Chapter Seventy-Six, Ship of Shadows, by Corso

No one on this ship is who they seemed to be. 

He lays awake in his hammock.  He has the seaman’s trick of falling asleep as soon as he lays down, but he is plagued with blood-soaked dreams filled with silent faceless men snarling as they chase him, others with mouths contorted and screaming.  He jerks awake enraged, then terrified followed by shame at his fear.  It has been like this for a while but getting worse since he slipped away from his last ship and stumbled into a drunken crew and onto the Belladonna and straight into hell.

He was sent to the Belladonna quartermaster to be taken into the crew.  Then he entered the captain’s cabin, the quartermaster’s look of surprise was quickly replaced with suspicion.  The man examined him curiously for a long time, bothering to get up from his chair and walk around him. 

“French.”  It had not been a question, so Amon did not reply, but nodded.  

“What is your name?”

“You can call me Amon,” he had answered and Jabari barked a short laugh. ‘Is that it?  Only Amon?”  He had shrugged, plenty of men had known one name. 

“You can call me Jabari,” the quartermaster finally spoke.   

 “Should I know how to call the other mates?”  he asked.

 “Yes,” Jabari answered shortly, “but don’t get ahead of yourself.”   Amon ducked his head and muttered an apology.  He did not want to get thrown off this ship.  Jabari continued to study him.

“Are you get injured?”  Amon quickly shook his head. 

“You stand like you are injured,” Jabari persisted.  “No, it’s nothing,” Amon replied. “Just the fight…a few punches.”

“The cook acts as surgeon.  He can take your leg or yank out a tooth.  Do you need anything like that?”

Amon swallowed hard, “no.”

“What did you do before?”  Jabari asked as he continued to study him closely. 

“I worked with the cook. Not…” Amon stammered, “fixing anyone.”

Abruptly, Jabari was finished with him, “sling your hammock with the lubbers and report to the cook. You’ll take your turn at the bilge.”  Amon nodded and turned to go. 

“Amon,” Jabari’s dark eyes slanted, and he had a cruel smile, sitting back in his chair.  “I have a surname for you.”  Amon’s eyes flickered, cautiously.   

“Renacer”

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“The sea knows how to charm a man.”   Benoit Demare lifts his face to the warm sun, hovering in clear blue sky.  The wind is brisk, the Aigle capers from roller to roller as they sail north.  The coastline undulates with variably sized coves, sandy beaches backed by headlands, waves crashing against towering cliff faces sending surf and spray high, a warning of submerged shoals. It had been two days since they left Glenay, traveling to the cove where the Aigle waited and two days sailing toward Roscoff.   Lucien turns his face into the wind, relishing the feel of cold sea air and braces his legs against the pitch.  He can only admit to himself the exhilarating freedom bestowed by the vast expanse of horizon, an ocean without end and a ship under his feet to sail into it.  It eases the persistent tension between his shoulders and centers his mind.

“On a day like this, I think I can see Plymouth,” Benoit’s extravagant enthusiasm is at odds with his rugged, stern appearance, bearing a broad grin as he holds Lucien’s telescope to his eye.  He lowers it and looks at Lucien, “you are smiling.”

Lucien chuckles, “on a day like this, I think life is better than all the promises of heaven.”

Benoit mockingly shakes a finger at Lucien, “now make the sign, signum crucis, to appease your blasphemy.”  He adds for good measure, “ober sin ar groaz”

Lucien laughs, “does God speak Breton?”

“Of course!  Also, the saints, especially the ones who were nuns. The Pope however…”  Benoit mocks a sad expression, shaking his head. 

“Ahoy the deck! Sails, weather quarter south southwest”

As one, Benoit and Lucien focus on scanning the horizon.  Loup jumped to the quarterdeck to hand Lucien his spyglass. “Do you see them?” 

Lucien moves the instrument slowly.  “Not yet…” he murmurs.  “There she is…putain! Benoit, are you seeing this?”

“I do.  The red cross on the main …Portuguese?  The size of that deck cabin.  Must be someone important on that ship, it is ….”

“Not Portuguese.  Look at the banners,” Lucien interrupts urgently.  Benoit is silent for few minutes and then in a sober tone, “Oh, I see what you mean.”

Lucien hands the spyglass back to Loup who immediately raises it.  “Holy…” abruptly he stops talking, lowers the telescope and looks at Lucien, his face taut with worry.  “Cap’n?”

“I count twenty guns,” Lucien is still studying the ship, “four masts and that mainmast is over a hundred pieds.  She won’t be fast.”

“No, eight knots, but not more and she needs a lot of sail to do that and plenty of sea room. I reckon maybe more than two hundred to sail her, twenty to raise the main,” Loup regains command as he focuses on the practical problems so his captain can make the best decisions. He hesitates, “how many …” He stops, confused as to what is proper to say aloud.

“Priests?”  Lucien quips helpfully, “they are probably the marine guard.”  Loup frowns unhappily at his captain’s jest.  Lucien stares thoughtfully in the direction of the mystery ship, trying to make sense of what he sees.  

