Chapter 5: Battle Fought
Maybe there was no real reason why Spot had taken the cup and drank it like he was told. Maybe it was the thirst that he had awakened with. Or maybe it was simply because he felt too drained to struggle and knew that to simply drink what he was told to drink was far easier and less painful than having it poured down his throat by force. Whatever the reason, he hesitated only for a moment and then drank all of. It did not taste bad.
Drained as he was the drug took effect immediately and he slept a long, deep and dreamless sleep.
Many hours later when the sleeping draught wore off Spot's slumber became less peaceful again, although not hauted by nightmares. He still became restless and tense, which was his natural reaction to the reality of being a captive that took hold of him even in his sleep.
That sleep, however, did not last long.
Spot woke up but did not open his eyes right away. Was that music nearby? No, that had to be be his imagination that was taunting him...He opened his eyes.
There was that guy again; whatwashisname, Gus. He was playing a fiddle, and quite well, too. Maybe the pirate ship had been a nightmare? No, he was chained to a bed; that was no dream but dreadful reality.
Letting his rising anger take a firm grip on him he blinked away a few tears. Tears! He had not cried in years. This ship had in store everything that he had hoped never to do or see again. It shortened his temper. "Could you stop that noise?" he said rather heatedly to Gus.
Gus almost snagged a string, so startled was he when Martin, who had been deeply asleep only moments before, suddenly told him to stop playing. He stood up from the desk he had been leaning against, and of course also stopped playing the wonderful fiddle. Music again! He had been so thrilled to play!
But maybe Martin didn't cotton much to music. And then he saw the shine of the eyes, and the streaks of a few tears on the lad's face. He understood then. Music could make anyone cry, just not everyone liked to cry. Especially with an audience.
Gus smiled in kind understanding. "Sure, Martin. I'll stop. Yer prob'ly still tired, Cap'n said you had a bit of fever in the night."
He went over to the other side of the cabin and bent down to put his fiddle in the case now hanging from a peg on the innermost of the two poles now holding up two hammocks, each with a small pillow and warm blanket. "The other one is yours, Cap'n says, fer when you aren't so scared no more. I get the other, so I figured you might want top bunk cuz it has the porthole, so I'll take lower. Unless you 'd rather have the lower one; it don't matter to me."
"Who says I am scared?" Martin snapped, but it seemed not loud enough to make Gus stop talking. Then, watching and listening, something made him start to think. Hammock? Two hammocks? Now he was confused. His eyes followed the young man in front of him. "You are going to stay in here? Willingly?"
Gus looked surprised. "Oh, we all saw how you was when..." He stopped. Maybe it was not the best thing to be bringing up. But then he realized it was something that--if it had to be brought up--it might best be done by someone near Martin's own age. "We all saw you was scared by the ship and all, or Cap'n would never have used no chains, and only fear causes the fight you put up there. So, yeah, you pretty much said you was scared. But 's okay, since bad pirates are t' be scared of."
Gus waited for a reaction of some kind, and he got it. Martin turned away from him and looked to the other side of the cabin. So Gus walked back over to that side. "But, see, this ship aint bad, so you don't have t' be scared here. Cap'n is nice, food is good, crew does their jobs and don't bother nobody with...stuff that scares a body. And you being the Cap'n's nephew, well, he th—"
At 'Cap'n's nephew' Spot suddenly turned from angry and ignoring to angry and appalled. "The Captain's WHAT?" he shouted and would have jumped out of the bed - those chains, for a moment he had almost forgotten about them, and they held him back. And after a second when the first rush of shock had worn off, he scoffed openly. "Don't tell me you're really dumb enough to believe that nonsense. I don't have an uncle and I bet he doesn't have a nephew. Don't you see? He's lying. To you, to me, to everyone. Believe what you want, but I don't trust him."
Gus froze and stayed motionless for a minute while his mind did some quick thinking. He found that he was not surprised at all that Martin denied being the Captain's nephew. And it would not bother him if he was or was not, because Captain Marcus was a good man, not out to harm this lad. He thought about what he had seen, heard, and experienced since coming on board, and what his gut told him.
Yet, when he relaxed a bit, he did not relax fully. "Martin, yer a scared kid who aint never had no reason to trust nobody, and that's plain to see from the crow's nest and you being down three decks. You don't see the truth, cuz you don't want to, or maybe you just can't. But if the Cap'n lied, do you think it might be a bit fair to ask him why? Cuz from what I've seen an' heared aboard, if he's lyin', tis fer a good reason not meant to hurt, but to help." He got up and headed for the door. "I'm gittin' the Cap'n, right now."
Spot had talked himself into a fury again and the fact that this Gus called him 'kid' made it even worse. Good advice, thank you. At the moment he was even angry enough not to feel any fright at the prospect of the Captain coming. "Yes, sure," he called after Gus. "And with him being so nice you might ask him to bring the keys for these chains."
Gus turned and said, crisply for him, "He don't need to bring them. They be right here, in the desk drawer. But I'd be advising the Cap'n to ferget the keys part cuz yer dangerous, to yerself, to me, to the Cap'n, and to the crew." He turned and left the cabin, and hurried off to find the Cap'n.
He found him betweendecks, checking inventory on the ship's stores. He felt bad instantly. The Cap'n looked real tired, and a bit down. "Yer nephew's awake, Sir, an' he aint in no good mood. Thought you should know. Do you want me to come back with you? I kin do that, or not."
Captain Marcus turned from what he was doing and sighed. He told the crewmen to keep taking inventory and he'd check the figures later. Then he took Gus' arm lightly. "Come. Tell me what happened."
On the way back to the cabin, Gus explained. "That fella's got a mouth, an' a temper. He's powerful angry inside, Cap'n. An' I knows you got a good reason fer callin' him yer nephew even if he aint, so don't worry, I won't say nuthin' to the crew."
Marcus, feeling pale and a little sick, nodded. "Thanks, Gus. I'll take it from here, and maybe you could ask the cook to make some more food. Uh, something that won't make too big a mess if he tosses it across the cabin?"
Gus beamed. "Right away, Cap'n. I'll ask Angus to make you something tidy t' eat." And he headed off.
Marcus squared his shoulders and quickly went into his cabin. He waited for Martin to speak.
*****
The moment he was alone, Spot instantly regretted losing his temper. Somehow he had not felt it necessary to hold back in front of this Gus, but now he started thinking. The guy would go straight to the Captain now. And what then? Then he would pay for his temper.
He was staring at the door when it opened again, and sure enough Captain Marcus came in, looking at him. Spot looked back but did not say a word for a long time. But neither did the Captain. A standoff, then, and Spot knew how those ended. He swallowed. 'Ask,' Gus had said. Should he risk it? No, it was better to be more careful. He swallowed again and broke the standoff. "Good morning."
Marcus took a deep breath and ran a hand through his own hair, further disheveling it. He simply did not feel up to fighting again with Martin. He leaned against the door, and his lack of sleep the previous night made his eyes seem dark and his features sad. He said, softly, "I gather it isn't, really. Want to talk about it?"
Silence hung between them again for a few more seconds until Spot had mustered enough courage. He nodded. "I have a question."
Marcus took another deep breath, and let it out sadly. "Ask without fear. I'm not going to hurt you, Martin."
Spot briefly looked at the chains, but held back any comment about just how much he believed that. He had to ask quickly, before his courage left him. The answer would certainly not be worth any punishment that he might get, but Gus' words had made him wonder a bit. He needed answers to put the picture back together. He was as confused as he was angry and scared. So he risked it. "Why did you lie?" Then he looked at the Captain, half expectant, half fearful, like a rabbit looking at the fox, wanting to run, but unable.
Marcus had known that would be the question. He slowly walked over to the porthole, and stared out, watching an easy sea and feeling the ship moving smoothly through the water. He said to the sea and distant, wispy clouds, "You mean why did I tell everyone you are my nephew?" He turned around and looked at Martin. "So they wouldn't think you were being used. If you were just a stranger, they might think you were my 'boy', and we have rules on this ship against that kind of thing. I've guessed your past, and knew I could not leave you below, like a prisoner, and you aren't ever going to be comfortable bunking with the crew, and I needed you to be somewhere safe, where you could..."
