Chapter 4: Past and Present
"I'm not sure what I can believe," Spot said in a barely audible whisper, neither caring if the Captain heard him or looking in his direction.
It was a good thing that the paper with his name was in his hand, because it gave him something to concentrate on while his mind was running in circles until he felt dizzy. His instinct and reason were screaming at each other although none of them seemed fully convinced of their point.
For the first time since he had awakened, the unconscious struggle against the chains had ceased and his body relaxed. For the moment he was too confused to even panic. Things just did not fit together. The kidnapping, the letters, his headache, words, promises, fear. It seemed unreal, frighteningly so. What was real were the chains that were holding him motionless, and deep inside he knew there had to be something coming.
But the paper in his hand was also real. What was going on? For the first time in two years he might have cried but for the fact that he had used up his tears long ago.
Marcus kept his fingers tangled in his hair as Martin spoke, not looking at him, either. "I know, lad. You've known nothing but abuse for only you know how long, and it won't be easy to think of others as not wanting to harm you."
He pulled open the drawer of his desk where the keys to the chains were. He knew the rattle of them would scare Martin, but truth was, he wasn't sure which key was to the wrist chains. He confessed as much to Martin. "I'm going to unlock those and get them off you, because...I trust you not to go berserk again. And I figure you'll be wanting to feed yourself when that food arrives, else I'll have to feed you, and...it's more dignified if you get to feed yourself. You can't slip out of the rest of the chains anyway." He sighed. "You're only chained at all because I know you would attack me or my crew until you believe we don't want to hurt you in any way. When you believe that, I'll free you completely. I won't have you hurting someone and then throwing yourself overboard. We're too far out for you to survive the chill in the water."
He found the right key for the manacles and as quickly as he could had them off Martin and tossed into a corner where the young man could see them, see that nobody would go near them unless he gave them cause to. "And that's my word to you. There they stay if you don't get wild again. You were hurting yourself as much as anybody else." He knew Martin would not believe him, so he changed the subject and forced cheer into his voice. "You can study that paper with your name, and rest a bit, and soon the food will be here. Cook's good! It won't be the swill you might have had before." He turned away again as he put the keys back in the desk. "I always got swill," he said, voicing a memory he did not realize he spoke aloud.
Spot had felt for a little while like he was floating alone in space, not knowing where he was, trying to figure out thoughts and feelings that just didn't fit together. The rattle of key brought him back to earth. No. His eyes focused again and he saw the Captain walk over. His breath caught in his throat as his whole body became again as stiff as a piece of wood. Don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me...
But he listened and a hint of a smile appeared on his face - as much of a smile as his clenched teeth allowed.
Oh yes, Captain Sir, I'm just waiting for my chance. But don't worry, it isn't my plan to throw myself over board in the middle of the ocean. No, dying was not an option. It had never been.
He moved his hands and rubbed his wrists, although he had to admit that they didn't hurt as much as he was used to by far. His eyes were fixed on the chains in the corner - off for now, but still near enough to be at hand. He still listened, but the words didn't fully register.
*****
Gus had waited and waited while the Cook--a big Scotsman named Angus-- prepared a meal fitting for a king or the captain himself. If this was the fare aboard the Black Arrow, he'd have no complaints at all! He had chatted some with Angus, who seemed more willing to talk than some cooks, except he made it clear to Gus to keep out of his way and to not let his big feet trip up his peg leg. Gus readily agreed and sat down to a thick piece of tasty bread and an apple, and the two talked about nothing in particular. Eventually, the young man got up the nerve to ask about the Captain's fiddle.
"Oh, that," replied Angus. "Had a benefactor, did our Cap'n. Nice hand named Robert, who took over like a father to him when he needed it, so I hears. Robert was a right cheery sort, and played that fiddle like a gent courtin' a lady careful, and then surprising her with a right merry dance!" He nodded, and smiled a bit sadly, lost in thought.
Gus waited a bit, but ventured to ask, "What happened? Is this Robert on ship?"
"Nay, lad," spoke Angus, his voice edged with sadness. "Died. Nigh on two year ago. Cap'n took it hard, but he says he's gonna find Robert's son and take care uv 'im, like he promised Robert. Like a son. He seems to have collected another relative already, that wild young 'un, his nephew there. Ya got any insights there? I'm not a big gossipper, cooks gotta be discreet."
"Oh," said Gus, not sure what to say. "Martin's turrible afeared o' pirates, and I don't rightly think he knew he had a pirate Uncle. Cap'n is being real nice though. Don't think he's used to havin' a nephew, but he'll do right by 'im. He seems a good sort. D'ya think he might let someone play that fiddle?"
Angus snorted. "He don't let no one touch it! But we aint had no musician aboard since Robert went to the deeps, so I don't rightly think it ever came up. Why, lad? Ya seem awful curious about that musicmaker."
Gus put his chin in his hands, watching Angus put the finishing touches on the tray with a lot of food on it. "I miss my own fiddle. It got broke."
Angus stilled in what he was doing and a smile split his face in half. "You play, then?"
Gus nodded a small nod. "Aye."
"Wellll, that changes things. You take this food to Cap'n and his nephew, and there's a bit more for you when ya brings the tray back. And you asks Cap'n Marcus if he'll let you play that fiddle, and I bet he says yes. If'n ya wants me t' ask him fer ya, I'd be right pleased ta! Be nice having music aboard again!"
Gus smiled, and his eyes brightened. "If'n I can fit it into the conversation, I'll ask. If'n I can't, I'll let ya do it, Angus. One way or the other, we'll see if we don't have that lady singin' again right quick! I'll treat her gentle, that's a promise!"
