A mighty clamor commenced on deck. With excited cries, the sailors ran to the war chests to gather their weapons and climbed the masts to hoist sails. They stared at the horizon with gleaming eyes, licking their lips like a pack of skinny wolves that had just caught a whiff of an elk at the tail end of winter.

The ship was still too far away, a small dot in the distance, but there was no doubt: White Shark was closing in rapidly. Soon, they could make out the topgallants, then the topsails, and finally the hull, which was looming larger with each passing minute.

“Three-masted merchant caravel, a small one!” barked Lars van Halle, watching through his telescope from the quarterdeck. Next to him, Captain Gonzalez was guiding Bobo El Tuerto, who was at the helm as usual. 

“Piece of cake,” nodded Gonzalez. “Look, she’s going about.”

The ship slowly turned her stern towards them, clearly displaying its lack of keenness for a meeting.

“They don’t have time to outsail us, the fools,” said Bobo. “We’re running full speed before the wind, and we have twice the sheets.”

 “Her name is Santa Maria de Gracia,” said Lars van Halle. “May Santa Maria have mercy on them; they’re certainly gonna need it.”

Captain Gonzalez chuckled.

“Junu, come here,” he beckoned him. “Strike his Catholic Majesty colors and hoist the grinning shark!”

He winked at Lars van Halle and said, “He brings us luck, this little savage.”

Kamolea rushed to the mainmast, lowered the red and white crossed flag, and hauled up a black piece of cloth depicting a white shark with its jaws clamped shut across the midriff of a man writhing in pain. Just below the shark were two crossed cutlasses. As he hoisted the flag, he saw how the crew of Santa Maria was gripped by sheer panic. Everybody started scurrying about and climbing fervently aloft, bracing the sails. The caravel tacked her course, turning her broadside and preparing for a battle.

“They’ve realized they have no chance to outsail us,” Lars van Halle said and passed his spyglass to Gonzalez. “Look, Captain, they have a squad of soldiers on board. About thirty muskets or so, already moving into position.”

“Don’t worry about them ‘lubbers. We shall sweep them out in no time.” Captain Gonzalez shut the telescope with a snap and bellowed, “All hands, beat to quarters! Gun crews and boarding parties, at the ready!”

With a mad flame burning in their eyes, some pirates were already crouched, hidden behind the bulwarks, clutching their bare cutlasses and daggers, the shiny steel glaring ominously in the bright sun. Others nervously checked their pistols and blunderbusses’ firing pins or charged their crossbows with grappling hooks instead of arrows. On the gun deck below, the gunners were fervently hauling off the tarpaulins and ramming the guns’ muzzles with powder and round shots. The artillery of the White Shark comprised thirty-six twelve-pound cannons, eighteen at each broadside, but considering that the ship was desperately undermanned, only seven of them could be used effectively in the battle. Two swivel guns on the open deck complemented the arsenal. 

As Kamolea descended the mainmast, he rushed to his place under the quarterdeck and opened his sea chest, the heritage of a sailor named Diente De Oro, who had died several days before Kamolea had been found. After a short rummage inside, during which he dug out various small gifts, including three blue beads, a yellow cord for fastening the pantaloons, a small mirror, a pipe, an extra pair of shirt and pants, and a spyglass that old Calisto had given him as a present, he reached the bottom and pulled out the gift of Hugo El Daga with a happy cry. It was a quite exquisite dagger with a nacreous hilt and a shiny blade, about eight inches long. The sheath was missing, though, so Kamolea couldn’t carry it while he did his chores.

If I had had it today, Diego de Sylva would have been lying with a slit throat by now, he thought bitterly and dashed back, his eyes sweeping the deck in search of a suitable position.  

“Hey, Junu, over here,” Benito called to him from the left, and he plunged behind the bulwarks next to him. “I was looking for you. I told the captain what happened today, and he wants to hear the whole story from your mouth. Where have you been?”

 “I prefer be alone,” muttered Kamolea.

“I understand that.” Benito nodded and squeezed his hand. “Lighten up, matey. Don’t fret too much. Everything will be all right, you’ll see. Are you ready for your first battle?”

“Aye! Look what I got! Hugo give to me.” His eyes shone proudly.

At that moment, the caravels’ cannons went off. Two cannonballs hit the hull just above the waterline, the rest splashing into the water, unable to reach their target.

The pirates returned a gale of laughter.

“They’ve poked the bear!” cried out Alfonso. “I’m telling you, mateys, these guys are asking for trouble!”

“Hey, Powder Monkey, down to the hold to fetch ammunition for the gun crews!” rasped Captain Gonzalez and Kamolea flew out, propelled by his angry voice.

