The Brethren Prince

By Ira Smith

As a child, James Ketcham is snatched from the streets of England and sold abroad as an indentured servant to the unforgiving world of the 17th Century Caribbean. But when his passage is interrupted by a terrible battle at sea, he is washed ashore and taken in by an international band of the underclass: English, French, Hollanders, Native Americans, and run away black slaves.

However, as he builds a life with these castaways of humanity, the Empire of Holy Spain launches a campaign to purge all “heretics” from its imperial lands: a campaign that will take from James all that he loves. He abandons his humble ambitions, taking up sword and sail to avenge the atrocities committed by Holy Spain and her Inquisition, unaware that he would one day become the most feared pirate on the Spanish Main, a hero to his countrymen, and the Brethren Prince.

The Brethren Prince is the real story of buccaneers in the New World. It is a thoroughly researched, historically accurate portrayal of life in the mid-17th Century Caribbean, nested in authentic historical events of the time. It captures the cruelty, nationalistic fervor, and religious virulence of the Imperial powers of the day, but also the pirates who preyed on them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ira Smith
• Release date: Nov 17, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301631322

Ira Smith

Ira Smith lives in Stuart Florida with his wife Paula. He enjoys tropical horticulture and is an avid reader of fiction, history, and science. He and his wife have three children.

Book preview

I

The year 1649, above the Windward Passage

The ship was blown before the wind and biting rain for five long days. Sails tore away, shuddering uselessly off the yards. Loose ropes lashed at the seamen. Clad in weather gear, the Captain shouted orders, only to be drowned out by the incessant flicker and rumble. The seamen went about their duties, hiding their apprehension beneath grumbles and curses at the rhythm of gray days and black nights. Ever on their minds was the bottomless grave beneath the deck. The Captain ordered men aloft to secure storm topsails blown loose, but in the surging wind they couldn’t hang on. Their companions listened to the screams, silenced as they fell into the fury of the white caps. Others at work on the yard-ends were dragged through the sea as the ship heeled hard over.

Here was a demon of a storm, the Captain thought. He remembered the old seamen that had warned of such wrath, gales that swallowed entire vessels without a trace. He had been through a number, thought he had seen them all. But never had he seen a storm this strong. He ordered that the lanterns be extinguished, and the off-duty crew huddled below, listening to the voice of the wind through the shrouds. In the dark, rumors multiplied.

Y' ever heard a howl like of that?

It's the sirens in old Neptune's locks, I say.

I told the Cap’n I didn’t want any part of this thing he’s done. Now see what’s been dealt us.

Right you were to tell him so, mate. It’s Neptune’s retribution as I see it, for the sin of this voyage.

The ship was an English merchant, the Mary of Berkeley, named years ago after the virtuous wife of her first master, a nobleman of Sussex County. Traded a score of times since, the Mary was tired and weakened by sea worms from many voyages. She hove between the shifting mountains that night, the white-water wastes bursting over her bow, her timbers screeching, her decks scattered with ropes and wreckage. Out of Bristol nearly 10 weeks, she was 200 miles west of her intended course.

At dawn of the sixth day the storm reached its peak. The hub of the gale winds shredded the Mary, and she was blown over, masts nearly prostrate in the sea, forced to a prayer for mercy. The men clung to the tattered ship, issuing their pleas. As if answering them, the sea rose up from beneath in a violent jolt and straightened the Mary again, scattering men, wreckage and debris across her decks. There was no time to search for those lost. To windward, as the black ceiling of the storm approached, a funnel cloud seeped down to the ocean floor. There was a fearsome grace about its serpentine movement. A halo of sea enshrouded the apex as it raked the crests of the waves. It was growing nearer. The men wiped their faces, cursed and prayed. On the quarter-deck the Captain had lashed himself to the mizzen. Aside him, the first mate’s question reverberated in the wind.

What is it, Cap’n? What does it mean? Is it the finger of God? The Captain didn’t have time to answer, for abruptly the sea fell from beneath the ship. The Mary plummeted into a trough, and the tornado disappeared from sight. A mountain of ocean rose up and the Mary was thrown over its crest. A torrent of foamy sea broke across her decks, smashed down the facing gunwale and swept away men and debris alike. The main hatch tore off and the ocean poured down into the hold. Grimly, the Captain looked over the situation. Everything would be spoiled, even their drinking water. What difference did it make? It was only a matter of hours before the timbers of this worm eaten old scow would break apart anyway. They were all dead men. The Captain closed his eyes. He would try to pray.

Patches of heavenly light moved over the sea, illuminating the Mary. Abruptly the wind faded to an intermittent blue sky as the wall of storm moved away and the ship was engulfed in a complete calm, as if they had been granted clemency. But the Captain was a veteran of many voyages to the new world. He knew there was no way out, except to go through it again. In all directions lay a black horizon.

Don’t be fooled by it, men, he shouted. It’s the Devil’s eye that’s found us. Lash yourselves to the masts, quickly now. She’ll come at us again, this time from the south. We’ve not seen the last of it. True to the Captain’s words, in only moments they were immersed in it again, as furious as before.

The brunt of the second blow was mean, but shorter. By the afternoon of the same day the wind and rain had subsided to a blustery nuisance and when the first real break in the clouds was sighted the spirit of the crew broke into shouts of salvation. With the Mary still in the trailing edge of the gale, the Captain took a muster and gave an official eulogy for the men lost. He then ordered all damaged rigging chopped away and new spars and canvas brought out to repair the upper masts and yards. He was a robust man, stout, small, near his 50th year, whose chin-beard magnified a determined jaw. Captain Jeremy Spencer’s reputation was strict and intolerant of slacking. He was fiercely loyal to the merchants of Bristol and nearby towns who owned the ships. To those men he offered his dutiful service, a trait drummed into him by three decades as a Boatswain and Warrant Officer in His Majesty’s Navy.

