The Trophy Chase Saga

by George Bryan Polivka

  Now Jacqalyn in all her glory strolled nonchalantly down to the lip of the pond where Panna was sitting with her peasant dress hiked to midcalf and her feet blissfully bathed in the coolness of the pond. She had a book in her hand and two more lying beside her.

  “Something from the library?” Jacqalyn asked, by way of hello.

  Panna started to stand up.

  “No, please! Please sit. In fact,” Jacqalyn looked around her as though someone might be watching, “I may just sit here with you!” She said it with an air of conspiracy. Then she carefully arranged her dress and skirts and lowered herself to the grass nearby. “Well, how about that?”

  Panna had no idea what to say in response.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Mark,” Panna answered with a smile.

  The princess nodded serenely. Her long, thin face was attractive in a severe sort of way. “Mark who, dear?”

  “The Gospel of Mark.”

  “Ah, quite.” There was a long pause, as it became evident that Jacqalyn in turn had no idea what to say. But she maintained her cheerfulness. “You know, it’s rather lovely out here. I haven’t had a seat on the grass in ages.”

  “I find it very comfortable.”

  Again the princess was silent. She had been raised here in the palace, and had left the grounds only for holidays and outings and two extended trips abroad in all her thirty years. The palace was her domain, and she fit it like a goldfish fits a fishbowl. In Jacqalyn’s world one might sit on the grass for a number of reasons, but comfort could not possibly be among them. Panna’s words made no more sense to her than if the girl had said, “I find the lawn quite dangerous.” Certainly, the grass could not actually be comfortable, no more than it could actually be dangerous, unless someone or some circumstance made it so. And Panna had not made it so; she had simply plopped down upon it.

  Regrouping her thoughts, the princess looked for a way to broach her chosen subject.

  “The prince thinks well of you,” Jacqalyn said at last.

  “That’s nice of him,” Panna replied, unable to respond in kind. In fact, she did not think well of him at all.

  “Is it?” the princess asked.

  Once again, Panna had no idea how to answer.

  “You don’t know my brother very well, do you?”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “And you don’t seem too keen to get to know him better.”

  “Is it so obvious? But I suppose not. I’m only keen on going home.”

  “Home. Yes—to Hangman’s Hollow, I believe?”

  “Cliffs. But yes. Do you know of it?” she asked hopefully.

  “It’s all the talk, of course. Packer Throme and the Firefish and the Trophy Chase and all.”

  Panna nodded. Of course. It meant nothing to Jacqalyn.

  Now the princess looked at Panna very carefully. She felt a need to be blunt. She wet her lips, pursed them slightly. “Dear Panna. The prince thinks…well…of you. Very well. Do you understand my meaning?”

  Now Panna’s heart sank. “Perhaps you should explain.”

  Jacqalyn nodded. “Of course.” Even blunt wasn’t quite blunt enough for this girl. “My brother is complicated. He is very ambitious, focused on his career, determined to someday be the best king this grand empire has ever known. Our younger brother and I are not quite so ambitious, and he looks down on us for our own little weaknesses. But he is under a great deal of pressure now. And he is showing some signs of weakness himself.”

  “The war.”

  “Yes, of course, the war,” Jacqalyn said, too quickly. “It puts us all under a strain. But there is more. He has taken to walking the halls at night. Perhaps you’ve heard him outside your door?”

  “My door? No, not at all.”

  “Ah, that’s good then. I’d hate for him to wake you up. He’s been irritable. Late for meetings of state, which is highly unlike him. Something is distracting him.”

  Panna looked at her coldly. “And what is that?”

  “Well, it’s you, of course.”

  Panna rolled her eyes. “But I’ve done nothing. Literally. Why doesn’t he just let me go home, then?”

  Jacqalyn looked at her with amusement. Had the girl not heard her? The prince was not about to let Panna go. “Well, I’m sure you don’t mean to lead him on.”

  “Lead him on?” The words were shocking.

  “I said I’m sure you don’t mean to. I’m sure young women in Hangman’s Falls wander about in their bathrobes all the time.”

  Panna’s face went white. “You mean that housecoat I found in the closet? He thought that meant something? Gracious, that’s more formal than anything anyone back home even owns!”