He swiftly opened the aft hatch and plunged into the gloom. The magazine was way down below the waterline. He took as many cartridge buckets as he could carry and rushed back to the gun deck, where the guns were already loaded and ready for the first shot. Kamolea placed the small containers stuffed with powder next to each gun.

“That’s enough for now,” grunted Alejandro, nicknamed El Cojo[1] because of the wooden leg that ran up past his right shin. He wiped his brow and asked Kamolea, “Stay here to help me with the charge, will you? It’s hard for me with this peg leg.”

  Meanwhile, the White Shark gained swiftly on Santa Maria, plunging headlong before the wind, her bow aiming at the middle of the caravel’s hull.

“Coxswain, hard to larboard!” hollered Captain Gonzalez. Bobo leaned with all his weight on the helm, and Lars van Halle helped him, working on the other side of the double wheel. The ship rocked and keeled over, so everybody gripped a rope to steady himself as the frigate sharply tilted sideways and slowly came about, exposing her broadside to the caravel. The two ships were now parallel to each other, rapidly closing the gap between them and creating a foamy whirl in the water underneath.

“Take your aim!” shouted Captain Gonzalez. The gunners opened the gun ports and rolled the cannons. Kamolea pushed the heavy gun along with Alejandro, who looked outside through the small opening and adjusted the muzzle a few degrees higher.

“Fire!” Gonzalez bellowed from above. Miguel the Blunderbuss rushed with a linstock and brought the slow match to the touch hole. The cannon roared, followed by several others in quick succession. The ship shook violently, and dense smoke filled the room. Kamolea jumped back as the gun recoiled, his ears ringing and his head spinning. The smell of powder elated him.

My first battle! Now I shall prove myself a warrior! He wanted to cry out, overexcited, his heart banging wildly against his chest, but the moment he opened his mouth, a loud boom tore through the air, and a burst of shots smashed against the White Shark’s hull. Splinters exploded just over the gunners’ heads and rained down upon them, causing Kamolea to shriek with pain as a chip of wood thrust into his thigh. He pulled it out, still howling, the blood gushing from his leg. Through the lingering smoke that filled the room, he discerned several sailors convulsing, shouting, and moaning, crushed under cannons and lumber.

“Sponge, hearty!” cried Alejandro between two coughs. In the utter confusion that followed the volley, Kamolea grabbed a wallowing long stick with a wet lambskin on its end and frantically started rubbing it inside the muzzle.

“Enough!” shouted Alejandro. He took a powder cartridge from the bucket, crammed it inside the barrel, then added a wad of old rags.

“Ram now!” he yelled. Kamolea grasped a massive wooden staff and thrust it into the muzzle. El Cojo put in the twelve-pound round shot, and he rammed again.

“Fire!” hollered Captain Gonzalez from the quarterdeck, and the guns spewed blazing hail one after another. The response did not delay, and the rain of splinters burst forth once again. The frigate rocked and rolled like a wounded beast.

“Junu, load the gun!” cried Alejandro. Kamolea sponged and rammed again. His ears rang so loudly that he hardly heard Captain Gonzalez’s order,

“Crossbow shooters, grappling hooks, now!”                      

On the deck above, Benito, Matias, François, and Santiago jumped to their feet and aimed their crossbows, loaded with hooks, at the caravel shrouds. The grapnels flew out with a swishing sound, uncoiling their attached ropes with a wild speed, and tangling themselves in the foe’s rigging.

“Two, six, heave!” Ron O’Reilly cried out.

“Heave, ho!” echoed the others, pulling hard at the ropes and inching their vessel toward the enemy ship. As she neared, more grappling irons shot out, landing on the railing and the bulwarks. A volley of bullets met the pirates. Santiago staggered, dropped the line, grabbed himself by the chest, and collapsed on the deck along with Calisto and Hidalgo, who writhed and moaned with pain. Bullets whizzed and swooshed everywhere, ricocheting off the masts and the hull and bursting into tiny splinters.

Through the gun port, Kamolea saw the caravel looming swiftly.

 “Ready to board!” roared Gonzalez.

“Stow that ramming, matey! After me, fast!” cried out Alejandro. He drew his cutlass and limped clumsily towards the ladder leading above, followed by the few surviving gunners. Kamolea hurled the ramrod away, clutched his dagger white-knuckled, and stumped along after the others to the main deck. Through the dissipating mist, he saw that Santa Maria de Gracia was blown pretty badly—the mainmast, broken in two, had crashed across the deck, crushing several groaning sailors. Men, smeared with blood, scurried back and forth in sheer panic. The helm had been swept away along with the helmsman, and the Spanish ship had tipped over, unmanageable. White Shark, on the contrary, was in rather good shape—aside from the riddled bulwarks and the several men lying dead around the waist, the damage to the pirate’s ship was insignificant, and the rigging remained intact. As he noticed the fallen sailors, Kamolea let out a wail and, limping, reached midships, where the old Calisto lay prone with clenched fists. The boy rolled him over on his back, and his gray beard bristled up, all stained with blood. Tears welled up in Kamolea’s eyes, but he brushed them away quickly as he heard Akamui’s angry voice shouting, “Men don’t cry!”

