Owned by the Ocean (6 page)

Karl chuckled
and took another drag on his pipe. The smoke was sweet and reminded
Brant a bit of the woods back home.

They sat for a
few hours, Karl smoking his pipe and telling Brant stories of his
younger years. It was nice to sit on a quiet deck with the man that
had taken Brant under his wing.

“
You shouldn’t smoke those,” said Karl, during a break between
stories.

Brant had just
lit another cigarette and he looked down at it. “You’re right, I
haven’t had any since my pack ran out over two months ago.”

“
It’s the act. Relaxes you.”

Brant smiled
and nodded. “Old habit from an unhappy time of life.”

“
Yer too young to carry that weight.”

“
I’m not the first son to disappoint his father, to lose his
mother too young. We do what we can with the cards we’re
dealt.”

Karl chuckled
and stood up slowly, stretching his stiff limbs. “Aye, we do. And
men like you rise to the occasion. Mark my words, Brant, you’ll
have a life to be proud of yet.”

Those were
Karl’s parting words of the evening. He strode away to his cabin
and left Brant sitting alone, contemplating words spoken by a man
that had become more of a father to him than Calvin Foxton ever
was.

Two days
later, as they sailed away from Port Royale, Brant took a few
minutes to watch the retreating shoreline. His father owned a sugar
plantation somewhere on the island, but he’d never seen it, never
left the confines of England until now. Had his father been there,
on his yearly trip to oversee it? Could they have been walking the
same streets these past few days and not run into each other? Brant
shook his head, dislodging the thoughts. The chances of his father
being there were slim, at best. And even if he had been, and even
if they’d seen each other, Brant knew there would be no
acknowledgement. He’d made the choice to leave; he was dead in his
father’s eyes now.

* * *

Months went
by, days of hard work melding into each other. It seemed like
yesterday that Brant had sailed away from Port Royale. The only
sign of passing time was his continued improvement at sparring and
the growing pile of wooden barrels and chests in the hold.

Brant had
become more accustomed to raids; the noises and smells no longer
bothering him. And, in the months since leaving Port Royale he had
been promoted from Cabin boy to Sailor, allowing him to collect a
larger portion of pay and no longer being required to swab the deck
or clean the latrine. But it wasn’t enough, not yet. He wanted to
be Sailing Master.

Many times
he’d watched Corbin plot out a course using his tools and the
stars. He’d adjust the rudder by centimeters, to keep them from
sailing kilometers off course. He wrestled the ship against winds
and won. It was the perfect mixture of science and strength, and it
fascinated Brant.

It was good
work, respectable. Maybe not enough to write home to his father
about, but it was a start, and it was a goal he could work
towards.

Brant’s
seventeenth birthday came, no different than any other day. He
wouldn’t have even realized if he hadn’t been going over some of
the navigation tools with Corbin and he had mentioned the date.

“
It’s my birthday,” he said, working with the
astrolabe.

“
Yer birthday? How many years?”

Brant
shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal out of it.
“Seventeen.”

“
That be a year deserving of a drink.”

Corbin
disappeared down to the hold for a few minutes, leaving Brant alone
on deck, feeling a little silly that his friend was even
acknowledging a day that seemed so trivial and childish.

Corbin
returned with a dusty bottle of rum and took a swig before handing
it over to Brant. They drank together as Corbin showed Brant the
different uses for the tools he had laid out on the deck in front
of them.

“
You done real good for yerself,” he told Brant as he packed
away his leather pouch of instruments. “Cap’n is pleased with yer
work and you be well on yer way to being the best swordsman we have
on board.”

“
And yet Captain LaFleur will not let me fight.”

“
Cap’n won’t be appreciatin’ me saying this, but he’s a softy.
He ain’t eager to send anyone into the fray until they’ve proven
they can hold their own. Soon, you’ll be up there. You can best
nearly anyone on the ship, just gotta let the Cap’n know yer
ready.”

Brant nodded
and took another swig of rum. “Are you looking forward to summer
leave?” he asked, changing the subject.

“
Aye, it’s been too long since I seen my wife. You have family
waitin’ for you?”

Brant’s mind
went briefly to James, but he shook his head. “It’s just me.”

“
Yer welcome to stay with me and the wife. The house ain’t
much, but it’s a roof over yer head.”

* * *

Two months of leave went by uneventfully and Brant found
himself happier than ever to be back on the
BlackFox
and sailing again. He had
spent the summer storm months with Corbin and his wife, Anna,
helping them with various repairs Anna needed done before they
left. In the evenings Corbin taught him the more intricate science
of navigation; how to map and read the stars and use the more
delicate instruments in his arsenal.

Every day he
found time to spar with Corbin, more to keep himself in shape and
on edge than to really challenge himself. Corbin was by no means an
expert swordsman.

Their days were full, but when the day came to load up and
sail out, Brant was eager to be at sea again; eager to feel the
freedom and adventure and the satisfying ache in his bones after a
day of hard work. This season held a lot of promise. He had one
season under his belt, and he had done well. But now, with the
second season upon him, his goals were that much closer, he could
almost grasp them. He knew that there would be no more manning
cannons during a raid. He was good with the cutlass, he’d proven
himself time and again to LeFleur in daily lessons. He’d bested
nearly every man on the crew at one time or another, including
Karl. He was ready, and he knew it. LeFleur needed good sword hands
and he couldn’t afford to squander the skills he had at his
disposal; skills that Brant had worked hard to hone, not only with
the blade, but working hard to learn the science of navigation from
Corbin, something that was above and beyond his duties as a Sailor.
The
BlackFox
had
no Sailing Mate to work under Corbin. That job was there, waiting
for LeFleur to see Brant’s potential and promote him.

