Date: Wed, 30 Nov 1994 09:26:52 -0500 Reply-To: Highlander TV show stories Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: "N.L. Cleveland" Subject: Aloha ch 3 .p62-68 c1994 N.L.Cleveland This story is dark, with graphic sex and violence. Like life. Comments, criticism, concerns, to NancySSCH@aol.com * * * * * Duncan sat up. It was dark. He smelled salt air and damp tarred hemp rope. His head ached, a subtle, lingering pain that hinted at something he'd forgotten. The ground rolled under his legs...his stomach rolling with it. A deck. He was sitting on a wooden floor. On a ship. Probably in a closed hold, he supposed. He blinked, his eyes straining to make out shapes, recognize objects in the gloomy blackness. He leaned forward, his hands groping for something tangible in the empty space. His fingers encountered rough cloth, canvas..A sail, folded in a square. Then he felt something soft, smooth and cool. His fist tightened around the flaccid fingers of a corpse. He edged his hand up its wrist, felt the rough woolen cloth, the hard metal buttons on its jacket. One of the sailors, dead. And then he remembered it all. The village. The fight. The horrors he'd seen. All his friends, slaughtered. The girl. He felt a fleeting moment's concern for her. Hoped she'd made it safe into the trees, into the sanctuary of the forest. Then he turned his mind to his own situation. He was a captive, on the ship. Being taken back to be hanged for desertion at some public showing, an example and warning for all sailors who happened to be in whatever port this ship sailed into. His lips curled up in a grim smile. He saw no reason to wait on death. No reason to cooperate with this agenda. He patted down the body with him, searching its pants pockets, it waistcoat. His fingers fumbled in the dark, seeking what he knew he should find. Yes, there it was. Tied to the corpse's belt. The soft leather pouch was knotted loosely at the top. He pulled the leather thongs apart and touched the sharp edged flint, the rough steel rod. He crouched in the dark, striking the flint on steel, tiny sparks flying from the contact points, showing him glimpses of the room, each time. Leaving sparks trailing across his vision, in the inky black. Now if the canvas wasn't too wet.... The door to the hold burst open, spreading a sharp edge of golden light across the room as a rough voice yelled out. "He's up, lieutenant. I guess you didn't kill him after all." Duncan stuffed the flint and steel back into their bag, and thrust it into his pocket, shielding the motion with his body, then turned to face the men who crowded into the room, holding his hand in front of his eyes against the sun's glow. Their faces were shadowed and their features invisible to him, but he could sense their mood, by their voices and their words. And by the smell of rum on their breath. They were drunk. They'd evidently believed him dead. That was why they'd left him with the corpse. Perhaps he had died. He wasn't sure. He had a moment for the fleeting thought that there didn't seem to be any discipline at all on this ship, and then he was too busy to think coherently as he dealt with the situation at hand. "Argh, let's see how he likes being a sailor again." A pair of hands grabbed his arms and pulled him to his feet. He kicked out instinctively, drawing a muffled curse when his foot connected with someone's shin, then massive arms clasped him in a bear hug, tight against the sweaty chest of of a large, muscular crewman. His feet were lifted off the ground. Duncan struggled for breath as the pressure of the man's arms tightened around his ribs, driving the air from his lungs. Another voice raised in protest..."Wait, the captain said to leave him here.." was drowned out by the yells of the mob. The crewman who held him tightened his grasp and butted his head against Duncan's, his stubbled cheek rasping across Duncan's face. Duncan could smell the rancid odor of fish and stale tobacco mingled with rum on the man's warm breath, as he fought to pull air into his lungs. Pinpoints of bright light flashed across his eyes and he felt his ribs bending, starting to crack. His consciousness began to slip away, and his mind swam out of focus, his ears ringing. "You show him, Tom. Give him the what for." The other men urged his tormentor on, pounding rough slaps of encouragement on the man's shoulders and back, cheering raggedly. The man shoved Duncan back against the wall of the hold, stepping for a moment away from the close encircling knot of men. He pushed his face close to Duncan's, eased his grip on Duncan's chest for a moment and husked a low voiced promise into his ear. "I'll make you mine, laddie. Or I'll kill you. Now. Choose." Duncan picked up the threads of his scattered concentration. He pulled in one solid breath, and used the tiny opening in the man's grasp to twist and shove himself down, his feet touching solid deck planking, scrabbling for a hold, for leverage. The man swung him up again, and Duncan felt the hard wood pressed into his back, as the arms tightened around his chest once more. He swung his legs back and kicked them both off the wall, punching his whole body into the sailor's, pushing them hard into the crowd and overbalancing the man. The watcher's shouts of encouragement turned into ones of surprise when Duncan hooked one of his legs through the sailor's as the man stumbled back, tripping him and dropping him