He took the tray and noted that Angus had put the stew into big tin mugs, along with spoons and forks, and even napkins. He'd done some anticipating! Mugs would be easier for someone on a bed to handle. And the bread was already sliced and buttered.
Gus hurried to the Cap'n's cabin and carefully balanced everything while he knocked with his elbow. "It's the food, Cap'n!" he called out. "Smells and looks good enough to eat!"
He would find a way to ask about that fiddle. That thought cheered him even more than knowing they wouldn't be eating no poor vittles aboard this ship!
The knock on the door made Spot's head jerk around and his breath caught again, this time audibly. Dammit Martin, relax! It's just some guy bringing food... Food was a good idea. Spot closed his eyes for a moment and forced his breath into a calm and even pattern. Much better.
Captain Marcus was at the cabin door in an instant. He had noticed Martin's tension, and tried to pretend not to. The food was just what was needed. He thanked Gus and took the tray to his desk, put down his own meal on the smooth wood surface, and then said as he turned, "Can you balance the tray? It's good food, Martin, and while you've not eaten in...well, you will find this fare agreeable even when you are used the three meals we serve aboard the Black Arrow." He placed the tray across Martin's stomach, and helped him to sit a little bit higher by adding a pillow behind him, under the one already there so he need not touch the young man. As he added the pillow, he loosened the chain just enough that the pressure remained the same across Martin's chest, while not compromising security. He knew Martin had meant it when he said he'd slit his throat to gain his freedom.
******
It was night, and Marcus found that he had lost the knack of sleeping on the floor. Or maybe it was that he had never had anyone chained to his bed before, let alone a lad who was scared to death of and therefore hated pirates. Whatever the reason, it was a highly unnusual and awkward situation, and he could not sleep.
It had been a long day. During lunch, Marcus had taken the paper with Martin's name on it and tied it with a string to the nearest of the four thick ropes holding the bed suspended from the ceiling. There Martin could study it, but not worry about it falling from his hands where he could not reach it.
For part of the afternoon Marcus had tended his duties on deck, and then made sure Martin had a good dinner. Now the lad seemed to be sleeping, but not easily. After lunch, there had seemed little enough to say that was safe, so he had kept to himself, and left Martin alone while he went about his duties.
That was when Calton had come to him, calm, gentle, dependable Calton. His first mate had been waiting for him when he left the cabin, and the look on his face had told him that he had something serious on his mind. And as usual he did not wait far a question to state it. That was Calton: he did his work in the background, like a pillar that is holding up the whole house and was seldom recognized for its worth. Marcus recognized his worth, and his calm manner and loyaly, which did not keep him from giving his Captain a push in the right direction from time to time.
"You never told me of a nephew," he had said in a tone of voice that told Marcus that he did not believe the story but would accept it if he wanted to stick with it for now. "You might want to be careful. There's gossip starting out among the crew, and not all of it is friendly.
Now Marcus was thinking about that. He knew Calton was keeping a close eye on things; he always did. So at least there were unlikely to be any bad surprises – not counting what Martin surely still had in store for them. His arrival on the Black Arrow had certainly jumbled things up a bit.
For seemingly the five hundredth time, Marcus shifted to get into a hopefully more comfortable position, without much success. He had thought about taking his usual place on the other side of the bed, but given up that notion almost as soon as it had come to him. Martin was still too frightened, and he would get the wrong idea.
But Marcus was miserable on the hard deck. He began thinking about what would solve the problem, and he got an idea. He would make the lad a hammock, and that would help him, for he would have his own place to sleep and Marcus could have his own bed back!
Finally he gave up on sleep entirely and sat up with his back to the cabin wall. Martin, too, was having a hard time sleeping. Marcus wondered if it was worth it to go down to the galley and prepare a sleeping draught. He decided to do that, and went silently out, nodding to the men on duty through the night. He enjoyed a look at the stars and the moon, big and almost full, directly in front of the ship. Too bad Martin was missing this beautiful view!
That thought reminded him to go get that draught. He made it a bit strong, and returned to his cabin. If Martin slept well into the next morning, it would not hurt him any, and Marcus and the ship could do with some peace and quiet for a while.
*****
It had taken almost two hours for Spot to finally fall asleep. That was not due to the discomfort of being chained and therefore unable to move. No, he had slept in all kinds of...situations. What kept him awake was his mind that stayed in a state of alert and made it impossible for him to relax and find sleep. Finally, however, his exhaustion, both physical and mental, had reached the point where he simply drifted off...
He hit the deck, hard, as hard as the five times before when they pulled him out of the water just in time to stop him from drowning in earnest and let him catch a little breath before...
No, Spot thought, this had to be the last time, he wouldn't be able to make it through another round. He was utterly exhausted. The cold of the water had drained him, as had the constant fight for the next breath of air. The fact that the ties were painfully cutting into his wrists and ankles was of such a minor importance that he didn't even feel it as he lay there on the deck, gasping for air, retching and coughing up more and more water.
The worst, however, was the thirst. It was driving him mad already and he knew that with all the salt water that he had swallowed it would become much worse fast.
There was laughter all around him, but he barely heard it over his own coughing.
Steps- Heavy steps getting closer...a pair of boots stopping right in front of him. No doubt that was the Captain, crouching down to assess if the punishment was going as it should. Cold, almost colorless eyes looked down at him.
"Had enough?"
Spot raised his head a little to look up at that face and took as deep a breath as he could and tried to speak, but it took three tries before he finally managed to utter a word.
"Water?"
The Captain broke into a smile, a smile that lacked any humor or warmth. It was cold and cruel. On his hawk-like face it looked like a caricature. He grabbed Spot's chin and brought his face close to his. When he spoke his voice was full of mock friendliness that could make a boy shiver.
"You are thirsty, aren't you? Maybe you should have thought about that before you tried to run away."
