It was a small island, densely covered with palm trees. After Captain Gonzalez ordered the men to lower the gigs, the sailors disembarked ashore and spilled across the beach to see how the land lay. Soon they discovered that the large, sandy expanse was abundant with turtles and crabs. The palm trees scattered around were heavy with coconuts, and a small brook flowed through the jungle nearby.

“Nothing more to wish,” said Captain Gonzalez, pleased, turning to the crew carpenter. “What do you think, Tom? Is the inlet good enough to careen her?”

“It’s perfect, indeed,” nodded Tom Brady. “Pure sand on the bottom, no cliffs and crags in sight, and the high tide will haul her ashore, nice and sweet. We’ll tie her to the palms over there, tip her on the port side and scrape the barnacles. Once that’s done, we’re gonna mend the hull.”

“Let’s do it then!” barked Gonzalez. “Quartermaster, we settle here. Take some hands to the ship and start discharging her. Once she’s lightened, see that Andreas, Mathias, and Ron O’Reilly set the cables, so we can use the high tide to haul her onshore. Lively now; move!”

“Aye aye, Cap’n,” replied Lars van Halle.

A few hours later, two boats attached to the ship’s bow towed White Shark towards the shore, as the rest of the sailors waded through the water and pulled at the cables, crying as one: “heave-ho!” From the beach, Kamolea watched with admiration at the bulging muscles and outlined sinews taut to breaking point, as with every strain the men drew the ship nearer to the beach.

Engrossed in the action, he heard somebody shouting to his left, but paid no attention until a tap on his back made him jump. He turned and found himself face to face with Alfonso the Ladle.

“How many times do I have to call you, little monkey?” he said crossly. He jabbed Kamolea with his forefinger and articulated, “Tu eres Junu. Tu nombre es Junu. JUNU. Comprende?”[1]

Kamolea grinned and repeated, “Comprende.” Alfonso rolled his eyes. He took Kamolea’s hand and put it against his breast.

“Alfonso,” he said, then directed Kamolea’s hand back to his chest and said,

“Junu.”

Finally, Kamolea understood. He pointed back to Alfonso and repeated,

“Alfonso.”

“Si![2] And you—Junu! Repeat: Ju-nu! That’s right. See, you’re not so stupid after all. Come with me, now!” Alfonso beckoned him, and Kamolea followed. After a brief reflection, he said in Tipihao’s language, “My name is Kamolea.” The Laddle ignored him, as he was gesturing towards the jungle, trying to explain to the youngster to go and gather woods for the fire.

When Kamolea came back, loaded with sticks, the high tide had already been retreating. The sailors had keeled the White Shark over and were about to fasten the topmasts to the nearby palm trees, using a system of pulleys.

Kamolea dropped the sticks at Alfonso’s feet.

“Go fetch more, but thicker, like this one,” ordered the cook, as he showed him a short log and handled him a hatchet. On his return, he found the Laddle filling a large hole he had just dug with stones and pebbles. Kamolea helped him build support of sticks above the hearth, where Alfonso hung a kettle full of water and built a fire, arranging the logs in a pyramid shape. As the sticks crackled and the flames twisted gaily, licking the bottom of the kettle, The Ladle started chopping turtle legs, babbling ceaselessly as he did.

“Soon, you’ll taste the most delicious turtle soup in the world,” he said, and Kamolea grinned in agreement, not understanding a word but responding to his cheerful intonation.

The twilight was descending rapidly upon the beach. The place was ringing with the merry shouts and laughter of the seamen, who were busy setting up tents, gathering turtles, and still securing the ship. In the evening, they all gathered around the fire, and that first night spent with the crew remained embedded in Kamolea’s memory as one of the best experiences of his life. Under the blinking stars and the roar of the surf, the pirates drank an incredible quantity of rum and sang shanty after shanty. The increase in empty bottles led to a competition to see who could jump over the highest flames, all accompanied by wild dancing. After midnight, the level of celebration, laughing, and shouting got so frenzied that Kamolea assumed that his new chums were the happiest people in the world. The festive mood mentally transported him back to Maniha Komo, where his tribe had performed similar celebrations around the pyre after the sacrificial ceremony.

At least these here don’t eat people, otherwise, I would have ended up boiling in the kettle, he thought. The turtle broth, which was delicious indeed, strengthened his force, warmed his heart, and made him feel happy for the first time since he had left his island. And several swigs of rum offered fine assistance to the mood until, peering into the fire, content and satiated, he dozed off.

   In the morning, the seagulls’ piercing screams and the booming surf woke him up before dawn. His head was pounding in unison with the waves’ crashes, and his dry mouth craved water. He got up, still dizzy, and looked around for something that might quench his thirst. The buccaneers were scattered all around the dying fire, snoring loudly amid rolling empty bottles, flasks, and pannikins.

“Must go to the brook; they’ve drained dry everything that’s here,” Kamolea muttered, chuckling at the memories of the night before.

It was terrific, all that dancing and singing… I’m so grateful that these jolly folks found me! He was still grinning when, in a flash, an idea dawned on him.

