Well's Rest

Chapter Four

Sall tried to shake loose, but together the pirates yanked on the hook and stole his balance as they dragged him towards the ladder.

The old man howled and begged for freedom, but his screams turned to spluttering, inaudible mumbles and he slumped back into his chains, resuming his dumb stupor, breathing hard from the effort.

Sall shook his legs, but the gaff was twisted into the chain. He was stuck, caught, trussed like a prize fish.

It took the three of them to haul him up the ladder. He caught splinters in his clothes and skin as they dragged him higher through the ship. They made grunting laughter at his vain struggles. 'I'll tell ya what,' one of them said between breaths, 'If I can pull some money off this cunt I'm getting off this ship for good.'

'Aye,' another said. 'The luck's been real thin since Deadweight started showing up.'

He smelled the hot oil from the burning lanterns before he saw their light. They dragged him up to the main deck, where drunken pirates filled the compact space. They had been waiting for him, and cheered at his arrival. Drink spilled over cups and splashed on the planks. Pirates came around him and pulled him to his feet. He bucked against them. This only pleased the crowd more. Their cheers became deafening, jeering roars.

He was shoved through the crowd and dumped on the floor in a cleared ring. He rose to his knees, overwhelmed by the heat and light and smell. It made him dizzy, and he was still hungry. Faces spun through his vision.

There was a voice from somewhere Sall couldn't see, but he knew its tone. 'He's hungry!' it said, an announcement. 'He's tired! He's thirsty!'

It was their punta talking. Wilbur, he recalled. His voice quietened the crowd to a sussurus of eager chatter. 'He's a big fucker, isn't he? Big enough to crush your head like a stone, but there's fifty shekels if you can tame him! Who wants to see what they got?'

The crowd roared. Wilbur came out of the crowd and threw his arms in the air, soaking up their energy, their master of games, and more importantly, their fortunes.

Wilbur gave an order. 'Uncuff him! Let him stand!'

Half a dozen pirates piled on him to remove his shackles. They brandished swords and pistols as he pushed them off and lunged to his feet.

Evil grins everywhere he looked. A few less grins, more sneers, all glittering with anticipatory satisfaction. He stalked out the space, knowing he could not break through without copping a gutful of steel. The punta moved back into the crowd and stood on an upturned crate. He looked over them all. His gaze was narrow and concealed, now watching Sall stalk the ring. He looked down to take the band off a stack of betting slips. Sall met his eye.

'Is this why you saved me, only to watch me die?'

His face broke into a glittering sneer. 'No, we saved you to win us money! Gentlemen, place your bets!'

A voice perked up from the back of the room. 'Tommy'll do him! I'll put ten on Tommy!'

'I'll take that!'

More voices piped up in agreement. The punta spread his arms in gracious question. 'Tommy, raise your hand if you'll fight this beast!'

A small hand directed attention by lifting a wooden mug above the crowd 'Aye! I'll fight!'

Two pirates swelled under him and brought him lightly and easily to their shoulders, and with the crowd's wooping Tommy finished his drink and passed the mug down. Though he was small, his body was wiry lean, and his narrow belly was exceeded twice in size by his chest and shoulders. He had stiff black hair that framed straight down his pinched face. He pulled a piece of string from his pocket and tied his hair behind his head.