He let go of Spot and straightened. Then followed the order that the boy had dreaded above all. "Take him to my cabin."
"No!"
Spot's eyes snapped open. He heard his own ragged breathing as he stared at the darkness in front of him. He would have jumped up and run blindly if not for those chains holding him back. It took him almost a minute to realize that he had just experienced a very vivid nightmare.
A nightmare? He did not have nightmares, usually, at least none that replayed parts of his past. Ususally...Usually he would have gotten up and taken a walk along the shore, except that now he was on a ship and there was no shore anywhere in sight to walk along, even if he could move.
He let out another sound that sounded far too much like a sob for his liking. No, come on boy, you got past this a long time ago! Calm down, calm down. It was just a dream! Just a dream...
After some time, it might have been a minute or ten, he had himself back under control and started to relax - until he turned his head and realized that the Captain was standing there near the door.
"How long have you been standing there?" Usually he would not have dared to ask such an outright question, but he had to know.
Marcus knew it could not be seen in the darkness--he was just a silhouette against the night sky and the sails which were a silvery gray in the starlight. But his own face had drained of color ten minutes ago when he got to the cabin and realized he had arrived in the midst of Martin in the cold grip of a nightmare.
While the lad had awakened with the suddenly voiced, "No!", it was by no means all he had said. So Marcus had a good idea of what the nightmare had been about. While there were any number of reasons one might beg for water in such a desperate gasp, none of them were good. And the look of terror on his face spoke for itself.
Suddenly, Martin turned and saw him, and asked that question.
The lad was entitled to some privacy, some dignity. No doubt he had been given little enough of either at the hands of anyone. So Marcus lied, stepping into the room and putting the draught on his desk before reaching for a match. He lit a small oil lamp, and kept the flame high enough to see by, to show the cabin to the boy, but low enough not to trouble tired eyes. Then he picked up the sleeping draught again. Thank the Lord it did not taste particularly bad. "I was just coming back in. You nearly made me drop the cup here. I'm sorry I woke you."
He stood beside Martin, wondering what to do next, and decided directness was best, even if it meant telling yet another white lie. "I noticed earlier you were running a bit of a fever, and there's no doubt I am to blame for that, so I went to get you some medicinal tea. Here, lad. It will get rid of that fever by morning. It's not poison." He took a small sip of it, not enough to make him sleepy. "See?" He gave the cup to Martin and turned his back, to give the lad some privacy. He half expected to see the cup and contents sail through the air or bounce off his person, but they didn't.
When he turned back, he took the drained mug from Martin. Then he very carefully straightened the blanket over him, and in so doing reassured himself the draught was indeed inside Martin, and not soaking his own bed somewhere he could not see it.
He put the mug on the desk, and left the lamp lit. Marcus then lay back down on his blanket on the deck, where Martin could see him if he turned his head, and hear him if he did not. He made as if to sleep.
Within fifteen minutes, Martin was transformed by the relaxation of real, untroubled sleep. Marcus got up and stood over the lad. So young. So hurt inside he would not have trusted an Angel answering his prayers.
Marcus acted on instinct. He wrapped the boy in his arms and hugged him tight, and kissed his hair. A fatherly embrace and kiss. How often at that age had he prayed for something like human kindness to touch him and just hold him and keep the fears away, and not want anything in return!
But Marcus realized he did want something: he wanted Martin to come to trust him, and through him, others. And through that he would give the world back something that he had received, and pass on some of Robert's spirit. "Learning to trust is a big obstacle, I know," he said to the sleeping boy. "But if you overcome so much lack of trust, Martin, it would give you a chance at a full life, full of love and friends, maybe someday a wife and children...A real life, not just day-to-day existence and unresting suspicion. I want to help you. Let me help you, Martin. That's all I want." But he knew it would not be easy.
He settled him as he had been, and arranged the blanket the same way. And leaned down and kissed the damp forehead. The lad did have a bit of a fever, and the medicine would help that, but still, Marcus made a mental note to keep checking on that fever.
He stopped and looked toward the door. He saw Gus, silhouetted against the stars and sails. He finished settling Martin, and went to the door, and closed it after he had gone outside.
"What can I do for you, Gus?"
*****
It always took awhile to get used to a new berth in a new ship. Gus was down in a bunkhouse with fourteen other men, some snoring softly, one seeming to cut logs, but luckily he did it with his face half stuffed into his pillow as he lay on his stomach and faced the other way. How his back could stand the dip in the hammock was beyond Gus, but he kept out of other people's affairs.
He found his own hammock comfortable enough, and didn't mind the draft from the porthole, which blew air right across his face. In storm or winter that might be a problem, but for now he was content enough. It explained why this was the empty berth, though.
Gus just could not find sleep, no matter how he tried. He had not gotten to ask the Captain anything, not even gotten to collect the tray afterwards, so he hadn't seen Angus to tell him he needed some help about that fiddle.
The snorer suddenly rolled onto his back, and finally Gus realized that between the suddenly loud noise and the newness of everything, he was never going to get to sleep. Might as well go out on deck and find a coil of rope to try sleep on.
He missed his fiddle. He wanted to ask the Captain about that fiddlebox in his cabin.
He hadn't been out on deck five minutes before Captain Marcus stole into the galley. And Gus bit his lip, having a mighty argument with himself. Just ask him! Ask him about the fiddle! said a part of him. Another part laughed and reminded him of the time of night, his own lowly station, and the FACT that it was the Cap'n's fiddle. When the Cap'n went back to his cabin carrying a tin cup of some strange tea, he had decided not to say or do anything.
That resolve changed twenty minutes later. Three times. Yes. No. Yes.
Yes won. He got up resolutely and headed in his rolling walk toward the cabin of Captain Marcus.