Marcus' answer trailed off, into silence. He looked away from Martin, whose eyes had become even more wide and fearful as he spoke, and went to the desk. He sat down heavily and buried his head in his hands. "What's the use? You ask me a question to get an answer, but when you hear it, you don't believe a word of it. Before I say even a word, I see the disbelief. I can't seem to reach you. If I beat you or...if I did any of the things you've endured in the past, you'd be only too happy to believe it. But when I treat you with kindness, you distrust and fear me. I'm really trying here, Martin. But I know I'm just banging my head against a bulkhead."
His voice was barely audible when he said, "I was only thinking to keep you safe and give you a place to sleep."
"I was perfectly safe where I was," Spot said before he could stop himself. The anger was rising again, drowning out the fear. His hands had balled into fists and he closed his eyes until he felt some of the wave of anger subside again. He relaxed somewhat but the fists did not open. He could not go on like this, not knowing what was going to happen. If this was a game that they were playing with him, he had to end it, soon. Uncertainty was the worst.
"Prove it," he said in a voice that was smaller than he had expected. And he forced his voice to become stronger in the next sentence, although he still could not control the trembling. "Take me out of here. There are storage holds. I would be safe enough in one of them."
Marcus looked up into the green eyes, so young and afraid and earnest. His first instinct was that he could not do that, put Martin in one of the holds. But then he just nodded. If somehow this would prove he meant no harm, and had some integrity, and most importantly would make Martin feel safer, he would do it.
He stood. "Okay." He went over to the pillars and first unfastened the hammock he had only just made for Martin. There was one hold big enough to hang it in. Carrying the hammock, pillow, and blanket, he grabbed up the extra shirt he had set aside for Martin, and only then went to get the keys. He methodically unlocked all the chains, and tossed them into the corner, then put the keys back in the drawer of the desk. He picked up another key, to the lock on the particular hold door. He stuffed it into the blanket and hammock folds. "It's the only key, so don't lose it. You can come and go as you please. Follow me."
He shifted the large bundle he was carrying and opened the cabin door.
Spot did not move. He was stunned. The simple 'okay' had been the first surprise, but one that he could handle, but then, to be freed of all the chains was almost a shock. He had expected to be brought down to the holds the same way he had been brought up. For a moment his eyes flickered to the door. Maybe he could make a run for it...
Spot started a sprint, but stopped after only three steps. No, it was a short-sighted instinct, as he had learned very early on. They were in the middle of the ocean. There was nowhere to go. It was him against a crew of he did not know how many. He stood no chance.
So he stood in the middle of the cabin, eyes closed and breathing as if he had actually done the full sprint. Maybe this was also a part of the game? After several seconds he opened his eyes again and followed slowly.
But there was something else that he had to know! "May I ask another question?"
Marcus had watched everything with dulled eyes and no reaction except to feel a little sick at what he saw as his complete failure. When Martin spoke, he turned toward him and nodded. "Sure. Ask."
Spot kept a certain distance from Marcus, just to be safe. He would not be able to suddenly grab him. It was instinct. "If not for..." He glanced at the bed, then away. Now his courage left him and he finished the question as if he was talking to himself. "Why am I here?"
Marcus was not sure what the question meant. Why was Martin on the ship? Why was he in the Captain's cabin? That was what it sounded like. But, no, it could not be that one; he had answered that one already. It must be the first question.
Marcus looked at the ground. "Because a damn fool of a ship's captain made a mistake and picked you as a possible crewman while he should have left you back in Sarentre, where you felt safe, even if sooner or later your trick of stealing from pirates would have gotten you killed, or worse. But up until the moment you picked the wrong pirate to pilfer from, you would have felt safe. And I took that away from you."
He sighed again. "One minute." Still holding the unwieldy bundle, he went over to the cabinet and opened the doors. He picked up the Spanish sword he had stolen from Martin's teacher.
"Here," he said, somehow holding it out in its scabbard. "This is yours. Soon as I can arrange it, I will tell the crew to change course back to Sarentre. I'll take you home. You have my word."
There was a flicker in his eyes when Spot saw the sword, and suddenly movements that before had been either slow or panicked became very exact and quick as lightning. His hand shot forward to draw the sword and bring it around in a low arc until it stopped a few inches from Marcus' throat and hovered there for several seconds during which he looked the Captain the eye. Then, suddenly the blade dropped sideways.
Now Martin held the sword up so it could easily be seen, one hand on the hilt, one at the end of the blade. The fine work of both the hilt and blade were very easily visible, but he did not see them. His eyes were unfocused as his hand closed around the blade, cutting the skin. "It is just a port," he said, opening his hand and looking at the blood as if surprised.
"Damnation," swore Marcus, who for a few seconds had thought Martin would kill him and berated himself for being stupid enough to hand over the sword when he knew well enough that the lad was dangerous. But now he dropped everything he was holding, except the shirt. He tore off one sleeve, grabbed Martin's hand and began wrapping the cuts, holding his wrist to stem the bleeding. He ignored the fact that Martin still held the sword until he had the hand wrapped, and was pressuring it. Then he knocked the sword to the deck and pulled Martin with him to the door while he kept pressure on the cuts. He yelled for the physician, then pushed Martin backwards until he was sitting on the chair.
His voice was thick with worry. "Wounds turn septic on a ship. We have to treat this fast. Why, lad? Why did you do that? Cut my throat, I understand you wanting to do that. But why hurt yourself?"
The fact that Spot did not fight Marcus when he not only touched him but also pushed him around showed how little his mind was in the present. The look of surprise stayed on his face until suddenly he seemed to wake up.
He instantly pulled back the injured hand and instinctively started to back up, but the chair stopped him. Why? He didn't know and he said so.
"Does it matter? It is my hand."
Marcus wanted almost to weep, and yell, and shake Martin, but he did none of them. Instead, he stared at Martin. "I do not understand you at all. I want to! Help me to understand you!"
He stared down at the sword briefly, and then back at Martin's face. He was kneeling now in front of him, holding that bandaged hand tightly, and almost choking on his emotions. "You could have killed me there. You wanted to, for a moment I thought you would do it. And then you did not--and I do not understand why you would hurt yourself, and not me! You hate me!"
"I have seen hate," Spot said simply but did not explain further what that remark meant. His eyes flicked towards the sword for a moment. He shook his head, violently, almost as if he was refusing to listen, but he did listen. This time, with less hurry and more coordination he managed to push the chair backwards and get up.
He walked a few steps over towards one of the portholes - in the direction away from the bed. He tried, but for the first time since he left the Eclipse he could not muster enough anger to overpower his emotions. He tried to hate Marcus for that, but it was not enough. He was still shivering.
Abruptly he turned and looked him in the eye. "Maybe it is better if you don't know me. But I will tell you this: I am ready to kill anyone who touches me. And believe me, I will find a way, no matter what."
There was no doubt that he meant what he said.
Marcus sat back on his heels, and looked at Martin's blood on his own hand and shirt. He felt defeated, and at that moment, he looked it too. "Martin, I sent for the doctor, and he will come. Your hand needs to be treated, lest it fester and--and you lose it. The doctor will have to touch your hand. But if you would rather risk infection, I will tell him to somehow-- Will you permit him to tell me how to treat it? I am no physician, but I have treated wounds before. Someone has to touch your hand, Martin. Just your hand."
Spot nodded. He knew of the effects of wounds. He had seen it many times. "But only that." Then he looked down at his hand and ran a finger along one of the cuts. "Beautiful, isn't it? I can do it. My skin, my blood, my decision." And suddenly he smiled.
Marcus felt all the color drain from his face, and he felt as if he were looking up into...what? A monster? He just stared. A minute ticked by, and he looked at the blood drip to his cabin deck. "Blood is never beautiful!" he suddenly shouted, and then covered his face in his hands. "Never! But I think I almost understand. You did it. No one did it to you. You were in control." Suddenly he was yelling again, and crying too. "And what did you do with your first act of control on this ship? You decided to hurt yourself!"
He climbed to his feet and went to the cabin door and wrenched it open. "Get Doctor Javert up here NOW!" he yelled, and then turned and pointed to the chair. "Make your second decision a healthy one: sit down, and stop acting like a BOY and start acting like a MAN!"
"Maybe I should." With two long steps Spot had crossed the space between himself and the Captain and had backhanded him, with force. He used his injured hand, which left a small trail of blood on the Captain's face. "That was for the kidnapping," he said, eyes blazing again, but with a slightly different fire than before. Then he sat down in the chair, so calm that it was almost scary compared to his earlier behavior.
