Jack barely had time to place his hands on either side of her waist, before Caesar wheeled smartly around, and began trotting down the road…a slow, gentle trot. “Relax, Captain Sparrow,” she called back. “When your back is stiff, you bounce. Relax, then you can sit.”
He tried to comply, and discovered that, as she had said, relaxing his back made the gait much easier to sit. It became springy, rather than jarring. The miles flowed smoothly past.
When they reached the Dalton farm, Ayisha and Jack slid off the horse, and she handed him the reins. “You stay here, Captain Sparrow. I will go and bring Tarek.”
“Can’t we just tie him up?” Jack asked.
“No. Horses who must stand and wait become bored, like humans.
When they become bored, they paw, they break their reins, and they call out to other horses. We don’t want that, do we?”
“No, we don’t,” Jack conceded.
“Just hold him and talk to him…softly. Pat him. If starts to make any noise, put your hand atop his nostrils, like this—” Jack’s hand was seized and pressed onto the horse’s nose. “Not too hard. Pressing and rubbing his nostrils will keep him from calling out to his kin.”
Jack opened his mouth to ask how long she’d be, but, with a rustle of underbrush, she was gone.
Feeling ridiculous, he patted Caesar, and began talking to the horse…softly. After a while, he ran out of “good boys” and began telling him sea stories. He’d reached the tale of the time the Breton Bay went through the typhoon, and four crewmen were swept right off her stern, when he heard a soft rustle of brush.
Moments later, Ayisha emerged from the underbrush. There was someone with her. Jack found himself looking up. The newcomer was more than a full head taller than Jack, and far broader, especially across his shoulders.
“Captain Sparrow,” she whispered. “This is Tarek. He will run, while we ride.”
“If you don’t mind,” Jack said, “I’d just as soon stretch me legs a bit. I’ll run for the first mile or two.” He nodded to Tarek. “Besides, they’re bound to look for you, mate, and they’ll likely use dogs. If you ride for a while, might confuse them, make them lose the scent.”
Ayisha nodded. “That is good thinking, Captain. We shall do as you suggest.”
The threesome headed north, back to Calabar.
By six bells of the middle watch, Caesar was returned to the livery, watered, girth loosened, and securely tied to the hitching rail.
Jack, Ayisha, and Tarek made their way along the dock to the Wicked Wench. Robby and Chamba, as expected, were waiting for them, with the longboats already crewed and ready to tow. Moments after the gangplank was pulled up, the mooring lines were cast off, and the Wicked Wench glided out into the river, towed by her boats, soundless as a ghost vessel of legend. The tide was going out, and that helped, too.
By the time the ship had left the harbor behind, they’d raised minimum sail. Long before dawn lightened the east, they had reached the Atlantic.
CHAPTER TEN
Revelations
THE DAY THE WICKED WENCH TURNED her stern to Calabar Harbor, Jack looked forward to putting a goodly number of nautical miles beneath her keel. Thoughts of Zerzura, and its treasure, reverberated in his mind like siren song, and he was impatient to get there. Unfortunately, the winds were against them, blowing west to east. Coming back to Africa was easy—going away was the challenge. For the next few weeks, they’d have to tack back and forth to make forward progress, rather than the comparatively easy and straightforward progress of running before the wind. Fortunately, Jack and his crew were used to dealing with the vagaries of the winds, and accustomed to having to “beat to westward” until they cleared the bulge of Africa and could pick up the easterly trade winds.
The day had began auspiciously with their early start, and continued with fine sailing weather. As soon as dawn broke, Jack, mindful of his passengers, dispatched his carpenter and the new carpenter’s mate, Newton, to rig up a temporary cabin for the unlikely pair. The carpenters quickly framed in a six-foot square on the main deck, next to the minuscule cabins allotted to the ship’s officers and quartermaster, then used canvas to create its “walls.” The little “cabin” even had its own “window”—an unused gun port. Jack appointed Chamba “Passenger Steward” for the duration of the voyage, instructing him to see to the needs of Ayisha and her friend.
