?”
“He said not to—that it was his responsibility to confess. I thought—”
“That you’d have time to learn it before he did, I presume.”
Sebastian’s head dropped. “Yes, Papa.”
He sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of all of his responsibilities at once. “I know he means well, son, but he is young yet. He can see where I am blind, but he cannot see with the eyes of experience. He thinks only of the simplest scenario. You are locked in the room, we are overrun, and you could get out to save us if you knew.”
“That’s what I thought!”
“But, Sebastian, he ignores that you have already proven yourself willing to disobey orders meant for your safety. What would prevent you from trying to ‘help’ during a battle? You do not know how to look in six ways at once while wielding a cutlass.”
He saw the full import of his words settle on Sebastian’s shoulders. Perhaps now the lad would see that there was responsibility with this kind of knowledge. Some good might come of the mess.
“I did not think—”
“Nor did Jaime, it seems.”
The boy did not speak for some little time and then he raised his eyes to meet Nicolo’s. “I understand, Papa. When would I use the hairpin?”
So it was a hairpin. At least Jaime had been resourceful. A hairpin would help the boy in more situations than just when locked in his cabin. “That is an intelligent question, Sebastian. Did you
ask Jaime that?”
Sebastian’s face flushed. “No. I just wanted to learn how to do it.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you when.”
Excitement flooded his son’s face. “Really? I thought you’d make me give back the hairpin.”
Nicolo dug into a trunk at the foot of his bed. He pulled out a lock and passed it to the boy. “Practice with that. It’ll be easier than using your door latch, but it is a harder lock. If you can pick this, you can pick any lock.”
A new shout went up on deck—one that sounded full of fury. “Papa?”
“Stay here. Hide if I don’t return soon.”
Nicolo flung open the door, his hand on his cutlass, and then stepped back inside. “The pig is done. The men are celebrating.”
Sebastian grinned. “Do you think Jaime would have a story for us? I want to see if the others made it across to Calais without trouble.”
“I think he will indeed.”
Chapter Nineteen
The Legend: Part Four
Fat with pork, and more than a few men heaving up the excess that their starved bellies could not handle, several sailors gathered on deck to hear the next installment of Jaime’s story. He settled himself with a large mug of wine, leaning against the mast, and continued his tale.
One by one, Joseph ben Saolomon gave all of his children and their families a similar sendoff. Each month as they feasted, the group grew smaller as the next family left for refuge in Calais. Joseph blessed the children and grandchildren, gave them their necklaces, and made them promise never to forget their faith or their family. Within just a few months, only two more branches of their family remained—Joseph and his wife and his youngest daughter Miriana, her husband, and their child.
On the night Miriana’s brother—only ten months her senior—left with his family—her family joined Joseph and Rebekah for yet another meal. It wasn’t the usual jolly feast they expected. No, a nervous tension filled the air that night that ended the party early.
Miriana, her husband Aaron, and their only child, Levi, went home, Rebekah took herself to bed, and Joseph locked himself in his counting room.
Southeast of them, a boat sailed across the channel. Yvo huddled with his pregnant wife in the storage room of the boat while Ingelby tried to sail through fog that descended without warning. Panic rose in Robert Ingelby’s face as he tried to follow the compass. If another ship were caught—The moment that he thought it, one of the men cried out the dreaded words, “Ship ahoy!”
He jerked the wheel leeward, but despite his best efforts, the sickening crunch of wood on wood and the jarring of two colliding boats knocked out Ingelby and his first mate. Their minimal crew scrambled to the deck, rolled the two men into a dory, and the rest piled in. The overloaded dory began to sink. A few men began to push Ingelby and the other man over the side, but the rest refused. Three jumped overboard—still not enough. Two more followed. The terrified cries of a man and woman confused the crew.
“Let’s go back. We can take the other dory,” one of the swimming sailors cried. “It’ll get us out of this freezing water!”
So, while the still-overladen dory limped its way back to Dover, settling a few miles south of their destination, the other men swam back to the ship, trying to determine if the cries came from their boat (which seemed unlikely to them) or if they were of someone trapped on the other boat.
Ingelby revived just before they landed. His head pounding, he asked after the crew, if the boat had sunk or if there was hope for it, and settled back to rest until they reached land. Someone commented on hoping the others had found a boat, sending Robert into panicked rantings that made no sense to anyone else. He cried out, demanding they return to the boat—to save a couple locked in the storage room—obviously delusional and possibly suffering from brain trauma.
The moment the boat pulled to shore, the men tried to help the two injured men out and on land. Robert Ingelby broke free and fought to return. The others stopped him, dragging him away, promising that the others had gone back to see if someone needed help. They pointed out the fog, the choppy water, and the unlikelihood of success, but nothing consoled him. He ranted wildly of passengers locked in storerooms. The others ignored him.
