A Sea Too Far (6 page)

Confident he was invisible to the men seated around the water hole, he crawled through the tangle of bushes and tree trunks, parallel to the sandy site. When he estimated he was directly behind the men sitting to the right of the little pond, he stopped.

Warren’s heart pounded inside his chest. Perspiration dimpled his brow. His breathing was shallow and rapid. He considered simply standing, walking out of the jungle, and begging food and water. But the appearance of the men from the rocky ridge had been alarming. The plethora of deadly weapons strewn casually about had been deeply troubling. He knew he had to learn if the rough–looking men would welcome him or cause him harm. With renewed purpose, Warren inched his way closer to the edge of the jungle until he could clearly hear their conversation.

~8~
 

“D
o ye think we should take the amnesty offered by that scallywag Rogers?” one of the men grumbled. “I not be sure he’s to be trusted.”

“Trusted or not, ye miserable sot, what would ye do if ye wasn’t a pirate?” another stated with conviction. “Become a dress maker? Build ships? Ye be lucky if ye can nail a peg in a round hole. I’ve not seen such a fool as ye with tools.”

A third man pushed to a sitting position from his elbow and reached for the jug sitting in front of his comrade. “It not be for me, the amnesty,” he said as he raised the vessel to his lips and took a long pull of the liquid contents. “I took to the sea for the freedom of the life. Where else can ye find such a merry existence? Would ye be happier plowing a patch of dirt and dying of the plague in England?”

“I like me freedom, too,” a fourth man said. “But I like me gold even better.” He lifted a heavy gold chain from around his neck and shook it proudly for his compatriots to see. “Do thee think ye can get something like this working an honest trade ashore?”

The first man looked admiringly at the costly treasure adorning his friend’s throat. “And what good will that beautiful piece of golden rope do ye when they stretch thy neck with a real length of hemp?”

“They can have their chance at me golden neck,” the fourth man responded, “if they can wade through the steel of me sword.” He withdrew a heavy blade from a black leather case and brandished it menacingly in the air.

“Ahoy, Governor Woodes Rogers,” he said with a jolly laugh, feigning a conversation with the governor. “Come for a visit to our hideout, have ye? We’ll discuss thy amnesty and me precious neck over a pint of grog. Then I will be obliged to slit thy throat and watch the blood turn the ocean red.”

The three men laughed uproariously. The jug was passed around to the cheers of the unrepentant pirates.

Warren’s eyes swelled in their sockets as he realized he was in the midst of a band of murderous hooligans armed with enormous swords. He instinctively retreated from the cluster of men who sat less than ten feet from him in the clearing on the edge of the jungle.

The boy’s foot landed against a dead branch as he eased his body backward, deeper into the thick foliage. He paused, uncertain if his movement was disturbing the jungle and giving away his location.

Portions of the men’s conversation had confused Warren. He didn’t understand the talk about an amnesty. He had never heard of the governor who the men seemed to dislike and distrust. The rest of the talk left no doubt as to the men’s vocation. They were self-admitted pirates and thieves.

Warren narrowed his eyes and stared through the thickness of the vegetation. He was far enough away that he could no longer distinguish the men’s words. Perhaps it was safe to retrace his path to the coral ridge line on the rise above the gathering.

He pivoted his shoulders and began crawling. The loud snap of the dry shaft of wood beneath his foot sounded like a rifle shot in the stillness of the heavy air in the jungle. Warren knew he was in trouble.

“What be that, lads?” one of the men said in a nervous voice as he rose to his feet and looked into the tall undergrowth.

“That were no animal,” another man said with certainty. “Do we have a trespasser afoot in our jungle lair? Unsheathe thy weapons, comrades.”

Warren heard the commotion among the pirates he had spied upon. The words were indistinct, but the meaning of their tone was clear. He had been discovered. He looked to his left, deeper into the tangle of tree trunks, brambles, prickly bushes and fallen palm fronds. To escape in that direction appeared hopeless. In any event, he couldn’t leave Conchshell.

The boy had no doubt his best friend would wind up on a spit suspended over one of the fires he had noticed on the far side of the clearing.