 “Eggs for breakfast! That’s exactly what I’m gonna do to express my gratitude to the men who saved my life,” he whispered. He bent down and grabbed Hugo’s large tricorn hat from next to its wheezing owner, then rushed toward the woods. After he quenched his thirst from the brook, he used the skills he had gained on his native island to detect the locations of the bird’s nests. That early morning, he climbed a great many trees, but his efforts were rewarded by a hat full of eggs.

Happy with the accomplishment, Kamolea returned to the camp, where he found Alfonso scratching his head about what to prepare for breakfast. As Kamolea showed him his harvest, the Ladle’s face glowed with pleasure.

“Smart lad.” He tapped his shoulder. “Stick with me, help me with my daily stint, and I swear nobody will trouble you.”

As the buccaneers ate scrambled eggs with salt beef a little later, they all praised Kamolea’s wits, and he knew he had won their hearts. However, his first days on the island were particularly hard, as he understood nothing and permanently messed up in every possible situation. Most of the pirates tolerated his clumsiness, laughing and joking around, but some were less patient, and his errors were met with occasional slaps and raised voices. The physical abuse did not surprise him much as initially, he had considered himself to be a slave and, remembering the cruel attitude and constant thrashing of Tipihao’s captives, he had expected to be killed at any moment. He felt, however, that something was wrong, as the sailors’ behavior towards him did not befit their masters’ status.

They are so cool, these guys! It’s fun to be their slave! he thought. They certainly work harder than me and treat me mostly as a friend and equal. I wonder if they are stupid or weak. They are pretty sloppy if I think about it—I could kill them all while they sleep. But why would I do that? I like them so much!

The more time passed, the more the crew softened towards him, and the less he had the impression that he was being kept against his will, so he eventually found himself wondering what his real status in the crew was. Gradually, his responsibilities increased, and besides his chores as Captain Gonzalez’s servant, he had to help Alfonso supply and prepare meals, as well as take the sailors their water, tobacco, and rum. 

Several men, however, had taken a dislike to Kamolea from the very beginning, and for no apparent reason at that. O’Reilly, a red-haired rascal with a round, freckled face and small, piggy eyes streaming cruelty and arrogance, was the worst of them. He was of medium height but stocky and brawny, with impressively broad shoulders and heavy fists, the weight of which almost every crewmate had felt. Always disgruntled and ready for a brawl, he loved nobody, and consequently, nobody loved him back. When he addressed Kamolea, he did not bother even to open his mouth, preferring instead to “speak” to him with gestures. Of course, if Kamolea failed to understand his message, he would receive a swift punch, always to the left shoulder. It happened three times in the first few days, and his left arm started dangling as though it had been separated from his body. When Captain Gonzalez noticed the blue bruise on his shoulder, he summoned the crew, and after a quick investigation, discovered the culprit. He pushed O’Reilly into the center and said,

“You, scoundrel, just touch my cabin boy again, and you’ll meet the rope end. Do you hear, all of you? Fifteen cats will scourge the back of the one who dares to raise his hand against this lad. Am I clear?”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” responded the crew.

“Did you get that, Ron O’Reilly?”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” muttered O’Reilly through gritted teeth, hate streaming from his eyes.

“Good. I won’t flog you now, but I warn you that your punishment will be doubled the next time you hit Junu, or my name isn’t Enrique Gonzalez Castaneda Delgado El Feroz. Back to work now, all of you!”  

Mending the ship was a hard, demanding job. After the sailors cut down scores of trees, trimmed off the branches, and made logs to support the vessel, they plugged the cracks and holes, scraped off the barnacles, and tarred the hull.

Once that was done, they searched for a suitable tree to replace the broken mizzen topmast, and under Tom Brady’s guidance, repaired all the broken spars and rigging.

Finally, after almost a month of hard work, the ship was mended, loaded, and ready to set sail. It was a relaxing last day on shore, dedicated to the final preparations before the morning high tide. In the afternoon, El Gabacho was honing his Spanish rapier when he caught Kamolea’s curious stare.

“Do you like it?” Francois asked, grinning at him. Kamolea nodded, smiling back shyly.

“Wanna try it?” He handed him the sword. Kamolea took it, his eyes gleaming with excitement. It was a long, exquisite weapon with a sophisticated handle, consisting of twisted knuckle-bow and a shiny hemispherical cup-hilt—a real piece of work, compared with most of the short, uncouth cutlasses of the others.

 “Let me see you brandish it.” Diego de Sylva’s harsh voice startled him. Kamolea looked up and met his mocking gaze. There was something deeply disturbing in those narrow, mean eyes. Kamolea could not understand what it was about, but it was not the first time he had caught De Sylva’s stare boring into him like a dagger. His leer puzzled and disquieted him a great deal because the boatswain watched him the same way the Tipihao men ogled the young women on Maniha Komo. Only Kamolea definitely wasn’t a woman. Perhaps he resembled one? Something was terribly wrong, but he could not put his finger on it. On his native island, he knew only one way of having sex, and it had never crossed his mind that a sexual attraction between men could exist. He could not even imagine such a thing—only the thought of it made him heave. Yet this look… He smiled awkwardly and averted his eyes, suppressing a shudder.

