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Jens Rushing is a widely published writer, currently living in Arlington, Texas.

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THIRST
(continued)

“Jenkins,” Wickliff said, “It’s not…it’s not…” Miranda winced.

“I think it is, old boy. I think you did for Trent. I saw you call him below, and I thought—now what could he be wanting with old Trent? He’s not enjoying his conversation, rosy and pleasant as it may be. Old Wickliff’s known not to care for Old Trent. So what’s he doing, then? And then I hear a shot.”

“All right, then,” Wickliff said. “Trent’s feeding the sharks. I’ll have you know I intend a mutiny. You can stand with me, or I can do for you, too. Stand with me, and the King’s Pardon can be ours. Miss Davenport—”

“The harlot what Barclay nabbed?”

Wickliff bristled. “I’ll not have her called that. You’ll respect the lady.”

“Aye.” Jenkins moved into view, bowing elaborately as he walked. “I suppose you’ll be the new captain, so I’ll respect you true enough.” He was gaunt, his face thin and bony.

The sarcasm was lost on Wickliff. “And I’ll respect you in turn. But I’ll only be captain as long as it takes to reach the nearest British port. Then we surrender ourselves and take the King’s Pardon.”

Jenkins considered. “The King’s Pardon? For us?”

“Miss Davenport says it’s possible. Her fiancé is a captain in the Navy. You and I were Navy once, too. We bring them Barclay’s head and it’s beyond doubt.”

“And if you’re wrong, we’ll swing.”

“If I’m wrong, we’ll swing sooner or later regardless. You know that’s all we can hope for, right? A noose, a drum roll, and a short fall.”

Jenkins nodded. “Right. I’m in.”

“If you’re in, and Trent’s gone, the crew will follow. We’ve only to dispatch Barclay.”

“And how do we do that?”

“At supper, during the dog watch. Have your pistols primed and ready. That’s when Barclay will miss Trent. After us, only the quartermaster and the cookie’ll be present. Can’t count on any of them.”

“Right you are, captain. I’ll be ready.”

Jenkins left and Wickliff leaned heavily against the wall. He wiped his brow, then stared at his bloody hand. “Oh, Christ,” he said.

“Wickliff! There remains work to do!”

He snapped to attention. “Yes! So close now.”

At her direction, Wickliff threw his bloody clothes through the window (Miranda averting her eyes), then fetched a change of clothes and a bag of sawdust. He soaked up the blood, scraped up the sodden dust, and disposed of that as well, leaving a dark stain on the floorboards. “Fetch a rug!” she ordered, and he returned with a moth-eaten scrap of carpet. It hid the stain admirably. “Now—until tonight!” she whispered. “And freedom!”

“And freedom,” he echoed, not sounding convinced.

The minutes crawled unbearably. Miranda sat, in a careful frozen attitude. She could do little else. Everything depended on Wickliff now. She listened to the heave and sigh of the ocean. She trusted completely in her success. Never once did it occur to her to pray.

The door clattered open and shattered Miranda’s trance. Barclay stood in the doorway, staggering a little. Miranda smelled rum as he approached her. That hideous fear reared in her mind and she fought it back. She was golden, she was charmed; things could not go awry when her plan was so close to fruition. Miranda knew for a fact that Barclay couldn’t harm her; she would not allow it. She had no idea how she could prevent it, but it simply would not happen. Yet—she backed away as he fumbled across the cabin.

Barclay glared at her and collapsed sideways on the cot. He pulled at the bottle. “Pretty wench,” he slurred. “Gad, so pretty.” Miranda remained quiet. “Had a pretty wench once. Looked like you. But not so dark. And red hair, not brown. And freckles.”

“What happened?”

“What happened?” Barclay laughed joylessly. “She lived in a place called Drogheda. Know you Drogheda?” Miranda shook her head.

“Course not, Gloucester wench. Daughter of a knight, not knowing what lives and dies—what mass of blood and bones you eat and drink and sleep upon.”

“Strong talk, from a murderer!” Miranda said. Barclay didn’t seem to hear her.

“Of course you wouldn’t know Drogheda and my pretty wench. How English steel spilt Irish blood and made an apostate of Joshua Barclay. No country, no king. And you wouldn’t know, either, the price of dying—how blood cries for blood and can’t ever be sated. Drink, drink, and still thirst. What can you do?” Barclay put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until the bottom stuck in the air. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and wagged the bottle between thumb and forefinger, gazing madly at Miranda.

