The Pirate. Christopher Wallace
storm woke him from his sleep in the dead of night. Not that this had come as a sudden shock. If anything the swerving climb and pitch of the bow had imparted an almost agreeable rocking motion to the cabin and his hammock, one that comforted him in his slumbers, worming its way into his dreams and the fleeting visions of a childhood spent in churches, idling away the moments during prayer meetings. So deep was his surrender to fatigue and the serenity of his reveries that when the roar from outside finally erupted into his consciousness and brought him so sharply back into the present it took almost a minute for him to gather his wits and realize where he was. He woke alone. To be fair, there were more than a few disconcerting factors which stood in the way of a ready understanding. The first was the dark, the pitch-black which greeted his eyes. Second were the noises that he found impossible to identify: the strange sound the wind made as it toyed with Anne upon the waves, a shrill howl recognizable only to those sailors who had heard it before. To this was added the percussion of the men vomiting on the deck, retching as if in arranged sequence, bells being rung in a tower. Then, more ominously, the stirrings of the cargo in the holds, groaning like anguished souls, then thudding like the anarchic drums of a marching military band.
Martin moved to seek his breeches in the gloom, something telling him that he should be on deck alongside the officers though he knew there was little he would be capable of or expected to do.
They were three days from Tenerife, or so they had told him, progress had been swift, the tempestuous regions of the Arab waters successfully behind them. He cursed himself for believing such assertions as he fed his legs through the seat of his pants. The ship suddenly lurched to starboard, sending him falling into a collision with his books now stacked in a growing sprawl on that side of the cabin. He let go of the waistband as he steeled himself in an instant for impact with the wall and floor but his legs were trapped, as securely fastened at the ankles as if in a pair of leg-irons. He hit the floor with a whiplash force, tasting blood in his mouth immediately, before the force of the ship correcting itself sent him rolling back to the middle of the floor. To his astonishment he could now taste salt on his lips, sea-water salt – the waves had reached high inside the Anne. Everything was awash. Another curiosity. Should he live it had to be worth questioning the captain on this too.
He did not wear a hat, though it did not stop him instinctively reaching for it as the full force of the gale hit him once he emerged from the cocoon of the cabin in the quarterdeck. He smiled momentarily, realizing that to an observer it must have appeared as if he were trying to secure his very head against the might of the elements. A preposterous notion, it was as well they were all preoccupied with more pressing matters, huddled against railings, posts and the helm. Nobody stood erect, everyone crouching to present a smaller target to the angry blusters that would have them over the side.
He wanted to join them, to find out what it was they were doing, to offer his help. For weeks he had felt the outsider, the interloper with no legitimate place on board. Suddenly, with the white spray of the water lashing every inch of him he felt an exhilaration that verged upon delirium, as if the ship had been thrown into a realm of opposites where he belonged and they did not. He was calm, invisible, and comfortable in his mind for some reason that the vessel would not sink, that the waves had no quarrel nor place for her. He felt an urge to seek out the captain, to offer his services for whatever the emergency demanded. He wanted to show that he felt no fear, not of the storm, nor the captain himself, or any physical challenge that might have to be met before the night was out. As the ship fell deep into the chasms that yawned open between the rolling waters he felt the gravity keeping his boots on the timbers of the deck grow lighter, so much so that he might be left behind whilst everything else plummeted downward. Again he suppressed a laugh at the oddity of it all, wondering also in that moment if his amusement was that of a madman, for whilst he could not see the expressions on his shipmates’ faces, he could be sure that mirth would not be shared amongst them. Had he finally gone insane?
Another thunderous wave smashed into the boat on the starboard side, punching in like a left hook from a vicious opponent who had already set the target up for the hit with a delicate series of jabs to prime it into position for the final blow to strike with full force. It felt as if the Anne might topple over, might give up the fight and fully immerse her deck and masts in a desperate bid for inverted stability. Martin looked up and saw the sea above his head, the floor that was once the deck now vertical, like a wall. One more inch and she might have been tempted to revolve the full way but no, the stubborn and spirited nature of the craft suddenly asserted itself as she swung back to reverse herself with an urgency that spoke of an anger at the indignity she had suffered by baring her belly to the air. Martin slid back the full width of the bow, the momentum of the shift lifting him back on to his feet as he came to a halt. He landed right in front of a cowering nest of crew-men clinging to a rail, appearing before them like an apparition that had materialized out of nowhere. There were six of them: Wells, the first mate, Fotheringham the purser, and four deckhands in their sodden rags. They looked as one up to his figure, standing tall, unblinking, traces of a smile lurking somewhere about his eyes.
‘Good evening gentlemen,’ he said, in a voice they would recall as sounding as if he were making their acquaintance in a rowdy tavern, ‘… I think this will be a night we will all remember for some time.’
It was his second premonition. It would prove to be as accurate as the first, though it was not the night itself that they would remember, but his part within its events. This night would almost come to be regarded as the night the voyage started, for prior to it, Martin’s presence had been noticed by only the few who had shared his acquaintance in the confines of officer quarters. This was now his first moment, his real arrival. Later, during the battles that would be fought, there would be those who sought him out in the midst of the action, eager to share his space. There were those who thought him to be untouchable, blessed, impervious to any bullet or blade. This was the night that it all began, when the first of them saw a reason to follow him.
The men were gathered outside, bracing themselves against the excesses of the storm for a reason. They were under orders to check the movements stirring in the holds below. Occasionally, the ship would shudder as if she was being assailed from the deep, her bow scraped along a reef or even shaken by the tentacled grip of an aquatic monster hiding under the waves. For the captain and his crew however, the truth was all the more disturbing; the threat came from within, the precious goods that gave purpose to the entire venture had broken loose and were in danger of destroying both themselves and the ship. Captain Henry had ordered that the movement be halted and this group had gathered around the hatch that would give entry down into the after hold. None however showed any inclination to pass inside, instead they crouched with an ear to the opening as if waiting for a signal from below.
‘Is there anyone down in there?’
Martin had to shout just to hear himself in the rain-soaked gale. His question drew only a shaking of heads by way of reply.
‘What is the problem?’
Again, no one rushed to reply. Martin had the feeling he was breaking some kind of silent truce between the men. He had had enough though of being treated as an interloper.
‘I will go inside.’
He placed one leg on the iron hinge that held the hatch door open and prepared to climb down. An arm appeared to halt his progress and pull him back towards the deck. It was Fotheringham, who appeared excitable and spoke between taking in gulps of air.
‘There is no problem here, Doctor, we have been listening out for stray cargo for the last hour. Everything in this hold is properly stacked and bound, I will swear by it.’
‘Then why won’t you let me go in and check?’
Fotheringham shook his head in a display of exasperation. ‘Because you have no business down in the holds, sir. It is dark inside, there is nothing to see, and if harm should come to you when down below I have no intention of being held accountable for it.’
The look on Martin’s face made Fotheringham draw the young surgeon closer; he spoke more quietly, pressing his mouth close to Martin’s ear. ‘It is dangerous, sir … a man could be crushed … there is no point in courting danger. We must