Diego De Sylva was disgusting. He had recently recovered from yellow jack, and his jaundiced skin matched his rotten, tan teeth. He was tall and gaunt, in his thirties, with long, matted hair that receded from his forehead into a tangled plait that stretched down to his waistline. His jaw was set to permanent work, chewing tobacco ceaselessly, while his jutting Adam’s apple jumped back and forth. The awful smell coming from him was a cause for constant squabbling with some of his shipmates who, although not very clean themselves, felt offended by De Sylva’s lack of hygiene.  

“Could you give me your sword, Diego?” François asked. “Junu likes my rapier, and the timing is perfect for initiating him in fencing.”

“That’s a brilliant idea,” grinned the boatswain. He drew his cutlass and handed it to the Frenchman.

“Now, Junu, would you like to try ‘my sweetheart?’” François smiled at Kamolea’s eager expression as he passed him the épée, hilt first. “When I say ‘en garde,’ you hold it like that. Put your right leg forward, slightly bent, your left leg brought back, your left hand raised above your head like this…”

After about an hour of teaching posture, footwork, greeting, advance, lunge, and parry, which drew the entire crew to watch and laugh, Kamolea, proud of his new achievement, handed the rapier back to his owner and rushed towards the jungle to obey the call of nature.

He found a low place near the brook and squatted. The bushes rustled at his right, and he pricked up his ears, but he wasn’t really worried about what could be lurking around—living with the pirates had blunted his instincts. Yet, he had the nasty feeling that he was observed. He finished his deed, wiped himself with several palm leaves, and took the path on his way back when Diego de Sylva emerged in front of him. Skinny and pale, he looked like a ghost. He licked his lips, scratched his groin, and stepped closer to the surprised boy, his brown eyes boring into him with an insane gleam. With a brusque move, he grabbed the lapel of Kamolea’s shirt and jerked him closer, their faces almost touching.

“Nice ass, hearty,” he hissed. The stench of his breath was unbearable. “You shake it so sweetly when you fence, but I enjoy it far better while I watch you wipe it. Your fucking asshole… I wouldn’t mind getting in there someday, you know… Must be wonderful in there.”

   Still clutching his shirt with one hand, he grasped Kamolea’s bottom with the other one and licked his cheek, starting from his chin up to his temple. Kamolea hollered with disgust, wriggled, and tried to break away. Although he hadn’t understood the buccaneer’s slur, Diego de Sylva’s gestures were unambiguous.

“Fuck off, freak!” he yelled in his native language. A flock of frightened birds flew out with sharp squawks, and Diego de Sylva lost his focus for a second. Kamolea twisted his body and punched him in the stomach with all his might. De Sylva doubled in pain, releasing his grip, and Kamolea yanked himself free, darting like crazy toward the camp.

Trembling from head to toe, his cheeks burning with shame, it took him a long time to calm down. He spent the rest of the evening attached to Alfonso and surrounded by the other sailors, as far away as possible from Diego de Sylva. Still, he caught his stare and abominable leer on several occasions, which horrified him even more.

When the night fell, Kamolea did not dare to sleep on the beach. Instead, he took one of the Laddle’s kitchen knives and sneaked into the woods, where he climbed into the hollow of a large tree he had discovered on his raids for birds’ eggs. There, listening to the rustling of leaves and the crazy concert of the jungle’s nocturnal animals, he jerked endlessly, frightened by every sudden sound. De Sylva’s ugly face, with his nasty yellow teeth, danced ceaselessly before his eyes, and the awful stench coming from the boatswain’s mouth still lingered in his nostrils.

 After some time, the darkness calmed him down, and Kamolea was about to drift off when the high-pitched voice that had tortured him in the canoe screamed inside his head, splitting his brain and making him jump.

 “Such a beauty! Are you ready to get laid, gorgeous sissy boy? What a shame on the great Tipihao tribe! Kamolea, the new beginning, proud of his torn ass!” Kamolea pressed his palms against his ears. The nasty cackle drove him crazy. “Never would a Tipihao warrior leave such an insult unpunished. The jerk deserves to die. Kill him and prove that you’re not a worthless wretch! Do it right away, coward!”

But the burning feelings of hate and shame were so strong that Kamolea lay, paralyzed, staring into the darkness with a pounding heart. That whole night, he was unable to get a wink of sleep, and when dawn broke, he was grateful that the horror was finally over.

When he got back to the camp, everybody was already up and waiting for the high tide to begin. The sky was dyed in crimson, promising an excellent sunny day. A steady sea breeze was rippling across the water, and the pirates, fed up with standing ashore and eager for new adventures, were overexcited. As the water flooded the beach, they knocked out the logs that supported the White Shark, and the voice of Lars van Halle rang in the air.

 “Cut her loose!”

The ropes that had kept the ship keeled over slackened, and she rose majestically above the water. As everyone got onboard, Captain Gonzalez cried,

“Keep her clause-hauled, Bobo! Beat to windward! All hands, stand by to go about!”

“Man the braces! Set the fore and topgallants!” ordered Lars van Halle. “Ready for port tack! Coxswain, lee ho!”

The frigate turned slowly, her bow upwind, as the sails puffed and whipped until, finally, they swelled, catching the fair wind. 

“Full sail for El Callao!” called out Gonzalez, and all hands replied as one,

“Aye-aye, Cap’n!”

