Chapter Twenty-Five

The fog hung thicker this far east, lingering long into the morning and filtering a flickering sun. The orb shone cooler to Franque since they had departed Eston, and he yearned for the promise of its warmth against his skin once the bank finally lifted. Once a marvel, the heavy clouds had long lost its allure on the boy, complicating his work as a sailor and stressing him as it had the entire crew over rocks and sandbars threatening She Wolf’s hull.

Taking soundings through the night, he had barely glimpsed Diaph over their portside rail as they passed. Without the many lanterns, he would never have noticed it at all through the mist. The entire city was built up from its harbor, a river town fully reliant upon passersby and visitors seeking respite before striking upriver for the capital. Of course, this captain and crew had no intention of stopping, pressing toward open waters and the bounty it offered pirates.

Franque yawned deeply as he leaned over the side, arms weak with exhaustion and powered by a mind as foggy as the river. The brackish spray caused him to shiver, feeling colder as it splashed against his face and hinted of a vast ocean waiting further downriver. Once they reached open water, all chance for escape would be gone.

We’re broken, he thought, a part of this crew forever without a chance for escape. But not both of them. Franque’s mind returned to his brother, asleep in his hammock. The headaches had worsened since leaving Eston, and Boats bragged about what he would do if the boy proved a malingerer. Krist won’t make it, he knew. He’s going to die soon, but he’s the lucky one to be off this ship.

“Francis!” Boats screamed from the helm. “What’s our draft?”

Franque shook free of his thoughts, staring up at the boatswain and not understanding.

“Gods damn it, boy! How much do we draw?”

“I don’t...” he stammered, “is it different?”

“We’re brackish, you idiot! There’s salt in the water and growing denser! I need to know how deep we draw as we approach the delta!”

Franque stared at the painted stripes on the hull, blinking and counting as the boat bobbed with speed. He counted eleven stripes above waterline, trying to remember what Boats had taught him. Fifty stripes total.

“Thirty-nine!” he shouted, hoping and praying to the gods he was right.

“Aye, we’re near max salinity, then,” the cur of a sailor muttered. “How many burbles?”

Franque froze. That wasn’t a term he knew.

“I... I don’t know!” the boy screamed.

The men on the yardarms and deck broke out in laughter, forcing Franque’s eyes to the deck. He wished for more time to learn the calculations and terms.

“How friggin deep is the frothy water, you imbecile!”

“Deep enough to drown your insistent arse!” Franque finally yelled, sparking the crew’s laughter into a frenzied roar. No one had ever spoken to Boats that way, and each hand loved it.

Franque smiled to himself as he held the sounding line steady, hoping for a reading that could satisfy the master sailor commanding him.

Footsteps pounded as the seasoned sailor made his approach. A fist met Franque’s chin, sending his breath and eyesight into a gasp.

“When I give you orders,” the officer yelled, “you give an answer that’s exact. Don’t ad lib!”

Franque didn’t mean to, but years of fighting his brothers and over exhaustion won out. He stood, hand reaching for the marlinspike at his side, brandishing it like a knife and growling challenge. “Hit me again,” he shouted. “Come on!”

Boats stared back, well aware of the audience watching the display. “I don’t have to hit you to force you to comply, boy!” he finally said, stepping away and moving toward the hatch leading to berthing.

Franque looked around, smiling at the cheering and jeering faces urging him on. Some hung from the spires and masts, while others were paused mid-work and waited. He felt like a hero for taking on the bully, and the fact the man fled below decks was proof enough the bullying days were over. He returned the weapon to his belt and soaked in the cheers. For the first time since leaving home, Franque felt invigorated by the prospect of going to sea.

It will eventually grow into a deeper connection, the girl, Gretchen, had said of the sea. Perhaps it was him possessing the gift shared between the Braston brothers. At this moment it felt like it.

The hatch leading below threw open with a loud crash and Boats emerged, trailing a pile of clothing behind him.

No, not clothing. Franque stared with unblinking disbelief, shocked by the image of his brother’s limp and barely conscious body dragged behind the boatswain.

“Like I said,” the lead sailor growled with a smile, “I don’t have to hit you to force compliance.” His foot met Krist in the ribs, and the slight groan did little to prove the boy clung to any life. He pulled back and delivered a second blow.