And hid outside the door as he heard the man comforting his nephew. He stepped into the open door and watched, and felt his throat constrict. Made him miss his mum. She'd been nice like that. But now she was up in Heaven, singing with the Angels, and that was no bad place to be.
He was on the verge of turning around when the Captain shifted and saw him. Gus's mind registered the tangle of blankets and pillow on the floor, and that the other side of the Cap'n's own bed hadn't been slept in.
Gus had wondered if he should turn and hurry away, not bother a man who was already dealing with tough problems.
But Capt'n Marcus had just settled his nephew and come on out, not seeming to mind.
"What can I do for you, Gus?"
Gus was terribly torn. "Sorry, Cap'n, it's the middle o' the night and all, but I had trouble sleepin', see, and..."
Marcus smiled and nodded, grateful that Gus had kept his voice low. "It takes awhile on a new ship, doesn't it?" He smiled. "They berthed you with the woodcutter, Henri, didn't they? Snores to be heard over a gale?"
"Aye, Cap'n," smiled Gus.
"And they gave you the berth next to the porthole?"
"Aye," said Gus again, and now he was relaxed. "But I don' mind the porthole, nor the woodcutter, when he's facin' away."
Marcus laughed and put his hand on Gus' shoulder. "I'll see what I can do to find you a different bunkhouse. Do you need another blanket? You're welcome to sleep on deck tonight, so long as you pick a spot out of the way."
"Thankee, Cap'n." He hesitated.
Marcus was good at reading people. And Gus was both a bit easier and a bit harder to read than most. "You didn't come to talk to me about the bunkhouse."
"Aye..." Gus felt so torn! It wasn't his fiddle!
"Sooooo, you came to talk about...?"
"Yer nephew!" blurted Gus. It wasn't really what he had wanted to say at all, but for the moment his courage had left him and he leaped at the first thing that came to his mind. "He's feeling better? Looked to be sleepin' comfortable-like."
Marcus could have so easily lied. But he liked Gus, and the lad might need the ally. Gus was the only one on board who was about the Matin's age, and also the only one from Sarentre. "No, Martin had a bad nightmare. I made him a sleeping draught. He's a little sick I think from exhaustion and fear and...hurting inside. He is so afraid of me. Of all of us."
Gus couldn't help it. The question flew out of his mouth before he could catch it. "Why? Why's he afeared o' you s'much? And the crew aint bad a'tall, not compared to some."
"Martin spent time on a very bad ship. I don't know which one, but I know he didn't work the deck."
Gus swallowed. "Oh. Yah, I kinda wondered if mebbe it was somethin' like that. Why'd yer brother let him get took by pirates, Cap'n?"
Marcus' voice was as soft as a feather and as sad as news of death. "My brother and I were not close. Martin might not even know about me," he lied. "And when I took him for my crew, he was just a young man I thought I could add to my crew, to work the decks, and instead I find myself looking right at visions of hell on earth when I look in his eyes, and feel his hatred of me and my crew. But he looks like my brother did at that age, and I know my nephew is named Martin." He was glad he could tell the truth with his last sentence. "All I want to do is help him."
The pain in the cap'n's voice reached Gus right into his soul, and he put a hand on the man's as it gripped the railing. "I saw what you did fer 'im there, an' in time you'll reach 'im. If ye don't, it's cuz the devil got there first and burrowed so deep he'll be hard to shift, but even so, y'can win him back. I know it, Cap'n."
Marcus smiled sadly, but hopefully. He felt just enough buoyed to keep going to the next step with Martin. "I hope so. And thank you, Gus. Now tell me why you came to me tonight."
Gus turned to the railing and leaned against it with his elbows. "I wanted t' ask mebbe......"
Marcus waited in silence. Gus was fighting something inside. It would come out in time. So he leaned his elbows against the rail and just waited.
After a short while Gus blurted, "It's the fiddle! I saw it in yer cabin, Cap'n. I had one once. Some men were fightin' an' they broke it. I haven't played since, and I miss it turrible!" He couldn't bring himself to ask the question, but his eyes were pools of it.
Robert's violin. Marcus stood and swallowed. Robert, who had shown him what he was trying so hard to show Martin, who had been as a father to him. Dead now almost two years, and missed every day. Robert's violin. Silent almost two years.
Maybe it was time to let it sing again. He looked at Gus, unsure.
But those pleading, yet proud eyes...so like Robert's. "Come see me in the morning, and let's see how that violin feels in your hand. This ship can use music."
Gus's face and soul lit up like noon sun on a bright day, sending shadows into hiding. For a moment it looked like he was actually going to embrace Marcus. "Cap'n! I don' know how t' thank ye! I'll do anythin' fer ye!"
"Your face is all the thanks I need, Gus. Come early. Martin should sleep a bit long--there is something you can do. Sit with Martin again, tomorrow morning until he wakes up. Don't let him know if you're doing it, but check for fever, and if you feel any, come tell me right away. If he has a bad dream...you could play something soft and soothing for him?"
"Aye, Cap'n! I'd be right pleased t' do that! I know how to coax away fears with a fiddle. I know a nice tune for chasing away bad dreams and easing sleep. An' I'll keep an eye out for fever!"
Marcus smiled. He'd have duties tomorrow, but he already decided that Martin was his first priority. "Hey, I've another idea. I was going to make a hammock for Martin--I can't sleep on that damn floor! I want my bed back. What if I hung two hammocks, and you could keep Martin company sometimes. It's an imposition, but in return, you can have access to the violin anytime. I need help making those hammocks, though."
Gus chased away shadows again. "I can make 'em right nice and quick! Done it before--just need a bit of old sails, and a little wood, and some rope, and you got two hammocks!"
Marcus chased away some shadows of his own. "Deal!"
tbc...