Marcus did not see the blow coming until it was upon him. He staggered, and almost fell to one knee. He knew that Martin knew it was punishable by death to strike the Captain of the ship. But somehow that did not matter to Marcus. He looked at Martin, sitting now so calmly in the chair. So he went to retrieve the sword. He put it on the desk next to the baffling young man, and then went down on his knees before him. He let his arms hang limp at his sides. "I had that coming," he said. He waited, as calmly as Martin sat in the chair.
"Yes you had," Spot snapped, but then returned to his calm state, leaning back in the chair. He almost scared himself with it, but he felt in control and he liked it. But when his eyes turned towards the sword some of that confidence evaporated. He reached out and simply turned it on the table. Taking a grip on the blade - carefully this time - he held it out to Marcus, hilt first. "Here, do what you have to do. It is a Captain's sword."
Marcus lifted his right hand and took the Spanish sword, with beauty etched into every part of the making of it. Yet the blood that stained the tip made it ugly. And he suspected more then than he could put into words-- instincts, intuitions flared within him. How had Martin come by a Captain's sword? Or was it a favored weapon of that baker back in Sarentre?
Marcus realized he did not have the answers, and did not think it was the time to ask the question. He simply took the blade, and he repeated Martin's move exactly. He let his hand close around the sharp steel, felt the skin split, and the blood begin to well. Then he put the sword back on the desk and looked at his own left hand. "It is not my sword."
Spot watched in astonishment and his eyes widened in horror. Never before had he seen anyone hurt himself. The confidence left him again to be replaced by confusion. "Why did you do that?" he breathed, but then put a hand on the sword again. Cold, strong metal, unfeeling. "I gave it to you. It is yours."
He took that cloth the Captain had wrapped around his hand earlier and handed it over to him with with one hand. Then he ran a finger along the blade again, almost playfully. "But then, who knows to whom it belonged in the beginning? What would make this sword yours?"
Marcus took the cloth and just held it. He reached for the shirt the sleeve had come from and ripped off the other one, and put it across Martin's lap. "Your hand is still bleeding." Then he wrapped the bloody cloth around his own palm, and clutched it with his arm bent up to his chest. He answered Martin's question. "I cannot own a sword that has drawn your blood."
"Goddammit!" Martin cried, jumping to his feet again. He grabbed the sword and threw it so that the blade embedded itself into the far wall. His voice rose again. "My blood! As if these few drops are worth anything. This sword has seen much more. I saw it kill men, women, children! *I* killed with it. It should have drawn my blood a long time ago and much more than this."
As suddenly as it had started the outburst was over, its energy spent. The chair had fallen over, so he held on to the first thing available, which was the edge of the table. His hands closed around it so hard that his knuckles turned white and the blood was flowing out beneath his fingers. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Marcus scrambled to his feet, his instinct at first to prepare to maneuver out of the way if Martin threw the sword at him, but instead it reverberated with the tang of finest steel against the wall where Martin's hammock had been only a few minutes before.
He listened in silent astonishment as Martin finally pulled back a few of the layers behind which he hid. "It belonged to the captain who hurt you," he stated, not asked. "And you--" He moved to stand next to Martin, but only very lightly put his hand on the lad's bleeding hand. It was all he had permission to touch. "You did not kill anyone with this sword who did not deserve it, and I would bet my ship it was in self defense." Marcus pried up the fingers, and wrapped the bleeding hand. Then he simply stood there, offering the only support he felt Martin might allow: just being there. Inside, he wanted to offer more. But Martin was too close to the edge, his emotions, long imprisoned inside finally clawing their way out. He did not want to push him, just be there for him.
Spot offered no resistance. There no energy left for that. In fact, he did not even have energy left for standing and his knees gave out. He was trying to take hold of anger again, anger at how this Captain had managed to break down his defences, anger at himself for letting him – anything that would help him get a grip of himself again. It was no use.
He still had no tears, but they were not necessary to cry. He was shivering like a whole forest of leaves and about as receptive as a rock. "I didn't know what to do..."
Marcus virtually caught Martin as he slid to kneel against his heels, shivering so hard his voice shook as he leaned against one leg of Marcus' desk. The captain happened to glance toward his open door then, for he had not closed it, and there was Gus, watching, his face awash with expressions Marcus had no words for at the moment. Behind him were several crewmembers, not even murmuring. How long had they been watching? Calton would be there, too... and he was, still a little to the side but looking like he was about to interfere and lock Martin into a hold like he had promised. Marcus quickly signaled him to stay out of this. His first mate did not nod his consent. Indeed, he looked very unhappy, but for now he did as his Captain wished. "I hope you know what you are doing." Then he turned and left, no doubt going to look after ship's duties.
Marcus quickly righted the chair and lifted Martin into it and then went to the door. Gus had a doctor's black bag with him. He handed it to the Captain. Marcus looked at everyone and said, softly, "I am in no danger. The lad cut his hand and is in some shock. Where is Javert?"
Gus answered, "Fella named Luther got hit wit' a bit o' loose riggin', near lost an eye. Doc's with him. But he sent stuff to help, said you'd know what to do."
Marcus nodded. "I can treat his hand. Cut mine too, but that was just...an accident. Not bad. Don't worry."
"Aye, Cap'n." And the other crewmen, some with doubtful or questioning expressions, echoed the "Aye."
Marcus knew he would have a lot of explaining to do later, and it would be harder than last time. "I need to tend him." He sighed. "I know what this looks like, but it isn't that, you have the Captain's word. You know if I break my word, I can be lawfully marooned. Just...try not to think the worst until you have heard what this is about. I will meet with the crew later about this. Fair enough?" He looked at everyone, and after some more "Ayes", the crewmen drifted away.
Marcus smiled a warn smile at Gus, the only one who remained. "Thanks for the medicines. Now we need that food pretty soon." He caught Gus' arm. It was important that this lad believed him. "Do you believe me, Gus?"
Gus glanced briefly at Martin, then at Marcus. "About most of it, I do, no reservations." But he glanced then at Marcus' bloody hand. "Not sure about that part, or him not hurtin' you. But I'll give you both the benefit of the doubt, Cap'n. I'll get that food for you and your...and Martin." And Gus was gone.
Marcus sighed and turned back to Martin. At least Gus did not think he was hurting Martin. He put the bag on the desk, and went down on one knee again. "All you need do is let me help you. No ulterior motives, no wanting to trick or trap you. Just wanting to help. Simple as that, and as complicated."
He opened the bag and got out things he would need.
Spot did not see the crew, not really, not consciously, which was maybe a good thing, for it would have been even more distressing to him. But the few minutes that Marcus spent talking to them were enough for him to calm down somewhat. He was no longer crying; he had locked himself deep inside himself by the time Marcus started to tend his hand. His eyes were unfocused and he looked at the wooden deck and nothing else.
Marcus warned Martin that the disinfectant would hurt, but there was no response, so he kept on working on the cuts, cleaning and then bandaging them. He watched those downcast eyes for any response, fearing what would happen when those green eyes again took in their surroundings. Marcus has never treated this kind of...he did not know what to call it.
He did know, however, that Martin was more wounded than he knew how to cope with. The best thing he could do for the lad was to take him back to Sarentre, where at least he had his teacher. Maybe that would help him. He decided he would have a talk with...Martin had called him Christopher. He would have a talk with Christopher when he returned to Sarentre with Martin. At least the baker could see to it that the young man was educated. Marcus has the funds to pay for it, and it could be done in secret. Martin need never know who funded his education.
Finally, he began clumsily bandaging his own hand, and hissed when the disinfectant ran over the cuts.
After not even flinching during the treatment of his own hand, Spot suddenly looked up when he heard a hiss nearby. His eyes focused again. For a moment he hesitated, blinking, and then lay his hand on the Captain's wrist and took the bandage from him. "You will have trouble doing that alone." His voice was calm again, without emotion. He himself did not even know why he did what he did except that it was his own free will and decision.
To say that Marcus was startled was an understatement. He let go of the bandage and looked at Martin. He had a feeling he should be calm and not make too much of the action, even though inside he wanted to sing for joy. Maybe I am reaching him after all. But he only nodded and said, "Thank you, Martin."
"Shut up," Spot said, but without much force, more in the tone of voice that others would have used for you're welcome. He did not even look up from the hand. He simply wrapped it with quick, practiced movements. When he had finished, he got up, took the sword and put it in a corner. Then he walked to the door.
Marcus felt his inner hope die a quick, surprisingly painful death. The light in his eyes dimmed and flickered out, and his shoulders seemed to slump. He put what was left of the roll of bandage back in the doctor's bag, with the disinfectant. He simply watched Martin. He did not speak.