With the crew manning the pumps in steady shifts, the hull was temporarily repaired, caulked, and by the following day new canvas was being sewn. The Captain climbed the ladder to the quarter-deck, stood by the splintered spar that had held the stern lantern and looked out over the rolling sea to the southeast. With a southerly breeze freshening, he determined to reset the course and make haste to their original destination, which was the scattered island plantations of the Lesser Antilles. Though most of the water, corn and biscuits had been spoiled by sea water, they could reach Guadeloupe in a few days of good sailing. There, they could make more permanent repairs, take on fresh stores and unload what remained of their cargo. The Captain shielded his eyes and took a reading with the sextet which he had lashed to himself for fear of losing. The sun beat on the deck for the first time in days, firing the moist tropical air, boiling the black pitch in the ship’s seams and rendering the brass works nearly too hot to handle. Captain Spencer walked back to the quarter-deck gallery, overlooking the main deck.

Mr. Tarbell! He shouted. Below, the boatswain took his time to finish lashing the loose rope to a belaying pin. Then he turned.

Aye, y’r lordship?

The man beside him chuckled.

Bring up the lads for their ration. The boatswain was thick-bodied, burly and Welsh and had a mind to do as he pleased. As the two stared at each other, the Captain’s impression of him was further confirmed. He never should have employed the man. The boatswain nodded vaguely, winked at his friend, then left. Moments later Captain Spencer looked down on the line of boys dressed in rags and shoeless, being ushered up the steps of the companionway and onto the upper deck. Spencer left the quarter-deck and came alongside the two dozen children standing in line along the ship’s remaining gunwale. They pulled down their pants to urinate in the scuppers, which carried away the overflow of sea water. Then they stood up one by one and pulled their pants back on. Captain Spencer strode along their ranks in a casual inspection.

Open your mouth, boy. Let me see. The boy was nine years old. His hair was tangled, stringy, his round eyes without focus, defeated. But beneath the frail ribcage the heart still sputtered. The Captain poked a finger in his mouth, yanked the cheek aside. The boy whimpered.

Tender gums, eh? He turned to the ship’s surgeon who stood aside him. Any juice left? His scurvy’s worse.

Only a bottle, sir. We need it for the men.

Spencer continued his inspection. Nearly all must have scurvy. How many of them dead, so far? Twenty? Spencer preferred not to make a record of it in the log. They had been too young, too weak to begin with, for a long voyage. Despair had overtaken these street urchins easily. Only a similar number still alive now and there was little else he could do but have the dead thrown overboard. They’d been forgotten anyway, these vagabonds of the back streets of Bristol and other towns, of foul alleyways and filthy hovels where the lowest, the most wretched of humanity dwelled. They meant nothing, the little scum, sent out to beg and steal in order to survive. Most were only eight to ten years of age, snatched from their squalor by lean and hungry villains set upon a quick profit by selling homeless young thieves to slavery in the new world. It hadn’t worked out though, and it was a shame. It might have brought in a great deal of extra money for the Captain. That it had been arranged without the knowledge of the ship’s master however, was what Captain Spencer felt the worst over. Yet he’d fought sail for a lifetime in the interests of others and it would have helped his retirement. Tobacco plantations were blooming in the islands of the southwest Atlantic, and they lacked slaves that provided the dynamics of their success. Spencer knew which islands were short of help. Indentured children might have been cheaper labor than the Negro, who sold at dear prices on the auction blocks of St. Christopher or Barbados. Children might have been a boon, if conditions were favorable. But not this time. Too long at sea.

The boatswain, Tarbell, was behind the Captain. He handed each of the boys a metal pan, then dipped out a spoonful of soaked beans. Out of the Captain’s view, he spat on each ration.

The Captain hesitated at the last boy. His mood lifted slightly, for here was the best of them. The boy still stood erect, shoulders back. He was taller and a mite older, with dark curly hair and fine, regular features. Handsome, rightly, even with a dirty face. Not a street rat like the others, but possibly orphaned. During the storm of the last week he’d given the boy, whose name he knew as James Ketcham, a few duties that he’d performed well. He was a tough minded lad and a natural at seamanship. Spencer scratched his beard quizzically and then poked a thumb at the others.

How’d they fare this last day, James?

The boy straightened further. Better sir, except…

Tarbell closed ranks behind the Captain, as if to overhear. Tremors in the young eye betrayed the boatswain. Spencer swung around at Tarbell. Undaunted, the boatswain stared down on him defiantly.

Y’ve been at it again, boatswain? I’ve warned you, have I not? I’ll warn you no further. Mr. Abel! he yelled.

The first mate arrived with two others. Relieve this man of his duties. Clap him in irons. I’ll have no sodomy of children under my command, even if they are bound for servitude.

Tarbell made no struggle. As he was taken away, he leered at the boy. What’d I tell you about snitchin’ James? We’ll see about this later.

With the children below again, the Captain scanned the horizon in all directions then hailed his crew to the main deck. He stood before them, hands clasped behind.

It’s a southerly breeze that’s found us, men. We’ll reset course and be in Guadeloupe in three days, God willing. To his optimism came a round of grins. The Captain didn’t return it. You can belay your good cheer. My reading tells me that we’re in Spanish waters, somewhere above Hispaniola and, I fear, close to the Windward Passage. Spanish commerce passes through here, armed and guarded. They’ll not take fancy to an Englishman. Keep lively to your duties until we’ve left this place. Keep a sharp eye for a Spanish sail, one and all. Spencer dismissed the crew and prepared to retire to his cabin, then stopped for a moment and called up to the watchman still on duty aloft.

Any more of those sails y' spotted earlier?

The man called down to him. Nay, Cap'n, not a one.

It was three, y' say?

Aye, sir. Near as I could count at such a distance.

Keep y' a sharp eye then. Roust me out on any sighting. If it’s Spanish, they'll likely think us pirate. The Captain of the Mary of Berkeley had taken no chances. The forward magazine was stowed with gunpowder. Half was still unspoiled. If not needed, it could be sold or traded anywhere.

In the early hours of afternoon the watchman strode back and forth on the quarterdeck. A glow came up from the companionway beneath, and across the ocean the brilliance of the day sparkled on the sea. All seemed secure as Spencer and his officers were at their table. Then, the watchman's call broke the silence.