By the time the ship reached blue water on the Atlantic, Jack left Second Mate Frank Connery in command, so he and Robby could grab a few hours sleep. They emerged before noon, after breaking their fast, to find the ship on the starboard tack. The lower bulge of the African coast, which had been barely a smudge on the northern horizon, was gone. Jack was well satisfied with their progress, after checking the traverse board, the record of the chip log, and their compass heading. With any luck, the Wench would make more than a hundred miles by midnight.
Unfortunately, luck was against them.
As the sun dipped toward the western horizon, Jack and Robby were standing on the weather deck, going over the watch roster, when Chamba appeared, heading for the two men. When he reached Jack he hesitated before speaking, giving Robby Greene a swift glance. “You may speak in front of First Mate Greene,” Jack said. “I’ve apprised him of the situation regarding our passengers.”
Jack had filled Robby in on what was happening over breakfast in his cabin, including his hopes for a fast voyage north to Kerma. Robby had gotten a good laugh over Jack’s description of Caesar and his antics. “You should have sent me, Jack,” he’d said, amused. “Before I was ’pressed by our estimable Royal Navy to be a powder monkey, I used to ride the horses on my father’s farm.” He’d smiled slightly at the memory. “Of course, they were huge plow horses. Not nearly as…lively…as Caesar sounds.”
Jack had started to laugh with his first mate, then grimaced instead as muscles protested. “I agree, I should have sent you, mate. Then it would be your bum that feels as though it got keelhauled last night. I hope I never have to straddle one of those misbegotten jades again, and that’s the truth.”
Now, as evening approached, Chamba nodded at Jack. “Aye, Cap’n. Good evenin’, Mr. Robby.”
“So how are our passengers doing?” Robby asked.
“Mr. Tarek, he be doing pretty much fine, but Miss Ayisha, she lookin’ pretty peaky. Didn’t want no food. I got her settled in her bunk, and she finally fall asleep.”
“Bunk?” Jack said. “What bunk?”
“When Miss Ayisha see Tarek climb into his hammock, she say, ‘I can’t do that.’ She say she too old to climb into such a contraption. So I speak to Mr. Newton, and he come back down and right quick nail together a bunk frame for her on the deck. I found an old straw tick in the ship’s stores, and that’s where she be lying, Cap’n.”
Jack glanced at Robby. “Samuel Newton appears to be a find,” he commented.
“He does, Cap’n,” Robby agreed.
“I don’t know why our passenger refused to climb into a hammock,” Jack mused, grumpily. “The woman may have a face that could stop the clock on Saint Stephen’s Tower, but she’s spry for her age. She climbed aboard that infernal excuse for a bloody equine handily enough.”
“Where be Saint Stephen’s Tower, Cap’n?” Chamba wanted to know.
Jack and Robby had grown used to this over the past few months. The lad had more curiosity about the world than any ten cats. “It’s in London, Chamba.”
“There be a big clock there?”
“Yes, on the tower of Saint Stephen’s.”
“That be a church, Cap’n?”
Jack shook his head. “It used to be. But now the House of Commons meets there. It’s all part of the Palace of Westminster.”
“Never seen a palace,” Chamba said. “I’d like to see one, me. The English king, he live there too? When we going to London next?”
Jack had just started to explain about how Westminster Palace was no longer the royal residence, when a cool breath
of air brushed his ear, trailing along his cheek. Breaking off, he licked his finger and held it up. “Wind’s freshening from the west, mates.”
Robby and Chamba were staring over Jack’s shoulders, their eyes widening. “Jack,” Robby said. “We’ve got weather coming.”
Jack turned to see a mass of clouds the color of a livid bruise boiling up from the west. From the looks of the storm, he judged they had between twenty and thirty minutes to prepare the Wicked Wench. “Looks like a good fresh gale,” Jack observed, cheerfully. “Should blow some of this heat away, if we’re fortunate.” He glanced at Chamba. “We’ll need all topmen aloft, lad.”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
The Wicked Wench had all sails set, except for her very topmost canvas—the royals. “We’ll need to take the t’gallants off, Captain, or we might lose them,” Robby said, glancing upward at their spread of canvas. “If we have time,” he added, uneasily.
