“Who sent ye’?”
“Nobody.”
“Aye, so ye’re tellin’ me that ye fell from the sky, then?”
Ian nodded.
“An’ next I ‘spect ye’ll be tellin’ me that thar’s giant green sea monsters out thar that eat folk?”
“I don’t think they eat people, but - - -“
The Captain burst into uproarious laughter. He fell backwards into his chair and chuckled until tears rolled down his face. When he finally settled down, he faced Ian once again. “It’ll go better fer ye if’n ye jus’ tells the truth now. Who sent ye to be spyin’ on us?”
Ian stood still, not sure how to answer. Clearly, the Captain would not believe anything he could say. He’d already made it clear that he didn’t believe in Nessie or Nestor. Ian could hardly believe himself. At this moment, he truly didn’t know what to believe, or do.
“It ‘twer that loser, Gamblin’ James, weren’t it?”
Ian tried to think quickly, but his words didn’t come quick enough.
“I knew it!” Peg Leg yelled. “That good fer notin’ loser had done lost his soul to the Badun’s in a game of chance.”
“The Badun’s?”
“Aye. Ain’t ye never heared of the Badun’s?”
Ian shook his head.
“Them so evil none can stand ‘em.” He eyed Ian again, his tone serious. “So how came ye to be in thar company, then?”
Ian said nothing. Again he pointed skyward.
Peg Leg laughed. “Aye, right then. Ye fell from the sky.” He snorted. “Weel, ye be my prisoner now, lad. Heed yer warnin’ weel sonny. Foller yer ordern’ and it’ll be weel wit’ ye. Don’t, and yer punish’n weel be harsh. Weel not be havin’ any mutiny on this ship.”
Ian nodded.
“Prove yerself and ye can join us.”
Ian’s heart jumped. “I can join you? Really? I’ve always dreamed of being a pirate.”
“Yer awful eager, son. Mos’ folk ain’t so pleased ‘bout bein’ a slave. I still ain’t sure you ain’t a spy. I need to do some check’n firs’.”
He stood from the chair and banged his peg on the floor three times. The door immediately opened and the same two guards entered. “Take ‘im back to up top. He’s kin swabs the deck till dark.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” the two muttered. Ian was again grabbed from behind and shoved back out into the darkened galley-way leading up to his punishment.
The sun was blinding after the absolute blackness of his room. Ian tried to focus his eyes, but still had to shield them with his hands until they adjusted.
“Put yer’ hands down, swabby.” Ian lowered his hand, but the man standing next to him did not.
“I cain’t see,” he tried to protest. Ian focused enough to see his hand slapped away from his face. Both prisoners closed their eyes waiting for more punishment to come. Ian inhaled the fresh salty sea air and tried to clear his head. A loud crash, and something hard slamming into his shin jerked his senses back. Opening his eyes, he saw a wooden bucket, a rope, and a straggly mop with barely any mop strands remaining, laying on his feet.
“One of ye pull the water from the sea, and the other swab. Cap’n likes the deck to shine like the sun. Understand?”
Both nodded.
“Weel git, then.”
The other man dove for the bucket. “I fetch the water. Ye swab,” he ordered. Turning his back on Ian, he tied the rope onto the bucket handle and lowered it over the rail. Ian picked up the mop and eyed the head. There weren’t more than a dozen stringy pieces, some barely attached. He shook his head. Looking around at the deck of the ship he knew there was no way this would do the job. Maybe that’s why his so-called partner took the easy job.
The first bucket of icy water sloshed at his feet. Ian turned to look at the aged man who was his partner. Raggedy and harsh, he truly looked like a pirate. Toothless and dirty, his eyes darted from one end of the ship to the other constantly. He looked scared, but of what Ian didn’t know. Perhaps he truly was a spy. Maybe that’s why old Peg Leg thought Ian was one, too. Well, he’d just have to prove otherwise. Ian saw no other options right now. His shipmates had to trust him. It was his only choice at this point.
