Captain Blood

 

 

           A dark shape crawled out of the water and dragged itself up the beach, not quite reaching the powdery white sand beyond the high tide mark. Like a large sea creature stranded on the shore, it raised its odd shaped head with great effort, slowly looked around before dropping back to the sand. It lay still for a long time, while white foam waves gently lapped at its feet and legs.

Nathaniel Alphonsus Spencer opened one eye, then the other before pushing himself up slowly. His two hands came out of the wet sand with a great sucking noise. He brushed sand off his black velvet coat, tugged at the over-sized cuffs, smoothed out his black velvet breeches, settled the tricorne hat, which miraculously still sat on his head, albeit a little soggy, before turning towards the sea and glaring at it.

A low growl rattled in the back of his throat as he eyed the great blue ocean that had dared to spit him onto this deserted strand. The great expanse of calm water ignored him, defying the black glare that many a man had not lived long enough to regret seeing. A look that could silence a brawling mob, could freeze the blood of a battalion of the King’s finest, a stare that could frighten God Almighty’s own heavenly angels. For Nathaniel Alphonsus Spenser, was none other than, Captain Blood, the most feared pirate ever to set sail in search of booty and adventure. The meanest, nastiest, most coldblooded, evil cutthroat ever to defy Davy Jones and spit in the eye of Beelzebub. To the Spanish he was El Diablo, to the French he was, Diable De Mer, to the English he was a nightmare, no ship was safe, no cargo sacred. Captain Blood the Sea Devil.

Blood, twisted the great leather belt strapped around his waist, until the large silver buckle was front and centre, settling the cutlass that hung from it, until it sat comfortably at his side. He pulled out his two pistols, streams of water poured from both barrels. Another dissatisfied rumble rattled in his throat.

The great expanse of blue, for so long his playground, mocked him. The calm peaceful water, glittering in the sunshine, mirroring the cloudless sky, belied the violent drama that had resulted in him stranded and alone on an uncharted, island paradise.

He thought of his ship, the vessel that had made him King of the waves, now a wreck, destroyed and sunk. He hawked and spat, his head ached, his parched throat burned. Not from his ordeal, not from a great sea battle with the Royal Navy, not from his miraculous flight from certain death. No, nothing quite so heroic, the feared Sea Devil was hungover. Rum, the very thought made him feel queasy. It had saved his life though.

He scratched at the coarse red bristles that covered his jaw. His crew were all gone, either lost in Davy Jones Locker or in chains aboard a Royal Navy frigate. He wouldn’t miss a single one of ‘em, rogues and rapscallions every last one. Slit your throat or cut out your eye while you slept for the price of a mug of ale. What hurt, though, what hurt more than Long John’s peg leg, in the towns, was the sight of his chests being manhandled over the side into launches and off to fill the coffers of his Royal Bloody Majesty of Great Britain and Ireland. A lifetime’s work, doubloons, gold sovereigns, chalices, precious stones, the treasure he had guarded so jealously. Gone, all gone. His lips quivered, a snarl escaped.

He thought back to his escape, not his most gallant hour. He had missed the fight, too drunk, he’d past out under the table in his cabin. He woke to the smell of burning wood, the sound of screaming men. Somehow he had managed to slip over the side unnoticed, not before he saw what was left of the crew being lined up one by one, by red-coated marines and his beloved Jolly Roger being hauled down.

He turned then, away from the sea. White sand and then a wall of green. What waited beyond the trees? Wild animals? Cannibals?

A good captain would have gone down with his ship. If he hadn’t been so drunk all night, he might even know where he was. He certainly would not have sailed his ship into the arms of the Royal Navy.

A curse on that bilge-sucking, first mate.

The trees parted and a line of black skinned natives strolled onto the beach. Some carried spears, others clubs that looked suspiciously like human leg bones.

Blood, straightened his coat, fixed his hat, loosened his cutlass. “So, ye land-lubbers, is it me hide yer after? Come on then… is it me ye’ll be havin’ for supper, or have you scallywags got a new king?” With a roar he charged.

One hundred and fifty to one. They didn’t stand a chance.