He was still kneeling beside his friend when the hulls clashed with a screeching sound, and the buccaneers leaped at the caravel’s rigging, throwing over planks and gangways with cries,

“Boarders, away!”

“At’em all hands!”

“Kill’em off!”

“Attaack!”

The sight of the pirates climbing and jumping on deck with cutlasses, knives, and dirks clenched between their teeth, paralyzed the remaining soldiers, who discharged their muskets chaotically, causing no significant damage. In a panic, they drew their sabers to meet the wave of the raging bandits.

Kamolea hobbled along with the others, blood still dripping from his thigh, but he felt no pain. Hollering and brandishing his dagger, he stepped on the gangway, grabbed the main shrouds, and jumped with a triumphant cry on Santa Maria’s deck. Ahead of him, Bobo El Tuerto hurled himself into the melee, wielding a heavy mace and sweeping three men with a mighty swing as he cleaved through the crowd towards the quarterdeck. Captain Gonzalez was cutting left and right, leaving a trail of bodies along his way, and in no time, the deck became slimy with blood and large chunks of severed limbs.

At Kamolea’s left, O’Reilly was engaged in a furious duel with a young soldier, who yielded his sword so vigorously that sparks flew off every clash of metal. Another marine popped up in front of Kamolea and lashed out at him, his rapier flashing ominously in the sun. Kamolea jumped left and collided with O’Reilly’s partner. As they both rolled over, O’Reilly turned to face Kamolea’s attacker, yelling, “Savage, finish him off!”

Quick as a flash, Kamolea twisted and got onto his knees, grabbing the soldier’s hand. To his surprise, the man offered no resistance, and Kamolea noticed he was bleeding from the stomach. Like a wolf sniffing blood, his most primitive instincts unlocked themselves from within, and he raised his dagger with a beast-like roar, but then he met the horrified look of the marine and froze for a second. Before his eyes emerged a vision of the same man wearing civilian clothes and taking a tiny pink bundle of a baby from the hands of a beautiful young woman with shoulder-length raven hair. Kamolea’s dagger was already halfway to the soldier’s throat when the voice of the old man screamed in his head,

“Spare him!”

As if its course had been deviated by an invisible force, the dagger hit the deck with a hollow thud a few inches aside from the marine’s head,. In the heat of the moment, Kamolea yanked it back and raised it again, following his bloodthirsty impulse, but someone grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and hurled him onto his back. The dagger flew out and clattered several yards from him. From his sprawling position and blinded by the glare of the bright sun, Kamolea glimpsed Diego de Sylva’s face, distorted in an awful grimace of hatred and spite. He clutched Kamolea’s throat and lifted his knife to deliver the mortal blow when a shot resounded. De Sylva remained motionless for a second, then his grip loosened, his body went limp, and he collapsed on top of Kamolea, who pushed him aside and rolled him over. A red rose had bloomed on the boatswain’s forehead, his face still frozen in the same hateful grimace. Kamolea turned around, looking for the man who had saved his life, but saw only a group of soldiers who had clustered together. With hands raised, they cried in unison,

 “Nos rendimos! Misericordia! No nos mates![2]”

 

***

Santa Maria de Gracia was a mess of crashed masts, a shattered upper hull, and dead and injured bodies.

“Take all the captives over there!” shouted Lars van Halle, waving towards the waist deck, and turned his attention to the several bleeding sailors who crawled and groaned under the broken rigging.

“Shoot and throw overboard all those who can’t walk,” he rasped as Gonzalez strode towards the two dozen surviving men who awaited their fate with bowed heads.

“Where is your captain, swabs?” he asked, watching them derisively.

“There he is, señor,” stammered a sailor in his twenties, his face white as a sheet, and pointed to a body in a blue coat, rolling in a pool of blood.

 “Address me as Captain, lad. Somebody else from the command?” Gonzalez asked.

“They’re all dead, Cap’n,” said the youth.

“Where are you coming from, and where are you bound for?”

“From El Callao to Panama, Cap’n.”

“What about your freight?”

“We’ve got tobacco, sugar, cacao, and rum.”

“That’s not so interesting,” Gonzalez growled. “Gold, silver, and pearls; that’s what I’m after.”

The young man hesitated for a moment.

“Speak out!” hollered Gonzalez. He drew his cutlass with a brusque movement and pressed the blade to the man’s throat.

“Nada señor. Know nothing about that,” he said, trembling, and stared down, defeated.

