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  While tarpon fishing in the backcountry of the Florida Keys, Mac Travis discovers a plot to drill for oil in the pristine waters.

  After his life is threatened he teams up with his long time friend and mentor, Wood, to uncover a plot that leads to the top echelons of power in Washington DC. An action packed short story featuring underwater and boating scenes

  The Wreck of the Ten Sail

  Steven Becker

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright 2015 © White Marlin Press

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously . Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  http://stevenbeckerauthor.com

  CHAPTER ONE

  I stood at the helm watching the crew. At the starboard rail, Lucy and Rory knelt on the deck cleaning the freshly caught dolphinfish. All was quiet now that the thrill of escaping the naval vessel had passed. I watched as the vibrant blue and silver of the dolphin fish faded to a dull green.

  Turning to port, I saw Blue staring out to sea, his brow furrowed and jaw clenched. The diminutive African some called a pygmy always sensed things before the rest of us. I called over to him.

  “What do you see?” I asked. In truth, I had been watching the same horizon and had seen nothing. Blue shook his head, turned from the rail, and came to stand next to me.

  “Mr. Nick,” he said, stealing another glance toward the water, “something bad comes.”

  I followed his gaze, wondering if there was another ship on the horizon. Our lone spyglass was stashed in a small compartment beside the wheel. I reached for it and, with the tube extended, I surveyed the vacant sea and came up empty except for a school of flying fish chased by an unknown predator below.

  There was nothing alarming, but I respected Blue’s judgment enough to take action.

  “Rhames, Mason, to the wheel,” I called.

  Rhames, the first mate, approached first and silently nodded to me. I eyed his recently shaved beard and shortened hair. It might have concealed his former pirate life to some, but his eyes would always betray his past to me.

  Mason approached next. He didn’t have a position in the crew, but he had been aboard the ship longer than all of us. We had rescued him from slavers’ chains in this very ship’s hold when we had been forced to take her in the Shark River. A man of learning, Mason had proven his value many times over since then, and we had become close friends.

  “Blue says something bad is out there.” I tried to use the same words, hoping that they might pick up a hidden meaning that was lost on me. They both looked past the African and shook their heads.

  “Got me what the little bugger sees,” Rhames said, “but he’s usually right.”

  Mason and I exchanged glances.

  “It’s clear for miles,” I said.

  The whole thing struck me as strange. It was late spring. The weather was alternating between cold fronts with clear skies and a north wind or a southeast breeze bringing warmer, more humid air with thunderheads in the afternoon. But now the weather was indeed unnatural: the wind easterly and the air heavy with humidity.

  I was about to voice my observation, when from nowhere, a line of high, thin clouds became visible to the east.

  “There. There, Mr. Nick.” Blue pointed.

  We all knew it then. From our experience, the clearer the sky and higher the clouds, the worse the storm. From what I was looking at, this would be a bad one.

  “It’s a good month early for a hurricane,” Mason said.

  Rhames nodded in agreement.

  “It might be early, but we can’t ignore the signs.” We were in a bad spot to be caught in a storm. Halfway between Key West and Cuba in the center of the treacherous Gulf Stream. This was no place to ride out a blow. The prevailing current, moving at six knots to the east, would collide with the storm moving in the opposite direction. We needed to find a protected harbor.

  “Havana’s not far,” Rhames said, reading my mind.

  “We’re surely dead and certainly broke the minute we sail into that harbor,” Mason warned.

  He was right. Even though we had renounced our ways, we would certainly be cast as pirates and our ship searched. It wouldn’t help that our hold still bore half of Gasparilla’s treasure, the better portion stolen from Spanish galleons, enough for ten crews to live a pirate’s life. But I was running short on answers. The string of reefs to the east of the harbor would wreck us, and with a storm coming, there would be no way to navigate the western coast.

  “I’m thinking we get in close to land to the west of the harbor and get out of the current. Then we can beat around the tip of the island and take shelter in the lee,” Mason said.

  Rhames and I concurred, and the three of us stood in a trance as the line of clouds approached faster than we thought possible. I called all hands to deck and ordered our sails changed.

  Blue’s wife, Lucy, had named the ship for the beast that had almost claimed my life deep in the interior of Florida. Despite the coming storm, I couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the forty-two-foot, two-masted schooner bearing my totem—the Panther—groaning and surging through the waves.

  An hour later, land came into view and I turned a few more degrees to the west to give plenty of leeway. We rounded the tip of the island and felt the seas change as the current moved behind us and land blocked the waves. But, despite the calmer water, the line of clouds was closer now and the wind howled at nearly thirty knots. Even in the lee of the island and out of the Gulf Stream, we were in a dangerous position.

  “Well?” I asked Mason, who was studying a chart under the cover of the passageway.

  “The Gulf of Batabano will give us shelter. I’ve never been there, but we have little choice now. Clear the land and turn to the east,” he said and stashed the chart before a gust could take it from his hands.