Spot opened the door, ready to leave the cabin - and found himself faced by a short, stooped man who was just about to come in. They both effectively blocked each other's way. For Spot it meant that the way out was blocked. There was a spark in his eyes and he tensed again. After a second of looking at the man he turned, taking a step back again.
Marcus nodded to the physician. "Javert. This is Martin. Martin, this is the doctor, Javert. We are all bandaged, as you can see," he said in a neutral voice, keeping an eye on Martin. "Tell me about Luther. Were you able to save his eye?" Javert took his bag and told Marcus what he needed to tell him. "Yes, Captain. But it will take time for his eye to heal, and in the meantime, he should not go up into the rigging. He might get vertigo and fall." He asked with his eyes if he should say anything to or about Martin, and Marcus quickly shook his head.
As soon as the doctor left with his bag, Marcus turned to Martin. "I do not need your permission to speak. I am Captain here. Do not lose your manners again, boy." There was challenge in Marcus' voice, for he found he was quite angry. He thought, too, that his own anger and tone of voice would give Martin back some of what he seemed to need: the belief that he was being vilely mistreated.
Spot, who, after the man had brushed past him, had pointedly looked out the porthole, turned around and glared at Marcus. He had picked up the slight change in Marcus' voice. I am Captain here. Now, that was more what he was used to. A challenge, maybe a threat. As a matter of fact, Spot welcomed it. He took it and used it as a base to rebuild his usual defense. His eyes flashed again. "I am sorry, Captain," he said in a voice that said he was everything but sorry. "Manners are a luxury that rarely crossed my way."
"Until you came aboard my ship." Marcus pointed at the hammock, pillow, and blanket on the deck of his cabin. "You still want your own space? Pick that up, and I will lead you to your hold."
Spot looked from Marcus to the door, down at the hammock and back to Marcus. He made a visible effort to relax and failed miserably. Then, never taking his eyes off the Captain, he picked them up with slow, fluent movements, almost cat-like.
As Martin gathered up everything, Marcus swooped like a hawk down onto the key to the hold. He grabbed it and put it in his pocket.
When he saw that move, the stored energy in Spot's tense body exploded and he jumped back, but when the Captain didn't move after him he managed to get a hold of himself again, although barely.
Marcus led him from the cabin without a word. He said nothing at all to the lad, for anything he said would come out wrong. Spot wanted to be scared. He seemed to need it for his world to work right. Fine. Marcus could scare the young man just by saying nothing.
Spot followed slowly again, berating himself for not having kept control. It would not happen again, he promised himself. This situation did not look bad at the moment, and if he could just stay calm, he might be able to keep it that way.
They crossed the main deck, and descended one of the far ladders to the 'tween deck, and then down onto the orlop.
Marcus stopped once, to grab up a lantern. It was low on oil, so he told Martin to not move while he went to fill its reservoir.
He did not have to move far for the oil, so out of the corner of his eye he saw that Martin seemed to have even stopped breathing. So he was that frightened. Good. His world was understandable again. Marcus came back with the lantern and continued on. Along the way he found a small bundle of matches, and brought them too. They went down one more deck, to the hull level. Since Martin wanted to be away from the crew, he would grant his wish. He found the hold used to store valuable metals, but it was currently empty. The space was perhaps eight feet wide and deep, almost six feet high, with a wall and door of woven metal. He opened the lock. "Inside."
Now, outside the hold Spot seemed to lose a bit of his resolve again. The hold looked dark and forbidding, and he had to concentrate on his breathing, but it betrayed his nervousness anyway. He was telling himself over and over again that this was what he had asked for. It would not be turned around against him...or would it? Taking his eyes off the door he looked at the Captain again, trying to see what that change in tone meant. But he had promised himself to stay in control and so he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and – did not move at all. He tried again, this time letting go of his attempted control over his breath, which instantly became ragged, and forcing all his will into his legs ... with two steps that felt like his legs were made of lead he went inside.
While Martin was standing there like a stiff statue, and Marcus was growing impatient. Why not let it show? He was supposed to be mean. A little impatience would match that expectation perfectly. "What is it now? Are you afraid of the dark?" He lit the lantern, and pushed past Martin into the hold.
"No," Spot said, and it could have been an answer to Marcus' question. He was not afraid of the dark at all; he had spent enough time in dark holds to develop almost a night vision. In fact, he preferred the dark. It was like a blanket to him, hiding him from unfriendly eyes. But the word could also mean something else, for the moment the Captain brushed past him he dropped what he was holding, flung himself around and ran.
He did not take the way they had come, but went deeper into the ship, but that was not the reason why this was a short run. Just like before in the cabin, after the initial impulse, reason took over and told him that running was a bad idea. In this case he had made it a short distance, enough that little light reached here. There he leaned against a stack of crates, like someone resting after a long run. "Dammit!" he almost shouted, before retracing his steps again, this time swift but not running, up towards the main deck.
Marcus swore silently, and very easily followed Martin's dash away from the hold. He was back to being a panicked colt. Now Marcus used his own stealth, and followed. He heard the loud "Dammit!", and he caught up with Martin just as he had almost gained the main deck.
"Do NOT interfere," he ordered all crewmen who had stopped to stare, openmouthed. With no thought to the bruises he would get, he grabbed Martin, pinning his arms, and lifted and carried him back to the hold, kicking, scratching, and biting the whole way. How he managed to keep a hold on him was a miracle, for the boy was fast, agile and very angry. In fact, more than once they both fell, with Marcus only managing to keep the upper hand because he was concentrating more than Martin and made full use of his greater strength weight. By the time they reached the hold, Marcus had many bruises, bleeding bites, and a terrible pain in his right side. But he had not let loose of the lad, and if Martin had a few new bruises, he had surely more than earned them.
Once at the hold, Marcus shoved the lad inside and locked the door, throwing the key in after him. "It's the only key!" he yelled, breathing heavily. "Damn!" His ribs ached fiercely, and a lot of other places did, too. He was furious. "I could kill you for that, but I will not, and you can make up your own illogical reason why not. Now I am going topside to plot a course back to Sarentre. We should be there in three days, weather holding. Damnation, boy; I did what I could to try to help, but you fought me every step of the way. I GIVE UP! You are an utterly hopeless case."
The fighting had felt good, too good to be healthy, but Spot did not know that. He had started to fight far too late in his life and he had no intention of stopping now. And anger was a powerful weapon. After he had regained his balance from being shoved inside the hold he instantly turned and went back for the door, which by now was locked of course. "And what do you think I should have done? What's the proper conduct for kidnapees?" he hissed.
He bent down to pick up the key and with a little fumbling because of overwrought emotion opened the door again. Pushing it open with much more force then necessary, then throwing the key into a corner with even more force, he took a step toward Marcus. Right then he looked almost dangerous with his eyes gleaming in anger. "Why can't you just leave me alone? Go!"
Marcus did not even back up. He stood his ground in a sudden turnaround of patience taken from a storehouse he had thought recently—and completely—drained. He knew he must hold his ground. "No."
Spot felt like he had just run against the wall of said storehouse. His stance and energy did not change. However, they were put on hold for the duration of one short question. "Why not?"
Very softly, Marcus said, "Because it is my ship, and I made a mistake, and I intend to do right by you. That is why."
The lethal look vanished from his eyes, but still Spot's body was ready for fight. Two instincts inside of him were warring with each other and at the moment the calmer one won. The struggle was visible in a slight tremble of his clenched fists. "The right thing now would be to just leave me alone," he said slowly, putting special emphasis on the last four words and there was a slight rise in his voice at the end of the sentence, indicating that the tiny thread of control that kept his nervous energy down could break any second.
Marcus stared unblinking into Martin's green eyes, and met the anger head on. "On this ship, I am the one who gives orders. Not you. I will go when I want to, and not before. And I have something to say to you. I had to allow you to believe I was what you expect me to be—which is not what I am—for YOUR WORLD to make sense again." He tried to breathe with the pain in his side, but he could not take a deep enough breath. So he muttered, "You need to grow up." He held Martin's eyes for a few more silent seconds. Then he turned on his heel and walked away without another word or glance back.
Spot looked after the Captain, still strung like a bow, until he had disappeared. And even then it took nearly five minutes for the tension to leave him. With the anger gone the energy disappeared also and he slowly sank to the floor, not caring whether it was comfortable or not or whether his bruises hurt or not. He was far too exhausted to care. What counted was that he was alone, and the door stood open.
tbc...