Capitan Gonzalez watched him like a cat stalking a mouse.

“Listen up, everybody!” he roared. “Take the captives to the White Shark and sweep this ship from stem to stern. I want every nook and cranny thoroughly searched and everything of value reported to me personally. You have four glasses to do it, after which we scuttle her. And you,” he turned to the youngster and increased the pressure of the blade on his throat, “if you’re lying to me, you’ll be the first to walk the plank!”

“Cap’n, look who we found hiding in the hold,” cried out Matias, pushing forward five young women and one middle-aged man. Two of the women were clad in gorgeous, richly embroidered gowns and obviously belonged to the upper class, in contrast to the other three, who wore simple bodices and skirts. The man’s light-brown leather jerking was pretty chafed, his breeches worn out, and there was a hole in the lower part of his left stocking.

A simple servant, concluded Captain Gonzalez, disappointed, and he flashed a glare at the pirates who had flocked around them, their eyes gleaming wolfishly.

“Off with you, scoundrels! I said four glasses, and your time’s running out! Find me these hidden pieces of eight, and fast!” he shouted, and everybody scurried in different directions. “Saludos señor, señoritas,” he returned to the newcomers, suddenly turning into a model of courtesy. He bowed, taking off his hat and making a semicircle before him with his hand. “Who do I have the honor of addressing, señor?”

“Felipe de Belmonte, majordomo of Don Diego de la Cruz, and in charge of trade operations,” replied the man. He was in his fifties, chunky and with a well-shaped belly. Little drops bedewed his bald head and trickled down his front.

“Just the man I was looking for! And could you present to us these splendid señoritas, por favor?” asked Gonzalez.

“Señorita Isabella Diaz de la Cruz,” said Belmonte pompously, pointing to a slender beautiful woman in her twenties with black, shoulder-length wavy hair that spilled over her pale blue dress, “her cousin, Senorita Sara Pérez Fernandez,” a plump, cheerful girl in her late teens made a curtsy with a charming smile, “and their servants, Catalina, Andrea and Julieta.”

The women, all of them swarthy, with tightened black hair and pleasant countenances, bowed one after the other, looking terrified.

“So, as far as I have understood, you are bound for Panama?” Gonzalez went on. “Tell me now, Señor Felipe, what the aim of your journey is, and what do you have as a load?”

“This ship belongs to my father, and you, a rabble of rogues, had no right to destroy it, nor to touch our goods! Be sure he’ll see that all you rascals dance the hempen jig!” cried Señorita Isabella, her face distorted with rage, leaving the majordomo with a half-open mouth.

“What a fiery temperament!” exclaimed Gonzalez, mockingly lifting his right brow. “You truly scared me out of my wits, señorita. May I ask who your powerful father is?” Isabella pursed her lips, realizing the huge mistake of her outburst.

“What is his name?” pressed Gonzalez, turning to Felipe de Belmonte, who swallowed nervously. Matias pushed him rudely.

“Speak out!” he yelled.

“Don Diego de la Cruz,” he replied reluctantly. 

“Very well. And why should I be afraid of Don Diego? Hey, Bobo, come here!”

The black giant approached, carrying a small metal chest.

“Look what we found in the great cabin, Cap’n,” he said, grinning, and opened the lid. A pile of golden doubloons gleamed in the sunshine.

“Splendid! That’s exactly what I’m talking about! Give it to me, Bobo, I’ll take personal care,” growled Gonzalez.

“There are rumors that a load of pearls and a sea chest full of pieces of eight are hidden somewhere,” said Bobo.

“Rumors?” asked Gonzalez.

“One of the crew is ready to join us, and he’s spilled the beans…”

 “Bueno![3] What else do we have?”

“Nothing much. In the hold, we found tobacco, sugar, cacao, woolen fabric, crates with bottles of rum, a score kegs of wine…”

“Oh, wine? We have smugglers then? Breaking His Majesty’s order of a wine trade ban?” Gonzalez cut him off.

“No, no smugglers, Capitan,” protested Señor Felipe. “The wine is a gift from Don Diego’s brother, Don Pedro Fernandez, as gratitude for hosting his daughter, Señorita Sara.”

“Don Diego? That name rings the bells somehow…” said Bobo.

“You were with Captain Morgan when he sacked Panama, weren’t you?” Gonzalez asked him.

“I was,” confirmed Bobo.

“Did you hear the name of Don Diego de la Cruz over there?”

“Blimey, Cap’n! Don Diego, the sugar king? One of the richest and most powerful men in Panama. His sugar plantation was a few hours from the city, but even Cap’n Morgan didn’t dare try his luck with him.”

   “Oh, really?” Captain Gonzalez’s face glowed. “Look here, the lovely señoritas before you are his daughter and niece.”

