The Sublime and Spirited Voyage of Original Sin

by Colette Moody

  Crenshaw’s eyes grew glassy, and blood slowly trickled from the corners of his mouth. He made unintelligible sounds as Gayle’s sword nearly cleaved him in two.

  She refused to stop. “This is the pain Nichols and Caruthers felt, you vile piece of shit. Feel it.”

  When blood began to bubble more quickly from his throat, Gayle pushed his body backward and he fell heavily into his own pooled blood. He visibly stopped breathing.

  As Gayle darted off to aid her crewmen, James warily stepped onto the deck of the Belladonna carrying his medical bag. The explosions and screams utterly panicked him, but he knew sailors needed medical attention.

  “Doctor,” a fallen sailor called weakly from the port side of the deck.

  James inched over and recognized the lad who called to him as Gleeson. “How fare ye?” he asked, nervously looking about him to ensure he had not called any undue attention to himself. All about him sailors continued to brawl mercilessly, and metal clashed violently as the smoke from the cannon and fire burned his eyes.

  “I’ve taken a bullet in the gut, Doc,” Gleeson replied, moving his bloodied hand so James could examine it more closely. “It burns like a son of a bitch.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” James remarked, trying to assess if the bullet had passed through the lad’s side or still resided there, and if any clothing had possibly been pulled into the wound, which, if so, would almost guarantee infection.

  He poured rum on the wound, and Gleeson cried out.

  “Save some o’ that fer yer own wounds,” a booming voice called from behind him. “Yer gonna need it.”

  James turned and fixed his watering eyes on a tall, imposing sailor—his cutlass drawn and his gaze murderous.

  “I—I’m not armed,” he sputtered.

  His adversary brandished a toothless sneer. “Good.”

  “But I’m a doctor,” he said as his mouth became dry. “I can tend to your wounded.”

  “Not if yer dead, ya can’t,” the brute explained matter-of-factly. He slowly approached James, who stared at the fresh blood clinging to the sailor’s blade.

  Suddenly, after only two strides, his attacker froze, his eyes growing wide. As James watched, a sword blade burst through the sailor’s chest and began to wriggle lethally. As life left his body, he collapsed roughly onto the deck, the assassin now fully revealed.

  “Molly?” James was stunned.

  She stood clutching her sword, breathing heavily but looking invigorated. Blood spattered her face and clothes, but her cheeks were flushed. “Yer welcome,” she said, then paused to spit.

  James was delighted to see her. “I’d thought you as good as dead, lass.”

  “Piss,” she responded dismissively. “I’ll not be goin’ to the great beyond until I’m damn good and ready, mate.”

  “I should have known better.”

  “You can make it up to me later, Doc,” she said with a naughty wink, then headed back into the mêlée.

  *

  After over two hours of rowing east, Celia, Andrew, and Anne finally hit land, then dragged their skiff onto an uninhabited quay. They had broken out of the fog almost completely, and moonlight now bathed the beach in its pale glow. Though Andrew was thoroughly fatigued, and Anne was still beside herself, Celia found that focusing on settling in and waiting for their rescue was just the diversion she needed to keep from breaking down.

  While her father rested in the sand, breathing heavily from the extreme physical exertion of their long trip, Celia methodically unloaded the supplies from the skiff. The muscles in her arms now twitched in exhaustion, but she set up camp under the balmy night sky, with the Caribbean winds whipping her dark hair.

  “Here, Father.” She offered him a wooden ladle full of grog. “Drink this. Refresh yourself.”

  Eagerly, Andrew did so. He sighed deeply and handed the empty ladle back to her. “We’re in a right mess, I fear.” He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes wearily.

  She sat down next to him on the beach. “That has been my location for the last several weeks, Father. It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

  He chuckled and searched her face. “You are amazingly courageous, Celia. I don’t think I’ve ever been more proud of you than I am right now.”

  “Thank you, Father.” She brushed her hair from her eyes. “It was terribly bold for you to venture out to sea to find me.”