Warren was fleet of foot. He was younger and no doubt in better shape than any of the pirates. Conchshell could outrun any man alive. Together, in spite of their dehydration, hunger and fatigue, they might be able to race back through the jungle trail, regain the beach, push the dory into the water, and sail out of danger.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Warren crashed through the remaining expanse of foliage to the sandy opening. He burst up the slope toward the coral ridge, his legs pumping like pistons in the soft surface.

“Get ready to run, Shelly girl,” he screamed. “We’ve got to get back to the boat.”

The boy’s efforts to scale the slight rise rapidly drained his severely depleted energy. His tired muscles burned as his feet churned in the malleable terrain.

“Get him,” several of the pirates screamed in concert as the boy exploded from the cover of the jungle and headed for the high ground.

“Me thinks we have us a spy,” another voice shouted. “The lad was hiding in the bramble, listening to our conversation.”

“It be a trick of the new governor,” a third yelled with conviction. “He would have us all swinging from a yardarm before sunset.
Get him
!”

Conchshell rose to her feet at the sound of her master’s voice. She knew her friend wouldn’t yell if silence was still required. The Labrador had dutifully remained at her designated post in spite of terrible misgivings about the separation. Now she barked repeatedly in her most ferocious voice, adding loud growls to increase the intimidation. Perhaps the sound of her throaty snarls would scare away their enemies.

Warren reached the top of the ridge. The enormous effort required to ascend the slope surprised the boy. He had underestimated the difficulty of running in the soft sand. He had misjudged the degree of his fatigue and the depth of his debility.

He planted his bare foot in the yielding sand and launched his body over the coral outcropping. His step was short. The toes of his leading foot scraped the hard rock. He tumbled head over heels and rolled toward Conchshell who was desperately barking and bouncing back and forth to ward off the approach of the two groups of pirates circling the ridgeline.

* * *

The boy sat heavily in the sand, his foot bleeding, his nose running, his breath coming in gasps, and his forehead again leaking incarnadine fluids from the tumbling dive over the coral outcropping.

Five pirates skidded to a halt on either side of Warren. Ten gleaming blades brandished the air.

“Is that your cur?” one of the alarming men asked roughly.

Warren nodded as he wiped blood from his head.

“If ye don’t want him roasted for our supper,” the pirate continued, “tell him to cease his yapping.”

“Come, Shelly girl,” Warren said patting the ground beside him. “No more barking for now.”

The Labrador obeyed instantly. She understood the futility of continued barking among the hardened, fearsome men.

“What brings ye to our camp?” one of the men demanded as he swung his broad blade menacingly in front of Warren’s trembling face.

Conchshell silently bared her fangs at the pirate threatening her master. She had been commanded to cease barking; nothing was said of showing her sharp teeth.

“My dog and I were blown here last night in the hurricane,” Warren said. His wavering voice betrayed his acute nervousness at the precarious situation.

“A likely story, young pup,” another pirate said dismissively. “What be a youngster like ye doing, sailing around the islands in a storm such as we saw last night?”

Warren looked around at the assembly of motley pirates. Several bore prominent scars on their faces and limbs. A few sported facial hair, but after closer inspection the boy realized that at least three of his captors were not much older than he was. One strikingly handsome, smooth-skinned member of the gang appeared to be not more than seventeen years of age.

“We weren’t sailing around the islands,” Warren said more firmly. “We were swept off our beach at Serenity Cay.”

“Ha!” another pirate scoffed. “Serenity Cay. And where be that lovely island? I’ve never heard tell of such a place.”

Warren began to wrinkle his forehead in confusion before the pain of his wound interceded. Serenity Cay was a small island, but it was certainly well known in the Bahamas. How could these pirates not know of the place?

“I say we string the lad up to a tall palm tree,” the first buccaneer said. “He be a spy sent by the governor who wants to hang us all.”

The sword wielding pirate stepped forward and grabbed one of Warren’s arms. “Enough talk of fantasy islands from the likes of ye, lad,” he said. “Come with us back to the water hole. Ye and thy mangy cur will rue the day ye landed on our island.”