The only eye of Bobo el Tuerto blinked with disbelief.

“Shiver me timbers! If this is true, Cap’n, it smells at least of a hundred thousand pieces of eight in ransom,” he said, and they both burst out laughing.  

“Hugo, come here!” cried Gonzalez, his body still rocking. “You and Bobo, lock the two noble señoritas in the free berth next to Lars van Halle’s and see that nobody touches them. The other three…” he cast a quick look around and called out, “All hands, come here!”

The pirates gathered within seconds.

 “Do you like these lovely birds?” asked Gonzalez.

“We certainly do,” responded Tom Brady.

“We adore them, Cap’n! We’ll take good care of them,” cried Jose-Louis, leering and scattered chortles, chuckles, and sneers supporting his eagerness. 

Captain Gonzalez looked at their worn-out faces, which were smeared with blood and powder, and pity touched his heart.

“You did well today,” he said. “Cunning like foxes, and brave like tigers, that’s my crew! I reckon you deserve some fun now. I give you these splendid creatures as a prize for your bravery and dedication. Enjoy yourselves, you old salts!”

Wild cheers met his words, and Hugo cried,

“Three times hurray for the greatest captain ever!”

After the ovation subsided, Bobo El Tuerto and Hugo El Dagga led the women to the White Shark, as the others spilled out again in search of the hidden pieces of eight.

“You, O’Reilly, fasten Don Felipe to the foremast and beat out the shit of him until he tells us when the silver is. I hate dishonest scoundrels like him!” Gonzalez ordered and strode toward his cabin carrying the gold-filled chest.

***

Later that evening, Santa Maria de la Gracia burst into flames and illuminated the dark sky, casting bright sparkles across the falling twilight. The pirates, most of them already drunk with the rum they had uncovered in the caravel’s hold, were in a great mood after finding the sea chest full of silver and the bag of pearls, which Don Felipe had handed over willingly after clapping eyes on the cat-o’-nine-tails.

As White Shark slowly glided away, Kamolea watched the burning ship with rapt adoration. The wounds on his shoulder and thigh, now washed out and freshly dressed, hurt pretty badly, and his ears still rang from the gunshots, but his heart brimmed with joy and relief at the thought of Diego de Sylva, lying stone dead on Santa Maria, shriveling and dwindling in the scorching flames. The blaze took him back to his native islands, where sacrificial pyres were pretty common.

May Kepolo accept his bloody ashes as a gift from me, he thought. A woman’s scream made him tear his eyes away from the fire and direct his attention to the lower deck, where he could hear drunken grunts, shouts, and wails. Kamolea walked to the stairs leading to the gun deck, descended two steps, and stopped, surprised by the crowd below. The gun deck was crammed with men lining up to have their way with the handmaids. Amid the cannons and the tables, where the crew would usually eat, three improvised compartments had been fashioned, which his shipmates called fuck berths—small spaces separated with blankets and fabrics, seized as a prize from Santa Maria’s hold. A thick layer of the same material was spread out on the floor, making almost-comfortable beds. Kamolea noticed that the line for the middle berth was twice as long as the other two and immediately suspected why.

“Big tits?” he asked Juan Carlos, who was the last man waiting in the long queue and made a rounding gesture before his chest.

“Si, si.[4] The taller one, the gorgeous,” replied Juan Carlos with a grin.

“I wait for her too,” decided Kamolea, grinning back. “You last?”

     “Hey, Junu, what are you doing there?” Benito yelled from above. He quickly descended the ladder and seized him by the elbow. Kamolea looked up, startled. Benito’s face was still smeared with blood, his glasses askew, and he was swinging a bottle of rum in his hand.

“Why, I wanna fuck,” explained Kamolea. “Big tits over there…”

 “Scupper that! You’re coming with me, and right now! I need a mate for a drink. Come on, we’re gonna splice the mainbrace!” He yanked at his arm, and Kamolea almost fell.

“Leave me alone!” he said pleadingly. “I wanna fuck.”

“No, you don’t! Off with you, little fool! You know better than that!” Benito grabbed his upper arm and dragged him up, then aft. Although he looked frail and delicate, Kamolea was surprised by the strength of his grip. “I ain’t gonna let you rape no one for a life of mine, or my name ain’t Benito El Creyente.”

“Why not? It’s fun…”

“Shut up! One day, your memory will chase you and torture you for all the awful things you’ve done. Then you’ll be grateful that I didn’t let you do this.”

“But….”

“Gag it, I said! Just hours ago, Diego de Sylva would have torn your ass.” Benito chuckled. “Maybe I should have let him do it; then you would understand what kind of fun this is.”