  We beat into the wind and cleared the western tip of the island before the brunt of the storm hit us. Without the protection of the landmass, we would have certainly been wrecked. Even now, in safer waters, the waves crashed over the gunwales, drenching the decks as we plowed ahead. It was hard going, but we were a seasoned crew. After spending the past few months evading a US Navy frigate, a storm was a simple matter. The sails were reefed, allowing only enough canvas to keep our heading. In this fashion we intended to ride out the blow; there was no outrunning it. We would be wet, but, so long as the bow pointed into the waves, we would survive.

  Several hours later, the edge had come off the wind and we were about to turn to port and enter the bay to the north when we saw the sails. This was no weather for a merchant to leave port and by the lines of the ship and cut of the canvas, it wasn’t Spanish. That meant only one thing—pirates.

  I almost laughed at the irony, but we had to move fast. “Full sail,” I yelled to the men still huddled in the companionway. They ran towards their stations, not one hesitating at my command.

  “Good catch,” Mason said as he joined me at the helm. “Should be enough water between us to outrun ’em.”

  Rhames yelled to the men to hurry with the rigging, then strode over to join us. “Lot of open water out there,” he said as he took the spyglass from me. The pirate ship was under full sail and steadily closing the gap. “Don’t know her, but we’ve not been this far south in years.”

  Suddenly a loud bang came from the rigging and the ship lurched forward. I turned to sta
rboard, and with full sails, the Panther heeled onto her side and picked up speed. For a moment I struggled against the weather helm, the bow pulling towards the wind, but I turned the wheel off a few degrees before either of the men had a chance to correct me.

  “Fastest course to nowhere is our best bet,” Mason said.

  “Aye,” Rhames agreed. “Gotta outrun ’em.”

  As I let the wind fill the sails, I felt the Panther rise in the water and pick up speed. With that kind of wind and under full sail, she should have been making another knot or two. Still, we were faster and I could see the pirate sails gradually becoming smaller. We sped on for many miles, but then our ship began to slow as if it were dragging an anchor. The schooner was becoming increasingly difficult to steer, but when I looked back, I saw that our pursuer had already vanished over the horizon.

  “What’s ahead?” I asked, still gripping the spokes of the wheel. Mason patted me on the shoulder and left the quarterdeck to go for a chart. Rhames moved closer.

  “That was nice work, Nick,” he said, and although still shaken, I suppressed a grin.

  It was Rhames who had initially backed me as captain after our pirate ship, the Floridablanca, had been sunk by the Navy in a ruse near Gasparilla Island. I was a young seventeen-year-old cabin boy then, learning everything I could from our captain, the legendary Gasparilla. When he fell, I had led our group out of the wilds of Florida, through the uncharted Everglades and into the Keys. Now a sturdier eighteen, I felt like I had gained a lifetime of experience.

  However, I was reminded of my naivety when Mason came back with the chart and called Rhames over to spread it onto a nearby table. I yelled for Swift to take the wheel and joined the two men hovering over the chart.

  Mason moved his finger from Cuba towards the open water, showing our course towards a small island a hundred miles away with two smaller landmasses to the east. Beyond them was Jamaica, a place I wanted no part of. Word had come up the Florida coast over the last year or so that the British were clearing out the old pirate haunts of the island. To the west lay Mexico and the Bay of Campeche, another pirate haven.

  I was about to ask about the island called Grand Cayman when I heard a scream from the galley and Rory stormed onto deck, “We’re taking on water. We’re sinking!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  I ran to the hold, cursing myself for not investigating when I felt the boat slow. Mason left Swift at the helm and followed me down the ladder, almost running into me when I stopped abruptly. It was near night and hard to see into the hold, but I could hear the water sloshing against the bulkhead. When I descended another step, I felt the water.

  “Rhames! Get some hands to the pumps,” I yelled as I slid the rest of the way down the ladder into the darkness. Waist-deep in water, I waded to the pump and started working furiously.

  “Easy, Nick,” Rhames said when he joined me and took the handle. “Ain’t gonna do no good to work faster than the pump. Just burn yourself out.”

  I left the pumping to him and the other men and went in search of the source. Carefully I opened the hatch to the bilge.

  I wasn’t ready for the rush of water that swept me off my feet and pushed me back toward the main hold. Struggling to my feet, I fought my way into the bilge, now accessible, as the water had leveled throughout the entire lower deck. And I found the leak.

  Even in the dark of the hold I could see and feel the water pouring in through the deck boards of the keel. I had no idea how it had happened. Maybe we had struck a log, or the force of slamming into the waves had pried the caulking from the boards. We had been running hard for close to a month now, taking no time for repairs. Whatever the cause, at the moment it didn’t matter—all that did was how to fix it.

  Careening the vessel was the only proper solution, but with the treasure aboard and no habitable land nearby, I had to find another way. I climbed out of the bilge, passed the men furiously working the pumps, and went up the ladder to the deck.

  “She’s pulling to the weather. Damn hard to steer,” Swift said through gritted teeth, the sinews on his forearms standing proud as he gripped the wheel.

  From the set of the sails, I knew he had eased the sheets and turned away from the wind. Clearly, the added weight was causing trouble. We would need the entire crew below decks to solve the problem. I grabbed a section of stout line and brought it to the helm.

