Living on Writer's Block

Suddenly from the Osprey  came a swarm of ragged, yelling sailors bearing a varied array of weapons. The Matron’s agents spun around, startled; then, grabbing the net around Ramona, picked her up and fled into a nearby alley, leaving Samuel unconscious in the street. The sailors rushed around their captain, muttering and grumbling like a distant storm. 

“The cap’n’s not dead, izee?” asked one, a thin, young-ish man with red hair, bushy sideburns, and a white rag tied around his head.

A tall, slender, aristocratic fellow with a monocle cleared a path for himself through the throng of men. “Make way, make way!” he barked. “I know more about med’cine than you lot, so I’ll take charge ‘ere.” He knelt down next to his fallen captain and looked him over carefully. “Aha!” he shouted after a moment, plucking the dart from where it was still lodged in Samuel’s arm. He examined it carefully, then carefully licked the tip. He blinked slowly and swayed on his knees a little, then shook himself back to wakefulness. “Aye, me ‘earties, it’s a sleeper drug on there right enough. Don’t worry, the cap’n’s on’y taking a nap.”

As he spoke, Samuel’s eyes shot open and he sat up. “Where are they? Where’d they take her?” he shouted, scrambling to his feet. He pitched slightly, still drugged, and his crew pressed around to offer support. “Get away, you noisome clods!” he shouted, flapping his arms at them. “Where’d they take Redhawk? Tell me quickly!”

Confused murmurings swept through the crew. “Red’awk, did ‘e say?”

“Who’s this Redhawk feller?”

“Was that the girl those hooded men dragged away?” piped a young voice.

Samuel turned, his eyes searching for the last speaker. “What girl, where?”

A small boy was mercilessly ushered through the throng to speak to the captain. “Please, sir, those hooded men what ‘urt you were dragging away a girl, all wrapped up in a net when we came running here to help you.” 

Samuel’s eyes softened a touch when he saw the speaker. “Ah — Jiminy. Where’d they go, did you see?” 

“Oh, aye, cap’n, they went down that alley there, cap’n!” the boy replied eagerly, pointing down the alley in question. Samuel started toward it eagerly, and his crew parted before him like the Red Sea before Moses. But then he stopped, and the fire in his eyes died a little, replaced by a wily cunning. 

“No, no — they wouldn’t go just anywhere. It’s pointless to chase wildly after ‘em.” he muttered under his breath. He began to pace in the small clearing amidst the buccaneers around him. His crew was watching him curiously, wondering at his strange mood. “What we’ve got to do,” he went on, “is outsmart the devils.” Abruptly he spun around and faced his crew. “Anyone know where the headquarters of the Matron are?” he asked in a suddenly stentorian voice. 

The crew shifted uneasily on its feet. Fearful whispers ran through their ranks. Little Jiminy Cox, the boy who’d spoken before, looked around himself at all the big men, shaking in their boots at the name of some old lady. He got mad.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves?” he piped up, struggling to be heard by the whole crew. “Your cap’n asks ye a question and you stand there, shaking and sniveling like a bunch of babies!” He scrambled onto an old crate that lay nearby. It didn’t really help. “This is your captain!” he shouted, pointing to Samuel, who was watching the performance silently, successfully fighting back an amused smile. “He’s never done wrong by us before, so why would he now? He asked you a question, you lily-livered landlubbers!” A few outraged protests arose at this accusation. Their livers were perfectly functional, being well-supplied by rum and wine; not to mention that these men had spent their whole lives on the sea. They were no cowardly landlubbers. Jiminy looked scornfully around at them all. “Answer your captain, mates,” he said finally, jumping down from his crate. 

Samuel leaned down to the boy’s ear. “Attaboy, matey. Thanks for that.” He smiled and laid a firm hand on the lad’s head. “What I wouldn’t give for a crew full of you.”

Jiminy smiled up at Samuel. “Anytime, Cap’n!” He saluted. It was an unpracticed motion, but the boy got his point across.

Samuel turned and looked out at his crew again. “Well. You heard the lad! Answer my question, then. Where’s the Matron’s headquarters?” He raised his eyebrows at the reluctant crew, crossing his arms over his broad chest. 

Finally, the man with the sideburns spoke up. “Well, she’s got this ship, cap’n… only it’s a whoppin’ great big ‘un, and painted pink all over. It’s on the other side of the point –– she’s got a whole harbor to herself for the thing.”

Samuel’s eyes sparked again. “Thanks, Gorrill. All right then ––” he took a deep breath, flung back his head and roared, “All hands on deck!” The crew jumped and scrambled to obey. Samuel strode out beyond them all, to the head of his ragtag little army. Jiminy ran to catch up with his captain.

“Where are we goin’, sir?” he asked eagerly. 

Samuel’s eyes were icily determined as he replied, “To get back what they took.”

