Cerulean Isle
Copyright
WiDo Publishing
Salt Lake City, Utah
Copyright © 2011 by G.M. Browning
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written consent of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Cover design: Rusty Webb
Book design: Don Gee
Print ISBN: 978-1-937178-09-3
www.widopublishing.com
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my mother,
Nancy J. Browning.
The love in her heart is as endless as the sea.
Table of Contents
Advance Praise
Copyright
Dedication
Part 1: A New Life
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part Two: Grenada, Ten Years Later
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part Three: Facing the Past
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Publisher
…Part One…
A New Life
Prologue
"Still waiting, Jacob?”
I sat on the western docks at the edge of the harbor. The sun had dipped below the horizon. The Caribbean Sea reflected the orange and purple sky as the veil of night crept over the island. I turned to my friend, Grant. “She’ll come. She said she would.”
Grant smiled and extended a hand to help me to my feet. “Give her some time. We all suffered a great deal of hardship. She has a duty, like we do. She’ll come when she can.”
We walked down the docks and along the waterfront. The harbor bells chimed in the distance and moored ships creaked as if anxious to be free of their restraints. The sounds of the harbor always made me remember the ordeals of my youth.
I was twelve years old in the year 1746, when my life changed forever.
Chapter 1
Captive
The dark stare of the pirate captain made the townsfolk turn their backs. “Gangway,” he hollered.
As we passed the crowded market, more men joined our group. Some carried baskets of fruit, slabs of smoked meat, or bundles of bread. There must have been thirty dressed in a similar fashion: crudely sewn, dirty tunics and pants. All had some type of belt securing their knives and short swords, but only their captain had a pistol.
As he forced me onward, I recalled the horrifying events of that morning.
My father didn’t say why we had come to the port town. Before that day, I had never joined him on any of his errands. We sat at a table in the center of the saloon. When a disheveled man approached, my father stood to greet him. The man placed a brown pouch in my father’s hand. He did not open it, but weighed it in his palm.
Two bruising hands took hold of my underarms and hoisted me high off my seat. The room whirled around me. Two foul men in tattered tunics forced me across the smoky room. I kicked. I writhed. I screamed—to whom, my father?—I looked back for him, but he was gone.
As my new master hurried me through the bustling roads, he continued calling for his crew. This was the port town Santiago on the island of Cuba, not a common stop for the good of heart. The very sight of the pirate captain was intimidating. His face was dirty and browned from the sun. He wore a faded red scarf over his head to hold back his long black hair. His lips were cracked and his teeth rotten. A large gold ring dangled from his left ear and glinted in the sunlight.
A white, long-sleeved tunic flapped loosely on his torso and tapered down to a tight leather belt. This belt was home to a long and blemished dagger and twelve-inch Flintlock pistol. His crudely sewn brown pants were tucked into muddy, black boots.
My underarm throbbed from his iron grip and my tired feet could hardly keep up with his stride. I stumbled once, but he did not slow. He dragged me until I scrambled back to my feet, the skin on my palms and elbows scraped. I looked for help. I glanced toward a stableman and sent him a pleading look; he shook his head in refusal and went back to shoeing his horse.
We passed a brothel, and outside the swinging wooden doors, two busty women taunted a light-haired man. When the man noticed me being dragged down the road, I reached for him, wordlessly begging for his help. I imagined how I looked: a young man of twelve, thin build with olive-toned skin, and short brown hair being pulled down a dusty road. The light-haired man came forward and, sensing the approach, the pirate stopped and turned to face him.
“You there,” called the man, “what do you mean by handling the lad in such a manner?”
The man was taller than the pirate captain, who looked up at him and grinned. He kept his grip tight around my arm. “I’ll do with him as I please.”
“Are you his father? I fail to see any resemblance in his troubled face.”
“Do you always meddle in the affairs of men more powerful than you? You, with your fancy clothes and golden locks.”
The good man looked down at me. “Release him at once.”
The pirate said nothing. He looked to his left and to his right, his right hand painfully clamped above my left elbow.
“Did you hear what I said, you foul vagrant? Release the boy.”
“No one challenges me and moreover, no one insults me. It has been your fortune that I have stayed my blade for so long. Now, I’m afraid, your luck has run out.”
With those words, he pulled his dreadful dagger. With a groan, the man doubled over and fell, his face slamming against the ground.
The pirate let out a hard laugh. He reached down, still clutching my arm, and rolled the body over. With ease, he withdrew the blade from his stomach. Blood rushed from the open wound.
He spoke coldly to me. “Check him.”
I did not understand.
His jaw tensed. “A man lies before us dead. You have killed him. Now check him. Take whatever money he may have. Do as I say or this patch of road will be a grave for two.”
