Bloodtsianed Blade (Tales Of A Navigator): Endless Horizon Pirate Stories

  Bloodstained Blade

  Tales Of A Navigator

  CRISTI TAIJERON

  Copyright © 2015 Cristi Taijeron

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1517654238

  ISBN-10: 1517654238

  Edited by Janine Lieber

  Cover Artwork by Megan Dinsdale and Cristi Taijeron

  Reign-Creative.com

  Interior design by Cristi Taijeron

  Endlesshorizondesigns.com

  To those who risk their lives and sanity for the well-being of others

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Sarah

  My Spanish speaking weda.

  The Spanish translations would not be as fluent or funny without the help of your surprising knowledge, and all of these stories would not be half as fun without

  your interest in my dream.

  Janine

  Thank you for helping me make all the little decisions that mean so much to the outcome of the tale.

  Michelle

  Thank you for the idea for the cover art and for loving

  Sterling Bentley as much as I do.

  Megan, Designer At Reign Creative

  Your graphic magic for the cover artwork and the inspiration I find in our artistic bond is as invaluable as it is enjoyable.

  Will Smithy King, Owner And Master Blacksmith At Kings Forge And Muzzle Loading

  Thank you for sharing your extensive knowledge on

  weaponry of the times.

  Capt. Nikko Lorenczi,

  Commodore Of The Left Coast Privateers

  Thank you for the jewel on the pirates pillows.

  All Of My Friends In The Pirate Community

  Thank you all for listening to my dreams and sharing your information on the era. Your interest in piracy on the high seas has been great inspiration for my pirate stories.

  AUTHOR’S nOTE

  Tales Of A Navigator was inspired by the hero in the Justified Treason series, Sterling Bentley. This buccaneer navigator came alive in the light of true pirate history, and I became fascinated with his life story and the possibilities his past might reveal about who he was. Wanting to hear more of his world-traveled adventures, and to see how he came by the scars he bore, learn why the women of his past love or hate him, and find out how he earned his name as one of the most respected navigators on the wrong side of the law, I started writing these short stories. In these tales, I not only experienced the milestones in Sterling’s young life that made him into the man who blatantly chose his life of piracy, but I also found a world of short and daring tales full of action, adventure, and honor on the high seas. I hope to continue adding to this set as time goes on.

  Bloodstained Blade

  As Told By Sterling Bentley

  Spanish Main 1662

  A wicked grin spread across Captain Bentley’s leathered face as he scouted the oncoming ship in his spyglass. “She’s slow and heavy, boys. I reckon she’s hauling a belly full of gold.”

  Knowing our bellies would soon be empty if’n she wasn’t, I was damn glad to hear the news. Judging by the thunderous howls released from the lungs of our crewmen, I assumed they felt the same as I did. Relieved.

  After a unanimous vote to chase and board Bonita Del Mar, and take everything from her hold, as well as her galley cabinets, we prepared the deck and our weapons for war. Phantom’s sun-beaten timbers—which had only moments before been a breeding ground for dissention—now hosted a celebration so wild and rowdy that I was surprised to hear the captain’s voice boom over the chaos. “Stay on her lee quarter, where the aft guns are sparse. If we can get her to turn to windward, she’ll stall out in irons. Sailors, capture the best of the wind. Gunners, ready the thunder. And helmsman,” he pointed at me, “two points to starboard and steer us in for the kill.”

  As we beat to quarters, hooting and hollering every step of the way, the captain rubbed his big ol’ hands together greedily. “Let’s get us another jewel to put on our pillows tonight.”

  Knowing now how good life could be with a pocket full of Spanish gold, I wanted another jewel on my pillow, I did. But these trembling nerves of mine were already interfering with my focus. Remembering the dreadful losses we’d suffered in order to conquer the last galleon we chased, my heart began beating so loudly in my chest that I could hardly hear the chanting of the men swarming around me. With my fearful gaze set firmly on the target, the muffled sounds engulfing my ears blended into a recollection of gunfire, blood splattered faces, and dying men screaming in pain, with flesh and bone expelling from their detached limbs.

  Shivering in the Caribbean heat, I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead, hoping to also wipe away the disturbing memories from my mind. Even though I had assured myself that the gold was worth the trauma endured to achieve it, I knew I would have to tame my unease with the greatest of willpower during every chase we pursued. But today, I would once again conquer my fears.

  At sixteen, I was the youngest man working under my father’s command, and though I had damned well earned my respect among the crew, I always felt the need to keep up on my own good standing. As the navigator, I had guided them to this treat. As the helmsman, I would steer them in for the kill. And as a young man fighting to make his name among buccaneers, I would never let anyone see me as anything less than their equal.

  The sound of the topsails unfurling overhead woke me from my trance. As the canvas sheets captured the favorable wind, a salty breeze brushed across my sweat covered face. This far south, the air was thick, swampy, and hot, all the time, and the sweat coating my palms made it harder for me to hold tight to the tiller. But by God I held her steady as we tacked to starboard.

