Pirate

I ignored the comment and climbed the rigging, grasping the handholds as the boat rocked back and forth fighting against the seas. Thankfully, the sun would be near its zenith when we crossed the reef, revealing the detail of the dangers below our keel. Ahead I could see the light-green water of the shallows, with some brown spots mixed in. It was difficult to tell the depth of the shallows, but it was the brown spots that we had to avoid at all costs, as these were the coral heads that rose from the bottom, often only inches below the surface.

A dark channel caught my eye, and I directed Syd toward it. Swift called out the depth below us as we crossed the barrier and I climbed down, relieved, when the call reached six fathoms. With thirty-odd feet below us, I knew we were safe, at least until we had to cross back to anchor for the night.

Back on deck, I gave the course to Syd and went to the log line to determine our speed. It came back with a few feet over seven, and I went down to my cabin to chart our position and find an anchorage for the night. With my dagger I sharpened the thin piece of lead and went to work on the chart. Tacking was the hardest maneuver to chart, as the ship was not moving from point to point, but rather sailing a zigzag line to utilize the wind. The best point of sail was forty-five degrees off our stern either way, and I went to work using the compass rose and the parallel rules to draw faint lines on the chart. The task was further complicated by the vessel’s lack of a chronometer. I had left orders to remain on course for an hour, an easy unit to measure as it was about four fingers held to the sky in the path of the sun, but the higher the sun was in the sky, the less accurate it became. I expected to feel the boat’s course change shortly and, as if on cue, Syd turned ninety degrees and the sails shifted to the other side of the boat.

I used the dividers set to seven-and-a-half miles, or an hour’s progress, then traced a line forty-five degrees to the wind, the length of the dividers. Back and forth, I drew each line ninety degrees to the last, until the fifth in-shore line ended close to a large island, marked Indian Key. I checked the area of the reef the line passed through and, although there was little detail, there were no hazards marked. If all went to plan, Indian Key would be our anchorage for the night.

I went back on deck and gave the course and changes to Swift, who had taken the wheel.

“Have you seen the man?”

“He’s a strange one, talks like he has marbles in his mouth. Been up and down from the hold a half-dozen times. Reckon he’s down there now.”

I left the helm and went to the hold. “Can I bring you anything before I come down?” I called into the void.

“A bit of food would be welcome,” Mason said.

With a hunk of turtle meat in my hand, I descended into the hold. The air was stagnant and had the reek of death on it. The ventilation provided by the forward deck hatch was lost, as we had closed it before we left the anchorage. One large wave over the bow with the hatch open would have flooded the hold. I breathed through my mouth, hoping I would get used to it. “How is he?”

“Could be worse,” Mason said. “Came to a few hours ago. Hasn’t said much, but he’s been drinking water and asked for food.”

I handed him the meat. “We’re glad for it. That lot we put off the boat deserved what they got. Can we get him on deck? The air’s a lot better there.”

“Let him rest a bit. Maybe in an hour or so,” Mason said, as he pushed a torn piece of meat toward the man’s mouth. He made a sniffing face like a rabbit and took the offered food.

“So, do you care to tell me about the silver in the bilge?”

“Reckon since you know already there ain’t no harm.” He pulled another piece of meat and fed the man. “We were working as divers using these new helmets that attach to tubes leading to the surface, where the men use bellows to pump air. Not real comfortable, but to be underwater and breath is a different view of the world.”

“Undersea helmets,” I repeated, my attention riveted on him. “Divers.” I felt the tension of command fall from me as he explained about working underwater.

“You see, we would seek out wrecked boats in shallow water and use the helmets to salvage them. Pulled all sorts of treasure and such from the clutches of the sandy bottom. Problem was, the pirates knew what we were doing and would wait until we finished before swooping in and taking our rewards. Captain got tired of it and stashed the silver bars in the bilge, but the pirates found them and killed him.”

“I thought you said you were traders?”

“Wasn’t the need to tell you before you found the silver.”

“Why didn’t he seek protection?” I asked, forgiving the lie and fascinated by his story.

“That was kind of the way it worked. The pirates would leave us some trinkets for supplies and never threatened harm to us or the boat. They just wanted what they said was their due for protecting us. Personally, I didn’t see much of the protection.”