  The sing-song sweetness of the princess’s voice was unaltered. “I’m sure that’s true. And I’m sure young, attractive women show their ankles quite often in the fishing villages.” Panna pulled her feet out of the pond, tucked them under her dress. Now Jacqalyn giggled. “Yes, I’m sure it’s true. You really don’t mean a thing by it, do you?”

  “Of course I don’t! Of course not!” Panna looked at her urgently. “Does he really think I—”

  “Lord knows what he thinks, Mrs. Throme. I’m sure he understands just as I do, as everyone does, that you are a freer spirit from a simpler world. But he is drawn. I believe he is smitten.”

  “Smitten?” Panna felt the word like a knife. “I’m a married woman.”

  “Aren’t we all.”

  “But that’s just wrong. That’s wrong of him! Someone should tell him so.” Panna closed her mouth before she said more. This princess would not take kindly to being lectured by a peasant girl.

  But Jacqalyn heard the unspoken words clearly enough. “Me?” She laughed. “As though he doesn’t already know. Of course he knows it’s wrong. That’s why he is in turmoil, of course. He’s a man of conscience. That’s the only reason he feels guilty about it. He knows you are the bride of the hero, pure and spotless and true. He knows what your Good Book there has to say about neighbors and neighbor’s wives. But just like King David on the rooftop, he watches anyway.”

  “What do you mean, he watches?”

  “But glance up at the third-floor balcony, over to the left.”

  Panna did. The palace was some thirty yards away.

  Jacqalyn spoke without taking her eyes off Panna. “You see a dark figure near the hydrangea?”

  Panna saw smoke rising from a shadow.

  “Those are his private quarters, Mrs. Throme. You are out here every day.”

  Panna flushed. “Oh my word. I…I had no idea. What should I do?”

  Jacqalyn smiled. Yes, she was quite sure now, Panna had had no inkling of the affect her simple charms were having on her complicated prince. It was an amazing amount of innocence to carry so far into womanhood. “What you do about it is your business, of course. Do as you please. Lord knows, that’s what I do. I’m just here to let you know.” And she stood, a bit clumsily, but then rearranged her skirts until they were perfectly in order. “Good day, Mrs. Throme.” She nodded, turned, and glided away, once again enwrapped in her usual splendor.

  Panna stood quickly, glared angrily at the hydrangea, picked up her books, then grabbed her shoes and dashed out of sight of the palace before stopping to put them on. She would no longer spend her days in the garden, that was sure. At least, not where she could be seen by someone on that porch. But more importantly, she thought as she pulled angrily on the laces of her soft leather shoes, she would have to find some way to convince the prince and everyone else that she was precisely what she was: entirely unavailable, and entirely uninterested in anything and everything except leaving this place and going home.

  Firefish scales. The ultimate protection. The one substance no sword, no musket, no cannon, no weapon could penetrate. Word spread on the Seventh Seal every bit as quickly as it had on the Chase. How would they ever prevail?

  Scat Wilkins’ demeanor, however, was more critical to hi
s men’s morale than any setback in battle, even one of apparently insurmountable proportions. His orders to run up the white flag of truce were accompanied by a fiery determination they were glad to see. They could see his relish in the fight, see how it strengthened him, and they concluded quickly that he was not surprised by this turn of events. Parley did not mean surrender.

  And Scat was not, by any means, surprised. Nor was he finished. He stood on the quarterdeck, legs under him, shoulders square to the Chase, square to the fight. His chest hurt him, and he breathed delicately to avoid coughing, but these were minor irritants, shoved to the back of his mind.

  At the forefront was the draping of an entire ship with Firefish armor. That was Scat’s idea, discussed with John Hand late at night over port on the way back to Mann from the feeding waters. John Hand had been dismissive at the time; the cost would be ridiculously high, he thought, and the results questionable at best. Firefish hide was surprisingly thin, and difficult to tan and treat without losing the scales, which of course provided the protection. It was not just the scales themselves, but the mechanics of how they interlaced, how they reacted to sudden pressures, and that was all related to how the scales were attached to the thin skin beneath them. Small swatches of the stuff was all they’d ever been able to manage. But obviously, his admiralship had now worked it out. It was exactly the sort of detailed problem he loved to solve. And cost was clearly no object now, now that he had Reynard and Mather and the entire royal exchequer at his disposal. And blast if it didn’t work.