  “Well, child, I needed to know that you were safe.” He coughed. “And word had traveled back to me that you had taken up with a pirate captain. Not exactly the news a father yearns for.”

  “I’m sorry for that,” she said, staring at the breaking waves. “But given the circumstances, I was hesitant to share that news in a letter.” She picked up a handful of fine sand. “I suppose too I was still sorting through it myself.”

  “Well, it’s quite a lot to sort through, Celia. That’s a certainty.”

  “But I can’t set aside the insight that I’ve never felt more alive than I have since I’ve embarked on this very bizarre journey.”

  Andrew sighed again. “You’ve grown into a remarkable woman, lass, and you did it while I was looking the other way.”

  “Well, you did play a significant role, Father.”

  “Perhaps, but I never saw it until now.” His expression became darker. “I hope this isn’t the final macabre realization of a cursed man, trapped forever on this isle.”

  Celia studied the way the moonlight illumined his features. “You need to have some faith, Father. If I believed Gayle to be vanquished I’d not be able to muster the strength to go on.”

  Behind him, Anne was rummaging through their provisions. When she discovered a bottle of rum, she removed the cork with her teeth and spat it into the sand, then wandered off, alternating between drinking the kill-devil and wiping her teary eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Hmm.” Andrew seemed to share her wariness.

  “Aye. I have no desire to end up like our girl back there—crazed and now well on her way to becoming soused. I prefer to remain hopeful.”

  “You’re certain they’ll come for us?”

  “I’d wager my left teat,” she said, with an affirming nod.

  Andrew flinched. “This life at sea has certainly added color to your lexicon.”

  Celia smiled. “Aye, that it has. Will you help me start a signal fire?”

  *

  Back on board the Belladonna, Gayle drove her cutlass past the breastbone of her attacker and, with a rather inelegant kick, sent his gasping body soaring over the railing into the seas below.

  She snapped her head around to see if anyone else was immediately upon her to fight. Winded and weary, she was relieved to see no one but her own crewmen. She inhaled vigorously to try and catch her breath, and quickly examined the sword wound she had sustained what now seemed like hours ago. Her shirt was stained with blood on her left side, and, under the sliced fabric, the bleeding had started to dissipate on its own—a very good sign.

  Dowd jogged over, the dried blood of his foes generously spattering his face and chest. “Cap’n. We believe we’ve handled the last of ’em.”

  “And Fuks? Was he taken alive?”

  Dowd shook his head. “We gathered the survivors. None o’ them have ’is scar. I have Hyde and Frederick combing through the dead for ’im.”

  Gayle and Dowd headed below deck to survey the captain’s quarters. Inside she was pleased to find the two chests of her father’s wealth that had been purloined from them. She opened first one, then the other, and discovered at least the vast majority of the items to still be there. “There’s sweet succor,” she murmured in satisfaction. Glancing about the rest of the cabin she saw no signs of life, either past or present. “Where is the bastard?”

  Abernathy entered, his cutlass drawn. “The prisoners say they thought their cap’n was below deck guardin’ the treasure.”

  “There’s no bloody sign o’ that,” Dowd replied.

  “We’ll s
earch this vessel from stem to stern,” Gayle said. “If he’s on board, we’ll find him.”

  “Cap’n,” a crewman bellowed from above deck.

  “Aye?”

  “The Belladonna’s skiffs are gone.”

  She stared at Dowd and Abernathy in chagrin. “Would a pirate captain row away when boarded? What kind of nerveless, prancing fop is this Captain Fuks?”

  *

  “Faster, Logan,” Fuks demanded, glaring at his crewman, who was rowing the skiff unassisted.

  Logan, a broad-backed and sinewy man, was wheezing loudly, but still pumping the oars as fast as he could. “I can’t go much farther, Cap’n,” he rasped in his thick Irish accent. “I’m all but dead.”

  Fuks squinted hopefully through his spyglass. He had spotted small quays in this direction. “Ah, well, buck up, lad. Not only are we close to land, but it looks as though there are some provisions ripe for the pickin’.”

  “Huh?”

