Historical Fiction Short Story

Fernand was going away! He was going to America like his Papa had wanted! He was free! Exhilarated, Fernand ran up to the side of the ship, glee on his face as he gazed upon the wild water. There were birds flying above, scavenging for fish and what other things they could get their beaks upon. One gull was on the ship, collecting scraps, no doubt to feed its family. The port was in the distance. Fernand could see more ships; most of them were bigger than the Saint Angelica that he was on. Their masts were like giant trees that reached as far as the clouds. One who climbed them must see angels every day, Fernand thought. The waves were loud and moving in all different directions, yet they all wanted to get a chance to hit the ship and make noise.

But the waves weren't the only thing moving recklessly. The captain was approaching Fernand; his son was running in all directions, jumping up and down at the side of the boat to see the sea. The captain had a wide grin on his face as he approached Fernand.

"Doing well, lad? It was a short journey, shorter than usual."

Fernand smiled back. "Mother France seems so far away when we are here in America."
"It's a shame your papa isn't here to see this. He always talked of leaving France."

"He is with God now. I think he is looking down on me here. He was a good man. Now I can make him proud." Fernand looked at the port again. "I will make him proud." The captain nodded.

There was a big splash, and Fernand saw out of the corner of his eye a figure falling to the ocean.

"Miki!" The captain cried. He kicked off his boots and hat, and jumped out after his son. Fernand looked around for help. Seeing nobody near by, he tossed a rope out in the water and tied one end to a wooden pole on the ship. The captain had hold of his son and was swimming towards the rope Fernand had thrown. Ten minutes later, and many heaves on Fernand's part, the captain and his son were back on the ship, their clothes sodden and hanging on a line, and a great deal of complaining from the son, who must have only been ten. The captain was very grateful to Fernand. He offered him twenty livres as thanks, which Fernand accepted.

When the ship docked, Fernand walked at a steady pace through the town of Wilmington. It was a very busy place. Stores lined the streets, and people were talking animatedly to each other. Fernand found his home.

Time's winged chariot flew swiftly for Fernand. He had bought a small building in town, and opened up a butcher shop, as was his family trade. He was a particularly good butcher, and soon, everybody was getting their meat at Fernand's Quality Meat.

His papa had taught him many things, but one of the subjects his papa had not mentioned, was foreign money. Nobody would take his twenty livres, though it was good money. All they had were shillings. It seemed like such a stupid system. Every day, he would try to find someone that could give him American money for his French.

It was hard for people to understand what he wanted though, since his English was bad.

Some of their interpretations were: "You want to buy a carrot?" "Little Billy's trapped in the well?" "You trade cows for children?"

Fernand eventually gave up on his French money. He kept it in a little tin that he put by his cutting surface. Every time he was cutting meat he would look at that tin and remember the boy who had fallen off the ship. The captain had risked his life for that boy, and he had saved the captain's. While dwelling on these thoughts, Fernand's hand slipped and the knife flew out like a falcon in the air and dived back down in an arc -- right onto Fernand's outstretched hand. With a thud and a scream of pain, Fernando was rolling on the floor with only a stump and a thumb awkwardly hanging from the remnants of his hand. Blood covered the already raw meat on his table, and Fernand just lay there on the sodden stone floor, screaming. Soon, the boy who Fernand had traded sixteen cows for came running down to Fernand. The boy bent down and started screaming over Fernand's twitching body, "Jesus, oh what do I do, tell me? Come on tell me!"

The boy remembered his daddy once telling him, "If anybody is reminiscing about their past near knives, you best remember, if their hand gets cut off, scream like Hell broke lose! Also you should tend to him if he looks like he might live through it. Tie a belt tightly around his forearm so the bleeding stops and then get to the town doctor."

While continuing to scream, the boy silently thanked his daddy for telling him this useful piece of information. As his daddy instructed, the boy tied up the stump of Fernand's hand and ran to get a doctor. The boy was screaming all the way to the doctor's.

The doctor fixed Fernand up. He cut off the thumb that was limply hanging from the rest of Fernand's hand, and told Fernand the bad news as soon as Fernand had regained consciousness.

"I'm sorry Fernand, but your hand has been cut off."

"What?!" Fernand exclaimed.

"You'll never be able to cut meat again."
"What?!"

"And your store has blood stains all over it."

"What?!"

"Ah yes, and you are now deaf due to a boy shouting in your ear for thirteen hours straight."

"What?!" Fernand asked. The doctor sure was speaking quietly.