  “We need to tie off the wheel and fix the leak,” I said. “Hold her tight.”

  I tied a bowline knot to the rail, and into the free end of the line I tied a cinch knot with a loop, quickly feeding the end through the wheel. This is the tricky part, I thought, as I brought the bitter end back through the loop. If Swift lost control of the wheel, my arm would be pulled into the spokes. I drew a breath and pulled hard on the end. The mechanical advantage provided by the loop tightened the line and I tied several half-hitches before exhaling.

  We stood back and watched the line strain against the load of the ship, but it held. I checked our course, glancing ahead to make sure there were no obstacles, then called everyone down into the hold, carrying a lantern ahead of me.

  “Bloody lot of water,” someone said as we waded to the bilge.

  The pumps had kept us afloat, but from the look of the men taking turns, the sweat dripping from their bodies, we could not keep up the pace.

  I directed the men’s attention to the boards. “Something’s happened to the keel,” I said. “The lot we took her from didn’t do much in the way of taking care of her. Should have had a better look before we crossed.”

  Mason took the light and went down into the bilge, calling back a minute later that I was right. The tropical salt water was hard on even the hardest oak, and boats were routinely careened, cleaned, and recaulked to prevent exactly this. I looked around at the dark hold, lit only by the lantern. It was full night now and the moon would not rise for several hours.

  “Bring the light up,” I called down to Mason.

  He emerged from the bilge and handed me the lantern. I scanned the chests and crates, looking for anything that might serve. We could drape a sail over the keel and let the pressure of the water seal the leak, but the seas were still churned up from the storm, making it impossible to set the sail in place. The repair would have to be made from within.

  “Cotton,” I called out.

  Everyone’s eyes shifted to me. They knew instantly what I had in mind, and their first instinct was not to waste valuable cargo.

  “Back to the pumps,” I yelled, turning their attention to the task at hand. “If we can’t hold out the water, there’ll be no spending the money anyway.” I conjured up my best pirate speak. “Ain’t no brothels at the bottom of the sea.”

  Mason was already one step ahead of me. He had grabbed the closest crate, prying off the top with his huge hands. He pulled out the fluffy rolls of material, grabbed an armful, and headed into the bilge. I grabbed what I could carry and went after him. Rory was down with us now and held the light as we frantically stuffed the material into any crack we could find. When we finally took a break, I noticed my fingers were torn and swollen, but, for the first time, the water had receded from our waists to our knees. It was working. For how long I didn’t know.

  I left the bilge and called out to Rhames to cut the pump crew and have the other men help stuff cotton into the deck boards. Although the material was porous when spread out, when compressed, it held the shape of the cavity and barely wept water. In a few minutes the hold would be clear.

  I was about to applaud our efforts when suddenly, we all lost our footing. The boat took a sudden course change, the result of an accidental jibe. Without the weight of the water, her trim had changed and we were beam to the seas, in danger of capsizing.

  I bounded up the ladder with Mason and Rory on my heels. Reaching for my dagger, I ran to the helm, told them to step back, and cut the line holding the wheel. It snapped and released the wheel. I struggled to take control of the ship and finally turned u
s into the wind. Slowly she came about and the sails filled.

  “That’s the luck of you,” Rory spat. “Escape a pirate ship only to nearly sink us.”

  My smile of relief faded at the reproach. Dumbstruck, I watched her walk away.

  I felt a hand on my back as Mason tried to offer some comfort. “Never mind the girl,” he said. “We need to get this rot-infested hull onto a beach, and soon.”

  I watched Rory return below and wondered why she had such an effect on me. Mason was right, though. I needed to focus on the task at hand.

  “We’re going to have to stay on this course or the leaks’ll just start all over again,” I said. “She can’t take the pounding of the seas.”

  I called an order to the men and turned the wheel to starboard, pointing the bow due south. The sails were trimmed to the new course and the deck settled as the bow cut easily through the waves. “For better or worse, our course is set. Where do you reckon it’ll lead?”

  Mason glanced at the compass and took the chart in his hands. Using dead reckoning, he calculated our position and course. “Expect we’ll be eating turtle on Grand Cayman sometime the day after tomorrow.”

  I glanced over his shoulder at the chart and saw the small island set alone in the sea, flanked by her two smaller sisters, Cayman Brac and Little Cayman to the east. I knew little of the islands other than they were named for the crocodiles, or caimans, there in abundance and were under British control. And with no major ports or industry that I was aware of, I assumed they were loosely governed. This could be good or bad, but we needed a beach to repair the ship and would have to suffer whatever consequences our choice brought. At least we were sailing away from the sure danger of Jamaica. I focused on the feel of the boat for a minute and called an order to the men in the rigging to help settle the ship. Once done, I allowed them back on deck, where they collapsed, exhausted.

  I stayed on the wheel for several hours watching the storm move away and the seas settle into gentle rollers. Rhames came up from the hold and reported the bilge was dry and the ship returned to its typical night watch schedule. Near the bow, silhouetted by the rising moon, I could see the outline of Blue and Lucy sharing a pipe. I gave Swift instructions for the watch and passed him the wheel.