  “Directly east. Someone’s made a nice welcome fire for us.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Anne sat dejectedly on the quay, her knees pulled up under her chin, staring into the now-dying signal fire. She drank from the nearly empty rum bottle as the sound of rolling waves lulled her into a state of unqualified despair.

  How had she ended up here? Everything that she had initially thought was going to be wonderful had ended up being totally horrendous.

  Her trip to the brothel? As promising as that had seemed, it had only gotten her kidnapped by a slave trader and dragged all the way to the Caribbean.

  Being rescued by a dashing and sexy female pirate captain? Well, that had proceeded no better—no lusty tumbles, losing Gayle’s affections to that buxom bitch who had also somehow captured the heart of her own brother—the Judas. Now she was stranded here in the middle of nowhere.

  Why was God punishing her? Surely he had bestowed exquisite beauty upon her so that she might take pleasure in the passion of others. It was almost as if he was somehow trying to tell her that was not the case.

  Anne took another gulp of her only friend, which warmed her extremities like a toasty blanket. She sighed loudly before someone violently slammed her backward onto the sand, the wind knocked from her lungs.

  “You must be one o’ them sirens o’ the sea,” a man with a thick Irish accent cooed malevolently as he pinned her to the ground. Anne struggled to inhale, but was unable. “And you’re quite a comely one,” he added, his sweaty face within an inch of hers.

  She gasped, struggling to regain the ability to breathe freely and speak. Turning her face to the left to determine where Celia and Andrew were, she saw what appeared to be Andrew’s body lifeless in the sand not far away. There were no signs of Celia.

  “A lively little lass ye be, too,” the bastard added as Anne continued to wriggle against him.

  Finally, she was able to draw a small amount of breath. “Get…off,” she wheezed.

  He laughed menacingly. “Keep moving under me like that and I will in no time, lass.”

  As Celia approached the camp with more firewood, she suddenly sensed that something was amiss. A faint cry made the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and she stopped, wary.

  Quietly, she set the firewood down and continued toward the beach. Another noise came, a muffled scream, and adrenaline raced through her body.

  To be less visible she crouched in the sand, creeping toward camp and listening intently. Anne was pinned beneath a behemoth of a man, but, curiously enough, she did not appear to be enjoying it.

  Simultaneously, beside the dwindling fire, another smaller man was digging through their provisions. With great concern, Celia scoured the dim night for her father. What had they done to him? Who were these men? Were there more than the two she could see from here?

  In her possession she had a loaded pistol, but unfortunately no powder or shot to reload it; a silver dagger strapped to her thigh—she had learned a thing or two, after all; and little else of value. She had not thought to grab the cutlass Gayle had packed with their provisions, and she was now regretting her carelessness.

  “Why don’t you help me a mite, lass?” Logan pleaded as he tore the blonde’s dress. “I’m plenty tired from the trip here, you know. If you were to be a bit more cooperative, I might work harder to help you to enjoy it.”

  “God’s teeth, Logan,” Fuks cursed, using the hilt of his dagger to break the neck off a bottle of rum and then pouring some into his mouth. “Just get it over with. How long is it going to take you to fuck that girl?”

  “Stop fightin’ me,” Logan implored again. “I can make this good for both of us.”

  “No, you can’t,” the blonde spat back. “Stop bloody mauling me.”

  “Fine,” Logan replied with a grimace, holding both of the hellcat’s small wrists securely with one of his large hands. “Have it your way, then.”

  Fuks turned away again to further rummage through the wealth of goods on the beach and heard a gunshot. When he spun back around, he discovered that another young woman had apparently leapt from cover somewhere, placed a pistol to the back of Logan’s head, and shot most of it clear off. His lifeless body, his head now a red, pulpy mass, lay burdensomely on the blonde—who finally lay still.

  “Bloody hell,” he shouted. “What have you done, you silly bitch?”

  Celia’s heart was beating so frantically her pulse was pounding in every part of her body. She glanced down at the smoking pistol in her hand. She had definitely made her one shot count. “I blew your friend’s ruddy head apart.”