Kamolea fell silent, chewing on this—it had never crossed his mind to look at it from the victim’s perspective. A few seconds later, they reached the mizzenmast. The rigging was coiled around the pole, and some wool sacks were piled up to protect from stray enemy bullets. Benito slumped heavily and leaned his back against the mast, grabbing Kamolea’s hand and forcing him to sit beside him. The latter, still frustrated by the missed opportunity, looked at Benito and said crossly,

“Now what?”

 “We drop anchor here, matey,” Benito said, slurring and spitting saliva through his teeth. “I’m three sheets to the wind, but who cares,” he hiccupped, then he leaned in and whispered in Kamolea’s year, his breath stinking of rum.

“Listen, Junu, no man before the mast is supposed to come so close to the captain’s quarters, but your hammock is hung just over there, so if somebody’s asking, I’ve only come to look for you, right?” He gulped from the bottle and handed it to Kamolea. “Take a quaff, my curly savage. Raise a toast to your first ship scuttled and sent to Davy Jones’ locker.”

Kamolea swigged and felt the fiery liquid flowing pleasantly down to his stomach. A moment later, his head started spinning.

“There,” muttered Benito, “how do you feel, lad? Don’t fuck those whores; have no regret about it. All my troubles came because of them, bloody harlots. God forbid, what a sinner I was…”

They sat in the darkness for a while, in complete silence. The din of the party coming from below was muffled by the howling wind and the splash of the sea. The ship creaked and groaned like a living thing, and the mizzen course whipped at the wind just above their heads. Suddenly, a woman’s scream, filled with horror, pierced the night. Kamolea chuckled.

“It must be Bobo El Tuerto’s turn to fuck,” he said, grinning. “He terrible enough to frighten poor thing…”

“I get sick of all that,” said Benito. “These beautiful, frail creatures, so defenseless… Poor girls! It’s disgusting, a sheer abomination. If I were a captain, I would’ve never allowed that.”

He took another mighty gulp and passed the bottle to Kamolea.

“Last night, I had a horrible dream. I faced a court to answer why I’ve killed so many people and ain’t respected the Scriptures. ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ you know—the fifth commandment. Their spirits chased me in my nightmare. They pointed at me and blamed me for their lost lives, for their dreams cut short, for their orphans and widows. I sensed all their anguish and suffering, and I saw what their life would have been if I hadn’t killed them; how many children they would have had, what joys and sorrows they would have experienced… That’s why today I tried to kill nobody. Well, almost…”

Something weird was going on inside Kamolea’s head. After the second swig, a window opened before his eyes, and he watched the battle from that day from afar, stunned. He saw himself on top of the young soldier from before, but it was as if he was watching through someone else’s eyes. The moment Diego de Sylva attacked him, he saw this other person drawing his pistol and shooting the boatswain in the head.

     “…Shot him like a fucking dog and ain’t no remorse for him, the bilge rat,” Benito was saying near his ear.

“Oh, it was you who kill the cur!” Kamolea exclaimed. “You save me twice today, then!”

“I knew he’d try again and claim afterward you had died in the battle. A flogging awaited him if you reported to the captain. I know how they think, them scum, Satan’s children. So, I kept an eye on him…”

“Gracias,” Kamolea said, frustrated again by his limited language. He wanted to say so much to his savior but instead, he could only grip his hand firmly.

“Don’t mention it.” Benito squeezed his hand back and swung the bottle to his mouth again.

They lapsed into silence. A loud giggle and a chime of glasses came from the great cabin.

“My life is running out, matey,” said Benito after a while. “I feel the cord tightens around my neck. I’m just wondering how, from a noble, educated man, born in a palace, I became a useless swab and got to the very bottom of the society.”

He sniffed, took his glasses off brusquely, and wiped his eyes.

“You know, I’m a descendent of an old noble family. I was a first-born son, rich heir, rolling in dough, a bright future ahead, and all that shit. And my life? A string of balls, hunting, stage plays, sprees, and debauchery. Was I happy? The hell I wasn’t. I felt like a bird in a golden cage. Too many compromises in the upper class, matey. Too many calculations, intrigues, and all that hypocrisy. Now, I ask you frankly, man to man—did we come into this bloody world only to eat, shit, and spoil ourselves? There must be something else, I say. Whatever…”

He quaffed, but this time he didn’t offer it to his interlocutor, who, lulled by Benito’s voice, was gradually drifting off. 

“And then they fucking killed my Ana Maria… Suffocated her with a pillow, with my child in her womb. I never forgave my bloody parents. How could they do this to me? And why? Because of this ugly cow, Duchess Angelina Amador de Castilla, I was betrothed to. What the fuck did I care that she was a distant cousin of the king? Ana Maria was my mother’s servant, true enough, but she was worth more than all the queens in the world. But it’s my fault, all that. I knew they wouldn’t allow me to marry her, but she was so dazzling that I couldn’t resist…”

 He took another swig, pulled his legs against his chest, and wrapped his arms around them, bringing his knees to his chin.