Robert awoke the next morning with an inexplicable feeling of dread in his heart. He glanced around the familiar room, snuggled under the thick, warm covers, and wondered what disturbed him so. It must have been a dream. What had he dreamed about? It seemed as though he’d been surrounded by cold blankets, smothering him in the frigid air. Something, some evil monster, rocked the bed, trying to spill him out of it. Even still, the dream remained elusive—buried deep within his mind.
He sat up, eyes wide, and retched. A servant hurried to assist him while another ran to fetch help. In the confusion, he could do little but murmur, “Did they survive? Did anyone get them out? Oh, what will Joseph say?!”
The doctor assured the family that a blow to the head had caused swelling of the brain which caused the illness and delirium. Alas, no one listened as he insisted that he was rational. Each attempt to escape—to try to deliver the terrible news to Joseph—failed. Joseph expected him within days, but the doctor, the servants, and even his father kept him in bed against his will, often with medications that made him drowsy and muddleheaded.
Desperate, he tried a new tactic. It would work. It had to work.
“I’m tired, Martha. I’d like some quiet so I can sleep. Is there any of that sleeping draught that the doctor left?”
“I’ll get Thomas. He’ll help, I’m sure.”
And the plan worked perfectly. Thomas stirred the powder into his water and hurried to fetch another blanket while Robert poured the drink out into the pitcher near the bed. He snuggled down, begged for someone to extinguish the lamps and to bank the fire. Then he waited. Hours passed while the house settled down for the night. Twice, Thomas came through to check on him before whispering to Martha that she could go to bed. “He’ll sleep until morning.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Every minute, each tiny step—agony. Despite his protests, Robert was weary, and his body craved rest. His head jostled against the carriage wall, aggravating his headache even more. Never had the trip to London seemed so horribly long and uncomfortable. The ride home wouldn’t be any easier, but the dread in his heart would be gone—if he were still alive.
Cold, shivering, and sicker than he’d ever imagined, he nearly crawled through the streets to the house of his creditor. The servant led him to a chair near the fire and promised to return with Joseph. When Robert said not to hurry, he meant it. The fire felt wonderful.
Joseph entered, eyes steely and cold. “What has taken you so long? I expected you days ago.”
“I’ve been ill. There was a collision. I was knocked out. I tried, but...”
“Yvo?”
“Gone.”
Without a word, Joseph reached for his ledger. Slowly he turned the pages as Robert’s mouth went dry with dread. After what seemed an age, he scribbled something in a column and then passed the book across the table and held out the pen for Robert to sign.
The man’s hand shook as he accepted the proffered pen and looked at the ledger. To his astonishment, payment in full had been recorded and signed by Joseph. “Wha—”
“Sign and get your bloody hands out of my house!”
“I did try, Joseph. Why are you wiping the debt clear?” Even as he questioned, Ingelby thought he knew why and his heart clenched at the thought. “They wouldn’t let me go back, but two men died trying to save the—”
“I never want to see your face again, Robert Ingelby. You have the blood of my family on your head. Live with that.”
“You’re not going to kill me?” The question was unnecessary. Robert could see that the moneylender had no intention of murdering him or hiring the job done for him, but he couldn’t understand why.
“No.”
Robert signed the ledger and pushed it across the desk. �
�I—”
“Will get out of my sight now. That is what you will do.”
“Yes, but…” He swallowed hard. “Please just kill me now. I cannot stand wondering and waiting for the inevitable.” As terrified as he was, Robert wanted, more than anything else at that moment, for the dread to be wiped clean—even if it were with his own blood.
“‘To Me belongeth vengeance, and recompence; their foot shall slide in due time: for the day of their calamity is at hand, and the things that shall come upon them make haste.’” Joseph’s hate-filled eyes met those of the man he felt had betrayed him. “You can live with it until the LORD comes upon you and gives my family justice for your weakness, your cowardice, your crime against the house of Joseph ben Saolomon. Until then, your memories will be your jail and your conscience, the warden. May you live in wretchedness until that day.”
Joseph scribbled something on a paper, folded it, and passed it across the desk. In slow, measured tones the older man said, “Now get out of my house.”
An hour later, Ingelby crept back to Joseph’s house, desperate to find some kind of solace—forgiveness. However, lamps flickered upstairs and even in the street he could hear the wailing of Rebekah and Joseph as they mourned the death of their son. Defeated, he turned back and tried to forget the words of the half-crazed old moneylender.
“…for the day of their calamity is at hand…”
Chapter Twenty
Voyage
The further west they sailed, the choppier the ocean became. The crew grew tired. However, fresh food did have its advantages. Full bellies equaled reasonable men, although they spent their days battling the sea with the ship as their only protection—their only weapon. At times it seemed as though they would lose, but despite it all, each day ended with the ship aright and the crew alive.
With perfect weather, it would take a month to arrive. So much could happen in a month. Nicolo watched his son practice fighting with Jaime, repeating movements without growing impatient or cross. Pride welled in his heart. The boy’s tenacity would serve him well if he learned the appropriate times to apply it.
Legends of the Vengeance : The First Adventure (9781310742866) Page 12