Sail ho! he bellowed. Three sail off the weather bow! The crew gathered hastily at the facing gunwale, straining to see. Spencer climbed the ladder to the forecastle and extended his looking glass. He witnessed not three, but innumerable puffs of sails on the southeastern horizon. A fleet that large could only be Spanish. War galleons would be guarding them. Likely they’d not pursue the Mary, but if they did, they’d halt her for inspection and take her for their own. Spencer knew too well what happened to Englishmen taken prisoner by the Spanish. Everyone on the Mary would be executed or taken back to Spain as Anglican heretics. He snapped the scope shut and hailed the crew.

It’s the dung eaters, men. No doubt of it. We’ll retire as quickly as we can, and likely they’ll not chase us. If they do, we'll not submit to an inspection. Everyone to his duty now. Unlash and make ready the cannon. If they follow, we'll turn and show 'em our teeth. They'll not likely have a belly to fight.

The Mary turned heels and ran before the southwest wind. The men brought down every shred of sail in the hopes of escape, but the ship’s condition was still much compromised. The Captain watched helplessly through the afternoon as the two larger galleons grew closer. By early evening the chase seemed futile. The two great Spanish ships, their sails full of the glow of sunset, began to rumble. Sheets of water blew up off the bow of the Mary. Warning shots. Spencer knew that there were enough cannon aboard those two ships to keep up a relentless bombardment. The Captain General's ship was sixty guns at least, and leading a homeward fleet. An English ship could only mean one thing to them: pirates. He cursed his luck. Aloft, a shot tore through Mary's topsail.

Bracing an official appearance, Spencer ordered the men to ready the gun crews, then to raise the mainsails in preparation for a shoot out. Mr. Abel, the first officer, was alongside.

I beg your pardon sir, but isn’t it useless to fight it out with those two?

What do you suggest, sir? Surrender? To a Papist? You know what happens to Englishmen who fall into their hands. Not while I’m in command. Never. We’ll show ‘em what we’re made of. Everyone aboard will do his duty. Have your man release the boatswain. We’ll need his help. And roust those boys out from below. Bring me James. I’ll have him run the powder to the cannons.

A moment later the boys were ushered out on the main deck and James Ketcham stood before Spencer.

You know what a powder monkey is, James?

The boy’s confusion was only slight. Yes sir. My father told me about them. Are we in trouble?

That we are, James. It’s a fight the Papists want, and a fight we’ll give them. You’ll organize the boys to run powder to the gunnery crews. Go with Mr. Abel. He’ll show you the route. Quick now! There’s no time to waste.

The thunder was rippling louder, an instant after the flashes. With everything ready, Captain Spencer came down the steps of the companionway and halted halfway, looking over the busy gun crews. The air was tense and expectant. The men were shoeless for better traction on the slippery deck. Rags and bandanas covered their foreheads to absorb the sweat, and the boys scurried past the Captain down the steps, carrying the cylinders of powder for the second round.

Waste not a shot, men. Run 'em out smartly. Wait till you've a good aim. Fire away as she rises. We'll not have long to show the dung-eaters what we're made of. Then the Mary shuddered as she was struck hard in the stern.

The Captain shouted, Give ‘em the first round now!

The Mary let loose her avenging broadside, an inferno of belching fire and smoke, but as she did she was hit again. Her heavy timbers shredded as iron spheres burst open the bulkheads on the gun deck and below. Sprays of splinters dashed everywhere. A steaming cannon spun away from its lashing and rolled over on its tenders, crushing a man beneath. Captain Spencer remained calm to the cries of the wounded, standing firm halfway down the ladder, shouting orders aloft and shaking his fist, enflamed with the wrath of a man wronged.

Keep it up, men! We'll not make it easy for the bastards. We'll give 'em a taste of us English. There's still a chance they'll leave us go our way.

The Captain was a veteran of many voyages to the new world. He knew the general attitude of the Spanish was to run, rather than pursue and fight the enemy. Yet this Spanish Admiral must be a proud one, obviously full of arrogance and duty to Holy Spain. It was a damned hornet's nest they’d stepped into.

With closer range, the firepower of the Spaniards was merciless. The gunnery deck of the Mary was strewn with fallen men. Those still alive struggled over the dead, slipping on pools of blood and splatters of flesh and scalp. A severed forearm lay in the melee, cleanly cut away by iron strapping from a barrel. A man sat upright on a beam, holding a wad of bulging intestines. Victory was impossible, yet English indignation bristled. The men who were able dragged their fallen comrades aside and fought on with stubborn valor. The gunnery crews wielded handspikes to sight their nine-pound cannon, put the torch to the powder hole and strained against the ropes as the big shafts recoiled with the force of the explosion. Hastily they sponged out the steaming hole to extinguish the smolder, the boys rushing back and forth with cartridges of powder. The crewmen snatched away the linen packs and rammed them down the bores of the cannon with plungers. Then the cannonballs were rolled in with a wad of felt to hold them fast.

Run 'er out, run ‘er out! The gunnery Captain urged, the powder man still struggling to put in a new fuse.

The small cannonballs they threw were no match for the twenty four-pound spheres the warships lobbed back. Sulfurous smoke thickened the night air, reducing visibility, and through the choking haze, the Mary’s sails hung torn and useless from Spanish grapeshot. With a mighty crunch, her mizzen toppled, crashing into the sea and dragging a tangle of lines aft. The ship foundered, yawed helplessly, restrained by the rubble. The Captain knew he should give the order to chop it away but there was no time for it, nor were there men available. With the first mate leading the way, they arrived for a hasty inspection of the forward hull below the gun deck. He stood on the ladder and held out the lantern overlooking the watery darkness. Wet rats huddled on the steps. Floating bails of hay and a corpse drifted face down. The water was rising like a spring, from somewhere below.

The bastards! The Captain cursed. The hull’s shot through!

It’s already halfway to the deck above, Cap’n, Mr. Abel added.