                                             Over the Black Hills

I ran away from home at the age of fourteen. I watched my father break his back toiling on barren rock to pay a fat, foreign landlord an exorbitant rent. Every night he drank himself into a stupor, not before I felt the sting of his belt or listened to the pleas of my mother as she begged him to stay his hand, while she prayed to the Lord, our almighty God to protect her.

 The day I walked down that country lane, the dark hills behind me, supposedly on some errand or other of which I can no longer remember, I felt exalted. Behind me I left the life of my father which I was bound to follow, another ignorant peasant following a life of servitude. Ahead lay adventure, a road to a new life. One where I was master of my own destiny. My heart sang with the joys of freedom, even as the fear of discovery threatened to overwhelm me. If I was caught, I knew I would be thrashed, beaten black and blue by a father who himself had been mercilessly abused by a harsh life and vengeful god.

 Fourteen years of age without a bean to my name and barely an arse left in my trousers, I set out into the world. I’d never been but more than a couple of miles from home before, never beyond the sight of the mountain. I glanced back once, taking in the grey clouds over the dark shape of the rocky slopes. The wind chilled my bones and I turned my back on home forever.

I arrived in County Cork long after my shoes had given up the ghost and walked barefoot through town and county. If I’d had a plan I’m sure it would have evaporated like the leather on my over-worn footwear. The sights and smells of the city threatened to overwhelm my senses. I am and always have been a country lad, simple at heart, even now after I have travelled the world and seen more things than any man ought to see.

 I was there no more than a couple of hours when a kindly stranger took pity on me, at least he appeared kindly to a naïve lad unused to the ways of the world, bought me a meal and fed me full of ale. When I woke, my stomach lurched and head span. Rough hands grabbed me and shook me awake. I was hauled kicking and spitting from my slumber and dragged up a wooden ladder. A hatch above opened and bright light pierced my eyes.

 “Welcome to the Royal Navy, boy,” a harsh voice cackled. I looked around, taking in the sight of the ship that would become my home, all around was the deep blue of the ocean. I immediately ran to the rail and spewed by guts over the side. My first day in the navy and the first day I felt the bite of Percy Fletcher’s lash. I still bear the marks, and more besides, on my back.

A month later I fought my first battle. When I say fought, I cowered in the corner with my knees clung tightly to my chest, jumping and whimpering at the thunderous roar of the guns. I pissed and shit myself that day. Not my finest hour.

 I’m still aboard that ship, only now I am the master. Some years after that first day I led a mutiny and we flung his majesty’s officers over the side. Percy Fletcher is sill with us, only now he administers justice at my say so, with an undiminished, lusty relish. We travel the high seas in search of easy prey and plunder, terror of the waves, loathed and feared by all.

 I’ve killed some men in my time, both by my own hand or with a barked order. But the closest I came to dying was in a whorehouse in London. A harlot by the name o’ Daisy O’Brien took exception to me not havin’ a brass farthin’, havin’ screwed her royally for half the night. I ran from that place with me breeches around me knees and me coat and hat tucked under me arm. She put a musket ball in the right cheek of me arse and left me with a limp to this day. She was a feisty wench, I was almost tempted to go back and give her some more, but I liked having me bollocks attached to the rest o’ me.

I’ve dined with kings and emperors, been entertained by the royal circus in the Orient. Supposedly it’s all in the mind, the miraculous feats of balance those performers are capable of, lyin atop o’ poles no thicker than your arm. I’m a God fearin’ man, despite me evil ways, but I’d swear there’s witchcraft at play there, some eastern dark magic.--

 They say it’s a long way from here to there and it is a long way from the banquet hall of the Chinese emperor to the black hills of home. Me ma and da are long since dead, buried on the side of that stony mountain. Did I mourn them? I reflected on the death of my mother, she’d had an awful cross to bear all her days and I’m sorry I never helped her more in her hard life. As for me da, he was a bitter, savage man all his life, and no, I feel no guilt, I did not mark his passing.

 Maybe someday they’ll ship me own bleached bones back home and bury them in that hard earth. Holy lantern Jaysus, I hope not.