“Stop!” Franque growled, then rushed to his brother’s side and knelt, shielding him from the attack. He did not feel the marlinspike leave his hip, too focused on Boats’ rough hands on his lapel. Hauled to his feet, the sailor delivered a stunning punch that met Franque’s temple. The ship and every face looking on abruptly blurred as the boy staggered.

Boats suddenly roared with anger.

As Franque’s eyes refocused he gasped as Krist’s hand held the marlinspike, now stabbed deep in the sailor’s leg.

“Boatswain!” a voice shouted from aft and all eyes turned. A very irritated or annoyed Devil Jacque stood before his quarters. Beside the captain was Ben Thompson and another man Franque did not know. He was dressed simply but smart, carrying a leather satchel and bearing the air of a gentleman.

Boats paused mid stride as he delivered another kick.

“What are you doing?” Jacque demanded.

“I’m disciplining the new recruits, Cap’n. One of them’s a malingerer and the other spews insolence!”

“Is that the boy you mentioned?” the captain asked Ben.

“Yes, sir, his head was injured when he arrived.”

“How?”

“I did it!” Boats growled. “It was in my right as their better to beat a little submission into him.”

The captain nodded to the gentleman who stepped forward. Kneeling beside Krist he opened his satchel and drew out an instrument. Franque recognized it right away, the town doctor always carried one around his neck. This man used it to listen to Krist’s breathing, then frowned. He pulled out another device, a sort of magnifying glass, and examined the boy’s head.

“He’s got a cracked skull,” the ship’s surgeon finally explained, “and has an internal edema.”

“What’s that mean?” Boats demanded.

“It means he’s bleeding inside his brain,” the captain replied, “and that you struck him too hard.” Turning to the doctor he asked, “Will he live?”

“Probably not,” the gentleman replied.

“What about me?” Boats demanded. He pointed to the metal protruding from his leg. “This cur just stabbed me, his superior officer, in full view of the crew! I want justice!”

“It’s deep,” Doc agreed, “and will heal, but there’s a small threat of lockjaw setting in if it was rusty.”

“Captain,” Boats argued, “small threat or not, that means I could die and makes this an attempt on my life! I want him dealt with!”

Ben Thompson whispered counsel into the captain’s ear.

Jacque stared at Krist the entire time as he listened, nodding and weighing his options. When he finally spoke, the words wrenched Franque’s gut. “Striking an officer alone is an offense, one I’ll never tolerate, but boatswain used excessive force and inflicted far too much damage on this boy. I can excuse the desire and need for these brothers to seek revenge. But stabbing him with a weapon is beyond justified, and that act will be punished. To which does the marlinspike belong?”

“It’s mine,” Franque admitted.

“Then you will both receive discipline in kind. Boats?”

“Yes, Cap’n?”

“How would you best extort recompense from these offenders?”

“They deserve death,” Boats muttered, “but I’d be satisfied with a dunking.”

Devil Jacque nodded then gave the order. “Bind their hands and feet and find two lines each the length of the ship from bow to stern. We’re nearly to open ocean, and dunking these offenders will mark the occasion as one to remember! Square away the sails for full speed! I want a rooster tail for them to ride upon!”

The crew rejoiced at this, whooping and hollering their excitement.

Franque tried to resist, but the other deckhands overpowered him, binding and lashing his hands in front. Krist was barely conscious, and merely groaned as they easily tied him to the line then dragged him to the stern. Franque followed, receiving shoves, slaps and insults. The water behind the speeding vessel frothed and sprayed as the captain described, a rooster tail growing taller as the vessel gained speed and left the river mouth behind.

“They’ll each drag three times,” Devil Jacque explained, raising the ire of the crew. “Cast them full slack each time, then linesmen will haul each aboard. It’ll be a race, see? The lines crew to win two out of three will earn a double ration of grog with dinner and a full ration of mead!”

This brought forth a cheer that raised dread within Franque. Terrified, he turned to check on his brother. He was awake and staring up, with tears in his eyes that pleaded for mercy. “I love you,” Franque told Krist, who tried and failed to reply.