"I'm not sure what I can believe," Spot said in a barely audible whisper, neither caring if the Captain heard him or looking in his direction.
It was a good thing that the paper with his name was in his hand, because it gave him something to concentrate on while his mind was running in circles until he felt dizzy. His instinct and reason were screaming at each other although none of them seemed fully convinced of their point.
For the first time since he had awakened, the unconscious struggle against the chains had ceased and his body relaxed. For the moment he was too confused to even panic. Things just did not fit together. The kidnapping, the letters, his headache, words, promises, fear. It seemed unreal, frighteningly so. What was real were the chains that were holding him motionless, and deep inside he knew there had to be something coming.
But the paper in his hand was also real. What was going on? For the first time in two years he might have cried but for the fact that he had used up his tears long ago.
Marcus kept his fingers tangled in his hair as Martin spoke, not looking at him, either. "I know, lad. You've known nothing but abuse for only you know how long, and it won't be easy to think of others as not wanting to harm you."
He pulled open the drawer of his desk where the keys to the chains were. He knew the rattle of them would scare Martin, but truth was, he wasn't sure which key was to the wrist chains. He confessed as much to Martin. "I'm going to unlock those and get them off you, because...I trust you not to go berserk again. And I figure you'll be wanting to feed yourself when that food arrives, else I'll have to feed you, and...it's more dignified if you get to feed yourself. You can't slip out of the rest of the chains anyway." He sighed. "You're only chained at all because I know you would attack me or my crew until you believe we don't want to hurt you in any way. When you believe that, I'll free you completely. I won't have you hurting someone and then throwing yourself overboard. We're too far out for you to survive the chill in the water."
He found the right key for the manacles and as quickly as he could had them off Martin and tossed into a corner where the young man could see them, see that nobody would go near them unless he gave them cause to. "And that's my word to you. There they stay if you don't get wild again. You were hurting yourself as much as anybody else." He knew Martin would not believe him, so he changed the subject and forced cheer into his voice. "You can study that paper with your name, and rest a bit, and soon the food will be here. Cook's good! It won't be the swill you might have had before." He turned away again as he put the keys back in the desk. "I always got swill," he said, voicing a memory he did not realize he spoke aloud.
Spot had felt for a little while like he was floating alone in space, not knowing where he was, trying to figure out thoughts and feelings that just didn't fit together. The rattle of key brought him back to earth. No. His eyes focused again and he saw the Captain walk over. His breath caught in his throat as his whole body became again as stiff as a piece of wood. Don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me don't touch me...
But he listened and a hint of a smile appeared on his face - as much of a smile as his clenched teeth allowed.
Oh yes, Captain Sir, I'm just waiting for my chance. But don't worry, it isn't my plan to throw myself over board in the middle of the ocean. No, dying was not an option. It had never been.
He moved his hands and rubbed his wrists, although he had to admit that they didn't hurt as much as he was used to by far. His eyes were fixed on the chains in the corner - off for now, but still near enough to be at hand. He still listened, but the words didn't fully register.
*****
Gus had waited and waited while the Cook--a big Scotsman named Angus-- prepared a meal fitting for a king or the captain himself. If this was the fare aboard the Black Arrow, he'd have no complaints at all! He had chatted some with Angus, who seemed more willing to talk than some cooks, except he made it clear to Gus to keep out of his way and to not let his big feet trip up his peg leg. Gus readily agreed and sat down to a thick piece of tasty bread and an apple, and the two talked about nothing in particular. Eventually, the young man got up the nerve to ask about the Captain's fiddle.
"Oh, that," replied Angus. "Had a benefactor, did our Cap'n. Nice hand named Robert, who took over like a father to him when he needed it, so I hears. Robert was a right cheery sort, and played that fiddle like a gent courtin' a lady careful, and then surprising her with a right merry dance!" He nodded, and smiled a bit sadly, lost in thought.
Gus waited a bit, but ventured to ask, "What happened? Is this Robert on ship?"
"Nay, lad," spoke Angus, his voice edged with sadness. "Died. Nigh on two year ago. Cap'n took it hard, but he says he's gonna find Robert's son and take care uv 'im, like he promised Robert. Like a son. He seems to have collected another relative already, that wild young 'un, his nephew there. Ya got any insights there? I'm not a big gossipper, cooks gotta be discreet."
"Oh," said Gus, not sure what to say. "Martin's turrible afeared o' pirates, and I don't rightly think he knew he had a pirate Uncle. Cap'n is being real nice though. Don't think he's used to havin' a nephew, but he'll do right by 'im. He seems a good sort. D'ya think he might let someone play that fiddle?"
Angus snorted. "He don't let no one touch it! But we aint had no musician aboard since Robert went to the deeps, so I don't rightly think it ever came up. Why, lad? Ya seem awful curious about that musicmaker."
Gus put his chin in his hands, watching Angus put the finishing touches on the tray with a lot of food on it. "I miss my own fiddle. It got broke."
Angus stilled in what he was doing and a smile split his face in half. "You play, then?"
Gus nodded a small nod. "Aye."
"Wellll, that changes things. You take this food to Cap'n and his nephew, and there's a bit more for you when ya brings the tray back. And you asks Cap'n Marcus if he'll let you play that fiddle, and I bet he says yes. If'n ya wants me t' ask him fer ya, I'd be right pleased ta! Be nice having music aboard again!"
Gus smiled, and his eyes brightened. "If'n I can fit it into the conversation, I'll ask. If'n I can't, I'll let ya do it, Angus. One way or the other, we'll see if we don't have that lady singin' again right quick! I'll treat her gentle, that's a promise!"
He took the tray and noted that Angus had put the stew into big tin mugs, along with spoons and forks, and even napkins. He'd done some anticipating! Mugs would be easier for someone on a bed to handle. And the bread was already sliced and buttered.