  Anne struggled under the dead body pinning her to the sand, but as he was well more than twice her weight, she made little progress in moving him.

  The small man drew the cutlass from his baldric, tilting his head appraisingly to the left. “Your name wouldn’t be Pierce by any chance, would it?”

  “It might be. Yours wouldn’t be Anus, would it?”

  He squinted at her in disdain. “Fuks,” he said.

  “Ah, yes, I assumed you were called something vile. I was right.” Anne was still unable to move, so she attempted to assist her by shoving Logan’s body with her foot.

  “That’s enough of that, whore,” Fuks snapped. “Leave your friend where she belongs—rutting with the dead.” He waved his cutlass at her.

  Celia did as she was told, glancing at the dead man to see if he had any weapons she could snatch up. Seeing nothing more lethal on him than a dagger, which did her no good, she then looked toward the provisions in hopes of spying her cutlass there. She didn’t see it, but just beyond Fuks’s left shoulder, her father lay stretched motionless in the sand. “Father?”

  “I don’t know how that lubber kept from drowning when we sent him overboard,” Fuks said. “I was shocked to see him still drawing breath.”

  With no other thought than ensuring her father’s safety, Celia threw her spent pistol to the ground and dashed past Fuks, just beyond his grasp. She dropped to her knees in the sand beside Andrew’s body, relieved to see his chest rising and falling. “Father,” she called, shaking him gently. He didn’t stir at her touch, and a large gash on his head spilled blood freely.

  “Leave him,” Fuks commanded. “You’re the last one to be givin’ aid to anyone else, as you’ll be dead shortly.”

  Celia slowly pulled her hands back, disappointed that Andrew had no weapons on him. There was at least one more loaded pistol in the provisions, and she had hoped that he had grabbed it. The only potential weapon nearby was a plum-sized rock, which she covertly grasped with her right hand.

  “Now get up and turn around,” he barked.

  Slowly, she did so.

  Meanwhile, Anne had continued to gradually struggle free of her gory restraint. Pushing mightily, she shoved the dead body several inches, expelling a loud grunt as she did so.

  Fuks turned. “I told you to leave him, bitch.”

  Celia saw his averted attention as an opportunity she dared not waste and hurled
the stone in her hand at her captor as hard as she was able. It struck him sharply in the left temple, and he cried out, drawing his left hand up to it.

  Celia lunged toward her cutlass then, knowing this was her only chance to defend herself. Fuks was clearly too distracted to stop her, and she drew the weapon quickly from its sheath and brandished it defiantly.

  “How’s your head?” she asked flippantly.

  “Bloody harridan.” He held up his fingers covered with his own blood.

  “Well, don’t worry about the blood too much,” Celia said. “I plan to hack that melon of yours right off your putrid shoulders.”

  He squinted as warm blood ran into his left eye from the gash above it. “The day a woman bests me is the day I cut my own fuckin’ throat.”

  “How chivalrous of you to offer to help,” she said through clenched teeth.

  Fuks clearly was not amused by her threats, and he charged her, emitting a savage cry of anger. His blade slashed down at her once she was within reach, and she blocked the powerful strike only by clutching her weapon tight with both hands and parrying.

  He seemed momentarily stunned that she had deflected his violent blow, and he struck at her again, but his weapon again glanced off. His face turned red, and the veins in his neck and forehead became visible. “You fuckin’ whore,” he screamed.

  Celia defensively stepped backward, unable to anticipate his moves while he was in such a frenzy.

  “There’s no getting’ away now, lass,” he shouted as he advanced on her. “I’ll slice you a thousand fuckin’ ways to Sunday.”

  As Celia continued to retreat, their blades clashed again, though this time the steel remained joined, as though their weapons were embracing. Suddenly, Fuks reached out with his left hand and grasped her right wrist. Though the cutlasses were still entangled, he had complete control of hers, as she was now unable to move her sword. “This skirmish is over,” he muttered, his disfigured face only inches from hers. With that, he yanked her wrist savagely to secure an opening to run her through.