The man had a small pouch on his belt. I took it off and handed it over. The pirate opened it and poured several silver coins into his hand.
“Not a bad prize. Come, we must make haste to the harbor.”
I kept up and sent glances to no one.
We
passed several saloons much like the one my father had taken me to. As we passed, drunken men often peered out the windows and came out to follow us. On we walked.
Soon we came to the harbor of Santiago. On the looming hillside, I saw the smooth walls of Castillo del Morro, the newly built fort meant to protect the bay’s entrance from people like my captor. Its stone walls, though armed with massive black culverins, looked like gold in the morning sunlight. The ocean spread out from it, blue and green with lapping white waves that sparkled like so many tiny diamonds. The pristine beauty of the sea enchanted me and brought back memories of my mother.
“There she waits,” said the pirate, disturbing my trailing thoughts.
He pointed to the left, and resting off the coastline, anchored beyond the reefs of coral, was a three-masted ship larger than any I had ever seen.
“Behold my worthy ship Obsidian. She’ll be your new home and the pride of all that you do. Serve her and you serve me.”
The pirate captain led me down a sloping rocky hillside and over a narrow road leading to the water. His followers clambered down the stony trail. The harbor was enormous; a resting place for several boats and ships. As we passed smaller fishing ships, I watched men roll barrels of fish down the planking and onto the docks. One of the vessels was in the process of loading cargo. Muscular slaves struggled with large boxes and crates marked with the names of far away places like Grenada, Bonaire, and Puerto Bello. The merchant ship creaked as the heavy freight was hoisted aboard.
We stopped at a stretch of docking, moored to which were several long rowboats. His men filled three of the boats. We took our place in the center of the third; the pirate captain sat at my right and a dirty bald man worked the oar to my left. The rowboats swayed as the men heaved and pushed.
Soon the docks and harbor were far behind us. The blue sea rolled and rocked under our boat, gently lifting and lowering us with each passing wave. With every pull of the oars, we drew closer to the Obsidian.
Chapter 2
Welcome Aboard
The Obsidian loomed over me. Our rowboat drifted close to the sharp, towering bow and soon we passed under the twenty-foot bowsprit. The sprit was as thick as a fallen oak. It tapered away from the ship to become a terrible point.
The figurehead mounted to the massive beam was a wooden carving of a man’s corpse, its wrists tied to the bowsprit and its feet nailed to the prow of the ship. His long tunic was torn from his shoulders and hung around his waist. The giant wooden corpse had lean muscular features, but his head hung lifelessly. Where his eyes should be were two gaping holes. As we passed under him I looked away, still seeing his distorted, reflected face in the moving water
The men rowed along the ship’s starboard bow. The lofty masts scraped the sky and sent long shadows over the waves. The hull was clean and dark brown with a deep red line painted across its length.
The rowboats stopped parallel to the ship. The crew onboard the Obsidian looked gaunt and sullied, like common thieves and beggars in ruined clothing. They tossed long rope ladders down to each boat. The pirates climbed up the swinging ladders and onto the ship. The last man off each tied two separate ropes to the rowboat; one on its bow and one on its stern, and tossed the free ends to the men on deck. The crew hoisted the empty boats from the water and secured them aboard the ship.
Tired, sore, and weak, I struggled to climb the rope ladder. The men shouted at me.
“Land legs troubling ya, boy?”
“Let the sharks have him, he’s useless.”
I slipped on the smooth wet decking, falling hard on my backside. The men laughed, jeered, and cursed at me.
When the captain spoke, the laughing stopped. “Be it known to all that this boy is here to serve our lady Obsidian. He knows naught of the tasks and customs. Be mindful of the shipboard articles of conduct you’ve signed. Now, where’s the quartermaster?”
An older man with curly gray hair came forward. He wore a blue ruffled blouse with a black belt and black pants. He was barefoot like the others. His piercing green eyes studied me.
The captain released his grip on my bruised arm. “Ah, Christoff. Top of the morning.”
“And the rest of the day to you, Captain.”
“I’m entrusting Jacob to you. Get him accustomed to his new home. Assign him as you see fit.”
“Indeed,” replied Christoff. “Tell me, other than this boy, what provisions were you able to secure in Santiago?”
“The men have brought aboard new arms as well as fresh bread, meats, and fruit. There are two barrels of rum and a carton of cheese. I did not make a full invoice.”
“Why not?”
“There was an unexpected turn of events. I killed a foolish would-be hero. He insulted me and tried to take the boy. You needn’t worry, Christoff. There is enough to last, and should it turn out otherwise, I’ll see to it that the stock be replenished. For now, take the boy and prep him to work under the boatswain.”
“As you wish, Captain.” Christoff turned to me. “Let’s get you something to eat. You’ll need your strength if you are to be of any use.”