With his options gone, Spencer returned topside and ordered the first mate to raise the white flag. The fire of the galleons halted, but there was no other response. The Captain knew the Spanish suspected trickery as he stood with the crew, facing the opposing ship. The great galleon hauled in close abreast the Mary, a double row of brass cannons reloaded and run out, gleaming in the lantern light. She rode high, rose and fell in the sea as gracefully as a carousel stallion. For a moment the sounds faded to eerie silence. The men aboard the Mary witnessed the Spanish crew scurrying about. Captain Spencer’s hoarse voice rose in a stammering plea for his men.

Admirante! Would y' be so generous as to give quarter to these poor seamen?

The answer froze the hearts of all aboard the Mary.

Hereticos! Ingles piratas! Die!

The warship opened with punishing broadside. Several balls smashed into the powder magazine and the bow of the Mary ripped away in a flurry of brilliant explosions. Splintered spars and forward cannon spun through the air. The shattered nose of the Mary submerged as she drank in the sea. Her stern rose and hung above the water in a ghastly salute, exposing the full length of her rudder. The remaining sails were billowed in flames. Broken debris and rigging burned on the water everywhere around her. The seamen aboard the galleons watched and listened to the strain of the Mary’s timbers pulling apart as she inched downward. A hail of cheers rose up while others crossed themselves and muttered credos to the stricken ship.

May the devil take you all, Ingles.

May the Virgin help you, one and all.

With the perceived threat eliminated, the galleons prepared to rejoin the fleet. Few would survive an explosion as that and they must not waste time searching for survivors amongst the rubble. Rescue was dangerous in such circumstances. With so many dead in the water the sharks would soon arrive.

A handful of men and boys lingered atop the bobbing stern. The Mary dipped lower in spurts and lurches as the trapped air found release. Everyone jumped, rather than risk being sucked down in the vortex, except for James Ketcham who still clung desperately to the hope that somehow the wreck would stay afloat. Fire swept up the quarterdeck like a torch. It was encompassing the stern in a hissing blaze. James moved out further, balancing precariously on the rudder. With the flames at his back, he pondered the black nothingness below. He could not swim. He must find something to cling to. The others had jumped together and were crowded too closely. They would pull each other down. Across the flickering glow on the water, something large was floating on the opposite side. No time left. He jumped toward it.

The water was cold and indifferent to his ardent desire to survive. He thrashed to the surface, realizing that he had jumped into a tangle of rigging. An unseen chunk of wreckage hit him hard in the chin. He coughed, shoved it away and groped for something larger to cling to. A desperate hand clutched at his shoulder. He sank with a scream, thrashing it away. Beneath the surface he clawed at the tangled ropes to pull himself upward. His shivering hand touched a long, round timber. He struggled to the surface gasping for breath, then pulled himself to the spar and draped his arm over it. For a moment he hung there, motionless and heaving. Regaining the edge of his senses, he shimmied down the beam to a spot where a large spar was cross-tied amidst a tangle of lines, block and tackle. This was the remains of the bowsprit, all that was left of the Mary's forecastle. He pulled himself out of the water and straddled it, pony style, sensing that is was buoyant enough to hold his weight.

A loud hissing erupted. He turned to witness the Mary's last sigh. Then her blaze was snuffed out as she slipped beneath the waves. With the other floating fires extinguished, the night fell to an eerie quiet, broken only by muffled groans and cries for help. The boy only shook his head. They were too far away. He could not swim. Everyone must find his own way…

Something was tugging at the splintered end of the bowsprit. The crosspiece he sat on rose up slightly. His balance was upset but he held on.

Someone grumbled, then swore softly, God damn it. The boy could see nothing except a smoky shadow. The intruder hesitated, aware of him.

Someone’s there, eh? Who’ll it be, now?

James shivered in his soaked rags.

Who is it now? The man began to slide up the beam to get a better look. The bowsprit began to sink.

Stay away! James yelled. He knew the voice. The intruder was Mr. Tarbell, the boatswain.

Tarbell drew closer, until his face was only a few feet away. He stopped and winced, rubbing at his side. Then he turned back and strained to see the shadow before him. His face flickered with recognition.

So it's you, James, is it? Well now, I mighta known. The wreckage bobbed unsteadily over a large swell. The beam dipped lower, slowly becoming buoyant again.

It don't appear that this old spar will hold the two of us, matey. The boatswain’s eyes were bright and hard. He got closer, reached for his knife which was still in the sheath.

Now it's time for you… A muffled plea came from nearby. Someone approached, clinging to a small chunk of wood which was unable to hold his weight.

The boatswain lifted an eyebrow. Why, look who's arrived. It's Captain Spencer. The Captain's coat and hat had been lost. Only his bald head was visible and the billow of his white linen shirt behind him. The boatswain grinned.

Ain't much to look at now, are you?

Help me, mate, the Captain garbled. He held his hand toward the boatswain. Tarbell pulled Captain Spencer toward him. His eyes rose with intensity as he brought the knife to the base of the Captain's throat.

Sorry Cap'n, but y' see, there just isn't enough room for the three of us.

The boatswain's mouth twisted grotesquely as he thrust the knife into the nape of the Captain's neck. Blood welled up around the handle, then gushed forth in a fountain of red. The Captain made no sound as Tarbell yanked out the knife and pushed his head under the water, then kicked him away.

An’ there's to you, Captain, with all y'r strict discipline. Tarbell turned back to James. We'll not be needin' his services anyway, will we?

There were other sounds now, swishing, gurgling nearby. Both survivors took notice. The keen eyes of the boy caught a growing number of distinct, phosphorescent slashes across the surface. They streaked in, then dashed away like big knives cutting the water. The corpse had risen and floated nearby. It began to move strangely, as if something were tugging at it.

The boatswain wailed at the sight. With increasing zeal, the body was jerked about. Then it submerged, but the water where it had been remained luminous and agitated. The boatswain's eyes shone round and blue in the dark. He jabbed the knife at the boy.

Get off now! I can't have my legs in the water. Get off I say!

Stay away Mr. Tarbell, or you'll be sorry. James backed up behind the cross-spar, bracing both feet against it. A piece of tackle floated nearby with a rope through it. His hands trembled wildly. He moved further back from the crosspiece and seized the rope. With clenched teeth he tested its weight and made ready for a swing.