Gus hurried to the Cap'n's cabin and carefully balanced everything while he knocked with his elbow. "It's the food, Cap'n!" he called out. "Smells and looks good enough to eat!"
He would find a way to ask about that fiddle. That thought cheered him even more than knowing they wouldn't be eating no poor vittles aboard this ship!
The knock on the door made Spot's head jerk around and his breath caught again, this time audibly. Dammit Martin, relax! It's just some guy bringing food... Food was a good idea. Spot closed his eyes for a moment and forced his breath into a calm and even pattern. Much better.
Captain Marcus was at the cabin door in an instant. He had noticed Martin's tension, and tried to pretend not to. The food was just what was needed. He thanked Gus and took the tray to his desk, put down his own meal on the smooth wood surface, and then said as he turned, "Can you balance the tray? It's good food, Martin, and while you've not eaten in...well, you will find this fare agreeable even when you are used the three meals we serve aboard the Black Arrow." He placed the tray across Martin's stomach, and helped him to sit a little bit higher by adding a pillow behind him, under the one already there so he need not touch the young man. As he added the pillow, he loosened the chain just enough that the pressure remained the same across Martin's chest, while not compromising security. He knew Martin had meant it when he said he'd slit his throat to gain his freedom.
******
It was night, and Marcus found that he had lost the knack of sleeping on the floor. Or maybe it was that he had never had anyone chained to his bed before, let alone a lad who was scared to death of and therefore hated pirates. Whatever the reason, it was a highly unnusual and awkward situation, and he could not sleep.
It had been a long day. During lunch, Marcus had taken the paper with Martin's name on it and tied it with a string to the nearest of the four thick ropes holding the bed suspended from the ceiling. There Martin could study it, but not worry about it falling from his hands where he could not reach it.
For part of the afternoon Marcus had tended his duties on deck, and then made sure Martin had a good dinner. Now the lad seemed to be sleeping, but not easily. After lunch, there had seemed little enough to say that was safe, so he had kept to himself, and left Martin alone while he went about his duties.
That was when Calton had come to him, calm, gentle, dependable Calton. His first mate had been waiting for him when he left the cabin, and the look on his face had told him that he had something serious on his mind. And as usual he did not wait far a question to state it. That was Calton: he did his work in the background, like a pillar that is holding up the whole house and was seldom recognized for its worth. Marcus recognized his worth, and his calm manner and loyaly, which did not keep him from giving his Captain a push in the right direction from time to time.
"You never told me of a nephew," he had said in a tone of voice that told Marcus that he did not believe the story but would accept it if he wanted to stick with it for now. "You might want to be careful. There's gossip starting out among the crew, and not all of it is friendly.
Now Marcus was thinking about that. He knew Calton was keeping a close eye on things; he always did. So at least there were unlikely to be any bad surprises – not counting what Martin surely still had in store for them. His arrival on the Black Arrow had certainly jumbled things up a bit.
For seemingly the five hundredth time, Marcus shifted to get into a hopefully more comfortable position, without much success. He had thought about taking his usual place on the other side of the bed, but given up that notion almost as soon as it had come to him. Martin was still too frightened, and he would get the wrong idea.
But Marcus was miserable on the hard deck. He began thinking about what would solve the problem, and he got an idea. He would make the lad a hammock, and that would help him, for he would have his own place to sleep and Marcus could have his own bed back!
Finally he gave up on sleep entirely and sat up with his back to the cabin wall. Martin, too, was having a hard time sleeping. Marcus wondered if it was worth it to go down to the galley and prepare a sleeping draught. He decided to do that, and went silently out, nodding to the men on duty through the night. He enjoyed a look at the stars and the moon, big and almost full, directly in front of the ship. Too bad Martin was missing this beautiful view!
That thought reminded him to go get that draught. He made it a bit strong, and returned to his cabin. If Martin slept well into the next morning, it would not hurt him any, and Marcus and the ship could do with some peace and quiet for a while.
*****
It had taken almost two hours for Spot to finally fall asleep. That was not due to the discomfort of being chained and therefore unable to move. No, he had slept in all kinds of...situations. What kept him awake was his mind that stayed in a state of alert and made it impossible for him to relax and find sleep. Finally, however, his exhaustion, both physical and mental, had reached the point where he simply drifted off...
He hit the deck, hard, as hard as the five times before when they pulled him out of the water just in time to stop him from drowning in earnest and let him catch a little breath before...
No, Spot thought, this had to be the last time, he wouldn't be able to make it through another round. He was utterly exhausted. The cold of the water had drained him, as had the constant fight for the next breath of air. The fact that the ties were painfully cutting into his wrists and ankles was of such a minor importance that he didn't even feel it as he lay there on the deck, gasping for air, retching and coughing up more and more water.
The worst, however, was the thirst. It was driving him mad already and he knew that with all the salt water that he had swallowed it would become much worse fast.
There was laughter all around him, but he barely heard it over his own coughing.
Steps- Heavy steps getting closer...a pair of boots stopping right in front of him. No doubt that was the Captain, crouching down to assess if the punishment was going as it should. Cold, almost colorless eyes looked down at him.
"Had enough?"
Spot raised his head a little to look up at that face and took as deep a breath as he could and tried to speak, but it took three tries before he finally managed to utter a word.
"Water?"
The Captain broke into a smile, a smile that lacked any humor or warmth. It was cold and cruel. On his hawk-like face it looked like a caricature. He grabbed Spot's chin and brought his face close to his. When he spoke his voice was full of mock friendliness that could make a boy shiver.
"You are thirsty, aren't you? Maybe you should have thought about that before you tried to run away."