“Whosoever drinketh of me shall never thirst. But the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life. Is that so?” Miranda only stared, horror-stricken. Her silence infuriated Barclay. He leapt to his feet and hurled the bottle at her; she ducked and it shattered on the bulkhead. His voice filled the room. “Drink of life and know everlasting life; I drank of death and know everlasting ruin! I can swallow the seven seas and not quench this thirst!”

Barclay fell upon Miranda. “But I can try!” he roared. His huge hands crushed her throat. She struck his boiled-egg skull with her fists and scratched at his eyes; death was at hand, death had her by the throat! Barclay’s grin grew wide in her vision, vast, two feet, three feet across, filling her mind and obliterating all else. Only the grin—and death.

“God, Bridget,” he moaned.

Suddenly she choked and spat on the floor of the cabin and he was gone, his lunatic assault broken off as quickly as it began. Miranda limped to the door and slammed it. She leaned against it, trembling; tears welled up and threatened to burst forth, but she would not let them. She collapsed against the door and shook with tearless sobs.

At length Miranda recovered. Her head stopped spinning and the pain dulled to a slow fire in her throat. She drew breath only with great agony, but still—she drew breath.

Supper could not come soon enough, and then it came too soon. Miranda went to her vantage point under the cot and watched as Wickliff and Jenkins entered. They kept their hands in their pockets and avoiding looking at each other. Wickliff’s eyes darted to Miranda’s peephole from time to time. Soon a short, round man—the quartermaster—joined them, and the cookie brought the plates and dishes. Neither Wickliff nor Jenkins touched the food, and the quartermaster, after a moment’s befuddlement, helped himself.

“We may have to seek him out,” Wickliff whispered.

“Aye, you may, or he’ll miss his supper, and we’ll all hear it then,” said the quartermaster as he scooped potatoes from a steaming dish.

“You may not. He may come to you,” said Barclay. Miranda craned her neck, but could not see the entrance to the mess. Barclay moved into the room, still quite drunk. He dropped into his big chair at the head of the table. “I see Trent has still not shown his face.”

“He must be quite ill,” Wickliff said. Miranda could see his hands shaking as he set down his fork with great concentration.

“He’d have to be dead in his grave to miss supper, if I know him!” said Barclay. “What think you, Wickliff? Is he dead in his grave?”

“Now!” Jenkins shouted. Three pistols fired and filled the mess with white smoke. The quartermaster screamed shrilly and Jenkins shouted, “I’m killed, Wickliff!” and there was a great crash of tin and wood as someone capsized the table. Through the thinning smoke Miranda saw Barclay and Wickliff locked in struggle, Barclay with a rusted dirk poised at Wickliff’s cheek and Wickliff straining against the thrusting arm with all his might; Jenkins lay dying, eyes rolling heavenward. Dark blood pulsed from a puckered hole in his abdomen and his fingers worried at the wound. The quartermaster had vanished.

Wickliff deflected Barclay’s thrust and the knife sank into the wood beside Wickliff’s ear. Barclay drove his knee into Wickliff’s stomach and Wickliff doubled over, empty of breath. Barclay rammed Wickliff’s head into the sideways table and bloodied table and head alike. He dropped the swooning Wickliff.

The smoke reached Miranda and tickled her throat. She coughed, just a small cough, but Barclay heard it and his eyes darted to her peephole. “You,” he said, and a pistol cracked and Barclay tumbled to the floor, his head burst by the ball. Wickliff slumped behind him, blood running from a diagonal gash on his forehead. The pistol dangled from his fingers and fell with a clatter.

“Wickliff! Mr. Wickliff, wake up!” Miranda pounded on the wall. “Wake up! Wake up! You’ve done it! The captain is slain, Wickliff! Wake up!”

Footsteps pounded down the stairs and the mess flooded with men and their shouts: “He’s killed the captain!” “Barclay’s dead!” The quartermaster returned and helped Wickliff to his feet.

“Boys,” he said, his voice tremulous, “you’re free men now, free in deed as well as word. An end to slavery to a madman. I’ve secured a King’s Pardon for those who want it. All others will be set ashore with their portion to seek what fortune they may. What say you, boys?” A thunderous cheer went up from the sailors. Miranda stared, fascinated, at Barclay’s corpse. The monster who ripped her from her world—slain. Yet relief did not come to her. Blood cried for blood, and would not be sated.