  No matter, Scat’s battle plan would succeed. No amount of protection on the outside could withstand an attack from within. And that was Scat’s goal, the point of the parley. He had infiltrated the admiral, gotten past the Chase’s scales and into her muscle and sinew and bone. He only needed to get close enough to give orders.

  Within a few minutes the two ships were hove to alongside one another, with large, three-pronged grappling hooks tossed from one ship to the other, lines held taut to keep the ships close, and with sounding poles held by crewmen of both ships, pushing against the opposite hull to keep the ships at a distance. Close enough to parley but not close enough to board. Not yet, anyway.

  So the gunwales of both the Chase and the Seal were lined with sailors. Those not holding ropes or poles aimed their weapons across the short span of water. The Chase’s cannons were now loaded and ready, angled down at the decks of the smaller ship. The Seal’s cannons had all been reloaded as well, and were aimed high at the rails of the Chase, above the shimmering gray armor that now slapped lazily against the ship’s hull.

  Scat Wilkins climbed up to the forecastle of his ship; John Hand stood on the main deck of his, so that they were roughly at eye level with one another. “What do you want, Scat?” John Hand called. His voice was gruff and commanding. “The Chase is no longer yours. You want her, you’re going to die trying to gain her.”

  Scat was silent a moment. He looked around. To execute his plan, he needed only to get the two ships closer together, or at least to get lines passed from one to the other so his men could board. “You’re right. You win. I got a good ship under me. Give me any men who choose to sail with me, and I’ll go.”

  John Hand watched the reaction of the sailors carefully, his own and Scat’s. There were no murmurs, no grumbling, no sense of surprise. All were poised for battle. “I know you better than that,” Hand called out. “Let’s fight now, and be done with it. I can’t be worried about you sneaking up on me. There’s a war on. You may have heard.”

  “Did hear something ’bout that. You won’t last long against the Drammune, if you let a ragtag bunch like us overtake you. But it’s your war, not mine.” Scat fumbled in his vest pocket, pulled out a cigar, bit the tip off. “I tried. I failed. I’m done with you.” He spit out the small tobacco plug. “Give me my men.”

  Hand shook his head, disbelieving. “I have the upper hand, here and now. Give me one reason I won’t regret letting you fight another day.”

  Scat took a deep breath. He put a hand to his chest, raised his chin. “Because I can’t beat the Trophy Chase. Not today. Not any day.”

  John Hand had his doubts. But he had never heard Scat Wilkins talk this way. “I want your word, in front of all these men, that should our roles ever be reversed, you will do me the same courtesy. Swear that you and I are at truce, now and in the future.”

  One corner of Scat’s mouth rose. “Aye, my old friend. You and I.”

  John Hand saw a moment he could use. He gestured for Packer Throme to join him at the quarterdeck rail and Packer obliged, standing silently as the admiral turned to face his own crew. “Any man wants to leave, join up again with Scat Wilkins,” Hand ordered, “do it now. It’s no mutiny; I’ll let you go. But if you stay, and I hope you do stay, you forswear piracy and your former captain.”

  Here the admiral paused, raised his right hand. “You heard him say it—the Trophy Chase cannot be beaten. Joining with us here means you become part of the legend of this ship. Stay, and you join yourself to the light. You fight with the very power of God on your side. You all know the miracles.” He put his hand on Packer’s shoulder, as if that gesture proved the truth of his words. Packer looked at John Hand in astonishment.

  “Stay with us,” Hand continued, “and sail with God. Join with Scat, and sail to the devil. The Seventh Seal will be your tomb. The name of that ship, gentlemen, comes from the Book of Revelation, the greatest prophecy of the Bible. That angel at the prow is pouring out the fire of God’s wrath. The Seventh Seal means the end of the world. It’ll be the end of your world. So choose today: God’s favor—” he patted Packer—“or God’s judgment.” He pointed to the prow of the Seal.