As White Shark glided majestically in the open sea towards the endless horizon, Kamolea leaned against the bulwarks and watched the small island gradually fading away. The bright sun had chased away his awful memory from the previous day, and his heart fluttered with excitement at the thought of the incredible adventures that lay ahead.

***

A moon later, in the late afternoon, Kamolea watched the setting sun while sitting on the main topgallant yardarm. Entangled in the lanyards, he stared into the infinity, feeling happy and free as a seabird. The ship’s bow hove and plunged, and the wind roared in his ears, lashing furiously at his face. He glanced to the dwarf-like seamen below and thought,

What a lucky guy I am! I’m ready to spend my entire life on this ship!

The journey was not a bed of roses, though, and now, sitting just above the main-top, the memories of the previous days onboard started swirling in his head. He remembered how swiftly his initial admiration of the ship had vanished, replaced by utter exhaustion and despair, as he realized that being a sailor was a hard and overwhelming job.

Once in the open sea, the new reality hit him hard from day one. He ran ceaselessly fore and aft, climbing the masts, bracing, trimming, and setting all tangled rigging and sails, washing and scrubbing the deck, cleaning Captain Gonzalez’s berth, and helping Alfonso in the galley. And when the next exhausting day was over, and he, dog-tired, tried to get some sleep, the shouts of the sailors were still ringing in his ears.

 “Cabin boy, aloft to brace the gallants!”

“Junu, go scrub the quarterdeck!”

“Monkey, off down the caboose to help with the meal!”

“Savage, bring water from the scuttlebutt!”

 “Knave, up the bowsprit!”

And so on, and so on. Kamolea had no time to think—he was learning everything in motion amid a lot of yelling and occasional slaps and punches. Although he had tremendous difficulties with the Spanish language, he was a quick learner, and after some time at sea, he knew almost everything expected of him. The pirates liked his positive attitude, humility, and willingness to help, and most of them considered him to be the ship’s charm. In turn, Kamolea did not consider himself to be their slave any longer—he had the same rights as the others and even better, for he was exempted from lookout duty.

The evenings were his favorite time, as, during dogwatches, all sailors gathered for supper, and the daily chores yielded to sheer fun. Sometimes, after supper, some of the buccaneers taught him pirate skills. Thus, Hugo the Dagger trained him in subtleties of the knife fight, Alfonso was his shooting teacher, and El Gabacho, his fencing master. Their lessons took place at the forecastle, where the crew gathered to watch him, and when he accomplished a sophisticated move or accurate shot, a volley of cheers and applauses tore through the air.

 “I’ll make of you the best dagger fighter, or, by thunder, I’ll change my name of Hugo la Chica,”[3] cried Hugo.

Sitting on the yardarm and gazing into ocean’s boundless vastness, Kamolea smiled inwardly.

He’s so cool, this Hugo. And Calisto also, with his bushy beard and enormous whiskers… But Benito is defently my favorite.

            As he thought about Benito, he recalled their conversation from yesterday. It was one of those special days on the ship, which the seamen called “Domingo[4], when everybody except the lookouts was idle.

Kamolea spotted Creyente Benito, who was leaning cross-legged on the foremast and staring at some strange object. He was so engrossed that he did not hear Kamolea approaching and jumped, startled when the latter asked him,

“What are you doing?”

            “What?” he said, perplexed.

            Kamolea could not suppress a grin. He watched him and thought, He’s so funny, this Benito!

In his late thirties, of medium height but perfectly built, Benito looked somehow delicate and fragile. This impression was reinforced by his round face, with carefully maintained mustache and round wire spectacles which, combined with his short chestnut hair, gave him the refined look of a bookkeeper rather than a pirate. These intelligent, delicate features and his unimposing physique made him look out of place, in sharp contrast with the other pirates’ rugged appearances.

His shipmates called him “El Creyente” because he never missed the opportunity to emphasize his firm belief in God and preach to the others about the deep meaning of the gospels. Considering himself smarter and more educated, Benito had adopted a slightly haughty attitude toward his ignorant, uncouth, and boorish comrades.  In their turn, they repaid him with cruel jokes and taunts, which he endured with no more than the occasional roll of the eyes and the stoic face of a martyr.

            “You do what?” Kamolea asked him again.

“I’m reading, silly.” Benito smiled at him. “You don’t know what it is, do you?”

Kamolea shook his head.

“Of course you don’t. Nobody ever reads here. Look now, we call this a book, see?”

He closed the book and raised it. It was black, with a white cross engraved on the cover.

   But this is the thing the powerful old magician who can calm the sea holds in his hand sometimes, Kamolea thought and added out loud, “What it do, Benito?”

“Do you see these black dots on the page inside?” smirked Benito, glad of this sudden enthusiasm. “They are called letters. Every sound of our speech is recorded as a letter. The letters make words, the words make sentences, and all this is written on paper. If you could read, you would understand what a pleasure it is to discover new worlds through books.”

“But what for? It’s easier speak. Why write?”

“Aye, it’s true, but how would you pass on your knowledge and experience to others? How would they learn what has happened to you when you are no longer in this world? There is much wisdom inside books, lad, and that makes them priceless!”  

“And most priceless they are, when you’re sitting in the head,[5] looking for something to wipe your arse!” called out Ron O’Reilly as he passed by with Santiago and Andreas, who both burst out laughing.