He let go of Spot and straightened. Then followed the order that the boy had dreaded above all. "Take him to my cabin."
"No!"
Spot's eyes snapped open. He heard his own ragged breathing as he stared at the darkness in front of him. He would have jumped up and run blindly if not for those chains holding him back. It took him almost a minute to realize that he had just experienced a very vivid nightmare.
A nightmare? He did not have nightmares, usually, at least none that replayed parts of his past. Ususally...Usually he would have gotten up and taken a walk along the shore, except that now he was on a ship and there was no shore anywhere in sight to walk along, even if he could move.
He let out another sound that sounded far too much like a sob for his liking. No, come on boy, you got past this a long time ago! Calm down, calm down. It was just a dream! Just a dream...
After some time, it might have been a minute or ten, he had himself back under control and started to relax - until he turned his head and realized that the Captain was standing there near the door.
"How long have you been standing there?" Usually he would not have dared to ask such an outright question, but he had to know.
Marcus knew it could not be seen in the darkness--he was just a silhouette against the night sky and the sails which were a silvery gray in the starlight. But his own face had drained of color ten minutes ago when he got to the cabin and realized he had arrived in the midst of Martin in the cold grip of a nightmare.
While the lad had awakened with the suddenly voiced, "No!", it was by no means all he had said. So Marcus had a good idea of what the nightmare had been about. While there were any number of reasons one might beg for water in such a desperate gasp, none of them were good. And the look of terror on his face spoke for itself.
Suddenly, Martin turned and saw him, and asked that question.
The lad was entitled to some privacy, some dignity. No doubt he had been given little enough of either at the hands of anyone. So Marcus lied, stepping into the room and putting the draught on his desk before reaching for a match. He lit a small oil lamp, and kept the flame high enough to see by, to show the cabin to the boy, but low enough not to trouble tired eyes. Then he picked up the sleeping draught again. Thank the Lord it did not taste particularly bad. "I was just coming back in. You nearly made me drop the cup here. I'm sorry I woke you."
He stood beside Martin, wondering what to do next, and decided directness was best, even if it meant telling yet another white lie. "I noticed earlier you were running a bit of a fever, and there's no doubt I am to blame for that, so I went to get you some medicinal tea. Here, lad. It will get rid of that fever by morning. It's not poison." He took a small sip of it, not enough to make him sleepy. "See?" He gave the cup to Martin and turned his back, to give the lad some privacy. He half expected to see the cup and contents sail through the air or bounce off his person, but they didn't.
When he turned back, he took the drained mug from Martin. Then he very carefully straightened the blanket over him, and in so doing reassured himself the draught was indeed inside Martin, and not soaking his own bed somewhere he could not see it.
He put the mug on the desk, and left the lamp lit. Marcus then lay back down on his blanket on the deck, where Martin could see him if he turned his head, and hear him if he did not. He made as if to sleep.
Within fifteen minutes, Martin was transformed by the relaxation of real, untroubled sleep. Marcus got up and stood over the lad. So young. So hurt inside he would not have trusted an Angel answering his prayers.
Marcus acted on instinct. He wrapped the boy in his arms and hugged him tight, and kissed his hair. A fatherly embrace and kiss. How often at that age had he prayed for something like human kindness to touch him and just hold him and keep the fears away, and not want anything in return!
But Marcus realized he did want something: he wanted Martin to come to trust him, and through him, others. And through that he would give the world back something that he had received, and pass on some of Robert's spirit. "Learning to trust is a big obstacle, I know," he said to the sleeping boy. "But if you overcome so much lack of trust, Martin, it would give you a chance at a full life, full of love and friends, maybe someday a wife and children...A real life, not just day-to-day existence and unresting suspicion. I want to help you. Let me help you, Martin. That's all I want." But he knew it would not be easy.
He settled him as he had been, and arranged the blanket the same way. And leaned down and kissed the damp forehead. The lad did have a bit of a fever, and the medicine would help that, but still, Marcus made a mental note to keep checking on that fever.
He stopped and looked toward the door. He saw Gus, silhouetted against the stars and sails. He finished settling Martin, and went to the door, and closed it after he had gone outside.
"What can I do for you, Gus?"
*****
It always took awhile to get used to a new berth in a new ship. Gus was down in a bunkhouse with fourteen other men, some snoring softly, one seeming to cut logs, but luckily he did it with his face half stuffed into his pillow as he lay on his stomach and faced the other way. How his back could stand the dip in the hammock was beyond Gus, but he kept out of other people's affairs.
He found his own hammock comfortable enough, and didn't mind the draft from the porthole, which blew air right across his face. In storm or winter that might be a problem, but for now he was content enough. It explained why this was the empty berth, though.
Gus just could not find sleep, no matter how he tried. He had not gotten to ask the Captain anything, not even gotten to collect the tray afterwards, so he hadn't seen Angus to tell him he needed some help about that fiddle.
The snorer suddenly rolled onto his back, and finally Gus realized that between the suddenly loud noise and the newness of everything, he was never going to get to sleep. Might as well go out on deck and find a coil of rope to try sleep on.
He missed his fiddle. He wanted to ask the Captain about that fiddlebox in his cabin.
He hadn't been out on deck five minutes before Captain Marcus stole into the galley. And Gus bit his lip, having a mighty argument with himself. Just ask him! Ask him about the fiddle! said a part of him. Another part laughed and reminded him of the time of night, his own lowly station, and the FACT that it was the Cap'n's fiddle. When the Cap'n went back to his cabin carrying a tin cup of some strange tea, he had decided not to say or do anything.
That resolve changed twenty minutes later. Three times. Yes. No. Yes.
Yes won. He got up resolutely and headed in his rolling walk toward the cabin of Captain Marcus.