The boatswain's hands found the crosspiece. Stay away or I'll be sorry, is it? That's bold, for an indentured boy. The knife slashed, inches away from the boy. Get off, I say! Tarbell rose to a straddling position, in command of the crosspiece.

Now, then…

The tackle slammed Tarbell on the jaw. He toppled into the water. Screeching, he thrashed back, finding the beam again and pulled himself up. But now the phosphorous trails streaked by the boy and converged on the disturbance. The boatswain was jerked away from the spar.

Ahhhhh! No! Get away from me! The boatswain’s face was a mask of white terror. His next scream began but was crushed. He was taken under, his eyes white, his mouth wide and soundless.

James was shivering uncontrollably. He returned to the crosspiece and stayed as much out of the water as he could manage. There was the bright urge to scream, but he did not. He scanned the blackness of the water, searching for the hideous eating monsters. Something touched his hand. He jerked it away, realizing it was only a piece of floating rubble.

Something tugged at the bowsprit spar where the boatswain had been. James leaned forward, straining to see. A sharp nose protruded from the brine, nudged at the beam, impatiently shifting to get a better bite. The underside of the monster was pallid, its black eye unseeing and lifeless. The thing nipped at the beam, repeatedly attempting to bite it. The thing was nudging its way closer. It would find him. James screeched, slashed at it with the tackle, and the thing darted away. He waited, muscles tense, but the monster did not return. Finally he relaxed his attention to the umbrella of stars. In such darkness he had never imagined them so bright. Over the crests of the waves he bobbed, down into the furrows between, balancing on the unstable mass and searching the dark water for the strange luminous trails that meant the eating monsters had come back.

The night bore on, vacant and endless. The waves grew larger and as they undulated it was more difficult to balance. He noticed a distant sparkle of light which was apparent only from the crests. It flickered far away but brightly---a fire. Not as a fire on a ship but larger, that might be made on land for cooking. In that direction the horizon seemed blacker than the sky above or the sea below. He wondered how deep the water was and where the monsters were--- bits and pieces of men in their bellies. He shivered. His body felt like a terrible anchor. If only he could lie down on the crosspiece for just a moment. But no, if he fell asleep the monsters would return. He would force himself to stay awake. In the distance, the flickering fire seemed to get brighter. There must be a current or a tide, for he seemed to be drifting in that direction.

James could not know how much time had passed. His legs were cramped, his shoulders ached from continually balancing over the swells. The night wind had slowly becalmed. The sky finally changed from black to gray. He caught a glimpse of what seemed like a dark shadow of clouds on the southern horizon. In a matter of minutes the sky changed to a pale blue and he realized that it was indeed a coastline.

The waves had been growing, swelling, heaving at him relentlessly now. They pushed at his backside, knocking him off balance continually. The coastline was growing ever more apparent, and that prompted his hopes to soar. A very large wave, frothy at the top, swept him off the wreckage completely. He sputtered back, sloshed onto it again while still another one rolled over him. This time he held on, then lost his patience entirely and lashing out, kicked back with mindless frustration, wishing to defeat the sea with his bare feet. It ended with a cry of defeat and another mouthful of sea water. In contrast to the threat, the coastline had loomed up out of the sea and lay much closer. Bracing himself, he wiped at his stinging eyes and took a moment to examine it.

James had never witnessed such complete wilderness. At the sloping beach great waves crashed and rushed upward in flat sheets of foam. The lush green mountains undulated upward, their distant mist covered peaks so white as to appear laden with snow. Ageless trees sprawled over the sloping forest, their tops dazzled in sunlight but cavernous and mysterious within.

Here was safety so near he could smell the earthly fragrance. Yet he could not swim. The waves were now rushing over him in white water torrents, each nearly tearing him loose from his perch. He had come so far, within sight of sanctuary. Would he now drown just out of its grasp? It was the cruelest joke. Preposterous to have to struggle again! Panic beset him. The angry white water of the shore awaited, the dull roar growing greater every moment. James shrieked against the new crisis. After all that, he would die here.

Torrents of foam tore around him. His hands and feet were numb with gripping at the crosspiece. The wreckage was becoming completely unstable. He turned and was caught in another swarm of foam. This time he was swept clear as the wreckage struck the bottom, then hove up and capsized. He was a leaf in the fury. The shore would not come closer. At that instant he determined that he would not die here, beneath the waves. He would find the surface. His feet felt the hard bottom and the sand rushing over them. He leaped up, broke the surface as another onslaught of foam caught him. He was smashed to the bottom and pinned. Like a bully, the fury ground his face into the sand. It held him helpless, but in the next instant the force released him. He shot up again for a breath, finding himself being sucked backward by a powerful current. Again he was hit and thrown to the bottom. This time he was rolled like a log up a sandy incline. The wave tore backward past him, and he was left lying on little more than wet sand. The next surge covered him with sandy foam and sent him sputtering and gasping for safety on his hands and knees.

At the crest of the beach the sand was dryer. Still crawling, James turned to face the sea a final time. He seized a handful of sand and squeezed it angrily. With a wail, he hurled it at the sea. He tried to stand up and get a better look around, but his own weight held him down and he declined to even try. Behind him was a thick cluster of palms. Crawl to it. Find refuge. He got there, reclined against a trunk, his mouth thick and pasty, burning for the rejuvenating taste of fresh water. He studied his shriveled, sandy hands and gazed upward, caught by the clatter of palm fronds. He noticed their large, bulbous seeds scattered on the sand around him where they had fallen. So this was a coconut palm. His father had described them but he had never seen a proper drawing of one. This place, wherever it was, seemed deserted. The shade was good, the morning breeze reassuring. He would rest here awhile before getting up to look for water.

II

The sun had shifted position considerably by the time he began to awaken. The shade was scanty now, and the heat was disturbing his slumber. Something was bumping at his feet repeatedly. His eyelids seemed glued shut. Someone was speaking to him. James tried to focus on the vague figure before him. Then his consciousness was yanked to full attention.

Death had come to claim him. The man was tall, raw-boned. Tufts of reddish-gray hair bristled from beneath a round, brimless black hat.