 “Hey, Junu, don’t listen to nutty Benito,” drawled Andreas. “The more books you read, the crazier you become. A real man does not read books; he drinks rum, robs ships, and has fun with lasses. Bugger them books; they give you nothing, only fill your head with bubbles, and in no time, you’ll start resembling this lubberhead.”

They walked away, shaking with laughter. Benito shook his head disapprovingly.

“Do you see how stupid they are? I’m telling you, matey, books are the most important invention of man. There is magic in them—they carry us away to unknown worlds and teach us how to live. And this one here is the Holy Bible, the greatest and wisest of all books. For sixteen hundred years, everyone, be they prince, king, or beggar, has been familiar with it.”

“Why so interesting?” Kamolea asked.

“Because it’s about God, good and evil, and wisdom beyond our comprehension.” While he was speaking, Benito’s voice trembled, but his eyes shone. He removed his glasses and mopped his dewy face. “It explains the creation of the world, how death fell upon mankind, the Lord’s commands that He conveyed to people, and so on.”

Kamolea considered this information for a moment.

“Sound good. Is Kepolo there?” he asked.

“Kepo what?” Benito asked, confused.

“For sure he there,” decided Kamolea. “I like read someday. You teach me?”

“It will be my pleasure, my little savage,” smiled Benito. “Whenever you want…” 

Caught by a surge, the ship lurched and plunged headlong, bathing the White Shark figurehead in fine spray and bringing Kamolea back to the present. He reeled and grabbed the lanyard, his bottom sliding from his seat.

 “Junu! Where are you, lad? Come here and I’ll spin you a yarn,” called One-eyed’s voice from the quarterdeck.

“He’s here, just above,” cried François, who was a lookout on the main-top. Kamolea shook off his thoughts, swiftly climbed down, and rushed towards Bobo El Tuerto. Lately, he had found an exciting interlocutor in the coxswain’s person, and he adored keeping him company and watching him operate the big double steering wheel. Sometimes, when he was in a good mood, Bobo allowed him to try it. It was a heavy beast that creaked and squeaked, and Kamolea had to strain with all his might to keep it straight, admiring One-eyed’s strength as he did.

It’s not by chance that his biceps are twice as big as anyone else’s; even Ron O’Reilly thinks twice before snarling at him.

             “Hola Bobo,” Kamolea greeted him. One-eyed flashed him a smile, his white teeth gleaming in the falling twilight. A glint of a silver chain resting on his mighty breast underneath his open shirt, attracted Kamolea’s attention. As the coxswain seemed happy tonight, smoking his pipe and humming some merry shanty, Kamolea plucked up his courage and asked him something he had intended to for a long time.

“What’s that thing dangling on your neck?”

 Bobo chuckled,

“This, my boy, is my rainy day’s insurance.”

“Why, no rain in sight?” asked Kamolea, confused.

“Sink me, matey, you’re dumb as a spar,” Bobo grinned. “You don’t know what the key is, do you?”

He removed the heavy chain and pointed to a small silver key attached to it. He handed it to Kamolea, who scrutinized it and fiddled with it, then scratched his head and shrugged, disappointed.

“No comprendo,” he said, giving the chain back to his owner.

“Do you see this object here?” Bobo pointed to the key, casting a furtive glance around him, then bent over Kamolea and whispered, “Can you keep a secret, lad? I’ll tell you something, but you have to promise me you’re gonna be silent as the grave. Are you?”

Kamolea nodded.

“This thing here opens a chest with buried treasure—my treasure, matey. I’m the richest man on this bloody ship, and once we get to Panama, I’ll say goodbye to all them muttonheads and leave White Shark for good. I’m done with all that shit, lad! And then, believe it or not, I’ll spend the rest of my life like a prince, living in a palace, sleeping in a feather bed, eating fancy food, and my servants will pander to my every whim.”

“How so?” exclaimed Kamolea, not really catching the meaning but getting excited by Bobo’s anxious whispering, nonetheless.

The coxswain smirked.

     “I’ve always wanted to share my darned story with somebody without being afraid that he’d stab me in the back and go find the buried treasure for himself. That’s why I’m lying to all them losers that the silver key is a gift from a gorgeous señorita, who gave it to me as a reminder that I unlocked her heart. But you, savage, are the perfect outlet to pour my soul into—dumb, ignorant, and unlettered, catching little to naught of our talk. Couldn’t wish for better, could I?”

“Thank you, Tuerto, I very grateful you think high of me,” said Kamolea, moved. From the pirate’s story, he had only fully understood the last phrase. 

“No problem,” Bobo chortled, “but you keep your hatch-trap tightly shut, right? Nobody would believe you, anyway.” He paused before continuing. “So, at the time, I sailed with Captain Morgan—the greatest captain of all time, matey. We had our ups and downs under his command, but the raid on Panama was something unbelievable. Listen, when we took Panama, the convoy with the plunder was so long that it stretched as far as you can see. But it wasn’t milk and honey, and you may lay to that. We went through the jungle for days, starving, our bones rotting under the damp and the pouring rain, and gnats eating us alive… We only slept for a few hours now and then, and the first night was the most terrible. Tough men and all, we almost shat our pants that night, as the woods echoed with a horrifying roar. We looked at each other, terrified, trembling like virgin maidens, wondering what kind of dreadful beast would jump out on us. But the next day, we laughed our heads off, as it turned out to be nothing but a stupid monkey!”