Jack smiled at him. Not only was he not nervous, he felt exhilarated. This would be the Wench’s first serious storm under his command. He’d drilled his crew; they were ready. He hoped. “We’ll have time,” he said, sounding confident. “Don’t worry, Robby. She’s a good, weatherly ship.” Then, more formally, he added, “Summon all hands, please, Mr. Greene. Instruct them to make storm canvas.”
“Aye, Captain,” Robby cupped his hands around his mouth. “All hands on deck!” he shouted. “Step lively now! All hands!” Moments later the clanging of the ship’s bell reinforced his command.
Immediately, men began pouring onto the weather deck, some, who had been napping, blinking blearily in the reddish light. “Lads, we’ve got a gale coming!” Robby yelled. He pointed up. “All topmen! Shorten to storm canvas! Furl t’gallants! One reef in tops’ls and courses! Smartly, now, lads!”
Chamba was already halfway up the foremast. The other topmen scurried after the youth. The storm was moving fast; the Wench’s fifteen topmen would have their work cut out to get the canvas on all three masts reefed before it struck. There weren’t enough topmen to tackle more than one mast at a time, so these specialized hands had to move quickly, with no mistakes.
Jack, Robby, and Connery divided up the job of supervising the crew in order to make sure the Wench was as ready as possible to ride out the gale. Connery headed up to the quarterdeck to confer with the helmsman, assign a burly lee helmsman to assist with the wheel, and make sure the binnacle lantern was lit. After seeing that the topmen were working quickly and efficiently, Robby turned his attention to overseeing the men still on deck who were working with the lines to furl the jibs.
For his part, Jack strode around the weather deck, verifying that all hatches and equipment were being properly battened down. When he was satisfied that they were being attended to, the captain located the ship’s cook, his carpenter, and the new seaman, Newton. They had no assigned tasks, and were standing on the weather deck watching the frenzied activity aloft, when the captain braced them. “You three, head down to the main deck, and check that all the guns and gun carriages are securely fastened. We don’t want one breaking free, savvy, lads?”
“Aye, Cap’n!” chorused three voices as one, and they scattered. Cannon were so heavy that having one break free and go crashing about the deck during a storm could result in not only loss of life, but also a gaping hole in the hull, and a foundered ship.
The pleasantly cool breeze had now become a real wind, tugging at Jack’s full sleeves, lashing at the canvas as the topmen worked, reefing the mainmast courses, having finished the foremast sails. Jack glanced west as lightning flickered, followed by the rumble of thunder. The setting sun was compressed to a lurid slash of crimson and coral by heavy-bellied purple clouds. As the rising wind whipped the waves into whitecaps the Wench’s motion became more pronounced. She rolled like a barrel on a slope.
The topmen finished the mainmast, and swarmed up the mizzen. Minutes continued to tick by in Jack’s head. Mentally, he ran through his list of storm readiness tasks, checking and rechecking that nothing had been overlooked. Westward, storm clouds now extended across more than half the sky, spreading like spilled ink. The Wench wasn’t just rolling by now, she was frankly pitching, reminding Jack of Caesar, the demon horse.
Another crack of lightning illuminated the crewmen spread out along the mizzen lateen, the lowest of the mizzen sails. The resulting thunderclap sounded like cannon fire. That’s the last sail…hurry, lads!
Cupping his hands around his mouth, Jack bellowed, “Lively, lively! Haul taut those bunt lines! Make fast the bunt gaskets! Lively, I said! Are you sailors or bloody grandsires? Move!” The ship lurched. Jack braced and balanced as she bucked beneath him. Hurry, or you’ll be blown right off that yardarm!
The lateen was reefed! Jack watched the topmen scramble down the yard, moving to the mast along the yardarm. Then, seizing the ratlines, they climbed downward, hand over hand, legs dangling. During a break in the wind he could hear quick, panting gasps.
Bare feet hit the deck, slapping the planks. The last of the hands were down, and safe, scurrying below.
Jack breathed again, just in time to get slapped by a plume of salt spray. Lightning cracked nearly overhead, and the explosion of thunder followed right on its heels. Spitting out a mouthful of Atlantic, he grabbed for his hat, managing to catch it just before it took wing. The wind was shrieking and howling now, sounding like damned souls in some maritime hell. Ducking his head against the sudden silver curtain of rain, Jack ran across the deck to the starboard ladder leading up to the quarterdeck, and bolted up it two steps at a time.