  Surely spotting us coming about—swift in the wind, hungry and ready to devour our prey—that slow and heavy galleon clapped on more sail, attempting to flee. But there was no way that weighty wench would escape our small and sleek brigantine. Every knot we drew in on her course proved her efforts all the more futile.

  Even with the thick, salty breeze whipping fiercely at our lee, the chase was lengthy and exhausting. But soon enough, Phantom’s slick keel was slicing through the crest of Bonita’s wake.

  Finally coming into musket range, Phantom fired a warning shot, giving Bonita one last chance to cut out her sails and spare the lives of her men. But the Spanish had been known to choose death over surrender, and the fact that her musket team had now opened fire, proved that she had chosen death.

  While Phantom rode up and dipped down over the foamy white water trailing Bonita’s stern, our musket team opened a volley of their own. Our numbers paled in comparison to the Spaniards, but our men were hunters—accurate shots that were swift on the reload—and their hunger for the prize rang clear through the rapidity of the shots they fired.

  Dodging and serving bullets, sailing strong on the course, and standing ready at the great guns, our crew steadily closed in on Bonita’s stern. Tacking to Bonita’s leeside, Phantom forced her to the windward, where—as our captain said she would—she then stalled out in irons. Nearing head to wind, her massive sails began to luff, and her already pathetic attempt to flee turned into an outright halt.

  Drafting her wake, we came about on her broadside, gun ports open and gunners at the ready. The lack of wind may have slowed Bonita’s sail, but not her will to figh
t; she opened her gun ports as well. Swaying and rocking on the tumbling tide, the two ships and their impassioned crews faced off like alley dogs, rearing and growling for a tooth and claw fight.

  Dreading that Bonita would fire first, we all seemed to be holding our breath, silent in suspense as we anticipated the captain’s command to fire. He held his fist high and tight, awaiting the prime opportunity to strike. The moment Phantom’s portside tipped upward on the swell aiming her guns at Bonita’s ornate gunnel, Captain Bentley dropped his fist and shouted the order to release the hounds.

  Phantom’s portside guns all fired at once. Her timbers trembled as grapeshot blasted across the gap, dropping Spanish sailors like helpless flies onto the deck. Bonita’s return fire followed. Round shot tore through Phantom’s hull. Volley after volley, the two ships pummeled each other until the smoke became so thick that I had no idea who was winning the battle.

  Hearing my brothers screaming in pain, and watching splintering timbers project through the cloud of black smoke engulfing the scene, I squeezed tighter to the tiller. I had to keep her steady, no matter how devastating the scene around me became.

  Certain we’d end up having to board her, and take her men out one by one, I prepared my mind for the feat. But as the wind whipped between both ships, I was surprised to see Bonita’s white flag rising in the clearing. Whether out of fear, exhaustion, or a shameful reckoning of the detrimental state we had forced her into, Bonita Del Mar surrendered.

  X

  Stomping across the boarding plank alongside my surviving mates, I eyed the damage we’d inflicted upon the once beautiful Bonita Del Mar. During the battle, our gunners had aimed for the men, the sails and masts, and the gun ports, as to not destroy the goods in the hold. This tactic obliterated the upper decks, along with a great deal of the gaudy décor adorning her heavy laden gunnels. Yet, amidst the carnage, it was plain to see that her hull was still intact. Damn, we were good.

  Ready to sort through the mess in order to take what we came for, but knowing we were far from being clear of danger, us buccaneers greeted the surrendered Spaniards with weapons drawn and faces stern.

  Our menacing presence flooded the deck with an air of certain doom, but the fear we were inflicting was embarrassingly diminished when our Spanish translator took the stage. Holding a bottle of rum in one hand and weakly pointing his pistol down the lineup with the other, Espinoza sloppily slurred, “¿Dónde está tu capitán?”

  Besides being fluent in both the Spanish and English languages, Espinoza’s only other talent was drinking all the rum. Unfortunately, we were unaware of this bad habit of his before we set sail, and now, the swaying, slurring Spanish reject was our only means of communicating with the men we planned to rob and interrogate for leads.

  “Soy el capitán.” The best dressed Spaniard of the gunpowder and blood marred group stepped forward. “Capitán Don Alcala y Moralez.”

  “Moralez will do.” Espinoza let out a belch that almost turned to vomit.

  Shaking my head in disgust, I fantasized about slapping the back of his head as he explained our terms to Captain Moralez.

  Though I couldn’t understand the words they spoke, it was plain to see that Captain Moralez did not like what Espinoza was saying.

  As they argued, Captain Bentley stood with his hand steady on his gun, eyes gazing intently between the faces of his translator and the Spanish captain. He didn’t speak Spanish, but he understood it well enough to know what was going on here. As for me, all I had to go on was the exchange of expressions between the arguing men, until I heard them use the word señoritas. I knew that one, and judging by the Spanish captain’s tone, the women he was referring to, meant something to him.

  Appearing to have had enough of the dispute, Captain Bentley roared, “Where the hell are they?”

  Espinoza crossed his arms over his chest and snipped at Captain Moralez, “Han hecho mi capitán enojado.”