And hid outside the door as he heard the man comforting his nephew. He stepped into the open door and watched, and felt his throat constrict. Made him miss his mum. She'd been nice like that. But now she was up in Heaven, singing with the Angels, and that was no bad place to be.
He was on the verge of turning around when the Captain shifted and saw him. Gus's mind registered the tangle of blankets and pillow on the floor, and that the other side of the Cap'n's own bed hadn't been slept in.
Gus had wondered if he should turn and hurry away, not bother a man who was already dealing with tough problems.
But Capt'n Marcus had just settled his nephew and come on out, not seeming to mind.
"What can I do for you, Gus?"
Gus was terribly torn. "Sorry, Cap'n, it's the middle o' the night and all, but I had trouble sleepin', see, and..."
Marcus smiled and nodded, grateful that Gus had kept his voice low. "It takes awhile on a new ship, doesn't it?" He smiled. "They berthed you with the woodcutter, Henri, didn't they? Snores to be heard over a gale?"
"Aye, Cap'n," smiled Gus.
"And they gave you the berth next to the porthole?"
"Aye," said Gus again, and now he was relaxed. "But I don' mind the porthole, nor the woodcutter, when he's facin' away."
Marcus laughed and put his hand on Gus' shoulder. "I'll see what I can do to find you a different bunkhouse. Do you need another blanket? You're welcome to sleep on deck tonight, so long as you pick a spot out of the way."
"Thankee, Cap'n." He hesitated.
Marcus was good at reading people. And Gus was both a bit easier and a bit harder to read than most. "You didn't come to talk to me about the bunkhouse."
"Aye..." Gus felt so torn! It wasn't his fiddle!
"Sooooo, you came to talk about...?"
"Yer nephew!" blurted Gus. It wasn't really what he had wanted to say at all, but for the moment his courage had left him and he leaped at the first thing that came to his mind. "He's feeling better? Looked to be sleepin' comfortable-like."
Marcus could have so easily lied. But he liked Gus, and the lad might need the ally. Gus was the only one on board who was about the Matin's age, and also the only one from Sarentre. "No, Martin had a bad nightmare. I made him a sleeping draught. He's a little sick I think from exhaustion and fear and...hurting inside. He is so afraid of me. Of all of us."
Gus couldn't help it. The question flew out of his mouth before he could catch it. "Why? Why's he afeared o' you s'much? And the crew aint bad a'tall, not compared to some."
"Martin spent time on a very bad ship. I don't know which one, but I know he didn't work the deck."
Gus swallowed. "Oh. Yah, I kinda wondered if mebbe it was somethin' like that. Why'd yer brother let him get took by pirates, Cap'n?"
Marcus' voice was as soft as a feather and as sad as news of death. "My brother and I were not close. Martin might not even know about me," he lied. "And when I took him for my crew, he was just a young man I thought I could add to my crew, to work the decks, and instead I find myself looking right at visions of hell on earth when I look in his eyes, and feel his hatred of me and my crew. But he looks like my brother did at that age, and I know my nephew is named Martin." He was glad he could tell the truth with his last sentence. "All I want to do is help him."
The pain in the cap'n's voice reached Gus right into his soul, and he put a hand on the man's as it gripped the railing. "I saw what you did fer 'im there, an' in time you'll reach 'im. If ye don't, it's cuz the devil got there first and burrowed so deep he'll be hard to shift, but even so, y'can win him back. I know it, Cap'n."
Marcus smiled sadly, but hopefully. He felt just enough buoyed to keep going to the next step with Martin. "I hope so. And thank you, Gus. Now tell me why you came to me tonight."
Gus turned to the railing and leaned against it with his elbows. "I wanted t' ask mebbe......"
Marcus waited in silence. Gus was fighting something inside. It would come out in time. So he leaned his elbows against the rail and just waited.
After a short while Gus blurted, "It's the fiddle! I saw it in yer cabin, Cap'n. I had one once. Some men were fightin' an' they broke it. I haven't played since, and I miss it turrible!" He couldn't bring himself to ask the question, but his eyes were pools of it.
Robert's violin. Marcus stood and swallowed. Robert, who had shown him what he was trying so hard to show Martin, who had been as a father to him. Dead now almost two years, and missed every day. Robert's violin. Silent almost two years.
Maybe it was time to let it sing again. He looked at Gus, unsure.
But those pleading, yet proud eyes...so like Robert's. "Come see me in the morning, and let's see how that violin feels in your hand. This ship can use music."
Gus's face and soul lit up like noon sun on a bright day, sending shadows into hiding. For a moment it looked like he was actually going to embrace Marcus. "Cap'n! I don' know how t' thank ye! I'll do anythin' fer ye!"
"Your face is all the thanks I need, Gus. Come early. Martin should sleep a bit long--there is something you can do. Sit with Martin again, tomorrow morning until he wakes up. Don't let him know if you're doing it, but check for fever, and if you feel any, come tell me right away. If he has a bad dream...you could play something soft and soothing for him?"
"Aye, Cap'n! I'd be right pleased t' do that! I know how to coax away fears with a fiddle. I know a nice tune for chasing away bad dreams and easing sleep. An' I'll keep an eye out for fever!"
Marcus smiled. He'd have duties tomorrow, but he already decided that Martin was his first priority. "Hey, I've another idea. I was going to make a hammock for Martin--I can't sleep on that damn floor! I want my bed back. What if I hung two hammocks, and you could keep Martin company sometimes. It's an imposition, but in return, you can have access to the violin anytime. I need help making those hammocks, though."
Gus chased away shadows again. "I can make 'em right nice and quick! Done it before--just need a bit of old sails, and a little wood, and some rope, and you got two hammocks!"
Marcus chased away some shadows of his own. "Deal!"
tbc...