“As soon as I buried her, I left them,” he continued after a while. “I was so disgusted by the secular life that I decided to become a monk. But first, I wanted to go to the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem and purify myself, so I set out for Valencia. On my way, I met some Spanish nobles, and among them this outstanding man, Pastor Mendoza.” Benito hiccupped again, staring into his past, oblivious of his company. “Turned out he was traveling to Athos, in Greece. They call it the Holy Mountain there, you know… He told me he had received the Lord’s revelation in his dream and followed His orders—to meet a monk in Athos, who will reveal to him a secret weapon that will help the people in their fight with the Evil One.”

By the mention of the name of the evil, Kamolea jerked and perked his ears up.

“Who this?” he asked.

“The Evil One? We also call him the Devil and Satan. He is a creature that makes people do bad things,” Benito finished his sentence with a mighty burp.

“What bad?” Kamolea asked.

“Killing, stealing, raping, beating, all that is bad,” Benito said.

“Why, that men do?” asked Kamolea proudly. After a moment of silence, he continued,

“Why say it bad? At home, we do only that. And eating our foes, too. Is eating men bad?”

“Oh, shut up, disgusting savage! Have you done something so dreadful already?”

Kamolea shook his head.

“My father do,” he said. “I not man yet.”

“So, you’re telling me you aren’t able to recognize good from evil? Such an animal you are, you primitive cannibal!”

Kamolea grinned broadly.

“You kill, and steal, and beat, no? Benito is real man. When I kill, I real man too!”

That statement threw Benito into deep reflection. After a long silence, he said,

“You hit the mark here, my little barbarian, and I have to admit you’ve put me in a tight spot, for we are no better than you. We are even worse ‘cause we are all aware that we do wrong, and yet we still don’t have the strength to change our bloody lives.”

He sank into his thoughts. It was already the deep of night, and the starry sky cast silent magic over the deck. The hubbub had calmed, and everybody was snoring, save the lookouts. The canvas flapped at the wind and the ship’s bow cleaved the waves, relentlessly plunging and heaving into the white whirl. The swell was getting stronger, lulling Kamolea into slumber again. Benito finished the bottle and threw it away.

“You are so stupid, amigo. Dumber than a jib-boom… Yet I feel good sharing my damned story with you,” he slurred and hiccupped, shaking his head. “Look now, this Pastor Mendoza was one of a kind. He taught me the meaning of Christianity and the wisdom of the Bible and everything. I’ll never forget his farewell words: ‘Find the Lord, and He will cure your wounded soul.’ Nobody ever has told me better words.”

As Kamolea did not respond, he continued.

“Then the bloody Turks attacked the ship, and I killed for the first time. Ah, it was a massacre, lad, and blimey, only five of us survived. They shackled us and put us at the oars. Two years as a galley slave, matey… Two bloody years of redemption. Rowing from dawn to sunset with a pack of naked, stinking sweaty wretches and the bites of the warder’s whip turning into bloody grooves over our bodies. An unbearable stench, my hearty, the stink of the bilge is a fragrance compared to it. Sometimes I wake up at night, and this smell still clings to me like barnacles on the hull.

 “Two fucking years!” he repeated. “And then finally came the escape. There was a Moor, a sturdy one, who somehow unshackled himself and choked the guard with his chain, then took the keys and freed us all. We jumped on the Turks and wrung their necks and tore their throats like wild animals. In short, we took control of the ship, and we set sails to Malta, one of the few places that were not under the Ottoman’s yataghan.

 “And we reached there, blood and thunder, but what a journey it was! On our way, we crossed a Venetian ship, bound for the Silk Road. We sacked her, short and swift, and the booty we found there changed my life forever. A load of pearls, gold, and plate was my share, and I felt free and rich like a king. And when we landed on Malta after so much time in shackles… blimey, matey, I blew all the money on broads and booze and gambling. I’ll be damned, but I had fun for four, every night with a different whore, man. Fucked them so hard they had no force to get up in the morning…”

A loud snore made Benito jerk. 

“What?” he snarled and pushed Kamolea, who rolled over the deck. “You filthy son of a gun. I saved twice your life today, and you dare to sleep when I tell you my story? Pay attention, sucker; there’s a moral to be retained.”

“What’s that moral?” muttered Kamolea, rubbing his eyes. “Your story boring, and I get nothing. Speak slow, at least.”

“Yeah, here is the moral,” said Benito crossly. “When I was on a roll, and fair gale swelled my sheets from one tavern to another, I had this dream of Pastor Mendoza, telling me to leave Malta immediately and to sail to Kattavia,[5] where he’ll be waiting for me. ‘Don’t forget the purpose of your journey,’ he said in my dream. ‘Don’t give up on your desire to become a monk and to serve God, because right now you’re ruining your life and serving the Evil one. Come while you still can, you’re running out of time…’

Benito fell silent, peering through the darkness.