Bobo choked, shaking with laughter, and brushed a tear from his only eye. He attached the helm with a rope and sat beside Kamolea, still rocking and chortling.

“They call them Howlers, the laziest monkeys in the world. So weary they are, that they prefer to howl instead of stirring their asses and protecting their territory like any other beast. It was funny, though, to see us frightened to death of such a harmless creature!”

            Although he had never seen a monkey, Kamolea chuckled with delight.

“And then, matey, we finally reached Panama City, we did. Oh, they were waiting for us, sure enough, thousands of men, infantry, and cavalry, and hundreds of bulls, and all. They bloody outnumbered us at least five to one, and we crushed them like a huddle of señoritas. I lost my deadlight in this damned battle, but it was worth it, for after we seized Panama, my pockets were heavy with gold and silver. It was a pure stroke of luck, though. My shipmate Carlos and I, we strayed away from the herd of ravaging rogues in search of some liquor to splice the mainbrace, and we came upon this gorgeous three-story house. We went down straight into the cellar, and there, instead of booze, we found… guess what? A couple of rich merchants and their families hid inside a secret chamber in the cool basement. So frightened they were as they saw us coming,” Tuerto grinned in the darkness, his voice betraying a level of amusement. “Now, they had tucked away a lot of dough with them, so to spare their lives, we obtained that splendid casket full of gold, gems, and silver. That was a pretty convincing ransom, matey, so we let them go, with their wives and children, and all. Then we stuffed our pockets with pesos and hid all the rest, for if the others had found out, they would’ve deprived us of every last piece of eight and then keelhauled us ‘til our entrails spilled out to feed the fish. To keep the swag to yourself is punishable by death in any case, you must know that. Anyway, we did well to hide our little treasure, for when Captain Morgan vanished with the booty, all our fools of shipmates were left only with their fingers stuck in their asses.” He laughed, then added, “Damned Captain Morgan, he was some piece of work…”

“Curly monkey, report for duty,” resounded Captain Gonzalez’s voice, sounding slightly tipsy. Kamolea jumped up immediately, waved Bobo goodbye, and ran towards the great cabin.

***

  The night was cloudy and moonless, and that perfectly suited Diego de Sylva. He lay still behind the coiled rigging near the capstan, waiting patiently as the port watch passed stemwards, then resumed crawling aft. Going to the captain’s quarters was already an immense risk, and he realized the craziness of the whole situation, yet he could not resist. 

The bloody savage, he thought, grinding his teeth. From the first day I saw him as if a bolt of lightning had hit me. Couldn’t think of anything else but his ass, couldn’t sleep anymore… And he’s cunning, the bastard, always surrounded by his fucking friends, always moving, and the damned captain keeps his watch over him like a hatcher over her chicken… But enough is enough. Tonight I’ll bloody get him, the bilge rat. I’ll gag him, tie him in the forehold and fuck him as much as I wish. And when I’m satiated and fed up with him, I’ll slit his throat and send him to find Davy Jones’ Locker. Then I’ll find my peace again.

The hustle and bustle of the passing days made Kamolea almost forget about Diego de Sylva’s assault to the point where he didn’t realize his life was hanging by a frail thread. The only reason he was still alive was Captain Gonzalez’s order to move him just beside the entrance to the great cabin. There, in the remote corner below the quarterdeck, Kamolea had stretched out his hammock and set his sea chest, making himself available day and night for his captain’s whims. It turned out that Captain Gonzalez had disturbed sleep and often awoke in the heart of the night with a sharp cry, immediately searching for his cabin boy to comfort him and keep him company until he drifted off to sleep again. Sometimes Gonzalez would ask him for a bottle of rum or send him to the galley to bring him food or some sugar to “sweeten his sour taste,” as he liked to say. After finishing a good deal of rum, the captain would talk for hours, telling Kamolea incredible stories about his sea adventures, buried treasures, and the people he had killed. Kamolea observed his handsome, cruel face and nodded occasionally, but he understood nothing of his drunken slur. Gonzalez usually fell asleep again at the break of dawn, by which time Kamolea was already expected on deck, and the next long day would begin.

Diego de Sylva reached the quarterdeck’s stair and skulked behind it, cursing Gonzalez in his mind. In the end, the captain had had Ron O’Reilly flogged because the latter had hit Kamolea again, and since then, nobody had dared to touch his protégé. After the whipping, De Sylva had overheard O’Reilly say that the days of the savage were numbered, and he would personally see to it.

Not so quickly, mate, the boatswain thought. I have personal business to square with the sucker.  

He strained his eyes but could not see Kamolea. Instead, he listened to his steady breathing for a while, and the mere proximity of the young boy aroused him. A hot wave stirred up inside him, and his cock stiffened and started pulsating.

Here we go, he thought, swallowing nervously. Now or never!

            He drew his knife, clutching in his other hand a rope and a dirty piece of cloth, all prepared for gaging his victim. Carefully, he took two steps and stretched his arm out, groping about in the darkness. Then, he stopped short. There was noise coming from the captain’s quarters. Diego de Sylva quickly stepped back and ducked under the stairs. The door to the great cabin flew open, and Gonzalez shouted,

“Junu, bring me rum and get ready for a long night! I’ve had enough of these nightmares!”