Brant strolled
the decks with Corbin, pulling the second watch of the night. “This
is my last season,” said Corbin, out of nowhere.

Brant stopped
his forward progression and looked at his friend. “What do you
mean?”

“
Anna, she be pregnant. It’s time I went home and was a
husband to her.”

“
Congratulations,” and he meant it. He felt a twinge of pride
for his friend, who was embarking on a new stage in his
life.

“
Cap’n is gonna need a new Sailing Master. I talked to him
today, he is gonna promote you to Sailing Mate so you be ready to
take over when I leave.”

“
When?”

“
Soon.”

“
Thank you, Corbin.”

They continued
their watch, talking about what Corbin would do in the future as he
settled into a quieter life as a father and husband. But Brant’s
mind was stuck on the fact that he was going to get what he was
working towards, sooner than he expected.

He was busy
mending a sail when Joseph approached him a few days later. “The
Cap’n wants to see you.”

Brant jumped
up. He’d been waiting for this since Corbin had broken the news,
and was beginning to worry that perhaps Captain LeFleur had changed
his mind, that there was someone older, more experienced and better
suited to the position.

“
You wanted to see me, Sir?” he asked, walking into the
captain’s cabin.

“
Yes, Mr. Foxton. I’ve heard a great deal of good things about
you from Corbin and he seems to think you are in need of a rank
change… perhaps Sailing Mate?”

Brant smiled
broadly. “I’d really like that, Sir.”

“
He tells me that you’ve been learning the skills needed on
your own time. I’m impressed.”

“
Thank you, Sir.”

“
Which brings me to another matter: I don’t believe your
skills are best utilized on the cannon deck during
raids.”

Brant’s heart
quickened. This was it. Only a few weeks at sea and he was getting
everything he’d hoped for.

“
You’ll be on the boarding party next raid. I think you’ve
proven yourself more than ready.”

“
Thank you, Sir. I won’t disappoint you.”

LeFleur nodded
and looked back down at the papers spread over his desk. “Now, I
believe you have work to do.”

* * *

Brant’s opportunity to join in a raid came quickly.
The
BlackFox
followed heavily used trading routes, and were never long
between attacks. When the first cannon shot fired and the deck
shook beneath his feet he felt the first inkling of apprehension.
Each cannon blast only succeeded in escalating his fear. He glanced
around nervously at the waiting men, who seemed eager to spill
blood. A buzz of adrenaline filled the deck and yet Brant felt
himself shaking in fear. It was one thing to spar, never drawing
blood; it was completely different to take over a ship and kill men
for nothing more than gold and stores, all in the name of weakening
an enemy of the crown.

When the order
came to board Brant lunged forward with the rest of the men,
screaming and yelling their bloody war cries, but not feeling the
hu-rah that the other men seemed to possess.

There was no
chance to collect one’s thoughts when he landed on the deck of the
other ship. Immediately someone charged at him with a sword ready
to cut him open. Brant parried and thrust skillfully, protecting
his life and fighting to take another’s. This was different from
sparring. There was no cool calculation of moves and steps, out
here men fought with desperation, and screams of death overpowered
the music of clashing steal. There was no one-on-one or rules of
engagement. An attack could come from any angle, from any number of
men. Bullets whizzed by and you could only pray that one didn’t
find its mark in you.

Brant felt a
sharp pain in his side and he looked down; a growing red stain
covering his dirty white shirt.

“
Don’t!” Corbin’s blade jumped into view and blocked a thrust.
“Brush it off or yer dead!”

It was enough
to shake Brant out of the stupor the sight of his blood had put him
in, and his sword arm was immediately back at work, but his vision
spun a little. It had just become a little more real; if Corbin
hadn’t been right there he would have been run through because he
stopped for a split second. That was all it took; a second.

For Brant the
fight seemed to take forever but in reality it went quickly. The
crew surrendered and LaFleur had their hold cleaned out of anything
valuable and then the ship was left to flounder in its ruined
state. Corbin took Brant directly to the surgeon to have his stab
wound looked after but he kept assuring Brant that it was nothing
to be worried about.

After getting
his wound cleaned and stitched, he joined the rest of the crew to
stow things away below deck. His side ached, reminding him of how
close he’d come to death, but he was proud of himself. Death hadn’t
left him weak kneed or nauseous. He had held his own, and in time
he would get better.

He’d told Karl
after the first raid that he’d learn to live with it, that he’d be
okay with death, and he was. He never lost his composure again
after that first raid. But after seeing the life leave a man’s
eyes, he understood what Captain LeFleur had meant when he said
ghosts haunted him. Brant wanted to hurt for the men that he had
killed this afternoon and never forget the look in their eyes as
their souls left their bodies.

As he
celebrated their victory that night with the crew, he took a swig
of rum and passed the bottle on, listening to stories of close
calls and staring death in the face. Brant smiled and laughed, he
showed off his wound and the men congratulated him on his first
stabbing, a rite of passage it seemed. But underneath all the
bravado and laughter, he was hurting, hurting for the men that he
had taken from loving mothers and waiting wives. He vowed to
remember each life he took so that when judgement day came and he
had to atone for the sins he’d committed, he’d know the face of
each and every man that testified against him, and he’d know that
he deserved to suffer for eternity.

Three Years
Later- 1663

Brant’s eighteenth birthday came and went, then his
nineteenth. Three years he’d served aboard the
BlackFox,
spilling more blood than
he cared to measure, developing calluses on top of calluses,
spending countless hours working harder than he ever thought was
possible; and he loved every minute of it.

Corbin had
taken his leave, true to his word, after their second season
working together, and was working as a cartographer in Port Royale.
He hoped to take his wife and young son to the new world and map
out the large and wild land, but the last Brant had heard he had no
real plans to leave yet. Maybe it was all talk.