to the floor. The impact loosened the man's grip and Duncan reared back, then slammed his forehead into the man's face, feeling the sailor's nose shatter under the blow. The suffocating pressure of the encircling arms were gone as the sailor shouted inarticulately, enraged, and reached for Duncan's neck and face instead. Duncan pushed himself away and used his knee, driving it hard and sharp against the mound between the sailor's legs, then rolling back and scrambling to his feet as the man contorted in sudden, breathless agony. Duncan backed away from the crowd, towards the open door, his hands out, ready, his eyes flickering rapidly among the men, looking for the next threat. They murmured, confused at the sudden defeat of their champion. Eying him with a new respect. One man pulled out knife, and stepped after him, his face a somber mask, his eyes promising death. Duncan knew he couldn't win, but he would rather die this way, fighting, than let them kill him at their leisure. Or rape him. He knew all about life on the high seas, and he had no interest in being a catamite for the rest of the voyage. He'd rather take his chances with the sharks. He edged further towards the doorway, preparing to run. A shadow darkened the bright rectangle behind him, and he whirled, to see two pistols leveled at his chest, held in the uniformed hands of the lieutenant who'd captured him on the island. He measured the distance between himself and the guns. He'd be dead for sure before he reached the door. It didn't matter, as long as they dropped him over the side, this time. He tensed his legs. "Hold up, man. There's no where to go. We're miles from land. We can always use a fighter, here." The lieutenant met Duncan's eyes, and nodded, a small tight smile on his thin lips. "And any man who can beat Big Tom in a fair scrap is a fighter." The lieutenant turned to the men. "It was a fair fight, now wasn't it, lads?" "Aye. It was fair." Duncan switched his gaze to the crowd again. The man with the knife stuck it back into the dirty sash wrapped around his waist. His voice was sullen, like a dog cheated of its dinner. The man knelt down and gave the now moaning Tom a hand up. The other men in the group muttered their assents to the lieutenant, one by one. "It was fair, aye." No one, Duncan noted, called the lieutenant "sir." In a flash of intuition, Duncan realized why. This was no merchant ship, no trader out for a commercial profit. It certainly wasn't a military ship, as well. These men were pirates. And the "lieutenant" was either a deserter himself, or had just taken on the rank and title of a stolen uniform from a dead man. The odd dynamics of the situation became more understandable to Duncan. It was even possible that the lieutenant's words were sincere. As far as they went. All ships were notoriously short of men, and a pirate ship could seldom put into a legitimate port, could hardly advertise it was recruiting. In days when the navy and even merchant ships had to resort to kidnapping men and boys from the ports, pirates could hardly be choosy about who they took on board as crew. "So you'll join us, deserter?" There was a mocking irony in the "lieutenant's" words. Duncan turned back to him, satisfied that no one was about to jump him from behind. For the moment. He recognized that ultimately, there could be no safety here but what he carved out for himself with his fists and his wits. And even that would be temporary at best. Tom, or his friends, would be coming for him again. He only hoped that they were closer to land, before it happened. Any land. He'd be over the side in a moment at the first hint of shore. But for the moment, he would wait. Bide his time. Learn the ship and its weaknesses. Learn the crew. He lowered his fists, stepped forward to the "lieutenant" and nodded. "I'll join you. Just tell me what to do." The lieutenant moved back with a flourish and gestured him to precede him out onto the deck. Duncan squinted at the bright sea around them as he climbed up to the deck. No land in sight. He tasted the salt spray on his lips, heard the mournful cry of the gulls, circling above the creaking rigging. The man had been telling the truth. Too bad. - - - - - Duncan rubbed his salt caked kerchief across his face. Smearing the sweat, but hardly clearing it away from his eyes. He bent back to his task, pulling the ropes tangled across the deck straight, and piling them neatly in tight, circled rings. It had been almost a month that he'd been an uneasy member of this unnamed ship's crew, and aside from two short, brutal fights that he'd been able to win almost as soon as they'd started, it had been an uneventful voyage so far. One other ship had been sighted, the sails so far down on the horizon as to almost seem a mirage. But even those sails had finally disappeared, despite the pirates having given chase. So everything was calm, superficially. But the constant tension of looking over his shoulder, waiting for the next attack, was wearing Duncan down. Big Tom had not come for a rematch. But he watched Duncan, constantly, his eyes following him across the deck, in the mess, where ever the two of them happened to be in the same place and time. Watched him, and smiled. It seemed to Duncan that the fights had been like tests, to see if he was alert, to probe his skills and weaknesses. There was no reason for the men who'd jumped him to attack him. He had gone out of