“They do not seem interested in us,” Benoit comments. “Not yet,” Lucien’s tone is both caustic and cautious. He can feel the vibrations of Loup’s anxiety and knows it will soon spread to every corner of the Aigle and the crew.  There is none so prone to the effects of superstition than a sailor.  Especially if it is religious.

“Let us give them plenty of sea room M Loup.”

“Aye Cap’n.”  Loup hurries to the sailing master, visibly relieved.  Benoit continues to watch the ship.

“What do you make of it Lucien?” 

“The Spanish Inquisition comes to France.”

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“Where is our captain?” The master gunner, Butchart, joins two men sitting at the table in the captain’s quarters.  A short gust of wind causes the Belladonna to suddenly heel, the men gripping the table as the ship quickly rights itself. “Merde!  Our captain is practicing.”   

Anriquez, sailing master on the Belladona barks a laugh, “perhaps we should assign the Greek as a tutor.”  

“Careful now,” the quartermaster cautions, “he is “our captain” after all, and the men must not get their own ideas.”

“We know Jabari, you do not need to remind us,” Butchart is a burly man, short, barrel chested, forearms scarred from powder burns.  He has a surly tone, “so we are agreed that you and Anriquez will go to the parlay.”  Jabari nods.

“And if he won’t help us?” Butchart is nervous and persistent, “will the Rosario be enough to keep us from swinging?”

Jabari shrugs, “you know the Ogre, there was no love for Wijard.  The Rosario has cargo that can be sold and the ship is refitted.”

“So, it will depend on the value of the prize.” 

Jabari looks at the other two men, “it always does.  What else?”  Burkhart looks unconvinced and jabs a finger at the quartermaster, “you are not telling us everything.”

Jabari smiles patiently and shakes his head. “You see the same as I do. If Grimaud makes a deal, we have more to trade.” 

In fact, it is not all Jabari has to trade for their lives.  But as his wily father had always told him, ‘belay the gaff.’  He has a card to play, but not until the right time.

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Amon Renacer breathes in clean sea air and turns his face up to the sun and the lookout.  Sasso is braced against the rail circling the platform, telescope to his eye sweeping the horizon.  Renacer know Jabari does not expect the Aigle, but the harm comes in not being prepared.  Or at least that was what he had learned. He looks around the deck.  Neither the first or second mate is on the deck, and he assumes the gun captain, M Burkhart, is also below. He glances at Aigle’s sailing master, who is taking his turn at the bilge pump as the quartermaster requires of all ordinary seaman. He had suggested that the Aigle’s sailing master work with Anriqez, but he was rebuffed and reminded that the man was not a member of the Belladonna crew. 

The surgeon steps on to the deck, “morning Cap’n.”  Renacer smiles.  The ship’s surgeon is the only man who addresses him formally and he returns the courtesy.   “How are you this morning M Murdoch.”

“I am well, but I wish to see how you are.  I would like to examine the healing.  Best if we do it in your cabin.   Renacer nods, “later.”  Murdoch frowns at his reluctant patient but inclines his head and walks forward on the deck.

Renacer watches Odysseus step back from the pump, relinquishing the handle to the next man.  He dips his kerchief in a bucket of water and wipes his face and neck, stretching his shoulders.  He sees Renacer watching him and walks aft, stopping at the steps leading to the quarterdeck.  Renacer waves him up the stairs and they walk to the rail.

“How do you think he will be?” 

Odysseus knows that Renacer is talking about Grimaud and the parlay.  He shrugs, “I would expect a measure of surprise at the situation and curiosity about you.”  Renacer detects the note of sarcasm and grimaces.  Odysseus continues in a low voice only Renacer can hear.

 “Perhaps wondering how you got this ship.”

“Same way he got ships,” Renacer is testy.  Odysseus shakes his head, “he has never started a mutiny that resulted in killing a captain and half the crew.”  

“I did not…” Renacer bites back his answer, angry but he must not let his temper dictate his actions. It is best to say nothing. It had taken him only a few days to realize the danger he was in on the Belladonna.  The mutiny erupted with brutal, terrifying violence, shouts, screams, the shrieking fear and pleas for mercy from men being hunted throughout the ship.  He can still smell the stench of death and his own fear.  He had fought, but only to save his life.  He had cared for nothing but to survive the day. 

“Yet you command his ship,” Odysseus states the outcome as though more to Renacer’s  story.   “You trust this crew to not do the same to you?”  He frowns as Renacer simply looks at him and then turns back to contemplate the sea.

Odysseus is silent and considering.  “Why the parlay?”

Renacer shrugs, leans his forearms on the rail, hands clasped.  “There is a deal to be brokered.”  

“For the Wrecks. There are less dangerous coves.”

Again, Renacer shrugs as though it is not his decision.  Odysseus rakes a hand through his salt stiffened hair, “well good luck convincing him of it.”   He says quietly, “does it help you?  Getting a parlay with Lucien Grimaud?”

“It will not hurt.” Renacer admits with a wry smile. 

