Stranded - A Pirate's Tale - part 1

50. Defend yourself

Desjours slipped into his trousers as feverishly as a newlywed into his young bride. At least he tucked his once-white shirt in with more dignity. Then he put his boots on dirty, calloused feet and buckled his wide leather belt, weighted and balanced by his two swords. He donned his heavy, black wool jacket, and finally, in a grand gesture—probably often rehearsed—crowned himself with his silver-brimmed tricorn.

Logan had to admit that Captain Etienne Desjours cut a fine figure once wearing more than a button down. For a second, he felt ashamed of his own garments—a simple beige shirt under a plain beige vest, basic beige mid-calf pants and worn-out clogs. Not quite the fierce pirate attire, but after all, his seafarer life was long past. He couldn't remember when he had walked a deck for the last time, let alone on his Black Witch. A decade, no less.

Cardamom was barely more than a toddler then, and Genevieve was still alive. When she passed away, their son had needed guidance and a father at home more than once or twice a year. Poultry farming had been as good as any other idea for a career change. It was safe and Logan had soon realized he had his way with hens. That, some poaching, and a bit of smuggling, had filled their bellies and provided a roof over their heads. Cardamom had become a man—or at least he had tried very hard to create a somewhat convincing illusion—it was time to push him out of the nest.

Logan stood there, lost, sad, but resolute, while the group of sea rovers followed their captain past the cover of the crates and onto the docks.

Cardamom call out to the portly man in black who brought up the rear. "You gonna leave your friend behind?"

On the ground, the unconscious man still lay in the same awkward and twisted position he had been tossed into. Despite the demented Pierrot makeup and the trickle of blood running from the corner of his mouth, his face looked oddly sereine.

"He is definitely not my friend," said the man in black. "Or anyone's, for that matter."

Yet, he remained there for a long and silent moment, rubbing the chin he most certainly had under his impressive beard. Finally, he sighed, picked up his non-friend, turned away and left, cursing in a pompous and flowery language.

"Come on dad, we don't want to lose them," said Cardamom. "The asshole captain is right, we must leave Puerto Seguro. And the sooner the bet—"

Logan's hand smacked his son's ear with the force and precision of habit.

"Language, kid! You'll need to learn how to keep your mouth shut on Desjours's board, or you'll find yourself swimming with sharks or marooned on a rock in the middle of nowhere."

"And I saw how you'd defend me against him..." Cardamom massaged his clenched jaw. Behind his long, greasy hair, his eyes were shooting daggers. There was so much of Genevieve in those angry eyes.

"You're a man now, it's time for you to defend yourself." Logan swallowed the cannon ball-sized lump in his throat, but it didn't fill the void gaping in his chest. "Go now. And try not to be an embarrassment."

Cardamom looked at him, frowning and blinking. His eyes widened when he understood. It had taken him less than a minute. Maybe there was some hope for him after all.

"But..."

"I don't belong to the sea anymore." Logan looked away. "And I need to take care of my flock."

"But what about me?"

"If you apply yourself, and after a few years as a cabin boy learning the ropes, I'm sure you could make a decent freebooter."

Cardamom remained silent, probably considering the idea of a life of freedom and plunder. Better not tell him about the grueling hard work, the dysentery, or all the various reasons to face a violent death.

"They'll chase you," said Cardamom.

"I'll hide. This island is big enough and I know places where the authorities won't bother looking for me."

Despite all the bravado of his son, tears were glistening in his eyes. For a second, Genevieve's face replaced the teenager's crude features. Logan felt his eyes sting. He would be crying soon too if this farewell lasted longer.

"Go now. And take this." He handed the leather tube. "I won't have any more use of this map. Consider it your legacy."

Resolve, pride, contempt, and the usual anger appeared all at once on his son's pimpled face. Cardamom grabbed the tube and, for the first time in years, hugged his father. Logan fought tears with all his might, words stuck in his constricted throat.

Without another word or backward glance, Cardamom broke the embrace and walked away. Logan watched his son disappear behind the crates and from his life.

A sudden cold made him shiver. Then his throat caught fire and screamed of pain. The flames ran down on his chest, soaking his shirt. Logan's hands fumbled up to his torso. The fire was hot, red, and shiny on his fingers. The idea of calling for help came to mind, but no sound followed. His fingers found his throat and the gaping slash running across it.

Logan crumpled and fell on the ground, a few inches from the bald man's body. Tears ran along his nose, almost as hot as his blood running on the cobblestones. He extended an arm toward the sea, gurgled a farewell to his son, and died.

Last update on December 19th, 2019