Warren struggled against the restraining pair of hands wrapped tightly around his biceps, but the strength of the two men was overwhelming. Reluctantly, he walked down the sandy slope, nerves jangling with uncertainty about his future.

Conchshell trudged along at her master’s side. Her majestic yellow head drooped with unrestrained shame at her inability to help her friend.

~9~
 

Warren rested with his back against a stout palm tree. Heavy sisal ropes bound his arms to his sides and pinned him to the trunk. Granules of sand clung to the insides of his dry mouth, inhaled during his head-first landing after stumbling over the coral ledge. He tried to spit but couldn’t summon sufficient saliva.

Conchshell lay at his side. She had wandered to the water hole as her master was being tied and drank thirstily. She returned to Warren and pushed her wet muzzle toward the boy’s face, allowing him to lick precious drops from her damp fur. There was nothing more she could contribute.

The ebullient buccaneers sat around the water hole sipping from flasks and earthenware containers, basking in the glory of their brilliant victory. They had captured a dangerous spy. They had thwarted the crude plan of the newly appointed Governor of the Bahamas, Woodes Rogers, to discover their hideout and end their reign of piracy.

“Which tree should we hang the lad from?” one of the pirates asked. “We need a horizontal limb. These palms don’t grow like that.”

“We could use a yardarm on the ship,” another offered.

“I say we sneak him into Nassau and hang him from a tree in the governor’s front yard. That’ll send the message to Mr. Rogers that we don’t appreciate his treacherous ways of sneaking spies into our midst,” a third pirate suggested before slurping a deep draught from a jug of rum.

“The captain’s coming ashore! The captain’s coming ashore!”

The cry sounded from the beach to the east of the water hole. The assembled slovenly sailors immediately stiffened their postures and slipped corks on the various containers of intoxicating beverages.

“Look smart for the captain, lads,” one of the pirates cautioned. “Ye know he does not abide sloppy appearances.”

Warren stared toward the dashing courier approaching the water hole. So . . . the captain was coming ashore. Perhaps the man had more sense than the motley group of ruffians who had managed to capture him only because he was tired and thirsty and wounded and had tripped on the coral outcropping.

The boy’s opinion of the pirates had dropped substantially after noticing their ragged appearance, obvious lack of education, and undisciplined behavior. They were filthy, smelly and uncouth. But they possessed weapons and apparently knew how to use them.

A gigantic man strode through the jungle toward the assembled pirates. He was backlit in the morning sun, and the details of his features were momentarily obscured. Clearly visible was the blade of a long sword hanging from his waist. Two pistols hung from lanyards around his neck.

An enormous three-pointed black hat covered the man’s large head, and Warren could see a twisted ponytail swinging behind the broad shoulders of the captain as he drew closer.

Warren’s previously diminishing fear reversed and intensified. Walking directly toward him was the most frightening man he had ever seen.

Twin black eyes bored into Warren’s terrified face from beneath two tangled brows of wiry hair. Ruddy cheeks quickly gave way to a full mustache. A luxuriant, black beard, braided into eight different thick strands, hung from the man’s chin to his waist. Tiny candles were woven into the copious facial hair, and their small wicks gave off minute wisps of smoke.

The captain stopped in front of Warren and looked down with bemusement. Without speaking he reached our and seized Conchshell by the back of the neck.

“A fine looking cur ye be,” the man addressed to the startled Labrador. “Though I warrant ye don’t much like being picked up by the scruff.” The man’s hand opened, and Conchshell fell to her feet with a yelp of surprise.

The blonde Labrador quickly rushed to her master’s side and turned to face the huge man. She withdrew the furry skin from her upper lip and bared her fangs. Drops of saliva fell from her front teeth. A long, slow growl tumbled from her throat.

“A feisty one,” the captain said with a small smile. “I’ll give ye that, and very handsome besides. We have no such dog in England.” He turned toward the assembled pirates and allowed his eyes to sweep across the entire band of men.

As if orchestrated, the pirates nodded their agreement with the captain simultaneously.

Returning his attention to Warren, the captain pointed a thick finger. “And what be ye doing on me island, young pup?”

Warren began to tremble in terror. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words formed.