Maybe there was no real reason why Spot had taken the cup and drank it like he was told. Maybe it was the thirst that he had awakened with. Or maybe it was simply because he felt too drained to struggle and knew that to simply drink what he was told to drink was far easier and less painful than having it poured down his throat by force. Whatever the reason, he hesitated only for a moment and then drank all of. It did not taste bad.
Drained as he was the drug took effect immediately and he slept a long, deep and dreamless sleep.
Many hours later when the sleeping draught wore off Spot's slumber became less peaceful again, although not hauted by nightmares. He still became restless and tense, which was his natural reaction to the reality of being a captive that took hold of him even in his sleep.
That sleep, however, did not last long.
Spot woke up but did not open his eyes right away. Was that music nearby? No, that had to be be his imagination that was taunting him...He opened his eyes.
There was that guy again; whatwashisname, Gus. He was playing a fiddle, and quite well, too. Maybe the pirate ship had been a nightmare? No, he was chained to a bed; that was no dream but dreadful reality.
Letting his rising anger take a firm grip on him he blinked away a few tears. Tears! He had not cried in years. This ship had in store everything that he had hoped never to do or see again. It shortened his temper. "Could you stop that noise?" he said rather heatedly to Gus.
Gus almost snagged a string, so startled was he when Martin, who had been deeply asleep only moments before, suddenly told him to stop playing. He stood up from the desk he had been leaning against, and of course also stopped playing the wonderful fiddle. Music again! He had been so thrilled to play!
But maybe Martin didn't cotton much to music. And then he saw the shine of the eyes, and the streaks of a few tears on the lad's face. He understood then. Music could make anyone cry, just not everyone liked to cry. Especially with an audience.
Gus smiled in kind understanding. "Sure, Martin. I'll stop. Yer prob'ly still tired, Cap'n said you had a bit of fever in the night."
He went over to the other side of the cabin and bent down to put his fiddle in the case now hanging from a peg on the innermost of the two poles now holding up two hammocks, each with a small pillow and warm blanket. "The other one is yours, Cap'n says, fer when you aren't so scared no more. I get the other, so I figured you might want top bunk cuz it has the porthole, so I'll take lower. Unless you 'd rather have the lower one; it don't matter to me."
"Who says I am scared?" Martin snapped, but it seemed not loud enough to make Gus stop talking. Then, watching and listening, something made him start to think. Hammock? Two hammocks? Now he was confused. His eyes followed the young man in front of him. "You are going to stay in here? Willingly?"
Gus looked surprised. "Oh, we all saw how you was when..." He stopped. Maybe it was not the best thing to be bringing up. But then he realized it was something that--if it had to be brought up--it might best be done by someone near Martin's own age. "We all saw you was scared by the ship and all, or Cap'n would never have used no chains, and only fear causes the fight you put up there. So, yeah, you pretty much said you was scared. But 's okay, since bad pirates are t' be scared of."
Gus waited for a reaction of some kind, and he got it. Martin turned away from him and looked to the other side of the cabin. So Gus walked back over to that side. "But, see, this ship aint bad, so you don't have t' be scared here. Cap'n is nice, food is good, crew does their jobs and don't bother nobody with...stuff that scares a body. And you being the Cap'n's nephew, well, he th—"
At 'Cap'n's nephew' Spot suddenly turned from angry and ignoring to angry and appalled. "The Captain's WHAT?" he shouted and would have jumped out of the bed - those chains, for a moment he had almost forgotten about them, and they held him back. And after a second when the first rush of shock had worn off, he scoffed openly. "Don't tell me you're really dumb enough to believe that nonsense. I don't have an uncle and I bet he doesn't have a nephew. Don't you see? He's lying. To you, to me, to everyone. Believe what you want, but I don't trust him."
Gus froze and stayed motionless for a minute while his mind did some quick thinking. He found that he was not surprised at all that Martin denied being the Captain's nephew. And it would not bother him if he was or was not, because Captain Marcus was a good man, not out to harm this lad. He thought about what he had seen, heard, and experienced since coming on board, and what his gut told him.
Yet, when he relaxed a bit, he did not relax fully. "Martin, yer a scared kid who aint never had no reason to trust nobody, and that's plain to see from the crow's nest and you being down three decks. You don't see the truth, cuz you don't want to, or maybe you just can't. But if the Cap'n lied, do you think it might be a bit fair to ask him why? Cuz from what I've seen an' heared aboard, if he's lyin', tis fer a good reason not meant to hurt, but to help." He got up and headed for the door. "I'm gittin' the Cap'n, right now."
Spot had talked himself into a fury again and the fact that this Gus called him 'kid' made it even worse. Good advice, thank you. At the moment he was even angry enough not to feel any fright at the prospect of the Captain coming. "Yes, sure," he called after Gus. "And with him being so nice you might ask him to bring the keys for these chains."
Gus turned and said, crisply for him, "He don't need to bring them. They be right here, in the desk drawer. But I'd be advising the Cap'n to ferget the keys part cuz yer dangerous, to yerself, to me, to the Cap'n, and to the crew." He turned and left the cabin, and hurried off to find the Cap'n.
He found him betweendecks, checking inventory on the ship's stores. He felt bad instantly. The Cap'n looked real tired, and a bit down. "Yer nephew's awake, Sir, an' he aint in no good mood. Thought you should know. Do you want me to come back with you? I kin do that, or not."
Captain Marcus turned from what he was doing and sighed. He told the crewmen to keep taking inventory and he'd check the figures later. Then he took Gus' arm lightly. "Come. Tell me what happened."
On the way back to the cabin, Gus explained. "That fella's got a mouth, an' a temper. He's powerful angry inside, Cap'n. An' I knows you got a good reason fer callin' him yer nephew even if he aint, so don't worry, I won't say nuthin' to the crew."
Marcus, feeling pale and a little sick, nodded. "Thanks, Gus. I'll take it from here, and maybe you could ask the cook to make some more food. Uh, something that won't make too big a mess if he tosses it across the cabin?"
Gus beamed. "Right away, Cap'n. I'll ask Angus to make you something tidy t' eat." And he headed off.
Marcus squared his shoulders and quickly went into his cabin. He waited for Martin to speak.
*****
The moment he was alone, Spot instantly regretted losing his temper. Somehow he had not felt it necessary to hold back in front of this Gus, but now he started thinking. The guy would go straight to the Captain now. And what then? Then he would pay for his temper.
He was staring at the door when it opened again, and sure enough Captain Marcus came in, looking at him. Spot looked back but did not say a word for a long time. But neither did the Captain. A standoff, then, and Spot knew how those ended. He swallowed. 'Ask,' Gus had said. Should he risk it? No, it was better to be more careful. He swallowed again and broke the standoff. "Good morning."
Marcus took a deep breath and ran a hand through his own hair, further disheveling it. He simply did not feel up to fighting again with Martin. He leaned against the door, and his lack of sleep the previous night made his eyes seem dark and his features sad. He said, softly, "I gather it isn't, really. Want to talk about it?"
Silence hung between them again for a few more seconds until Spot had mustered enough courage. He nodded. "I have a question."
Marcus took another deep breath, and let it out sadly. "Ask without fear. I'm not going to hurt you, Martin."
Spot briefly looked at the chains, but held back any comment about just how much he believed that. He had to ask quickly, before his courage left him. The answer would certainly not be worth any punishment that he might get, but Gus' words had made him wonder a bit. He needed answers to put the picture back together. He was as confused as he was angry and scared. So he risked it. "Why did you lie?" Then he looked at the Captain, half expectant, half fearful, like a rabbit looking at the fox, wanting to run, but unable.
Marcus had known that would be the question. He slowly walked over to the porthole, and stared out, watching an easy sea and feeling the ship moving smoothly through the water. He said to the sea and distant, wispy clouds, "You mean why did I tell everyone you are my nephew?" He turned around and looked at Martin. "So they wouldn't think you were being used. If you were just a stranger, they might think you were my 'boy', and we have rules on this ship against that kind of thing. I've guessed your past, and knew I could not leave you below, like a prisoner, and you aren't ever going to be comfortable bunking with the crew, and I needed you to be somewhere safe, where you could..."
Marcus' answer trailed off, into silence. He looked away from Martin, whose eyes had become even more wide and fearful as he spoke, and went to the desk. He sat down heavily and buried his head in his hands. "What's the use? You ask me a question to get an answer, but when you hear it, you don't believe a word of it. Before I say even a word, I see the disbelief. I can't seem to reach you. If I beat you or...if I did any of the things you've endured in the past, you'd be only too happy to believe it. But when I treat you with kindness, you distrust and fear me. I'm really trying here, Martin. But I know I'm just banging my head against a bulkhead."