Then, he slammed the door and retreated inside the room. As Kamolea staggered towards the cabin, rubbing his puffy eyes with one hand and holding in the other a bottle of rum that he always kept at the ready behind his sea chest, Diego de Sylva withdrew, hissing,

I’ll bloody kill him, the filthy son of a gun!

 

***

The days dragged endlessly, tedious and identical. It was already a month and a half since the pirates had hauled anchor, and although they had seen sails several times, the ships were too far away, and they quickly had lost them. The headwind had considerably slowed them on their way back to El Callao, but now they had finally neared the Galapagos Islands, and the traffic had become busier. Everybody was unusually agitated, nervous, and irritated. The lack of action, booty, and women was driving the men crazy, and constant yelling, accompanied now and then by brawls and fistfights, was becoming more of a regularity. The flogging of the instigators did not yield any satisfying results, though, so Captain Gonzalez declared he would blow out the brains of the next man who dared to start a fight.

“At least there will be some action,” commented Ron O’Reilly, one of the craziest men onboard.

And, sure enough, that hectic day came at last, like a torrent after a long drought. Kamolea was scrubbing the deck early in the morning when Benito, who was on kitchen duty, appeared from the caboose with a bucket in his hand. He beckoned Kamolea and started explaining slowly, gesticulating,

“Junu, take this bucket, go down to the hold, and fill it with salt beef from the second barrel of your left.” He pointed to the bucket, opened the hatch, and waved down into the darkness. “Savvy?”

Kamolea flashed a smile.

“Salt beef for Creyente. Junu know barrel.” He was proud that he recognized all the words of the assignment.

“It’s for El Cocharoné, not for me. Hurry up, as he’s not very patient.” Benito moved his body, imitating running.

 “Aye, Cap’n!” cried Kamolea and grabbed the bucket.

Benito rolled his eyes.

“Hopeless savage,” he said, smiling.

             Kamolea rushed downstairs. In the damp, gloomy hold, the air was hot and stale. It was crammed with barrels, sacks, caskets, chests, old canvas, and rigging. Below, he heard the gentle splash of the water that had accumulated in the bilge. Three days before, he had descended to drain it with Benito and Hugo, and he shuddered with repulsion at the memory of the dead rats and the stench of carrion and stagnant seawater.

It was so repugnant down there… I hope I never have such a lousy experience again. Which one did he say was the beef? Irritated at his short memory, he wandered between the barrels and stopped before a butt, a foot taller than him. As he struggled to open the lid, something rustled behind him. He turned his head toward the noise, and somebody grabbed him by the neck. A sturdy hand pressed him in a tight chokehold, almost suffocating him, and he felt a cold steel blade against his throat.

“Shh,” a husky voice whispered in his ear, and he immediately recognized Diego de Sylva. From his mouth wafted the same stench he could never forget. “One cry, and I’ll stick you like a pig. Easy now, my lovely, we have something to square. Don’t jerk or move too briskly, will you?”

He removed the blade from Kamolea’s throat and cut the cord of his baggy trousers, which slackened and slowly slid down. His naked skin sensed the hard member of the gaunt buccaneer pressing on his behind through the rough dock fabric. He desperately tried to wriggle free, but De Sylva shoved him prone over the pile of sacks and pressed his knee into the small of his back. Despite his skinny physique, he was surprisingly strong, all muscles and sinews. Kamolea’s spine cracked under the force. He sensed the blade under his chin, first pressing lightly, then more and more firmly.

“Now you’ll be a sweet lad, won’t ya?” whispered De Sylva, his voice husky and strained. “It won’t hurt much, you’ll see. In the beginning, maybe…” Kamolea sensed his pants moving downward, “… but then you’ll even like it…” He slowly released his knee from Kamolea’s back, clutching his hair now, the blade still on his throat.

Akamui’s face swam before Kamolea’s eyes, full of contempt and disgust, his cruel eyes casting thunderbolts. He could hear his angry voice:

“Worthless wretch! You’re a disgrace—to allow someone to fuck you like a woman! Get out of my sight!”

Kamolea felt the boatswain’s naked member touching his thigh on its way toward his buttocks.

“Nooo!” he roared and shoved himself backward, smashing the back of his head into De Sylva’s face while grabbing his armed hand. They rolled over, and the dagger sunk into Kamolea’s left shoulder.

“Ah!” he bellowed, mad with pain and fury, and delivered a mighty blow to Diego’s nose. The crunching sound from the sailor’s facial bones wrung a terrible bawl from his lungs. He grabbed his face, releasing his grip on Kamolea, who jumped up, kicked him in the groin, and attempted to run, but De Sylva’s hand yanked at his ankle, and he fell with a scream, landing face down. He twisted as De Sylva lunged at him and plunged his dagger into the wooden floor, a few inches from Kamolea’s head. In a heartbeat, the boatswain raised it for another blow, but another figure jerked at his plait and sent him on his back. “Leave the boy alone, you fucking scum!” Benito’s angry voice resounded in the gloom. “You’re as good as dead when the captain learns what you did.”