his way not to give offense, not to threaten or attack, yet had maintained his space and made it clear he would fight, if challenged. One had come at him with a knife. With no warning. In the mess hall. The man from the hold, of course. Duncan had broken his wrist, with a lucky move, and kept the knife. No one had moved to interfere or to help either of them. He'd picked up a nasty slash across the chest, that time, and had been forced to wrap a filthy scrap of rag around the wound and keep it covered to hide the fact it had healed. He scratched absently at the rag, now. It was nothing but a refuge for fleas and lice, but he had to keep it on, pretend there was a scab healing underneath. The second man had used a sailor's pike, a short thick wooden staff with a metal hook on the end. Duncan had been coming around a corner of the rear deck and had heard the whisper of sound as the club cut through the air. He'd ducked, fallen and rolled across the planks in a single instinctive motion, seeing the metal hook sink deep into the wood at his side. He'd reached out and yanked the man off his feet, pulling him down to the deck with a crash, then pounded his head on the wooden surface until he went limp. Duncan had staggered to his feet, glared at the impassive handful of the crew watching him, and had gone back to work. He had added the pike to his personal armaments. No one had asked for them back, the knife, the pike. He fingered the knife, in its sheath at his side, and wondered if anyone would attack him with a sword, next. He'd not made any friends among the crew, although he'd made overtures, looking for anyone who'd been given as little choice as he had in joining up. They were a hard lot, suspicious and sullen in the normal course of affairs, and savage when threatened, as he'd seen already. And now they were bored. Hungry for action. For plunder. There had been little enough of that lately, some had confided in him. Or for something else to distract them from the lack of it. He'd heard rumors that they were heading for the Orient. For China, and the fabled riches of that eastern empire. The men traded tall tales of all the wealth they'd enjoy, there, all the women, all the food and wine and opium money could buy. They all seemed to be speaking from legend, none from direct experience. Duncan knew, from his cursory knowledge of the winds, the stars and the currents, that they were heading west, and north. He didn't know, exactly, where they were now, but the edge of excitement had been growing day by day in the crew. Whever they were heading, they were close. And it was just in time, too. Food was getting short, and tempers shorter, each day they were away from land. Tension slid across Duncan's shoulders, as he sensed a hostile stare across the deck. Big Tom, again. Duncan met his eyes. Saw the glow in them. The threat. He glanced up at the quarterdeck, saw the lieutenant watching him. Saw the knowing smile on his face. Duncan turned back to his work and ignored him. Ignored them both. Nothing would happen on the open foredeck. Not now. Later, in the dark, he'd have to be careful. Especially careful, tonight. Like he was every night. "Sail ho." The lookout scrambled across the mast, waving and pointing to the west. Sailors swarmed across the decks, climbing the ropes to verify the words. Excitied shouts drifted down from above as Duncan searched the horizon in vain. Nothing could be seen from the decks, the ship must be at the edge of the lookout's vision. The lieutenant had his spyglass out, studying the farthest part of the western sea. He stiffened, and put down the glass. The lieutenant gestured sharply to the sailor at the wheel. Duncan watched as the man began turning it, bringing the ship about. Men scrambled madly into the rigging, others grabbed for ropes to hold the mainsail as the ship began to turn. The sails flapped in the wind as the air spilled from them, then they creaked and billowed, filling again. They were heading east. The pirates were running. Duncan felt a surge of hope. If the other ship pursued....perhaps this was his chance... All day, the strange ship moved closer. As night fell, its sails glowed red against the horizon, the setting sun flaring through the cloth as if lighting it on fire. It was both larger, and faster than the pirate's ship. And better armed. Even without a spyglass Duncan could see the muzzles of the cannon glinting from its ports, by now. And in the last ruddy glare of the dying sun, he saw the Union Jack flapping at its top most mast. A British Man o' war. Duncan's heart sank. A French ship, an American one, Portugese, Dutch, Spanish...any would have been better for him than the British. He was still a wanted man, there. Unless he escaped alone, and pretended to only speak French. He glanced at the men crowding the rails beside him. Half the crew, those that weren't manning the rigging, trying to coax the last inch of sail to embrace the wind, were here, watching the oncoming ship, watching their deaths draw closer with the fascinated stare of the doomed. The pirates would have no qualms betraying him, or one another, to save their own hides, if the pirate's ship were captured. Just knowing he was Scottish was enough. Enough to be hanged for a deserter, at least. It looked like a fight was inevitable, and the conclusion, just as obvious. "You, there. Give the lads a hand with the powder." A hard hand pulled Duncan