Jiminy considered this. After a moment, in which he took three hopping little steps to keep up to each of Samuel’s long strides, he spoke again. “What did they take, sir?”

A corner of Samuel’s mouth twitched, hinting at a tightening in the captain’s lips. “I was helping a friend to escape from them, and then they took her right back. I don’t like having things taken from me.”

“Her? Is it a lady friend, then?” Jiminy said, a mischievous twinkle in his brown eyes. 

Samuel barked a laugh at the boy’s incessant questions. “No, Cox, she is not.” He seized the rope ladder dangling from the side of the Osprey and swung himself over the side into his ship. He strode quickly to the stairs that led up to the poop deck, and took them two at a time up to the huge wheel, shedding his vest as he went. His crew were already busily reefing sails and setting to oars in preparation for casting off by the time he reached it. The slim gentleman with the monocle bustled up the stairs to Samuel, clutching an armful of maps and dangling a broken compass from his pocket. 

“Thank you, Captain, I’ll take over now ––”

Samuel shook his head. “Thanks but not this time, Wilhelm. We’ll need my style of sailing to pull this off.” He grinned rakishly. “Cast off!” he bellowed suddenly, causing the aristocratic Wilhelm to start, dropping a few maps and scrolls to the deck. He hurriedly bent down to collect the scattered parchments, his monocle fallen from his eye.“Be off, man, and plot the quickest course of escape for us once we’ve gotten what I came for,” Samuel said. He waved aside Wilhelm’s protests and sent him away, handing him the vest to be returned to his own quarters. The navigator hesitated, then turned away, his shoulders drooping dejectedly, reluctant to leave his beloved spot behind the huge wheel, and went to carry out Samuel’s commands. 

Down the side of the ship could be seen the oars, toiling mightily to ease the ship out from her berth. Samuel’s eyes were hard as he stood at the rail, his left hand clutching the wheel beside him in a death-grip, watching the promontory behind which lurked the ship of the Matron. Samuel hated it when someone stole right out from under his nose that which he’d elected to defend. Whether it was a purse full of gold on his belt, a hold full of slaves, or someone who’s life he’d saved, he didn’t take kindly to having it snatched back from him. And a person was a person, worth fighting tooth and claw for no matter who it was.

The ship finally cleared the dock and Samuel leapt to the wheel and spun it hard, ordering that the left bank of rowers slow down only fractionally while the right speed up. In a moment they were pointed toward the point, and Samuel shouted down to the quartermaster to order the rowers forward as quick as possible. At the same time he shouted to the crew above-decks to reef the sails, to prevent more drag. The Osprey gained momentum steadily, and when a sudden wind sprang up behind them, Samuel ordered the sails dropped again –– much to the crew’s annoyance –– and the ship surged forward. At his request, the crew piled on more canvas, hoping against hope they’d reach the Matron’s vile ship in time. It had been at least three-quarters of an hour, and in that time, the Matron’s spies could easily reach the ship ahead of the Osprey by any number of secret passages and dark by-ways. 

“If they beat us there,” Samuel muttered darkly, “I’ll give ‘em hell to pay for taking her.” Jiminy, the little cabin boy who stayed loyally by his captain’s side at all times, heard –– and wondered aloud if his captain wasn’t lying to himself when he said Redhawk wasn’t a lady friend.

“Are you sure she’s not your lady friend? You do talk about her a lot, sir.”

“I do not.” Samuel retorted, a faint, bitter smile curving his lips. “If I do it’s because she’s the only business partner I even remotely enjoy doing business with.” He wondered himself though if the boy wasn’t right. Even before she’d entered the Matron’s service, they’d been playmates in the streets of Porthaven. He’d become a cabin boy shortly before Ramona had been taken, and had run into her again years later as the first mate of the Osprey. He’d been a business partner ever since, had become captain in that time. He could hardly remember a time when she’d not been in his life. Then he remembered how she’d struggled against him in the tavern and, with a satisfied grin, he knew she wasn’t for him. He liked girls who flocked around and lavished attention on him. She clearly hadn’t done that. Never had. She was an old friend though, and deserved a break. 

Samuel blinked out of his reverie and shook his head, coming back to reality. They were nearly at the point now, and he steeled himself for the hard work ahead. He squared his feet and kept the ship pointing straight ahead at the wooded promontory, mentally estimating the latest he could possibly turn to avoid grounding the ship and at the same time remain hidden from the Matron for as long as possible. 

“Shouldn’t you turn now, Cap’n?” asked a voice at his elbow.

“Not yet, matey. Go about your duties.”

The man nodded and then leapt down the stairs to the deck to resume his duties. The point drew closer, and closer…and closer. 

“Cap’n, yer going to ground the ship!”

“Not yet,” he said under his breath. 

The trees drew closer.

Wilhelm ran up the stairs shouting. “Captain, you’re going to run us into the island!”

“Not . . . yet,” he breathed. 

“Captain, you need to turn now!” Wilhelm shrieked.