De Sylva rose, pulled his trousers up, and charged like a raging bull. Benito met him with a mighty kick in the groin, sending him down onto his knees, groaning. Then, he drew his pistol and cocked it at the boatswain’s head.

“One more step, and that’s it,” he warned De Sylva. “Get up and scuttle off before I blow off your ugly head.” De Sylva spat on the floor, wiped his bloody face, and climbed up the hold’s stairs, hissing something under his breath.   

“Are you all right?” Benito turned to the trembling Kamolea, who was in the process of pulling his trousers back up.

He nodded. In the faint light coming from above, tears gleamed in his eyes.

“Gracias,” he uttered, frustrated that he could not express his gratitude properly. His look, however, was eloquent enough. Benito smiled at him and patted him on the cheek.

“Don’t worry, lad. Everything will be settled.” He picked the lantern he had brought with him, raised it, and exclaimed, “Gosh, but you’re bleeding!”

He handed him the light, tore a piece of canvas, and fastened it firmly around Kamolea’s shoulder.

“It’s gonna hurt a bit,” he said. “Come, let’s go see the captain now.” Kamolea rocked his head violently in refusal.

“Hey, Benito, what happened with the beef? Are you grazing it or what?” the voice of the Ladle came from above.

“Blimey, completely forgot,” muttered Benito. “Coming!” he shouted and spun around, looking for the bucket. As he turned his back, Kamolea slipped behind him, climbed the stairs, wriggled through the hatch, and popped up on deck. Ashamed, perplexed, and angry, he wanted to hide somewhere and be left alone, so he flung himself at the ratlines of the mainmast, climbed quickly up over the head of the main-top, and reached the royal yard where he sat, clutching the thick pole of the mast.

His face, lashed by the gale, burned like a hot iron. The bandage over his shoulder was soaked with blood, but he didn’t feel any pain. All he felt was a seething rage and wild hatred that made his ears ring. His stomach churn, and his heart boom wildly, as the fury hissed like a poisonous snake inside his chest.

This time, I’ve had enough, he thought. Tonight, I’ll kill the son of a snake, and nothing will stop me.

He shuddered and wrapped the yardarm’s brace tightly around his wrist.

 “I’ll fucking kill him!” he repeated aloud through clenched teeth. He forced himself into thinking clearly as he tried to plan the assault. Today he’s on the middle watch. I’ll lure him to the rails, then cut his throat and push him overboard. Hugo El Dagga taught me how to catch him unprepared. The moon is waning, so it’ll be pitch dark, and nobody will notice. And then I’m taking on that swain O’Reilly. The same fate for the red-haired jerk–throat cut and thrown overboard. From now on, nobody will mess with me. I won’t cast shame on my father and Tipihao’s name anymore. No, they will be proud of me–tonight, my warrior’s proof will happen at last…

The moment he mentioned his warrior’s proof, the old man emerged before his eyes. He was gigantic, hovering over the water, and Kamolea watched him, confused, unable to understand if this was his memory or reality. The majestic man towered in front of Kamolea, looking menacing and angry.

“We’ve already been through all this,” his voice boomed inside Kamolea’s head. “Did you forget that I explicitly forbade you to kill?”

“I don’t care!” shouted Kamolea. “And you don’t exist! Scram, you bloody apparition! The two jerks will die tonight, whether you like it or not. It’s my decision, and you can’t stop me. For me, it’s a question of self-respect. Ain’t no one messing with me anymore.”

The old man stretched his hand toward Kamolea, and the latter sensed how all his spite, anger, and frustration were fading away. He experienced a strange detachment from himself as though he were watching himself from a distance. At this moment, it was all the same to him if Diego de Sylva lived or died, even after what he had done to him. But there was something more, something that he could not explain for the life of him, but it was there—an instantaneous flashing of light inside him, which made him suddenly realize why it was so wrong to kill. For a fraction of a second, he understood that everyone had a strictly defined destiny and that any interference in it would bring a cruel punishment on the killer.

“No one will die tonight, at least not by your hand,” the old man's voice vibrated inside Kamolea. “The way you just felt about Diego de Sylva is how sages perceived their foes, and you will achieve this perfection under my training. Respect my commandments, and I will always be here for you. Promise me you won’t kill anybody, and I will give you a small present to compensate you for your bravery.”

“This is cowardice, not bravery,” Kamolea muttered, but then his curiosity took over.

“What present?” he asked.

“I see how much trouble you are having learning the new language, so I’ll open a part of your brain, usually inaccessible by humans, which will allow you to read thoughts and understand everyone directly, on an energy level, as animals do,” the old man replied. “This will be a temporary measure that will make you sensitive to outside influences, to which ordinary people are unsusceptible, but it will speed up your learning skills, and in a matter of weeks, you’ll be able to speak properly.”

Kamolea felt his head spinning. He closed his eyes and heard Benito shouting from below, “Junu, where are you?” He looked down and met Benito’s stare.

“Come, get down!” he beckoned him. At this moment, the lookout shouted below,

“Sail ho! Port bow!”

Startled, Kamolea looked around. The old man had disappeared.

 

 

 

[1] You are Junu. Your name is Junu. JUNU. Understand?

[2] Yes!

[3] Hugo the Wench

[4] Sunday

[5] Ship’s toilet.