Winds of Fate [Books I-III]

Chapter Fifty-Seven: Unlucky

The bullet burrows deep in his flesh, stinging a hole just under a rib as he clings to the line. Anton tries hard not to remember that gut wounds are the deadliest, and looks up to continue climbing instead.

The ship careens away. One tiny sway of the rope sends sharp pain cutting across his midsection.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

Rrrrip! 

He winces at the familiar sound. The sails are the last you wanted hit. Put enough holes and the ship is as good as sunk, without even the chance to fight. Whoever is at the helm needs to be replaced. Sweat trickles down his brow. He wipes it off with the back of his gloved hand.

Then the cannonade stops, and only the sound of rushing waves remain as Sparta leaves Nassau's bay - out of the shallow waters and onto the open sea. He huffs and focuses all his remaining strength on the rope in his hands.

A soft gasp makes him look up.

Eleanore kneels beside Jay, pulling the rope too. "Cover us!"

"Aye!" Douglas leans over, smoking pistols in each hand. "Got you, Cap!"

Hope so, Anton thinks, hauling himself up the rope. But as he tries to cover the last third of distance, the pain slices - hot and unforgiving. 

Five years.

Mierda. Five years! Four shots, and he was thirty back then. Now that a single shot is enough to send his head spinning, doubt flickers.

You cannot leave the sea, Don Antonio, a most hated voice taunts at the back of his mind. 

"Anton," Eleanore breaks through his dimming thoughts. He swallows. At the back of his mind, the scene plays over and over: her locked in the arms of the Governor, kissing. Even if she had punched him afterwards, that man took advantage and relished in it.

That pig.

He shakes his head and breathes sharply, shoving the dark thoughts in one corner and repeating an assurance to temper his scalding anger that threatens to eat him whole all over again.

She should have a damn good reason.

"Hold on! Pull in one!" she says. But he finds no comfort in it, intent on climbing back up alone. Eleanore shouldn't have helped anyway, because she has a crew to lead.  His brows knot. The pain from the bullet stings less compared to the hollow ache carving at his chest, burning.

Anton stops.

He never hated her.

Not to this extent.

Not until today.

They pull. The leather gloves he wore help greatly in grasping the line.  I even wore it just so I can hold her. He bites his lip, climbing up with ferocity and breathing in spurts. Arms haul him up and onto the deck.

"Captain?" Jay asks first, releasing him. The young sailor glances aside and his brown eyes widen. "Captain, you're -"

Anton raises a hand to stop him from completing that thought. He looks up and sees Eleanore had gone off to help with Douglas and James, the quartermaster. The young lad on the helm - Dante if he remembers correctly -  is all alone maneuvering the ship past the patrols. "You have a spare cloth?"

Jay pats his trousers.

Victor leaps behind Jay and brandishes a bandanna. "Here, Cap!"

"Gracias." Anton wraps it around his side, turning it over and over.  Around him the deck bustles and the ship jolts.