away from the rail and shoved him into line with a group of sailors passing bags of gunpowder across the deck to the cannons. The sharp sulphurous smell of the powder filled the air, masking even the salty tang of the sea. It would be night before the two ships were close enough to fire at each other. And the pirates certainly meant to try and slip away in the dark. But if they couldn't, they were willing to fight. They had no choice, really, Duncan mused. Pirates could expect no mercy if they chose to surrender. They might as well jump into the sea. Full night had fallen and the moon was not yet up. A light cover of clouds obscured the stars. Duncan shivered in the chill air. No one was sleeping tonight. Those with nothing else to do stood against the rail, silently watching in the mist for a shape. The pirates had no lights in their ship, and all the men were threatened with death if they spoke or made any other noise. They were trying to sneak away, in the night. The lieutenant had ordered a gradual course change, as soon as the light had faded, gradual because it was possible to make it without too much noise from the sails. Now they waited, hoping that the wind was carrying them furthur away from the British ship, instead of closer to its deadly cannon. They would not know, until dawn revealed their pursuer, or showed them an empty sea. Or until they blundered into the other ship, in the dark. And that was why all the crew were on deck, or at the cannons, ready to storm across the rail and kill or be killed, to shoot burning metal and flame at the enemy, if it came to that. It was like the calm before a battle, Duncan thought, finding comfort in the memories of battles fought and won, in the past. Except he'd never been in a battle at sea before. A man touched his arm, tugged lightly, indicating he should follow. All was silent. No one spoke. Voices carried too well across water. Duncan stepped away from the rail and went after him, letting the other's hand guide him along. His feet were wrapped in rags, like all the others on deck, to muffle their steps. More powder to move, he supposed. Too late, suspicion flared in him. He pulled his hand away, reaching for his knife, and his pike. A clout to the head dazed him and he felt his knees sag, his body slump. His weapons were lifted from his nerveless grip. He was surrounded, held up by many hands, pinned to the wall, a gag stuffed in his mouth and his arms roughly tied behind his back. "Thought you'd get away from me, laddie?" The ripe whisper reached him as he struggled to remain conscious. He was turned and thrust face down over a barrel, the splinters cutting into his shoulders and chest.. His pants were ripped open, sliced down the back by a jagged knife cut, along with his skin. The cut stung and moisture seeped down his legs. Blood, he supposed, as he tensed and bucked, kicking back and catching someone hard with his heel. A grunt of pain was his reward, then a rope looped around his throat and pulled tight, choking him against the gag. Hands held him down against the barrel, as his legs were captured and spread wide. He waited, straining against the hands holding him, fighting like a pinned butterfly, to escape. He felt other hands, touching him, stroking his back, his buttocks, his thighs. He clenched his teeth, not willing to let a sound, a hint of fear or pain, out. He could not move, he could not fight, he could not resist, but he would not surrender himself. Never. He tried to turn his head, to see, to identify the men holding him. He would find them. Kill them. Kill them all. The hands stroking him moved to his waist, one on each side, tightening and holding him fast, the fingers digging deep into the muscles of his back and sides. The rope cut into his throat, pulling his head back. He was dizzy and faint from the lack of air. He knew his struggles were useless. His stomach churned with nausea, while revulsion, anger and despair mixed in a lethal brew in his heart. Shouts of pure terror split the night, as almost instantaneously the planks shuddered and the side of the ship splintered, throwing Duncan violently to the deck, tearing hiim loose from the hands that held him pinned. The men around him hesitated, then ran, melting into the night, joining the growing confusion. Duncan struggled to his feet on the shivering, tilting deck, alone now, and totally ignored, working his hands loose from the hastily tied ropes. The man o war had rammed them, in the night. And the pirate's ship was sinking. Duncan groped along the planking for his weapons. His fingers found the pike and closed on it with relief. The knife was gone. He hefted the wooden shaft and moved towards the milling, shouting crowd of men who surged up the nets and grapples onto the British ship. Desperation fueled the pirates' charge. They were like rats with their backs to the wall, and they fought with an urgent ferocity that drove the uniformed British back, step by step, into their own ship. Duncan stuck the pike in his belt and grabbed a grappling line with both hands, pulling himself up the knotted rope to the higher deck of the foreign vessel. He levered himself over the rail and stood for a moment, trying to get his bearings. Lanterns swung from the masts, throwing a wild flickering light over the scene that seemed to come straight from a vision of hell. =========================================================================