His voice was barely audible when he said, "I was only thinking to keep you safe and give you a place to sleep."
"I was perfectly safe where I was," Spot said before he could stop himself. The anger was rising again, drowning out the fear. His hands had balled into fists and he closed his eyes until he felt some of the wave of anger subside again. He relaxed somewhat but the fists did not open. He could not go on like this, not knowing what was going to happen. If this was a game that they were playing with him, he had to end it, soon. Uncertainty was the worst.
"Prove it," he said in a voice that was smaller than he had expected. And he forced his voice to become stronger in the next sentence, although he still could not control the trembling. "Take me out of here. There are storage holds. I would be safe enough in one of them."
Marcus looked up into the green eyes, so young and afraid and earnest. His first instinct was that he could not do that, put Martin in one of the holds. But then he just nodded. If somehow this would prove he meant no harm, and had some integrity, and most importantly would make Martin feel safer, he would do it.
He stood. "Okay." He went over to the pillars and first unfastened the hammock he had only just made for Martin. There was one hold big enough to hang it in. Carrying the hammock, pillow, and blanket, he grabbed up the extra shirt he had set aside for Martin, and only then went to get the keys. He methodically unlocked all the chains, and tossed them into the corner, then put the keys back in the drawer of the desk. He picked up another key, to the lock on the particular hold door. He stuffed it into the blanket and hammock folds. "It's the only key, so don't lose it. You can come and go as you please. Follow me."
He shifted the large bundle he was carrying and opened the cabin door.
Spot did not move. He was stunned. The simple 'okay' had been the first surprise, but one that he could handle, but then, to be freed of all the chains was almost a shock. He had expected to be brought down to the holds the same way he had been brought up. For a moment his eyes flickered to the door. Maybe he could make a run for it...
Spot started a sprint, but stopped after only three steps. No, it was a short-sighted instinct, as he had learned very early on. They were in the middle of the ocean. There was nowhere to go. It was him against a crew of he did not know how many. He stood no chance.
So he stood in the middle of the cabin, eyes closed and breathing as if he had actually done the full sprint. Maybe this was also a part of the game? After several seconds he opened his eyes again and followed slowly.
But there was something else that he had to know! "May I ask another question?"
Marcus had watched everything with dulled eyes and no reaction except to feel a little sick at what he saw as his complete failure. When Martin spoke, he turned toward him and nodded. "Sure. Ask."
Spot kept a certain distance from Marcus, just to be safe. He would not be able to suddenly grab him. It was instinct. "If not for..." He glanced at the bed, then away. Now his courage left him and he finished the question as if he was talking to himself. "Why am I here?"
Marcus was not sure what the question meant. Why was Martin on the ship? Why was he in the Captain's cabin? That was what it sounded like. But, no, it could not be that one; he had answered that one already. It must be the first question.
Marcus looked at the ground. "Because a damn fool of a ship's captain made a mistake and picked you as a possible crewman while he should have left you back in Sarentre, where you felt safe, even if sooner or later your trick of stealing from pirates would have gotten you killed, or worse. But up until the moment you picked the wrong pirate to pilfer from, you would have felt safe. And I took that away from you."
He sighed again. "One minute." Still holding the unwieldy bundle, he went over to the cabinet and opened the doors. He picked up the Spanish sword he had stolen from Martin's teacher.
"Here," he said, somehow holding it out in its scabbard. "This is yours. Soon as I can arrange it, I will tell the crew to change course back to Sarentre. I'll take you home. You have my word."
There was a flicker in his eyes when Spot saw the sword, and suddenly movements that before had been either slow or panicked became very exact and quick as lightning. His hand shot forward to draw the sword and bring it around in a low arc until it stopped a few inches from Marcus' throat and hovered there for several seconds during which he looked the Captain the eye. Then, suddenly the blade dropped sideways.
Now Martin held the sword up so it could easily be seen, one hand on the hilt, one at the end of the blade. The fine work of both the hilt and blade were very easily visible, but he did not see them. His eyes were unfocused as his hand closed around the blade, cutting the skin. "It is just a port," he said, opening his hand and looking at the blood as if surprised.
"Damnation," swore Marcus, who for a few seconds had thought Martin would kill him and berated himself for being stupid enough to hand over the sword when he knew well enough that the lad was dangerous. But now he dropped everything he was holding, except the shirt. He tore off one sleeve, grabbed Martin's hand and began wrapping the cuts, holding his wrist to stem the bleeding. He ignored the fact that Martin still held the sword until he had the hand wrapped, and was pressuring it. Then he knocked the sword to the deck and pulled Martin with him to the door while he kept pressure on the cuts. He yelled for the physician, then pushed Martin backwards until he was sitting on the chair.
His voice was thick with worry. "Wounds turn septic on a ship. We have to treat this fast. Why, lad? Why did you do that? Cut my throat, I understand you wanting to do that. But why hurt yourself?"
The fact that Spot did not fight Marcus when he not only touched him but also pushed him around showed how little his mind was in the present. The look of surprise stayed on his face until suddenly he seemed to wake up.
He instantly pulled back the injured hand and instinctively started to back up, but the chair stopped him. Why? He didn't know and he said so.
"Does it matter? It is my hand."
Marcus wanted almost to weep, and yell, and shake Martin, but he did none of them. Instead, he stared at Martin. "I do not understand you at all. I want to! Help me to understand you!"
He stared down at the sword briefly, and then back at Martin's face. He was kneeling now in front of him, holding that bandaged hand tightly, and almost choking on his emotions. "You could have killed me there. You wanted to, for a moment I thought you would do it. And then you did not--and I do not understand why you would hurt yourself, and not me! You hate me!"
"I have seen hate," Spot said simply but did not explain further what that remark meant. His eyes flicked towards the sword for a moment. He shook his head, violently, almost as if he was refusing to listen, but he did listen. This time, with less hurry and more coordination he managed to push the chair backwards and get up.
He walked a few steps over towards one of the portholes - in the direction away from the bed. He tried, but for the first time since he left the Eclipse he could not muster enough anger to overpower his emotions. He tried to hate Marcus for that, but it was not enough. He was still shivering.
Abruptly he turned and looked him in the eye. "Maybe it is better if you don't know me. But I will tell you this: I am ready to kill anyone who touches me. And believe me, I will find a way, no matter what."
There was no doubt that he meant what he said.
Marcus sat back on his heels, and looked at Martin's blood on his own hand and shirt. He felt defeated, and at that moment, he looked it too. "Martin, I sent for the doctor, and he will come. Your hand needs to be treated, lest it fester and--and you lose it. The doctor will have to touch your hand. But if you would rather risk infection, I will tell him to somehow-- Will you permit him to tell me how to treat it? I am no physician, but I have treated wounds before. Someone has to touch your hand, Martin. Just your hand."
Spot nodded. He knew of the effects of wounds. He had seen it many times. "But only that." Then he looked down at his hand and ran a finger along one of the cuts. "Beautiful, isn't it? I can do it. My skin, my blood, my decision." And suddenly he smiled.
Marcus felt all the color drain from his face, and he felt as if he were looking up into...what? A monster? He just stared. A minute ticked by, and he looked at the blood drip to his cabin deck. "Blood is never beautiful!" he suddenly shouted, and then covered his face in his hands. "Never! But I think I almost understand. You did it. No one did it to you. You were in control." Suddenly he was yelling again, and crying too. "And what did you do with your first act of control on this ship? You decided to hurt yourself!"
He climbed to his feet and went to the cabin door and wrenched it open. "Get Doctor Javert up here NOW!" he yelled, and then turned and pointed to the chair. "Make your second decision a healthy one: sit down, and stop acting like a BOY and start acting like a MAN!"
"Maybe I should." With two long steps Spot had crossed the space between himself and the Captain and had backhanded him, with force. He used his injured hand, which left a small trail of blood on the Captain's face. "That was for the kidnapping," he said, eyes blazing again, but with a slightly different fire than before. Then he sat down in the chair, so calm that it was almost scary compared to his earlier behavior.
