Pirate Story – Last Voyage of the Black Betty – Chapter 4
by Craig Nybo ~ April 28, 2009
To read this story in it’s entirety, so far, and to read the chapters in order, visit this link: pirate story.
To purchase the official soundtrack to this story, visit this link: pirate music.
Chapter 4
The Black Betty carved through the brine like a shark’s fin, its hull slick and at home in the water. She traveled at a steady 9 knots with the wind at her port beam–perfect conditions for a sailor of any persuasion. The late afternoon sun dipped in the distant, western horizon, its heat igniting the wispy clouds and setting the sky on fire. The conflagration of sky reflected on the choppy water in swelling, orange and read paintbrush strokes, each swell capped with a goodly top of white foam and oceanic mist.
Saul Cappa and Henri Raye leaned against the starboard railings of the spardeck, watching the sun as it began to dip below the distant horizon line.
Saul’s mother had named him after the apostle. She had clutched a bible to her breasts through the pain of his birth, praying that The Lord would spare the boy’s life. He had come from her womb twisted and breached, causing him to suffer a brief depravation of oxygen. Though her praying had seemingly saved the baby from the perils of birth, they hadn’t saved him from a doltish mind and occasional seizures. Saul had spent his teen years and early 20’s in an institution for the insane where cruel tortures were used in an attempt to save the boy’s soul. In the end, he had escaped. After living as a vagrant for two years on the streets of West London, he met an old pirate, at port searching for crew, and finally found his place.
For two years Saul had sailed on The Black Betty, working under the authority of two captains; Frankie Drosdan, and Campbell Stark. To Saul, both captains had been equally vicious, but equally fair. Both had captained The Black Betty into adventure and fortune, filling the pockets of her crew.
But Saul had no money of which to speak; like most of the crew, he had squandered everything he made a port. Never in his dreams had he dared wish for the pleasures he found at port and for the men who acted as his mentors to delight–guides to help him experience a wide array of sweets and joys–of flesh, food, and violence–sometimes combinations of the three. But pleasures at port and pockets ladened with wealth were not the reasons Saul remained dedicated to The Black Betty. He had joined the crew for acceptance–admittance into a circle of friends–the crew of The Black Betty was his family.
“Stark has lost his mind if you ask me.” Henri said, taking a bite out of an apple he had taken from the galley.
“We go where Stark wants; we go where Ian wants. The end result is the same?” Saul said.
“Not this time.” Henri stood from the rail and stretched his back–a volley of pops. “I feel something in the offing; something desperate and evil.”
“You think Stark is evil?”
Henri laughed and looked into his simple friend’s eyes. Henri had seen Saul kill at least 5 men in battle. Saul had a vicious side, that was sure. But there was an innocence about the man. It was as though Saul owned no culpability for his actions. “Little prophet,” Henri rested a hand on Saul’s shoulder, “we are all evil, of that you can be assured. Not one on this ship has a soul. We have all traded them for lucre, women, and the pleasures of the world.”
“So Stark is evil?”
“The worst.” Henri took another bite out of his apple and leaned against the railing. The distant sun had dipped halfway over the horizon, turning the day over to the hands of night. “And he will be our ruin.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because he entertains powers that he does not understand. Ever since he spoke to the man-witch in Barbados, he has brooded and obsessed over what the man told him.”
“What is it that the man told him?”
“Nobody knows. But Stark wants to go back to see the man-witch again, perhaps at all cost.”
“What if Stark is right? What if he can lead us to more treasure than any man can carry?”
“It is best to stay locked to things that are real, and leave myth and legend far behind.” Henri flexed his right bicep. “Feel.”
Saul felt Henri’s muscle–hard and taught.
“Solid, the strength of man. I use my own power to act according to my will. That is the only thing of which I can be certain. As long as I stay locked to this world of absolutes, I will get along just fine.”
“What about God?” Saul asked.
“God is preoccupied.” Henri took another bite of his apple.
“My mother told me that man can’t live on his own strength, that he must have the strength of God at his side.”
“Your mother was an evil wench who put you in a prison for the insane.”
“I am insane.”
“Aye, little prophet, that you are. But yours is the kind of insanity that we need aboard this ship.”
Saul smiled.
“Your mother was wrong.”
“You don’t believe in God?” Saul asked.
“I do believe in God. I just don’t believe God has any interest in us. If you rely on God for your strength, you give up your power to act on your own.”
A long moment passed as the two men watched the distant sun sink. It burned, hot and vibrant, as if it hoped to expel every ounce of its fiery strength at the last moment before it finally disappeared.
“Tell me about the girl.” Saul said.
Henri closed his eyes and took a deep smell of the brine, which he had long learned to love. He loved to sail. He loved piracy. He never thought anything could take its place; but that had changed two months ago when The Black Betty had ported on Grand Cayman for careening and for the sale of her swag. “She’s a princess–an angel.” Henri said, the corners of his mouth curling up into a slight smile.
“Tell me about her.” Saul asked.
“You should look into her eyes, then you would know the beauty of which I speak. Her eyes are black as isle pearls. We are an unlikely match, I a despot of the sea and she a refined, island girl with olive skin and fine dresses to wear.”
“Tell me her name.”
“I don’t know her name. I only know her by her beauty.” Henri closed his eyes and imagined her standing before him. She wore a white dress, made of fine fabric and lace. Her hair, in dainty curls, fell over her shoulders and cascaded down her back. She wore white cotton gloves and held a parasol to keep the sun from her skin. Mostly he remembered her smile, luscious and full-lipped, her teeth, white and perfect. She was an island girl refined, taken into the care of the Britains. They had shaped her into a lady. Henri had spent two weeks with the girl, holding her hand, walking the beaches with her, kicking foam and laughing. She had tapped into perhaps the last trace of soul, the last spark of humanity in Henri Raye’s long darkened heart. Somehow the island girl with olive skin had blown on that spark and ignited a fire.
But as quickly has his love for the girl had bloomed, the bos’n had called and Henri had left her. But he had promised that he would return. He kept her memory with him. On cold nights when his hammock swing on the gun deck, his body crammed between two smelly men, listening to the breathing and grunting of the uncouth and begrimed, he thought about her. Her memory brought sojourn to him on those cold nights, and on the hot days when he faced his duty to the ship and crew.
Saul opened his eyes and looked out over the darkening water. The last sliver of sun dipped below the horizon line and winked out. “She is an angel, little prophet.” Saul said almost dreamlike. “And one day, I will return to her.”
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