first
time in his life, Brant began to wonder if maybe his father had
been right… maybe this wasn’t the life for him.
* * *
Brant barely noticed the passing of his twentieth birthday.
Four years he’d sailed with the BlackFox. But this season was
different from the others. If LaFleur had pushed harder than ever
in the previous season, he was sitting back and relaxing this time
around. It was the general consensus of the crew that he was
getting tired. Soft. And there was talk that he wouldn’t be captain
for much longer.
It unsettled
Brant to hear murmurs of discontent and mutiny ripple through the
crew. He’d tried to talk LaFleur into following heavier trade
routes. The men were restless, barely having enough raids to
satisfactorily line their pockets with gold and they were heading
into the latter half of the season. And now, to make matters even
better, LaFleur was talking about heading to Port Royale early and
taking a longer break over the storm season. It was as if he was
completely blind and deaf to the discontent spreading through his
crew like wildfire.
He was getting
old, tired. He’d spent too many years in a hard life and everyone
saw it.
Brant was worried. He couldn’t help but feel like a storm was
brewing. And by the feel of things, the BlackFox wasn’t going to get through
it unscathed.
Brant woke up
with a start as the sounds of running feet thundered overhead. That
wasn't right. The men should all be asleep in their bunks. But
instead they were up, which couldn't mean anything good.
He swung his
legs out of his bunk and quickly pulled on his trousers and boots,
grabbing his cutlass from where it hung on a peg on the wall.
Refraining from running above, Brant walked cautiously up the
stairs and peered out of the hold.
The deck was
alight with lanterns and it seemed the entire crew was gathered on
deck. Karl, LaFleur and Joseph made up a small group at the center
of the foray. LaFleur looked as if he'd been roused from bed, his
shirt untucked and barefoot, hair disheveled. But he looked
anything but tired. His eyes were ablaze with anger.
Brant walked
up on deck and joined the crowd of sailors to try to get a better
idea of what was going on. The sick feeling in his gut told him to
hang back, not to get involved, but he moved forward anyway;
curiosity winning over.
"You're a bunch of cowards!" yelled LaFleur. "You drag a man
out of bed in the middle of the night, for what? To betray him? To
stab him in the back? You ain't happy with the way I'm running
things, you can leave at next port. That is how things work
on my ship."
"Yer ship?”
one of the younger sailors, Jacob, stepped forward. “This ship
would be nothin’ without us. You are nothin’ without us. And quite
frankly, yer draggin’ us down.”
Brant
swallowed hard as the men around them yelled their approval at the
apparent leader’s words. He caught Karl’s eye, silently asking what
to do. All he got in response was a nearly imperceptible shake of
the head. So he stood, his hand resting on the cutlass strapped to
his hip and watching the crew members he called friends and family
turn into crazed men. They were calling for blood, and he knew that
this night would end with a red sun rising.
Shouts calling
to throw him overboard, to maroon LaFleur, came from the men that
were quickly taken up as a chant, rippling among the men like the
words of dark magic. LaFleur was growing red in fury and he pulled
his pistol, waving it in the face of Jacob.
“ Usurper! You’re gonna hold a mutiny against me? I put food on
the table and lined your pockets with gold!”
Karl reached
for LaFleur’s arm and rested his hand on his shoulder, whispering
to their captain. Calm down, Brant prayed. He wanted to push his
way through the crowd and join his captain. Instead, he stood on
the outskirts, a coward, and watched the situation deteriorate
before his eyes.
The minute
LaFleur’s pistol was waved in Jacob’s face Brant knew it
time in his life, Brant began to wonder if maybe his father had
been right… maybe this wasn’t the life for him.
* * *
Brant barely noticed the passing of his twentieth birthday.
Four years he’d sailed with the BlackFox. But this season was
different from the others. If LaFleur had pushed harder than ever
in the previous season, he was sitting back and relaxing this time
around. It was the general consensus of the crew that he was
getting tired. Soft. And there was talk that he wouldn’t be captain
for much longer.
It unsettled
Brant to hear murmurs of discontent and mutiny ripple through the
crew. He’d tried to talk LaFleur into following heavier trade
routes. The men were restless, barely having enough raids to
satisfactorily line their pockets with gold and they were heading
into the latter half of the season. And now, to make matters even
better, LaFleur was talking about heading to Port Royale early and
taking a longer break over the storm season. It was as if he was
completely blind and deaf to the discontent spreading through his
crew like wildfire.
He was getting
old, tired. He’d spent too many years in a hard life and everyone
saw it.
Brant was worried. He couldn’t help but feel like a storm was
brewing. And by the feel of things, the BlackFox wasn’t going to get through
it unscathed.
Brant woke up
with a start as the sounds of running feet thundered overhead. That
wasn't right. The men should all be asleep in their bunks. But
instead they were up, which couldn't mean anything good.
He swung his
legs out of his bunk and quickly pulled on his trousers and boots,
grabbing his cutlass from where it hung on a peg on the wall.
Refraining from running above, Brant walked cautiously up the
stairs and peered out of the hold.
The deck was
alight with lanterns and it seemed the entire crew was gathered on
deck. Karl, LaFleur and Joseph made up a small group at the center
of the foray. LaFleur looked as if he'd been roused from bed, his
shirt untucked and barefoot, hair disheveled. But he looked
anything but tired. His eyes were ablaze with anger.
Brant walked
up on deck and joined the crowd of sailors to try to get a better
idea of what was going on. The sick feeling in his gut told him to
hang back, not to get involved, but he moved forward anyway;
curiosity winning over.
"You're a bunch of cowards!" yelled LaFleur. "You drag a man
out of bed in the middle of the night, for what? To betray him? To
stab him in the back? You ain't happy with the way I'm running
things, you can leave at next port. That is how things work
on my ship."
"Yer ship?”
one of the younger sailors, Jacob, stepped forward. “This ship
would be nothin’ without us. You are nothin’ without us. And quite
frankly, yer draggin’ us down.”
Brant
swallowed hard as the men around them yelled their approval at the
apparent leader’s words. He caught Karl’s eye, silently asking what
to do. All he got in response was a nearly imperceptible shake of
the head. So he stood, his hand resting on the cutlass strapped to
his hip and watching the crew members he called friends and family
turn into crazed men. They were calling for blood, and he knew that
this night would end with a red sun rising.
Shouts calling
to throw him overboard, to maroon LaFleur, came from the men that
were quickly taken up as a chant, rippling among the men like the
words of dark magic. LaFleur was growing red in fury and he pulled
his pistol, waving it in the face of Jacob.
“ Usurper! You’re gonna hold a mutiny against me? I put food on
the table and lined your pockets with gold!”
Karl reached
for LaFleur’s arm and rested his hand on his shoulder, whispering
to their captain. Calm down, Brant prayed. He wanted to push his
way through the crowd and join his captain. Instead, he stood on
the outskirts, a coward, and watched the situation deteriorate
before his eyes.
The minute
LaFleur’s pistol was waved in Jacob’s face Brant knew it
Similar Books