Marcus did not see the blow coming until it was upon him. He staggered, and almost fell to one knee. He knew that Martin knew it was punishable by death to strike the Captain of the ship. But somehow that did not matter to Marcus. He looked at Martin, sitting now so calmly in the chair. So he went to retrieve the sword. He put it on the desk next to the baffling young man, and then went down on his knees before him. He let his arms hang limp at his sides. "I had that coming," he said. He waited, as calmly as Martin sat in the chair.
"Yes you had," Spot snapped, but then returned to his calm state, leaning back in the chair. He almost scared himself with it, but he felt in control and he liked it. But when his eyes turned towards the sword some of that confidence evaporated. He reached out and simply turned it on the table. Taking a grip on the blade - carefully this time - he held it out to Marcus, hilt first. "Here, do what you have to do. It is a Captain's sword."
Marcus lifted his right hand and took the Spanish sword, with beauty etched into every part of the making of it. Yet the blood that stained the tip made it ugly. And he suspected more then than he could put into words-- instincts, intuitions flared within him. How had Martin come by a Captain's sword? Or was it a favored weapon of that baker back in Sarentre?
Marcus realized he did not have the answers, and did not think it was the time to ask the question. He simply took the blade, and he repeated Martin's move exactly. He let his hand close around the sharp steel, felt the skin split, and the blood begin to well. Then he put the sword back on the desk and looked at his own left hand. "It is not my sword."
Spot watched in astonishment and his eyes widened in horror. Never before had he seen anyone hurt himself. The confidence left him again to be replaced by confusion. "Why did you do that?" he breathed, but then put a hand on the sword again. Cold, strong metal, unfeeling. "I gave it to you. It is yours."
He took that cloth the Captain had wrapped around his hand earlier and handed it over to him with with one hand. Then he ran a finger along the blade again, almost playfully. "But then, who knows to whom it belonged in the beginning? What would make this sword yours?"
Marcus took the cloth and just held it. He reached for the shirt the sleeve had come from and ripped off the other one, and put it across Martin's lap. "Your hand is still bleeding." Then he wrapped the bloody cloth around his own palm, and clutched it with his arm bent up to his chest. He answered Martin's question. "I cannot own a sword that has drawn your blood."
"Goddammit!" Martin cried, jumping to his feet again. He grabbed the sword and threw it so that the blade embedded itself into the far wall. His voice rose again. "My blood! As if these few drops are worth anything. This sword has seen much more. I saw it kill men, women, children! *I* killed with it. It should have drawn my blood a long time ago and much more than this."
As suddenly as it had started the outburst was over, its energy spent. The chair had fallen over, so he held on to the first thing available, which was the edge of the table. His hands closed around it so hard that his knuckles turned white and the blood was flowing out beneath his fingers. His shoulders shook with silent sobs.
Marcus scrambled to his feet, his instinct at first to prepare to maneuver out of the way if Martin threw the sword at him, but instead it reverberated with the tang of finest steel against the wall where Martin's hammock had been only a few minutes before.
He listened in silent astonishment as Martin finally pulled back a few of the layers behind which he hid. "It belonged to the captain who hurt you," he stated, not asked. "And you--" He moved to stand next to Martin, but only very lightly put his hand on the lad's bleeding hand. It was all he had permission to touch. "You did not kill anyone with this sword who did not deserve it, and I would bet my ship it was in self defense." Marcus pried up the fingers, and wrapped the bleeding hand. Then he simply stood there, offering the only support he felt Martin might allow: just being there. Inside, he wanted to offer more. But Martin was too close to the edge, his emotions, long imprisoned inside finally clawing their way out. He did not want to push him, just be there for him.
Spot offered no resistance. There no energy left for that. In fact, he did not even have energy left for standing and his knees gave out. He was trying to take hold of anger again, anger at how this Captain had managed to break down his defences, anger at himself for letting him – anything that would help him get a grip of himself again. It was no use.
He still had no tears, but they were not necessary to cry. He was shivering like a whole forest of leaves and about as receptive as a rock. "I didn't know what to do..."
Marcus virtually caught Martin as he slid to kneel against his heels, shivering so hard his voice shook as he leaned against one leg of Marcus' desk. The captain happened to glance toward his open door then, for he had not closed it, and there was Gus, watching, his face awash with expressions Marcus had no words for at the moment. Behind him were several crewmembers, not even murmuring. How long had they been watching? Calton would be there, too... and he was, still a little to the side but looking like he was about to interfere and lock Martin into a hold like he had promised. Marcus quickly signaled him to stay out of this. His first mate did not nod his consent. Indeed, he looked very unhappy, but for now he did as his Captain wished. "I hope you know what you are doing." Then he turned and left, no doubt going to look after ship's duties.
Marcus quickly righted the chair and lifted Martin into it and then went to the door. Gus had a doctor's black bag with him. He handed it to the Captain. Marcus looked at everyone and said, softly, "I am in no danger. The lad cut his hand and is in some shock. Where is Javert?"
Gus answered, "Fella named Luther got hit wit' a bit o' loose riggin', near lost an eye. Doc's with him. But he sent stuff to help, said you'd know what to do."
Marcus nodded. "I can treat his hand. Cut mine too, but that was just...an accident. Not bad. Don't worry."
"Aye, Cap'n." And the other crewmen, some with doubtful or questioning expressions, echoed the "Aye."
Marcus knew he would have a lot of explaining to do later, and it would be harder than last time. "I need to tend him." He sighed. "I know what this looks like, but it isn't that, you have the Captain's word. You know if I break my word, I can be lawfully marooned. Just...try not to think the worst until you have heard what this is about. I will meet with the crew later about this. Fair enough?" He looked at everyone, and after some more "Ayes", the crewmen drifted away.
Marcus smiled a warn smile at Gus, the only one who remained. "Thanks for the medicines. Now we need that food pretty soon." He caught Gus' arm. It was important that this lad believed him. "Do you believe me, Gus?"
Gus glanced briefly at Martin, then at Marcus. "About most of it, I do, no reservations." But he glanced then at Marcus' bloody hand. "Not sure about that part, or him not hurtin' you. But I'll give you both the benefit of the doubt, Cap'n. I'll get that food for you and your...and Martin." And Gus was gone.
Marcus sighed and turned back to Martin. At least Gus did not think he was hurting Martin. He put the bag on the desk, and went down on one knee again. "All you need do is let me help you. No ulterior motives, no wanting to trick or trap you. Just wanting to help. Simple as that, and as complicated."
He opened the bag and got out things he would need.
Spot did not see the crew, not really, not consciously, which was maybe a good thing, for it would have been even more distressing to him. But the few minutes that Marcus spent talking to them were enough for him to calm down somewhat. He was no longer crying; he had locked himself deep inside himself by the time Marcus started to tend his hand. His eyes were unfocused and he looked at the wooden deck and nothing else.
Marcus warned Martin that the disinfectant would hurt, but there was no response, so he kept on working on the cuts, cleaning and then bandaging them. He watched those downcast eyes for any response, fearing what would happen when those green eyes again took in their surroundings. Marcus has never treated this kind of...he did not know what to call it.
He did know, however, that Martin was more wounded than he knew how to cope with. The best thing he could do for the lad was to take him back to Sarentre, where at least he had his teacher. Maybe that would help him. He decided he would have a talk with...Martin had called him Christopher. He would have a talk with Christopher when he returned to Sarentre with Martin. At least the baker could see to it that the young man was educated. Marcus has the funds to pay for it, and it could be done in secret. Martin need never know who funded his education.
Finally, he began clumsily bandaging his own hand, and hissed when the disinfectant ran over the cuts.
After not even flinching during the treatment of his own hand, Spot suddenly looked up when he heard a hiss nearby. His eyes focused again. For a moment he hesitated, blinking, and then lay his hand on the Captain's wrist and took the bandage from him. "You will have trouble doing that alone." His voice was calm again, without emotion. He himself did not even know why he did what he did except that it was his own free will and decision.
To say that Marcus was startled was an understatement. He let go of the bandage and looked at Martin. He had a feeling he should be calm and not make too much of the action, even though inside he wanted to sing for joy. Maybe I am reaching him after all. But he only nodded and said, "Thank you, Martin."
"Shut up," Spot said, but without much force, more in the tone of voice that others would have used for you're welcome. He did not even look up from the hand. He simply wrapped it with quick, practiced movements. When he had finished, he got up, took the sword and put it in a corner. Then he walked to the door.
Marcus felt his inner hope die a quick, surprisingly painful death. The light in his eyes dimmed and flickered out, and his shoulders seemed to slump. He put what was left of the roll of bandage back in the doctor's bag, with the disinfectant. He simply watched Martin. He did not speak.