Christoff was the same height as his captain, six feet. perhaps. He had thick forearms and rigid shoulders. He walked with confidence. The men on deck nodded to him as we passed, and he greeted them with a wave. His bare feet were calloused and scarred, as were his hardened hands. His gray swirling hair looked like the smoke that used to billow upward from my father’s cottage.
A lump of sadness filled my throat as I let my gaze wander over the sea to the island of Cuba. My father is out there somewhere, walking around with a pouch of money. How could he abandon me? What did I do to dishonor him so?
Christoff led me toward the ship’s stern and down to a lower deck. When I smelled the food, my mouth watered. We entered a small room where a one-armed man salted a boiling stew. Two long wooden tables stretched out before me.
“Sit,” ordered Christoff.
I obeyed and watched as he went to the cook’s bubbling pot and scooped out a hearty portion of the stew with a wooden bowl. Christoff dropped a rusted spoon in the bowl and placed the meal before me. The stew was hot, foggy, and brown with chunks of meat, corn, peas, and cabbage swirling around. It smelled of ground pepper.
“Thank you, sir,” I said.
Christoff nodded and sat across from me. He ran his fingers through his hair and rested his elbows on the table. “Eat. Captain Jean L’Ollon expects you to be strong.”
I snatched the spoon and began to eat. The steaming broth ran down my throat. It was a good and comforting meal.
~~~~~~
“Why was I taken from my father? Why did he agree to this?”
“Only your father knows why. Perhaps he was tired of caring for you.”
My mother died shortly after giving birth to a lifeless infant. She had worried when the baby seldom kicked or squirmed. I recalled many times when she tried to tell my father, but he would not listen, refusing to believe her.
I always listened to her. I listened to the bedtime stories she told and the songs she sang as she combed her hair. I listened when she cried out as the quiet baby was pulled out of her.
So it was that I always understood. Every word she spoke meant something to me, but it was her dying words, her promise, that would mean the most.
“Are you a captain as well?” I asked him.
“No, lad. I am the quartermaster, second in command of this vessel. My role is to oversee the actions of the captain and fellow crewmates. I make sure there is order while at sea. I am the only crewmember the captain must consult with and only man aboard with authority to challenge his decisions. As much as L’Ollon prefers to keep his affairs private, I prefer to be in the know. What else do you want to know about your new life?”
I shook my head, afraid to ask all that I wondered about.
The quartermaster prompted me. “Go ahead, lad. You better ask me your questions than another who would beat you as soon as look at you.”
/>
I swallowed hard and asked, “Are the men aboard this ship slaves?”
“The men who work the Obsidian serve her by choice and proudly at that. Captain L’Ollon’s crew consists of dangerous men, each capable of guiltless violence and unspeakable cruelty. With men like this, organization and respect is essential. I, the quartermaster, give this respect and in turn, I gain their trust. I am their spokesman, their representative to L’Ollon.”
As Christoff spoke, I relaxed. “How did you get so much authority?”
“I was elected by the crew. You see, there are many positions that must be filled aboard any ship, lad. Captain, quartermaster, navigator, and boatswain are but a few. Some are voted upon, others are appointed by the captain. All crew members agree to a contract of rules and a code of conduct. As wicked as these men are, they have all sworn peace at sea and camaraderie; well, as much as can be expected.
“You are aboard the ship Obsidian. A grand ship, indeed. A three-masted barque fitted with twelve powerful cannon, the Obsidian has become known as one of the fastest and fiercest ladies on the water today. Captain L’Ollon has made it his life’s work that his name be spoken with dread on every shore. We are proud to sail with him.”
“How can you be proud of someone who can kill so easily?”
“Ah, you have a sharp tongue and much to learn, lad. You must first understand a man before you can pass judgment. Captain Jean L’Ollon is the grandson of the most ruthless pirate to ever set sail, Jacques Jean-David Nau, known throughout by his professional name, Francis L’Olonnais. Do you know anything of him?”
I shook my head.
“Well then, there’s a yarn to be shared, but I’ve rambled on for too long. There’s work to be done.”
“What will become of me?” I had heard stories of how slaves were treated on distant lands, starved, beaten, chained and killed when no longer needed.
“You are the property of Captain Jean L’Ollon. He has ordered me to assign you as I see fit. You will work, lad. You’ll begin your service among the cabin boys helping them clean the ship from deck to bilge. The cooper will teach you how to make barrels, and while doing so, you will answer to the boatswain. He is in charge of inventory and repairs. You will do all that you can to keep the hull free of rats and insects and you will frequently inspect the provisions, ensuring the quality. Perform these tasks without fail. Be it known, lad, the consequence for failure is dire. Do you understand?”