  Captain Bentley concurred, “You’re damn right I’m angry. Tell him to tell me where the cursed women are, or I’ll tear his head from his neck and use his skull to bash down all the doors in search of them.”

  Espinoza relayed the outlandish threat, knowing as well as I did that he would do it, if need be.

  Hearing the words, Captain Moralez lifted his arms as he shouted in frustration. The man next to him began to fuss as well. Eyes widening with rage, Captain Bentley grabbed the Spanish captain by the collar, pressed his blade to his throat, and spun him around to face his men.

  While the rest of us buccaneers raised our weapons, ready to pounce upon our captain’s command, he snarled a seemingly menacing Spanish threat to Moralez.

  I had no idea what he said, but Moralez sternly repeated it to his men. Everyone stood still and silent thereafter.

  Once again in control of the dangerously volatile scene, Captain Bentley looked to his small handed crew and began serving us our commands. One group of men would be forcing the Spaniards into their longboats, another would begin loading supplies from the medicine cabinets and galley, while yet another would head down to the hold and see just how much gold we had fought for.

  It was the captain’s job to stay up on deck and oversee all ends of this operation, so I wondered what chore he was going to delegate to me and the two men by my side, Fang and Burns. But before he had a chance to tell us, the sounds of women screaming rang out from below deck.

  Shouting for them, Moralez began to squirm and curse against being restrained. Captain Bentley held him secure and dug the edge of his blade into his throat. Though I feared he was going to slice the Spaniard’s head off in front of us, he instead looked heavenward and grumbled, “Christ Almighty, how many problems will we have here? Bentley, take Fang and Burns with you and go deal with those women.”

  Knowing how serious my father was about protecting women, I took the position he’d entrusted me, with honor. Cutlass in hand, I led my men on the mission. Once we reached the hallway the sounds were coming from, I told the men to check every room, corner, and cabinet in the hall to be sure no one was hiding and ready to attack us.

  Reaching the door I was in search of, and unsure of just what I might see behind it, I took a deep breath, then barged in with my cutlass drawn. The timbers had been busted through from our gunfire, offering plenty of light for me to see just what was going on. Harvey, one of our crewmen, jumped at my unexpected entrance, and quickly released his grip on the pretty young woman he had by the waist. It was almost humorous watching his face flush with guilt as he took in the sight of my presence, but Ugly Jim was too far indulged in his heinous act to flinch at my sudden appearance.

  There on the floor, he had an older woman pinned down beneath him. She was slapping and clawing him while he shoved his hips between her legs. Her dress was torn, her face was bruised, and her screams tore at me to the core, but he snorted and grunted like a satisfied boar as he got what he wanted. I knew my father was against the act of rape, and the sight before me clearly stated why.

  Knowing Ugly Jim had to be stopped—for her sake and in respect of the code that he had blatantly broken—I leapt in his direction. Grabbing the collar of his grey coat, I yanked him off of the lady. Being that he was far bigger than me, I was surprised by the might with which I pulled him off. As his large body crashed against the bulkhead—next to where Harvey stood—he looked to be just as surprised.

  Gathering his footing, Ugly Jim put his weapon back inside his breeches, and snarled at me through his heaving breaths, “What do you have stuck up your arse, Bentley?”

  Watching him stomp in my direction, and taking note of the aggressively hateful scowl on his face, my defensive instinct led me to lift my sword. Pointing it at his chest to stop him, I growled, “Get the hell out of here before you end up with this blade up your arse.”

  He stopped where he stood, but his already angry expression hardened.

  As we stared each other down, I kept my place firmly between him and the women. Bound and determ
ined to keep them safe behind me, I took a step closer to Ugly Jim who had not yet obeyed my order. “Get out of here.”

  Harvey quickly ran out of the room, but Ugly Jim brandished his sword as well. “And what’s a wee little lad like you going to do if I don’t?”

  I was nowhere near as tall or as muscular as he was, but I was big for my age, and the fact that he tried to use my size against me, gave me all the more reason to show him just what a wee little lad like me was capable of. Holding firm to my cutlass—remembering my father’s words about following through with the threats you make—I said, “I already told you what I was going to do.”

  With a steely look in his eyes, he tightened his fist around the hilt of his sword. “You might want to think twice about what you’re starting here, boy.”

  I had been in plenty of fistfights, and my father had trained me well with both sword and pistol, but I’d yet to have engaged in a true sword fight. My father had often told me this day would eventually come, and now that I was staring it straight in the face, I began to wonder if I had learned enough. Ready or not, it was too late to back down. Keeping my blade steady and my shoulders straight, I answered, “There’s nothing for me to think about, Ugly Jim. You leave or we fight. The choice is yours.”

  A nasty grin crossed his pox littered face. “All right, then. Let’s see how tough you are without your father here to wipe your tears.”

  Letting out a menacing growl, he cocked back his arm and then swung his sword at my side. I lifted my blade just in time to parry his thrust. Using the might of my maneuver, I knocked him out of his stance. He quickly ducked out of my reach and was once again swinging at me. Dipping down low, I lifted my blade high and blocked him again, but barely. In fact, my defense was so weak that he got close enough to shove me with his freehand.