Spot opened the door, ready to leave the cabin - and found himself faced by a short, stooped man who was just about to come in. They both effectively blocked each other's way. For Spot it meant that the way out was blocked. There was a spark in his eyes and he tensed again. After a second of looking at the man he turned, taking a step back again.
Marcus nodded to the physician. "Javert. This is Martin. Martin, this is the doctor, Javert. We are all bandaged, as you can see," he said in a neutral voice, keeping an eye on Martin. "Tell me about Luther. Were you able to save his eye?" Javert took his bag and told Marcus what he needed to tell him. "Yes, Captain. But it will take time for his eye to heal, and in the meantime, he should not go up into the rigging. He might get vertigo and fall." He asked with his eyes if he should say anything to or about Martin, and Marcus quickly shook his head.
As soon as the doctor left with his bag, Marcus turned to Martin. "I do not need your permission to speak. I am Captain here. Do not lose your manners again, boy." There was challenge in Marcus' voice, for he found he was quite angry. He thought, too, that his own anger and tone of voice would give Martin back some of what he seemed to need: the belief that he was being vilely mistreated.
Spot, who, after the man had brushed past him, had pointedly looked out the porthole, turned around and glared at Marcus. He had picked up the slight change in Marcus' voice. I am Captain here. Now, that was more what he was used to. A challenge, maybe a threat. As a matter of fact, Spot welcomed it. He took it and used it as a base to rebuild his usual defense. His eyes flashed again. "I am sorry, Captain," he said in a voice that said he was everything but sorry. "Manners are a luxury that rarely crossed my way."
"Until you came aboard my ship." Marcus pointed at the hammock, pillow, and blanket on the deck of his cabin. "You still want your own space? Pick that up, and I will lead you to your hold."
Spot looked from Marcus to the door, down at the hammock and back to Marcus. He made a visible effort to relax and failed miserably. Then, never taking his eyes off the Captain, he picked them up with slow, fluent movements, almost cat-like.
As Martin gathered up everything, Marcus swooped like a hawk down onto the key to the hold. He grabbed it and put it in his pocket.
When he saw that move, the stored energy in Spot's tense body exploded and he jumped back, but when the Captain didn't move after him he managed to get a hold of himself again, although barely.
Marcus led him from the cabin without a word. He said nothing at all to the lad, for anything he said would come out wrong. Spot wanted to be scared. He seemed to need it for his world to work right. Fine. Marcus could scare the young man just by saying nothing.
Spot followed slowly again, berating himself for not having kept control. It would not happen again, he promised himself. This situation did not look bad at the moment, and if he could just stay calm, he might be able to keep it that way.
They crossed the main deck, and descended one of the far ladders to the 'tween deck, and then down onto the orlop.
Marcus stopped once, to grab up a lantern. It was low on oil, so he told Martin to not move while he went to fill its reservoir.
He did not have to move far for the oil, so out of the corner of his eye he saw that Martin seemed to have even stopped breathing. So he was that frightened. Good. His world was understandable again. Marcus came back with the lantern and continued on. Along the way he found a small bundle of matches, and brought them too. They went down one more deck, to the hull level. Since Martin wanted to be away from the crew, he would grant his wish. He found the hold used to store valuable metals, but it was currently empty. The space was perhaps eight feet wide and deep, almost six feet high, with a wall and door of woven metal. He opened the lock. "Inside."
Now, outside the hold Spot seemed to lose a bit of his resolve again. The hold looked dark and forbidding, and he had to concentrate on his breathing, but it betrayed his nervousness anyway. He was telling himself over and over again that this was what he had asked for. It would not be turned around against him...or would it? Taking his eyes off the door he looked at the Captain again, trying to see what that change in tone meant. But he had promised himself to stay in control and so he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and – did not move at all. He tried again, this time letting go of his attempted control over his breath, which instantly became ragged, and forcing all his will into his legs ... with two steps that felt like his legs were made of lead he went inside.
While Martin was standing there like a stiff statue, and Marcus was growing impatient. Why not let it show? He was supposed to be mean. A little impatience would match that expectation perfectly. "What is it now? Are you afraid of the dark?" He lit the lantern, and pushed past Martin into the hold.
"No," Spot said, and it could have been an answer to Marcus' question. He was not afraid of the dark at all; he had spent enough time in dark holds to develop almost a night vision. In fact, he preferred the dark. It was like a blanket to him, hiding him from unfriendly eyes. But the word could also mean something else, for the moment the Captain brushed past him he dropped what he was holding, flung himself around and ran.
He did not take the way they had come, but went deeper into the ship, but that was not the reason why this was a short run. Just like before in the cabin, after the initial impulse, reason took over and told him that running was a bad idea. In this case he had made it a short distance, enough that little light reached here. There he leaned against a stack of crates, like someone resting after a long run. "Dammit!" he almost shouted, before retracing his steps again, this time swift but not running, up towards the main deck.
Marcus swore silently, and very easily followed Martin's dash away from the hold. He was back to being a panicked colt. Now Marcus used his own stealth, and followed. He heard the loud "Dammit!", and he caught up with Martin just as he had almost gained the main deck.
"Do NOT interfere," he ordered all crewmen who had stopped to stare, openmouthed. With no thought to the bruises he would get, he grabbed Martin, pinning his arms, and lifted and carried him back to the hold, kicking, scratching, and biting the whole way. How he managed to keep a hold on him was a miracle, for the boy was fast, agile and very angry. In fact, more than once they both fell, with Marcus only managing to keep the upper hand because he was concentrating more than Martin and made full use of his greater strength weight. By the time they reached the hold, Marcus had many bruises, bleeding bites, and a terrible pain in his right side. But he had not let loose of the lad, and if Martin had a few new bruises, he had surely more than earned them.
Once at the hold, Marcus shoved the lad inside and locked the door, throwing the key in after him. "It's the only key!" he yelled, breathing heavily. "Damn!" His ribs ached fiercely, and a lot of other places did, too. He was furious. "I could kill you for that, but I will not, and you can make up your own illogical reason why not. Now I am going topside to plot a course back to Sarentre. We should be there in three days, weather holding. Damnation, boy; I did what I could to try to help, but you fought me every step of the way. I GIVE UP! You are an utterly hopeless case."
The fighting had felt good, too good to be healthy, but Spot did not know that. He had started to fight far too late in his life and he had no intention of stopping now. And anger was a powerful weapon. After he had regained his balance from being shoved inside the hold he instantly turned and went back for the door, which by now was locked of course. "And what do you think I should have done? What's the proper conduct for kidnapees?" he hissed.
He bent down to pick up the key and with a little fumbling because of overwrought emotion opened the door again. Pushing it open with much more force then necessary, then throwing the key into a corner with even more force, he took a step toward Marcus. Right then he looked almost dangerous with his eyes gleaming in anger. "Why can't you just leave me alone? Go!"
Marcus did not even back up. He stood his ground in a sudden turnaround of patience taken from a storehouse he had thought recently—and completely—drained. He knew he must hold his ground. "No."
Spot felt like he had just run against the wall of said storehouse. His stance and energy did not change. However, they were put on hold for the duration of one short question. "Why not?"
Very softly, Marcus said, "Because it is my ship, and I made a mistake, and I intend to do right by you. That is why."
The lethal look vanished from his eyes, but still Spot's body was ready for fight. Two instincts inside of him were warring with each other and at the moment the calmer one won. The struggle was visible in a slight tremble of his clenched fists. "The right thing now would be to just leave me alone," he said slowly, putting special emphasis on the last four words and there was a slight rise in his voice at the end of the sentence, indicating that the tiny thread of control that kept his nervous energy down could break any second.
Marcus stared unblinking into Martin's green eyes, and met the anger head on. "On this ship, I am the one who gives orders. Not you. I will go when I want to, and not before. And I have something to say to you. I had to allow you to believe I was what you expect me to be—which is not what I am—for YOUR WORLD to make sense again." He tried to breathe with the pain in his side, but he could not take a deep enough breath. So he muttered, "You need to grow up." He held Martin's eyes for a few more silent seconds. Then he turned on his heel and walked away without another word or glance back.
Spot looked after the Captain, still strung like a bow, until he had disappeared. And even then it took nearly five minutes for the tension to leave him. With the anger gone the energy disappeared also and he slowly sank to the floor, not caring whether it was comfortable or not or whether his bruises hurt or not. He was far too exhausted to care. What counted was that he was alone, and the door stood open.
tbc...