After both crews stood ready, the captain gave the order. Eager hands shoved Franque from behind and he tumbled helplessly through the air, down into the salty abyss below. Though his mouth remained firmly closed, salt found its way in, forcing him to gag and sputter more than breathe. Krist won’t survive this, he knew, and prayed to the gods above his death would be swift and painless.

Krist gasped, his limp body striking icy water. Every nerve in his body reacted, forcing him fully alert. If he had the energy he would struggle, but having none proved a blessing. Without the strength to writhe and fight against the current, he bobbed like a cork set to soak before being laid out by the vintner to dry. With hands pulled outstretched by the mooring line, he dragged along his back with mouth open to the blue sky above.

He drew a breath, holding it as his shoulders rotated. There was a rhythm to the movement, and he recognized it from watching the line crews pulling She Wolf into Eston. When they heaved, he surged ahead, upward and breaching briefly before settling beneath the wave once more.

Gasp. Hold. Exhale. The pattern of it became natural and his mind focused on his watery surroundings.

He slowly rolled over amid an exhale, watching through the bubbles as a school of fish darted between him and the rocky ocean bed below. He yearned to join them, to be free of the pain and stresses of life on the surface. Everything up there amounted to loss, an emotion not shared by these carefree lifeforms. He envied the way they gathered for protection, huddled like a ball to appear larger to predators and moving as a single body this way and that.

He and Franque had always been like that, fatherless and dependent upon each other to learn their role in the world. Despite the chiding by Headmaster, they had learned to grow into men on their own.

Mother had tried, but she always stressed the same values over brute strength—forgiveness, tolerance, and compassion. Like she ever knew what it felt like to be angry, truly angry enough to lose control. No, Eusari was a saintly woman full of patience and always finding another way that excluded violence. But she loved a pirate, the Demon from the North, Braen Braston. She was a hypocrite, teaching compassion while attached to a brutal man of masculinity.

Krist breached once more and breathed deeply in, but lost that breath unexpectedly. He had crashed into a large form, solid and muscular, and following the same course along the ship’s wake. It had to be Franque, he reasoned, and returned to his thoughts. What is a man? he wondered, if not strength and leadership? What good was a man who could not topple another with determination, wits, or brute power. Tolerance and patience would do nothing for him in a fight.

But he knew better. In this weakened state he lacked strength in every form, unable to defend himself or Franque and barely able to plunge that marlinspike into Boat’s leg. He smiled at that memory, relishing how his wits had won an opportunity to properly insult the man.

He abruptly emerged from the water, hoisted into the air and dripping while gasping and spinning slowly around. Beneath him and further portside, Franque emerged in the same state of breathless shock. Above them, the crew hoisting his line cheered with victory, having won the first contest. But the true win belonged to the brothers, they had both survived the first of three dunkings.

The captain gave them each two minutes of respite, then ordered them cast over the side once again.

Franque briefly glimpsed his brother lying in a heap on the deck beside him. His eyes were open, that was good, but they were very far away. Distant or lifeless he could not tell. They did not focus or settle on him before strong hands bore both boys into the air and cast them once more over the side, laughing and jeering while offering advice on how to survive. He wished they would all one day go to the hells and prayed the gods would grant him the strength and opportunity to send them.

The cold water, now less surprising than before, sucked his breath and sent his muscles into spasm. This time, like the last, enraged the teen.

I’ll kill them, he promised, and cursed each of their names. Boats, Zane Rogers, Devil Jacque, Ben Thompson...

He surged upward, gasping and exhaling simultaneously. This angered him more, yearning for revenge.

I hate them.

He sputtered and gagged, barely breathing between trips to the surface.

I’ll kill them.

Franque thought about his mother, then about the words the woman named Gretchen had said. One of them, Krist or him, was special like their father.

But she suggested two fathers, brothers who sired children with two women Eusari had raised. Franque fought against this, just as he fought to breathe. I cannot be of another, he believed, and neither can he!

The line tied to his hands surged once more, dragging him gasping and wheezing atop whitecaps. Finally, the waves won and sent him spiraling down once more, barely sucking air before descending beneath the depths.

The lines crew dragged him onto the deck, celebrating their victory, but Franque’s eyes focused on the emergence of Krist. It wasn’t long, but delayed enough to tie up their contest. He held his breath as both boys were cast over the side once more. The next dunk would be the tie-breaker.