  Packer looked at the men on the decks of both ships. Their eyes wandered from Packer to the angel and back. They were all focused, poised, at perfect attention. Packer had the strange impression they were listening very carefully to a voice from far away, a voice with an important message they couldn’t quite make out.

  “Now pass the lines,” John Hand commanded.

  Scat Wilkins laughed low. “Nice sermon, Reverend. Aye, pass the lines.” Quickly, from the top of the yards of the Seventh Seal, three, then five, then seven ropes were thrown to the deck of the Chase, ostensibly for Scat’s loyal men to swing from Hand’s ship to Scat’s.

  Not one sailor took hold of them.

  Scat sniffed, unruffled. He would have been surprised had any of his men taken this offer. They were awaiting his orders. He gnawed his unlit cigar. Then he smiled. “Seems you win again. But you of all people should know, Admiral,” he said with a sneer, “that nothing’s ever all it seems.”

  The moment hung on the silent portent of Scat’s words as the two captains assessed one another and their situation. The two ships were lashed together so close that the Chase’s cannons, though aimed menacingly down at the Seal’s decks, could not be aimed at her hull. Regardless of the carnage they unleashed, the Chase could not sink the Seal from here. The Seal’s cannons were aimed upward, but they could not hit the decks of the Chase. The best they could do was take out rails and sails and masts, but the hull of the greater ship was armored, and safe. Both commanders knew that a fight from this distance favored the Chase, whose crew had the high ground, and therefore cover. But Scat still counted on greater numbers, with his sailors aboard the Chase just itching to fight against John Hand.

  The old pirate took the cigar from between his teeth, and scanned the faces lined up against him. He nodded, satisfied. Now was the time. Now he would set the dismal errors of the king and the prince to rights. Vigilance was his. As was precision. And now he would have vengeance. Now he would have the Trophy Chase. He smiled.

  “Loyal men, stand firm!” Scat called. And then with a roar and a snarl, sounding almost like the pirate captain he once was, he commanded, “Take back the Chase!” The men of the Seal cheered and fired with muskets and pistols, taking out first the men who held the poles that kept the two ships a
part.

  Hand’s face contorted into a blaze of anger as his men returned fire, not waiting for orders. “Open fire!” he commanded, his voice lost in the din of exploding black powder.

  Now the great cat roared, showing no trace of her former sleepiness. Cannon blasted down onto the decks of the Seventh Seal, cracking and thundering as great tongues of flame and smoke lashed out.

  The smaller ship staggered under furious blows. The cannon rained down fire and smoke, while blood and splintered wood turned her decks to a deadly maelstrom almost instantly. Scat’s sailors peppered back with small arms as best they could, and the cannon blasted upward, grapeshot and canister ripping what it could reach. But the crewmen of the Chase took cover simply by lowering themselves to a knee and ducking their heads. When the cannon blasts ceased, the sailors on the taller ship fired down on the unprotected cannoneers of the Seal.

  Scat was unconcerned with this initial volley. He figured he would weather it. He knew that while fifteen cannonballs might do a great deal of damage, they could take out no more than twenty or thirty of his men at the very most. He would lose a few more to small arms. But he had as many men loyal to him on the decks of the Chase, who would already be thinning his enemy’s ranks there. As soon as this initial volley ended, he would order all his men across, to overrun her, like Achawuk, fighting hand-to-hand.

  Scat’s protégé, business partner, and one-time friend, however, had prepared for the same battle. He had ordered the Chase’s cannon loaded not with cannonballs, nor even with grapeshot, but with scrapshot. Each blast left not a single hole or crater, but rather a wide and bloody swath of destruction from ten pounds and more of scrap metal and shrapnel: nails, screws, buckshot, even the occasional knife or fork, loaded into cotton bags that disintegrated when fired, spreading their contents over the widest range possible, almost ninety degrees from the cannon’s muzzle. This pirate’s gambit, unexpected from a newly minted admiral or an old academic, more than doubled Scat’s worst-case casualty count. Hardly a man aboard the Seal was left unbloodied. And when the volley finally ended and the smoke began to clear, Scat ordered far fewer men aboard the Chase than he had hoped.