“There is another way isn’t there?’ Renacer hears the cynicism and glances uneasily at Odysseus, who is staring out to sea with a hard face.  He frowns and starts to answer when Sasso in the lookout cries out.

“Ahoy the deck! Sail, starboard bow.”

Jabari is standing on the rail, one arm wrapped around a stay for balance, a telescope to his eye.  “Portuguese?”  There is ship moving in their direction under full sail, a huge red cross spread across the entire mail sail.

“They have changed course heading straight for us.”

Now Renacer can see the ship clearly, a towering mainmast and three more masts holding six sails and almost twice the length of the Belladonna. There is a large cabin on the main deck, pennants flying from the four corners.  He counts ten gunports that are opening as he watches.

 “Clear for action,” he calls to Jabari, but it is taken as a question more than a command.  Butchart appears from the gun deck and is conferring with Anriquez at the helm.  The three mates talk to each other, their faces frowning and worried.

“Aye…,” he hears Jabari say to the others, “but the pennants…the men will not want to fire on this ship.  You know…”

Sasso interrupts shouting excitedly, “smoke!  They are firing at us. “

“Take cover,” Jabari cries, the men on the deck diving for any protection hearing the first strains of the cannonball’s whistles, growing louder as it closes on the ship and then  passes over the bow, splashing harmlessly into the ocean.

“That is a message,” Jabari peers over the rail.  Renacer stares at the ship coming relentlessly closer.  Despite the warm sun, he shivers.   What could the men on board that ship want with the Belladonna?  Or is it with him?     What is it doing here at all?  He looks anxiously at Odysseus who is watching him and makes a subtle shake of his head.

“Jabari, we must heave to.”

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Lucien holds up a hand to shade his eyes from the setting sun.  He watches Loup’s progress climbing up a jumble of rocks for better vantage point.  He looks down at the beach where Ver and Poilu are sitting and smoking pipes.

“What do they call this beach,” he asks Benoit.  The cove is wide with a broad curving white sandy beach overlooked by a flat green headland.  From this vantage they could see the ocean to the north and northwest.  I was empty of ships. 

“Aod Wenn is what we call it.  I think your people call it Grève Blanche.”

“You wound me Benoit.  I thought we were one people.”

‘Hmm,” Benoit grunts disagreeably and stalks away.  “How long do we wait for this drouk- ganet?” 

Lucien does not answer.  Hands to his hips he surveys the empty ocean.  He ponders the situation, turning the details of the request for parlay over in his head.  There was nothing in the approach or written message to guess at clandestine motives.  There was no sharpshooter hiding in the grouse waiting for him. Benoit was right as the request was unusual, more amateurish than calculated.  He had no reason to parlay with this stranger.  Nevertheless, Lucien has a sense of profound disquiet.  Something has happened. Something unexpected that a twenty-gun ship, with a capable crew could not avoid or overcome.

Loup has climbed to the highest point on the island and is scanning the ocean with his telescope.  He raises his hands in a hopeless gesture shaking his head.  There is no sighting of a ship.

“Is there anything on this island besides fisherman, seaweed and a few goats?” Lucien grumbles. He looks toward Roscoff, a village teetering on the very edge of the mainland.  There is a narrow corridor of the sea between the village and the island.

“Maybe we misunderstood?” he asks Benoit hopefully, “is there a tavern in Roscoff we should be in?”

“There is definitely a tavern we should be in,” Benoit retorts.  “Why did you agree to this parlay?  What could he possibly have to parlay about with you?”

“He asked and I owe him thanks at least.  He divined my plan, cooperated enough for me to sink one ship and drive off the other one.  The Aigle could fight two ships but not three.  Loup would have had to choose between saving the pinnace or saving the Aigle.” 

“That captain sailed away with a refitted galleon, quite a valuable prize for himself and his men. You hardly owe him anything.  I do not think he understands the meaning of parlay or who you are.”

“Possibly.  He might think it’s the only way to get my attention, although I do know why he wants it.   Perhaps there is something I can do for him.”  Lucien chuckles, “it would help if I could talk with him. Besides, I want Odysseus back.”

Benoit glares at him, “whoever you are, please bring back Lucien Grimaud.”  Lucien chuckles and wags a reprimanding finger at Benoit.

At Loup’s shout, both men look up.  Loup is pointing out to sea.  A longboat from the Aigle is approaching, one man rowing hard, the bow of the boat lifting and shooting forward over the tops of the waves.

“This cannot be good.”  Lucien grimaces as the boat slows to meet the sloping beach.  The oarsman jumps out and helps Ver and Poilu drag it up higher.  “It’s Fou!” Benoit exclaims.

“There must be a message,” Lucien mutters walking quickly toward the path that will take him to the beach.  He meets Fou, panting as he runs up the path stopping to lean over, hands to his knees breathing hard.  “DamnationFou, take a minute,” Lucien pats his back as Fou hands him the small scroll, gasping, “from Glenay.”  Lucien carefully unrolls the tiny parchment, recognizing Porthos’ scrawl.

Marchal, leading men, on the road to Glenay. Sighted near Le Mans… two days…