“And then?” Kamolea urged him on.

“Then… the damned dice rolled, and my fate turned into a shitty mess. What wouldn’t I give to turn back time and follow Pastor Mendoza’s words. Often, after the next terrible nightmare, I wake up crying his name. He was the only one who could have helped me save my soul...

 “But what have I done, instead? On the same morning when I had this dream, I woke up with another slut in my bed. I rummaged in my purse to pay her, and I couldn’t believe my eyes—of all my fortune, only a few pieces of eight and one double doubloon[6] were left. I’ll never forget this cursed coin, lad. I stared at it for so long that it enchanted me. And that fatal night, instead of using the gold to pay a ferryman to take me to Rhodes, I was back to the tavern to gamble again. It’s just incredible how one wrong decision can change your life forever.”

Suddenly, another vision revealed itself to Kamolea, who looked on in dismay at the scene before him. Benito El Creyente, a slender youth, sat at a table in a room with stone walls, facing a tall, long-haired man, clad in a black cloak, adorned with a white cross on his chest. They drank from wooden mugs, and between them, in the center of the table, lay a pile of golden coins. The young Benito laughed heartily and shook a small wooden cup vigorously, then he brusquely turned it upside down and lifted it slowly. They both stared at the six dice, then Benito lifted his eyes, which were filled with despair, his gaze betraying the pain of a wounded animal. 

“It’s over,” said his companion. “You threw it all in, and you lost. You could have won the pile of gold, but instead, you’ve just lost your freedom.”

“Never!” yelled Benito and jumped, flipping the table on its side. The mugs flew off, and the gold spilled on the floor. Benito tried to escape, but several men, including the one wearing the mantel with the cross, swooped over him and knocked him unconscious on the slab stone floor.

“The fucking Hospitaller[7] sold me to those scumbags!” Kamolea heard the present-day Benito muttering under his breath next to him, as the scene changed. They were on a ship now, and the knight shoved him toward a richly clad man. Two sailors grabbed him and dragged him to the hold, where they shackled him along with many black men and women, crammed like sardines in the tiny space below. Then, Benito’s memories switched to a sea battle against a schooner with a black flag, where rovers similar to White shark’s crew boarded his ship in the same fashion they had done that morning. The pirates slaughtered most of the sailors and freed the slaves, who gladly accepted the chance to join them.  

“I liked this life very much, lad; I really did,” Benito was mumbling. “This feeling of freedom, to feel the elements, far from bloody society—even now it brings me such incredible joy and happiness that you are yet to discover… Free like a birdie and finally able to forget my beloved Ana Maria…”

Before Kamolea’s eyes, more battle scenes played out, with Benito cutting throats, stabbing, and shooting many different men. A sailor with a bleeding face was lying on the deck, begging him for mercy, stretching his arm out to him.

 “He will be judged for that,” boomed a deep voice as Benito lifted his cutlass and, with a powerful strike, cut the man’s head clean off.

“It was in self-defense,” the real Benito moaned, and sobs rocked his body. He wrapped his head in his hands and leaned on Kamolea, who jerked, having completely forgotten that the buccaneer was in fact sitting next to him.

They ceased talking and only stared blankly ahead. The magic was gone, and Kamolea couldn’t see what was going in Benito’s head anymore, but it wasn’t pleasant for sure, as the latter continued moaning now and then.

Suddenly, the captain’s door banged open, and Gonzalez’s voice rang out in the darkness,

“Junu,” he roared, “where are you, bloody monkey? Come here right now, you savage!”

Kamolea jumped like he had been stung and darted off towards the cabin.

“Go fetch me rum, and quick, cause it’s warming up here,” he growled, staggering, clutching the door with one hand and waving the other. “La señorita would like to grease her throat. Run, curly monkey, run!” And he started laughing like a mad man.

Kamolea dashed to the hold and returned with a bottle of rum. The door was closed, and he knocked timidly. Gonzalez swung it open, bare-chested, clad only in underwear. He snatched the bottles and spluttered,

“Off with you, sucker!”

He staggered back, and Kamolea glimpsed a woman lying naked on the bed. The next second, Gonzalez slammed the door in his face, and Kamolea heard him bellowing,

“Now we’ll have fun, lassie!”

 

[1] The Lame

[2] We surrender! Mercy! Don’t kill us!

[3] Good.

[4] Yes, yes.

[5] A small village on Rhodes Island.

[6] Gold coin, equal to 8 escudos or 16 pieces of eight.

[7] Knight who belongs to the Order of Knights of the Hospital of Saint John of Jerusalem.