Another splash of icy water washed over his feet. “Swab, boy,” he heard his partner order. Ian ignored him. He laid the mop down and pulled off his t-shirt. Ripping the shirt in two, he tied the two pieces around the bottom of the mop handle. Then carefully, he sliced the bottom ends against a ragged piece of the deck rail, shredding it into long strips. After creating a makeshift mop he thought would work, he gave it a try. Dunking the end into a large puddle of seawater, Ian scrubbed a small area of the deck. The new mop head worked great. Looking around to find his partner, Ian found not only him, but several other crew members staring at him.
“What?” he asked.
The guard who’d brought them out this morning pointed at the mop. “Goods works, lad.”
Ian smiled.
“Fetch!” he heard the guard yell at his partner. Ian put his head down and concentrated on his work.
Ian tried to lie down in his room, but couldn’t. He hurt too much. Shoulders sunburned and hands blistered, he couldn’t find a comfortable spot to rest. There was no bed. There was no window. There was no light. Ian tried to feel his way around the room again, but his hands were raw and bleeding. He wanted to cry, but dared not. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
The door jerked open and two guards entered with a lantern. Again, Ian’s eyes took a minute to focus. They were carrying an armload of stuff, but he couldn’t yet tell what it was.
“Cap’n said to give ye these.” They dropped the pile at his feet. A third man came in from behind. He set his lantern on a crate and handed Ian a plate of food and a glass of something. With the room well-lit and his eyes adjusted, Ian could see a blanket on the floor. On top of it was a folded shirt and a pair of gloves. The first man spoke. “Cap’n said to tell ye good works up on the deck.” He shifted his weight and pointed to the pile on the floor. “That be one of Cap’n’s shirts fer ye, and ‘is own blanket, too.”
“Why is Cap’n givin’ ‘im ‘is own stuff?” the second of the three men blurted out. He was quickly clouted on the back of the head by the third man. “Never question Cap’n’s orders. That be treason.” The same man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small jar of something. He threw it to Ian. “Put some salve on yer hands. Good fer healin’.” The three turned and left.
Ian looked at the lantern they had given him, and the bedding on the floor. Satisfied he had done a good job for the day, he sat down to eat. Fish, salty beans, and stale bread had never tasted so good. Ian gulped them down, barely chewing. Falling onto the blanket, he closed his eyes and drifted off.
Chapter 18: Spy
spy [spahy],noun, a person who keeps close and secret watch on the actions and words of another or others.
Day 2
The next morning, Ian found himself back out on the deck, hands greasy but feeling better with the salve. It amazed him how dirty the deck could become just overnight.
Without asking Ian, his prisoner-partner grabbed the bucket and threw fresh, cold seawater on Ian’s feet, just as he had done yesterday. Anger bubbled up inside him at the second day of insults. Ian threw the mop back at him. “You mop today,” he ordered.
“Nay!” he shot back. “I be fetcher ‘gain.”
“No.” Ian was firm. “It’s my turn on the rail.”
A hand shot out and hit him on his sunburned shoulder. Ian’s anger flared. He turned and swung at the other man, who wistfully dodged the blow. Ian tried again, but connected with nothing. A crowd of pirates immediately surrounded them, egging the fighters on. Unable to connect with any blows, Ian lunged forward and tackled the man. The two rolled around on the deck, locked in a tangle of swinging arms and legs. Whoops and cheers surrounded them, until they heard it. The sound of a banging stump on the deck silenced the entire crew.
> Again, the men parted like the famed Red Sea and there stood the wild-haired Captain. “Fight’n ain’t ‘lowed on my ship.”
Ian opened his mouth to protest, but a hand slapped over it. A harsh warning was whispered in his ear. “Quiet! Questionin’ Cap’n’s orders be treason.”
Ian lowered his head. He didn’t know much about sailing ships, but he did know that treason meant a death sentence, and not a very nice one. Swallowing his anger, he looked down.
“You,” Peg Leg pointed to Ian’s partner. “Yer on the mop today.” He grabbed the mop from the ground. Before handing it to the prisoner he pulled off the t-shirt strands that Ian had put on it the day before. Returning it back to its original straggly condition, Captain Peg Leg shoved the mop at the man. “You,” he barked at Ian. “On the bucket, man.” Without another word, he spun on his peg and left.