The man’s voice was crisp. Speak clearly! Would you be an idolater?

James gaped, his voice failing. The man’s full beard was reddish gray also, his clothes roughly fashioned linen lashed together with big stitches, as a ship's sail. The pants were cut off below the knee and thickly soiled to a reddish brown, surely bloodstains. In his pigskin sash was an assortment of long barreled pistols, cutlasses and a large butcher knife. He cocked a puzzled brow, held steady a long-stemmed clay pipe to his lips. He slung out a cutlass and touched it expertly to the nape of James’s neck. The sunburned face drew closer. Cobalt eyes flashed from beneath the hollow of his brow.

Speak, I say. Would you be an idolater?

With his eyes seized on the blade James responded, I---I'm James Ketcham, sir. I’m from Bristol.

Ho! From Bristol now. Well said, laddie. The man withdrew the cutlass from James’s neck and pointed with the stem end of the pipe.

’Tis what I expected to hear. You've a long and sturdy look. But tell me, what casts you upon this beach?

A battle, sir, at sea. My ship was destroyed by Spaniards. I don't know any more.

What you say is true. I watched it from afar last evening. The idolaters thought you pirate, no doubt. Would that be so?

Oh, no sir. The Mary of Berkley was a merchant ship.

Innocent of piracy, was she?

James was silent, not knowing how to answer while the tall stranger studied him.Tell me James, have you any kin?

No sir, none. My mother died in childbirth, and my father… His attention shifted to the open ocean. My father was a seaman. He was taken by a press gang. The Admiralty told us his ship was lost.

Tis likely true. You mustn’t cling to false hope. These are difficult times at sea. The man slipped off a bladder filled with water, uncorked the end and offered it. A trace of amusement flashed at the boy's puzzlement.

Here, squeeze thus, he instructed. James squeezed out a stream of water, gulping it down eagerly then ran some over his head and neck. The stranger knelt upon one knee to observe the hand that the boy had used.

You’re of the left hand. ‘Tis an advantage in a tussle, though you know it not as yet.

Yes sir. My school master tried to change it but…

Hang all school masters! the man roared.

Now listen clearly, James Ketcham of Bristol. These doings are of a great intention. Of all those the sea has claimed, she has spared you. ‘Tis as good an omen as I've seen, clear as that blue sea on which you rode. And you've been sent to me upon the very bowsprit of the doomed vessel. ‘Twas that, was it not?

James nodded and the man continued. Such a thing only God may decide. I'll not spit in the face of He who has delivered you in this way. The man then stood erect, cast a hawkish stare down the beach in both directions and then offered James his hand.

Come along now. Move quickly. The devils have been about. Had they found you before me, they'd have killed you where you lay, or worse. James stood up stiffly, brushed himself off, taking stock of the surrounding wilderness. Realizing his choices were few, he followed, taking further note of the man's fantastic appearance.

Farther along, the beach curved southward into a large cove where it ended abruptly in a dense stand of mangrove thicket. Here the water was calm and glassy and the sand of the open beach gave way to a shallow, muddy bottom, rich with sea grass. They halted in front of the tangled maze of trees that grew out over the water. Further progress would be difficult. Again the stranger cast a wary eye in the direction that they had come. He relaxed momentarily and surveyed the timbers of the dismembered ship, scattered along the shore.

Oak from England, he remarked, as he puffed. They'll make a fine smoke for the barbecue. Then he pointed to a trail through the trees that led inward.

James followed through the woody hillside to the sound of rushing water. He stepped over a looping root. Only a little further a delicious sight lay before him: a narrow stream of clear freshwater. At first glimpse he knew it to be pure and clean, unlike the scum he'd drunk aboard the Mary of Berkeley. It gushed down the wooded hillside, over grids of black roots, trickling between the limestone boulders, taking with it occasional half-decayed leaves from the forest floor, until it reached the small delta in the mangrove jungle. James could not restrain himself.

Fresh water, sir?

Aye. And the finest you'll taste. 'Tis better up the hill though, near the den. James couldn't help jumping into the stream, which was knee deep, and as he jumped in, his breath was shortened by its cool jab. It was the first washing he'd had in two months. He held his head down, allowing the luxury to rush over his body.

In the shade of the high canopy, James followed the man along a mossy trail matted with fallen leaves that meandered along the stream. There was the distant smell of wood smoke, and filling his ears were the sounds of bird calls and gurgling water. He took in the deep shade, the patches of shifting sunlight and dense vines that clung to the curtained trunks of the trees. On the damp floor of the forest, the ferns, wild orchids and moss grew on the fallen decay throughout the landscape. Even in his weakened condition he could not help feeling the wonder of this strangely beautiful jungle.

Sir, what is this place? he asked. The man turned, keeping his pace.

Why, don't you know, James Ketcham? You're on Hispaniola.

I've heard of it, sir. My father told me of it many times. He said it was the most beautiful island he ever saw.

Aye, 'tis fair to say. And as deadly. They continued on for a moment before James grew curious again.

Sir…

You need not call me sir, laddie. 'Tis a term I've come to detest. You need only call me Red Dog.

Red Dog?

The name my brethren have given me. 'Tis as good as any other.

His curiosity increasing, James asked; Where are you from? Here?

By the stars! No white man was ever from Hispaniola.

You speak as though you come from England, James continued, or maybe the Isle of Erin…

The man who called himself Red Dog halted suddenly to impress the boy with his annoyance. I see you've not had the experience, James. No Irishman was ever able to pronounce his R's. The letter rolled off his tongue with a staccato rumble. I'm Scottish. And few of my kind there are, in these woods. Now then, I've said enough and you'll not get more. A moment later he mumbled softly, Yet still I can see sweet Aberdeen in my mind's eye.

James picked up the faint rustling of leaves behind him. He turned and was jolted to find a very dark man, no taller than himself, wearing only black pants. His forehead was broad and flat framed by wavy dark hair that sprawled over his shoulders. Yellowish eyes set with sparkling black pupils peered back without expression. James yelped and leaped ahead of Red Dog.

