Bronte was perched in her favorite spot, atop the mainmast, looking as far as she could see for relief on its way. But only an endless periwinkle sky, with nary a cloud, mirrored perfectly in the calm waters. Looking across the crystal waters she spotted a tawny spot peeking through the myriad of blue, indicating a shallow place nearby. They were caught in the Turk and Caicos islands; a place rich with conch, a large mollusk in a spiral shell that made for good eating. Diving for them would be a perfect diversion for the bored men and also help to fill their empty bellies.
Picking her way quickly down the ratlines Bronte dropped to the boards below.
"ALL HANDS ON DECK!" Bronte ordered.
Instantly the languid ship came to life as men dropped from rigging, appeared through hatchways, and climbed up and down decks to stand before their captain on the main deck. Even the albino appeared, wearing a large brimmed hat, and stood in the shadow of sail.
Sam appeared last, looking somewhat downcast (for him, that was, which would still be considered pleasant for the average person), and stood beside her, facing the men.
She looked over each man slowly. They wore the expressions of hungry men: brows pinched and faces grimacing, yet eyes still hopeful.
"Despite cutting rations, stores are near to gone," she began, but was interrupted by murmurs, groans and grumbling. She held her hand high to silence them.
They quieted, but before she could continue, someone (she couldn't tell who) raised their voice in the silence.
"What about the Mr. Dennis's?"
The corner of her mouth twitched at the expression born from such an odd superstition. "Aye, soon we shall cook up the ... pork."
This statement was followed by shouts of affirmation.
"But not yet."
This was, of course, followed with assorted oaths and epitaphs.
She chuckled. "Fear not, I don't fancy starvation any more than you. I would do a little diving."
Sam, who'd been listening with silent intensity to the discussion of food, turned his head with a curious look on his face. "Diving?"
"Diving," she acknowledged. "Since our good man Cuthbert has had ill luck catching fish,"—this was interrupted by murmuring about the dislike for fish anyway—"and we're obviously not near enough land to get turtles, I'd know which of you can swim. A near spit of shallow water will provide conch to sweeten our diet."
The men were as silent as the wind that day.
"Come now, if you swim raise a hand," she encouraged.
"I can," Sam responded.
"I know you can, Sam. What of you others?"
Still silence.
"Fire and flame! None of you sailors swim?" asked an astonished Bronte.
"No reason to," a handful of men murmured.
"No reason? Great guns, you make livin' on water and have no reason to learn to swim?
"Aye they's right Cap'n," piped in Cuthbert. "Ever'one knows, 'What the sea wants, the sea will take'."
Several men nodded in agreement. Agreement with Cuthbert!
"Sink me with the tide if that isn't utter nonsense!"
Most of them shrugged, thinking it was the captain speaking nonsense.
YOU ARE READING
The Huntress ✓
Historical Fiction(EDITORS PICK) In the bloody, ruthless, and decidedly uncouth world of 17th century pirates, can a woman deceive even those closest to her and survive? Bronte is forced to make some tough decisions about her life and livelihood at far too tender an...