Ian turned to the man who’d stopped him from speaking. It was one of his toothless guards. “Cap’n likes ye. Don’t be mess’n up.” He grabbed Ian and pulled him to the rail. Handing him the bucket, he gave another stern warning. “No matter what, ye cain’t be fight’n. He be watchin’ now.” He handed the bucket to Ian. “Best be fetchin’.”
Bucket after bucket of fresh seawater Ian hoisted over the rail and threw in front of the mop. Even though he initially tried to be kind to the man, throwing the water in front of him rather than on him, Ian still felt the other prisoner’s hostility toward him. At every opportunity, the man hit Ian with the mop. All morning he repeatedly slammed it into his feet and cracked the handle against his shins. Each time Ian turned to retaliate, he caught a glimpse of Captain Peg Leg, or Toothless staring at him. Swallowing his anger again and again, Ian swore that the other man taunting him would not get the better of him. He had no idea what the man’s plan was, but inciting Ian certainly seemed to be part of it. When the physical attacks didn’t work, the verbal assault started.
“Gimme them gloves, boy,” he ordered.
Ian looked at the man’s rough calloused hands. Clearly he was used to this type of grueling work. Ian rubbed his hands together. They were just starting to feel better. Between the salve and the gloves, they appeared to be healing. A rope burn on top of the blisters would certainly do his hands in.
“You don’t need them,” he said.
“Gimme them gloves, boy,” he barked again. His tone was more menacing, although he still kept his distance. Ian looked around. Toothless and the Captain both kept a stern eye on the situation.
“No.”
Anger flared in the man’s eyes, but he dared not lash out. Not yet anyway. “Trade wit’ me. Yer on the mop now.” It was not a question.
“No.”
Again the man surged with visible anger. His eyes flared and his hands clenched. Darkened and crooked teeth ground out his words.
“I’m – on – the – rail – now, - boy.”
Ian was enjoying this. His own anger unusually under control, he could see past his own feelings and could sense something bigger going on.
“Why?”
“I’s needs to be on yonder rail.”
“Why?”
The man started to move in close, but backed off when he saw the guards notice.
“Please, kid.” His voice had a tone of urgency.
“Hey,” Ian said, “whatever you’re planning, tell me. Maybe I want to do it too.”
“No. I does things alone.”
Ian shook his head. Anger in check, he looked back at the man. “Then you stay on the mop.”
“Nooooooo!” the man raged. He lunged for Ian but was intercepted by the surrounding crew. “I’ll git ye fer this, kid. Ye’ll be mine soon, and ye’ll be sorry sure.”
Ian looked back at the man, wondering what he had ever done to make him so angry – and at him, no less. Ian had never seen the man before. Why was he filled with such rage?
“Keel-haul ‘im.” All eyes turned to the Captain standing at the mainsail.
A long rope was fetched from below. The man began to wail pitifully. He slumped to the ground in a heap and curled into a fetal ball position. He was begging all around him not to do this. Ian’s heart felt for the man, but at the same time knew he could not interfere. A Captain’s power at sea was absolute. As the men surrounded the prisoner preparing to carry out the Captain’s orders, a shout came from high above.
“Battle stations!”
Ian looked up. There, in the crow’s nest at the top of the mainsail, the lookout shouted his warnings.
“Be Gamblin’ Jim and the White Lightnin’. Battle stations!”
“Hoist the sail! Raise the boom! Load the cannon!” Captain Peg Leg was shouting orders one after another at his men. “Raise the anchor! Hard to port!”
Every man ran for their places, leaving Ian and the other man on the deck. Seizing the opportunity, the prisoner ran for the side rail and leapt over. Splashing into the warm water, he began to swim toward the other ship. All eyes were on Ian now. Should he follow? Would he?
Ian turned his back on the man, and climbed the stairs to stand by the Captain on the ship’s bridge. “Waiting for my orders, sir,” he said.