The Scotsman spoke casually. That's Corbo, our watchman. Now there's one who was born to these islands. He knows the woods and all that's useful within. He claims to be from Dominica, and that his mother and father were both Arawak. If this is true, he is surely the last of his kind. Red Dog stroked his beard carefully for a moment before continuing, Dominica is a refuge of the Caribs, however. I think it likely that his relatives were more nearly cannibals.

James was content to stay ahead of Red Dog.

You needn't worry James, he'll not harm you, Red Dog remarked. You'll know soon enough if he finds you to his liking.

At last they came to a sheltered clearing just off the stream. There were a few huts built of rough timbers that appeared to be salvaged from previous shipwrecks, their roofs thatched with palm. At the very center of the clearing lay a large, smoldering fire and a few feet above it was a rack-like platform made of long sticks lashed together and supported by corner posts. There, a mass of meat lay slowly roasting. Further away on the big limbs of the trees were hung whole quarters of slain cattle and a makeshift corral that held a herd of small horses. Near a pile of bones two men worked at slicing meat and placing it on the rack. The Scotsman swept out his hand, stopping James.

Stand by for trouble.

Corbo, the Indian, came alongside. The boy squinted through the bluish smoke that blurred the atmosphere. The workers, some five or six, milled about the area, all dark skinned. They seemed distracted and listless, without purpose. One or two of them took a slight notice of the new boy at the path entrance.

Creole come, the Indian noted.

A swarthy figure moved toward them, pushing aside a man disrespectfully as he came through the smoke. His boots and pants were sooty, the cloth stock about his waist red, his long sleeved billowy shirt a dirty white. A wide brim plantation hat with a red plume was squeezed onto his brow and a bandanna beneath it absorbed the sweat. His eyes danced back and forth on the other two, then fixed on James, disregarding all else.

The Scotsman whispered, The Garcillano, my brethren. Stand firm, laddie. Show no fear.

The man projected his fleshy face within inches of the boy's, exposing his yellowish teeth. James blinked at the horror of his breath. The man’s arrogant stare was openly cunning and without restraint, as if it could search the boy’s depth and snatch up any weakness. James held expressionless as the assault continued. He clutched James by the wrist, twisting up his palm.

This one Ingles, he said in a gravely voice. Have no belly for work. Die quick from coma. Red Dog make bad purchase.

I bought him not. I found him.

Found him? Where you found him?

Beside the wreckage of the English ship.

The Garcillano slipped out his flaying knife. With the point, he scratched the stubble on his chin.

Suddenly he grinned widely. Oh! He half mine then. I take him now. He grabbed James by the arm to drag him off, but Red Dog held steady the other arm, preventing him.

What? The Garcillano released James, swung around and yanked out the rapier at his side. Without hesitation the Scotsman's cutlass met it. James leaped backward as the two swords crossed and held ready. Metal sheared against metal as they tensed for an encounter. James witnessed a murderous gleam in Red Dog, the blue eyed killer, ready to thrust the cutlass through the man who only an instant before he had called his brethren. A hush fell over the camp. All heads turned and held motionless at the two men. A shadowy grin crept upon the face of the Garcillano. He dropped his rapier and swept a hand across his brow. The camp resumed activities.

The Garcillano put his rapier back into his stock cheerfully. So it is, always. I cannot fight this way the man who has split so many Spanish skull. You feed the Ingles first, my partner. He long and skinny like you. Need meat. Then you bring him to boucan fire. I show him to earn his meal there. He turned to leave, then hesitated and faced James fully, using his knife as a pointer.

Sure, you think to run, Ingles. But I find you, always. Then it worse for you. He left abruptly, shouting orders and shoving at the men as he went. The Indian had also disappeared. Red Dog spoke up.

The Garcillano is my partner. We call him el Creole, for he was born of Spanish parents in these islands, though illegitimately. I suspect his parents gave him away as a baby rather than suffer the shame of their sin. I am afraid it's a bad temper he has, and unpredictable. He does not like people from the English Isles, except for me. The Scot pointed the tip of his cutlass in the intended direction and led the boy away.

If you are to survive here, James Ketcham, you must never let your guard down. The Garcillano will always test you, as he does me. If there's a weakness, he will find it.

Inside the one room dirt floor hut was nothing but a crude linen sleeping bag spread over a mat of leaves, and a large trunk in the corner. In a moment, Red Dog appeared in the open doorway with a large slice of barbecued meat, blackened and partially dried from the smoke of the fire. The boy gaped at the delightful sight. He snatched it away, lightheaded with the delicious smell. The Scot watched him tear into the meat as he opened his trunk and retrieved some tobacco leaves, then filled his pipe for a smoke. He left for a moment, returning after having lit it at the fire.

You best eat slowly James, he remarked. Small bites, lest your have a bad belly. It's been a long time since you've had a proper feeding. Here now. Set it aside for a moment and answer Red Dog's questions. James sighed deeply as he chewed, then fell to a sitting position.

Tell me laddie, how is it in England?

Not well, sir. The King has lost his head, January last.

This much I’ve heard. An unwise King, Charles was, though his grandfather was a Scotsman, none the less. Watching him chew, Red Dog added, We were ruled by Charles and his lords. Now it's Cromwell and his parliament. Yet all this bloodshed is a test of tempers only. I'm at a loss to find a difference between them, truly. Who do you prefer laddie?

James shrugged off the question.

Your mother and father, were they Royalists, faithful to the King? Or were they Parliamentarians? James stopped to contemplate for a moment.

My mother didn't like Mr. Cromwell. He's a Puritan, she said.

Ah! And so she's as good as Catholic, or perhaps Quaker. And your father?

My father was a seaman, sir.

The bearded face betrayed a flicker of humor. As I have heard you say. 'Tis as good an answer as I could expect. And there's no purer thing a man can do. But if he was a seaman as you have said, then he's as good as a parliamentarian, for the King's navy is now controlled by those gentlemen.

James nodded without regard. He asked, Why are you here?

The budding humor faded. There's no need of you to ask such a question, James. 'Tis only for you to know that Hispaniola's a lawless place, far wilder than London or Edinburgh in the worst of their strife. Here, God's laws are different. That which survives, does so because it has done the proper thing. If it fails to survive, it has been proven too weak for this life. 'Tis how good and bad are judged. You comprehend?