The Scourge raised a white flag and sailed for Kingston with Barclay’s head swinging from the bowsprit. Wickliff unlocked Miranda’s door and escorted her to the deck, where she blinked in the bright sunlight. She walked the deck, enjoying the fresh air and unbroken view, and Wickliff was always at her arm, glaring at the sailors who dared leer at her. She paid them no mind; Barclay was dead, dead, and she would be free!

The venomous weed persisted in her mind.

Two days later they spotted a sail. “Navy,” Wickliff said, and handed her the spyglass. “Ship of the line.”

“HMS Valor,” Miranda read. Her heart leapt—Samuel’s ship! “Bear for it, captain,” she said. “They will escort us to port.”

Wickliff looked from the white flag to the Valor and back to Miranda. He chewed his lip. “Forgive me, miss, for my reservations,” he said, “but they are a warship, and we are—were brigands.”

“Trust me,” Miranda said. She took his big red hand in her small white one and squeezed it. “I trusted you to care for me, and you did. Now let me care for you.” Miranda smiled without difficulty.

Wickliff exhaled. “Very well, miss. Full sail, boys—hard about!” The barque swept over the waves. Through the spyglass, Miranda watched as the blue-jacketed sailors of the Valor swarmed over the rigging; the starboard shutters opened and cannons rolled forth. “No worry, lads!” Wickliff shouted to his nervous crew. “Best behavior, boys!”

The Scourge drew near the Valor and an officer came on deck with a speaking-trumpet. His voice drifted across the gap. “Men of the barque: stand down!” Miranda scanned the ship with the spyglass. Marines lined the deck, dozens of muskets trained on the pirates. “By the power of His Royal Majesty, we seize your ship and all her crew. You are hereby prisoners of the Royal Navy. Resist and you will be fired upon.” Miranda spied the officer—tall, bushy moustache, long black hair—Samuel!

“Samuel!” She waved her handkerchief. “Samuel!” The Navy officer produced his own spyglass. He lowered it and resumed the speaking-trumpet.

“You will surrender all prisoners immediately! We will send a boat. Do you agree to these terms?”

Wickliff cupped his hands and shouted his reply: “Aye, governor! Just the King’s good subjects, returned from truancy!” He laughed in his relief.

A half-dozen sailors lowered a boat and rowed it across. Three of the sailors held muskets, which they kept on the pirates while Miranda descended. Wickliff squeezed her hand. “God grant you deliver us, love,” he said, and released her.

The boat returned. The sailors handed her up and Samuel, her betrothed, her beloved, welcomed her. “My love!” He took her hands. “Tell me you have not been mistreated! Have they injured you?”

“Oh, Samuel!” she sobbed, collapsing to his chest. “I cannot tell you the horrors I have endured at the hands of these wicked, cruel men!”

Samuel’s lip curled in disgust and rage, and he bellowed his command with all the breath in his lungs: “Fire!”

Twenty-nine cannons boomed and sixty-four muskets cracked. For a frozen instant Miranda saw Wickliff, tiny in the distance, whirl about, face red with shouting, his men dashing to battle stations. Then the sea exploded upward in mighty plumes of water, rending the sails and shredding the rigging, and the Ocean’s Scourge, shattered by the bombardment, listed to starboard and sank beneath the waves. Some desperate members of the crew clung to barrels and burning wreckage, and the marines picked them off one by one. Miranda watched a redheaded sailor stroke frantically through the waves; a musket popped on the crow’s nest, and the figure disappeared in a cloud of blood. Miranda watched the waves disperse the blood in a wash of red, then pink, then nothing but the clear Caribbean water.

Samuel was embracing her and muttering words of comfort, Miranda realized. “And Nona?” he asked. “Does she—rest in peace?”

“Yes,” Miranda said. “I believe she does.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, my love.” Samuel held her tight.

They were married two weeks later. Miranda slept late on the day of the ceremony. She slept extremely well. For a bridesmaid she had the governor’s charming daughter. The two had become fast friends on her arrival, and under the daughter’s care, Miranda recovered quite quickly from her ordeal. In fact, by the time of the wedding (which all agreed was perfectly beautiful), the daughter commented to her father that Miranda bore no ill effects at all. “She is the very portrait of charm and gaiety! Flowers fairly spring in her footsteps!” the daughter said, and the governor nodded assent.

 

Thirst by Jens Rushing 1 2 3

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