Three figures in tarred weather-gear awaited him. Jack’s helmsman on watch, Matthews, grasped the spokes of the wheel, while the burly lee helmsman, Banks, stood off to the side to assist. Steering a ship through a gale was an arduous job, both physically and mentally taxing. The helmsman had to keep an eye on the angle of the waves, as well as how the wind filled the reefed courses, in order to keep the ship on the best heading. In addition to the two helmsmen, an ordinary seaman was assigned to the watch, and his job was to turn the hourglass every half hour, and update the traverse board with the course the helmsman reported.
Matthews stood with his legs braced, his bearded features tight with concentration as he and Banks worked at keeping the Wench angled properly. The Wench was taking the waves at roughly forty-five degrees, so the big swells rolled in beneath her starboard bow, then rolled out beneath her stern on the port side. Trying to head directly into the waves would pummel the vessel worse, might even break her in two, and taking the waves crosswise to them might cause her to capsize.
Matthews glanced sideways as Jack appeared beside him. “Bit of a blow, Cap’n!” He had to duck his head to keep water out of his mouth, and shout to be heard over the wind. Banks nodded at the captain, but didn’t speak, concentrating on helping Matthews hold the wheel steady. Jack glanced over at the other figure swathed in the tarred weather-gear, and, by the dim glow of the binnacle-light, recognized Lucius Featherstone.
“Aye,” Jack responded to Matthews, “Just a bit.”
Even up here on the quarterdeck, salt spray flicked his face, slick and cold like the hand of a drowned corpse. It made the deck slippery, and with the way the wind was gusting, a man might fall and slide right over the side. Jack cupped his hands around his mouth. “You need to put on safety lines, mates.”
Lucius passed the lines out, and they all tethered themselves, with Jack helping to steady the wheel as first Matthews, then Banks, secured theirs. Then Jack tied on his own line, tying the two half hitches and tugging, to make sure they weren’t going to slip. The Wicked Wench wasn’t pitching all that hard—yet. But this was just the beginning.
“Who’s on lookout?” he yelled, shielding his eyes from another splash of spray, and just making out a shadowy figure forward, by the windward rail.
The lookout was posted up toward the bow, and it was his job to watch for anything in the ship’s path—such as another vessel.
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p; “It’s de Ver, Cap’n Sparrow,” Featherstone shouted back. “He should be fine up there. Everyone knows frogs like being wet.”
Jack rolled his eyes. One day, I swear, I’m going to give them both lashes if they don’t stop, he promised himself—though, truth to tell, he’d never yet ordered a crewman flogged.
The Wench heaved and rolled hard. Jack staggered, and this time had to grab a line to keep from being flung to his knees. Carefully, he crabbed sideways and looked down into the binnacle at the compass.
The compass needle was jerking wildly, as he’d expected. Jack watched it for more than a minute, noting where it pointed most often. He finally concluded that they were most likely moving south-southwest. Which, under the circumstances, was acceptable. He clapped Matthews on the back and shouted, “Stay on the wind, Matthews! We’re still making some westing, mate, despite this gentle shower! Just keep her as close to the wind as she’ll lie, and we’ll weather this just fine.”
Matthews laughed, got a mouthful of water, and spat off to port before replying, “Aye, Cap’n!”
Lightning bolts streaked the sky all around the plunging ship. Jack eyed the tops of his masts worriedly. They were certainly the tallest things out here. He’d seen masts and rigging struck before…had helped to remove and replace charred masts and spars when he’d first signed on as a merchant seaman.
Even worse than the thought of lightning hitting a mast was the possibility that it might hit the deck and travel, starting fires. And if a fire started anywhere near the powder magazine…
And I just laid on those two extra casks of powder, Jack recalled, ruefully. If lightning ignites the powder magazine, there wouldn’t be anything left except chum for the sharks…After a moment, he shrugged. He couldn’t do anything about the lightning, so he’d just put it out of his mind and hope for the best.
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom Page 35