“Thar be yer spy,” Toothless said to Peg Leg, pointing at the swimming man. “This’n be jus’ a lost lad.” They both patted Ian on the back. Peg Leg smiled at him. The three all turned to watch the other ship.
Both ships sat motionless in the water, waiting for the other to move first.
“What are they doing?” Ian asked.
“Waitin’,” Peg Leg whispered.
“For what?”
“Fer us to lose our temper an’ fire firs’.”
“Why is firing first bad? Aren’t they the enemy?”
“Don’t want to go chargin’ in. May be a trap. Need to stay in control so’s we can see ever’thing. Keep a safe distance till we know’s what’s what.”
Ian squinted and looked out over the water at the other ship. At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. He rubbed his eyes, and focused again. “Why does that ship have two main masts?”
“That ain’t two masts, boy. That be two ships.”
As soon as he said it, the two ships separated and turned to face theirs head-on.
“Make sail!” he shouted. “Full speed! Git us out from here! Full to port! Go, man! Go!”
The ship lurched forward and turned away from the others. Peg Leg and Ian kept an eye on the other ships, as the rest of the crew busied themselves with their orders. The first cannon blast echoed across the water, rippling the surface, and splashing down a safe distance away.
“Full speed, lads! Move this ship!”
Still swimming toward the enemy in the water was the spy.
“What about him?” Ian asked.
“He’ll git ‘is. Don’t ye worry none, kid.” Peg Leg turned to check the other side of the ship. “Know when to fight, boy - and when not to.” As he turned back to watch, a giant, red diamond-shaped serpent head with wickedly sharp horns and a long neck rose up from the water. It hovered over the sole swimmer for a second, then swooped down. Snatching him from the water with its razor teeth and loose floppy jowls, it dragged him down below the surface, leaving a calm ripple in its wake.
Ian stared in disbelief. Not again.
“I guess some do eat folk after all.” Ian turned to face a smiling Peg Leg. “Spies always git their due.”
Chapter 19: Message
mes·sage [mes-ij] noun
a communication containing some information, news, advice, request, or the like. Idiom Informal. to understand or comprehend, especially to infer the correct meaning from circumstances
Ian tried to shake the vision, but couldn’t. The memory of the serpent dragging that prisoner under the water, as it had Morgan, was more than his brain could process right now. The chilling memory was just another reminder that this was no game he was playing. It was real and it was, without a doubt, deadly.
Ian opened the door. He no longer had any guards. Th
ey apparently were satisfied that he was no spy. He had shown his loyalty by the choices he’d made today. Ian made his way through the dark galley-way and up onto the deck.
Only a few men manned the deck after the fight. Most were below, licking their wounds and preparing the ship for the next battle. The cool breeze felt good against the last remnants of the sunburn he’d gotten the day before. Ian walked the lonely deck, trying to clear his thoughts. Stopping at the side rail, he leaned over to look at the ocean. Water churned beneath them as the ship continued to make its way through the choppy waves. Ian ignored the sounds of the ship around him, until a familiar sound found him.
Step.
Thump.
Step.
Thump.
Without turning, he asked the question that had been plaguing him all afternoon, “I thought you said you didn’t believe in sea serpents.”
“Aye, weel now. I kin see how he’d be think’n that. But what I said t’wer, ‘is that what yer tellin’ me?’ I ne’er said I dinna believe ye.”
Ian smiled. “Technicality.”
“I know not that word, son, but it matters not. I git the jist of it.”
The two stood silent for a minute, Ian still looking down at the water.
“Why does the serpent bother ye so? Ye seem a good lad. He shan’t be takin’ ye.”
“It’s not me,” Ian said.
“Oh, aye. So ye be knowin’ ‘nother who got his’self took?”
He nodded.
“He ‘twer wit’ ye when ye fell from thar?” Peg Leg pointed up.
Ian was too choked up to speak. He nodded again.
“Weel, I got no words fer ye, then, son. I hear tell of some folk findin’ their way out, but I know not how. It be a prison, ye know. An’ not’s a good ‘un.”
The PriZin of Zin Page 10