The boy froze for an instant. The hard eyes of the Scot drew closer. You'll survive only by your wit and strength. If you die from the fevers, as the Garcillano has foretold, it will be of no consequence, but only as nature intends.

I'll be careful, James stated, biting off another wad of meat.

Of course you will.

Why does Corbo keep watch? James asked, his mouth full.

The devils patrol the beach, now and then. They search for us and others of our like.

Devils?

Spanish lancers. They’re idol worshipers, and another reason to be cautious. 'Twas once we brethren of all nations roamed the beach and the hills and the savannahs to the east freely, without fear of harm and to hunt and prepare the meat that we sell to the Hollanders who visit, and to Tortuga. But Spain wishes to put an end to our occupations here. Her dons have launched attacks against us. Now we stay within the trees and carry on like scared villagers for fear of their muskets and pikes.

James licked his fingers as he pondered his next question. Why would they want to kill you? Have you done them harm?

Harm? Nay, laddie! Any more than they've done to us. You see, the haughty bastards think Hispaniola to be theirs, and therein the wild cattle and the boars that rummage the earth and the birds in the trees. They think us to be the scum under their feet. From Santo Domingo the Spanish governor sends mounted soldiers to destroy our hunting parties. There are many camps such as this one, James. They have not been successful. We've returned to the ground many more of them than they have us, and that has enraged them all the more. So now like cowards, they have begun to kill the wild cattle and boars in the forests in order to force our enterprises off this island. Of late, I've seen many such dead beasts, lying to rot. James was listening intently.

What will happen?

That is the question. But there's little more an honest man can do to earn a living.

James finished his plank of meat and asked for another. Red Dog warned him, but consented. Afterward, he was given a short tour of the camp and an idea of what was expected, then Red Dog made an outline of his body on a large piece of linen, drawn with charcoal.

You can't go about in those rags, the Scot remarked. I’ll use this pattern to sew your cloths, though I suspect you'll soon need larger ones. James's stomach had begun to turn, and for the rest of the day he was violently sick and vomited behind the shack. By evening the nausea had eased but he still felt as if he'd been punched. That night he had trouble sleeping. He shifted uncomfortably inside the linen bag that Red Dog had offered him to keep off the bugs and mosquitoes. His mind raged with images of the voyage, and finally with a vibrant sorrow at the death of his mother. Deep into the quiet of the night he lay awake, filled with an urgent desire to run away from this place, away from the horrible fate that the Scotsman had described if he should stay. But as he gave serious consideration to it, he realized the destiny of the dark jungle must only be worse. Coupled with the Garcillano’s promise to find him, James’s ambition dissolved and his spirit decayed into a black fit. He strained to remain calm but his muscles tightened and his cheeks burned with streams of tears. He had told himself that he would not cry and now he was ashamed. He had been brave with these new threats but as the bright and gentle face of his departed mother came back to him, he could endure no more. His stifling whimpers were becoming worse, threatening to break open. He fought with clenched teeth to keep the sobs from being overheard by the sleeping hunter nearby, but a great wail of despair rose up from his core, rolling toward his trembling lips. At that instant the calmness rushed forth from within, holding breathlessly the cry. The hysteria was forced back until the surge of emotion dissolved in his throat. James closed his eyes and breathed deeply, allowing the attack to seep away. He would survive, no matter what this new life offered. And he would, no matter what, stay calm.

A small, dark silhouette appeared in the doorway. It was the Indian, Corbo, holding in the fingers of one hand a cluster of leaves, in the other, a small pot. James began to rise as Corbo squatted close by. Corbo set down the earthen vase, rolled the leaves in his palms to crush them, and sprinkled the bits into the mug. Then he offered it to James. James drew it to his lips, aware of the pungent, earthy aroma of the liquid. The taste was strange, but not bitter. As he sipped, the Indian spoke softly.

Drink all guanabana leaf. Sleep come easy now.

James lay his head down with a sigh, reassured that someone had taken a moment of time for him. He never heard the Indian leave.

He was nearly 13 years old and not a young thief as the others had been aboard the Mary of Berkley. His mother had been decent and industrious. She had even paid for the best schooling she could afford for her boy, and James had been an apt and interested learner. She had been proud of his lean, solid structure and his curly chestnut hair. Her boy’s smile was warm and melting. She treasured him, her only child, as her great accomplishment. At his birth she remembered how exceptional his good looks seemed, until he started to cry.

It’s a fine looking child I have, she remarked to the midwife, noticing something as he cried. But what’s this mark that appears between his eyebrows? The midwife examined the irregular mark of dark red, which seemed to pulse with the intensity of the baby’s wails.

Don't you worry now, Jenny. It’s only what the lord's given him. A mark of strength, if you ask me. He's got a strong sound. The midwife soothed the baby with coos and caresses and as the small one calmed, the purple blotch ebbed until it could scarcely be seen. The midwife nodded her confirmation.

There's your answer, Jenny. The lord's givin' you a signal, that's all.

A signal? asked Jenny. For what?

Why, to keep him calm, deary. To keep him calm.

As James grew there were frequent instances where he seemed too determined, even to the point of being immovable. She witnessed a determination in her son that she seemed unable to cope with. He was a pleasant boy, but when he didn't get his way his eyes grew sullen and mean, even feverish with insistence and always the purple passion between his eyebrows erupted. It was a troublesome reminder and became the very symbol of his stubborn streak. At such times as those she felt at a loss to help him.

But above all, she was inclined to see the advantages in James. She resigned herself early to accept his resolve as a part of his character and that one day it might even be an advantage if directed properly. Many times she consoled herself by repeating, My Jamie is healthy, strong, and a fine looking boy. I wouldn't trade any of those for anything else. May the lord strike me down if I ever think ill of him.

It wasn't until James was six that the issue finally came to a head. He had been fretting over a morsel of bread and ran to the corner of the room to stew over his demand for a much larger piece. While clenching his fists he peered into his mother's looking glass, set upright on her small chest