“My thanks Admiral.” William replied gratefully.
“No son, it is I who should be thanking you gentlemen. If you hadn’t engaged those pirates, it is likely they would have bottled us into that bay and harassed us with cannon fire to no end. Johnathan, you truly have embraced the name of your vessel.” Sharpe said his voice going rasp as he looked over at the ailing Captain.
“Not her last by far Admiral. William shall see to it.” Johnathan said in a trailing voice. His strength failing as he spoke, he lay his head back into his hammock surrendering to exhaustion. Elliot stepped over, checking him for breath. He looked over to William,
“He is still alive lad. But my guess is it won’t be long. Make your preparations for sail, two days son and then we sail with the tide.”
“Aye Sir.” William responded. He took his leave promptly, there was far too much to do and too little time. Two days had been a hopeful response to the Admiral’s question, even with the additional hands.
Chapter 8
‘Gazelle’
18 Sept 1808
17 Degrees 48’ N, 76 Degrees 7’ W
A hopelessness had engulfed everyone aboard the Gazelle. The sailors, who at first had taken a vigor to their work of sailing the ship as if their lives depended on it, had fallen into a surrendered temperament. The snappy shouts and crisp replies had faded to a tone of resign. The two ships off their stern had spent the day pursuing them at a pace the small band of sailors and inexperienced Africans just simply could not endure. As the sun drew lower into the west the sails grew larger behind them until detail of each vessel became more and more pronounced to the naked eye. When the winds began to shift from the east to southeast a sail adjustment became necessary. To the aggravation of the sailors aboard the line adjustment was too much for the four of them to accomplish without aid from some of the Africans. One of the African men who tried to assist them heaving a line lost his footing, causing the man next to him to trip and the team lost their line spilling wind from the sails at a critical moment. The lack of knowledge or coordination from the Africans enraged the sailors who were desperately trying to evade their pursuers and miserably failing to do so.
Dr. Lemeux stood on the aft castle looking out over the narrowing expanse of sea separating the Gazelle from the stalking predators behind her. The dark clouds overhead threatened another storm, which they could not weather and the ships approaching would have them in their grip before nightfall. The situation seemed utterly hopeless and Lemeux began thinking he may be responsible for signing death warrants for every soul aboard. Then, as if cued by his mental anguish, the stalking ships unfurled large black banners billowing out into the wind.
“Pirates, damn!” one of the sailors lamented.
“What of their banner? Is it one you know?” another asked.
“No. It’s not one I’ve heard of before.” the first sailor answered.
“Maybe it is good, an unknown pirate crew, maybe they aren’t so terrible.”
“Shut up you idiot,” the first sailor balked, “It likely means they don’t make a habit of leaving anyone alive to tell tales.”
The horned skull floated over the decks of the imposing ships as the distance closed and Lemeux felt his heart sink farther with each passing moment. The menacing black eyes of the horned skull seemed to mock their waning attempts to flee and the trident canted behind drew a shiver from LeMeux as his eyes traced over it. He looked around the gathered Africans on deck. What business did he have starting a mutiny and sentencing all these people to their deaths? Would a pirate crew really murder a ship full of stolen men, women and children? His head swam in a furious circle of questions and fears as his eyes welled up until the banner behind them became a black blur floating over a formless ship. God damn them all. Damn these ragamuffin sailors, any crew worth its salt would have found a way to evade or be preparing to mount a defense. But now it was a forgone conclusion, they were far too close to have any hope of escape and fighting seemed an even more certain doom. Omibwe crutched his way over to LeMeux’s side sharing the doctor’s hopeless look.
“They will come and steal us away?” Omibwe asked.
“I don’t know Omi, they may kill us all, they may take whatever goods we have and leave us to die of our own devices. Either way, it seems, I have doomed us all.” LeMeux replied in a wave of sorrow.
“No. Not your fault doctor. The sailors on this ship, it’s their fault. They are the reason we are here.”
“I guess you are right my friend. But what does it matter whose fault it is, this is where we are,” said the doctor.
“Talk to them doctor. Make them friends, you have a way. I know you can,” said Omibwe with a spark of hope.
“I will certainly try my friend, I only hope they would listen but I fear that may not be high on their list of priorities.” LeMeux’s eyes fell to the sea as he spoke, “You should go be with Anaya and your mother, they will want your comfort now my friend.”
The sailors aboard the Gazelle gave up all hope shortly after hearing a single cannon shot, raising a white banner into the stiffening wind. They loosed the sheet lines and spilled all the wind from their sails. It was a dreadful, somber feeling
