LASCARS BAY

[The Chapman]

Billy was dreaming, sleeping lightly. The world touched, receded, faded and disappeared, only to materialize again, in brighter colors, in a hot sun different from here, on the Lascar. The sun, the sun was bright, so bright, dazzling, in contrast to the darkness of the room had been in, and transported as he was, it took a moment to realize that the surroundings were quite different.

He could hear the Ewe on the coast of Africa, it was his People, singing, and Billy, finding himself exiting the sunlight on a path through a small, sparse forest, followed the sound. He checked his neck for the sash and his pistol, just in case, and found himself naked from the waist up, clad in a wrapped cloth and unarmed, and painted in a dazzling design of great complexity, lines drawn on his breast like converging rivers. The lines followed his ribs and groin all the way to the ends of his legs, and while he didn’t look, he could feel a design of thick paint on the soles of his feet.

The sound became louder, and he was almost upon it, he felt, when the forest opened slightly in a small bulge of openness, and there was a man crouching in this tiny clearing. The man was pausing momentarily to draw a design in an area of cleared dirt, singing himself, but his song was in tonal conflict with the song of the others. It was separate. He was writing, as well as drawing, and Billy looked over his shoulder, despite feeling it rude. He looked at crude pictures.

There was a drawing of a village, and a line running from that village with a small boy attached to it, and the line continued, to a house, with a woman; and as the line continued it traversed another house, with another woman; and finally ended at the figure of a man.

As he watched the man draw, the boy became a man, and left the village, and traveled to a sea, and fished.

The fish leaped into the newly found man’s boat, and he prospered, and Billy saw the drawing change into another house, with a woman. The lines speeded up, the man’s skills cruder yet, his pace accelerating. The boat became something different, and Billy didn’t quite recognize it, at first, and then as large squares appeared over a blocky shape it became a ship. The ship filled with small lines, that suddenly grew more smaller lines, like hair, almost, and filled the hold, and these lines were human beings, and fellow Ewe.

The man looked up, and looked down, and the stick he held as his tool morphed and faded and solidified again, into a stiffened snake, and Billy grew afraid of a hex put upon him, but the man looked again, and he felt no fear. The drawings had disappeared; and the man wrote, in English letters, the single word:

DELA

And the snake came to life and jumped out of the man’s hand, and slithered over the word, and the word became:

BILLY

At that Billy/Dela backed away, and turned and ran, frightened, and ran through the opening into the sound-filled clearing, the space filled with people, his People, the drumming filling his existence, the whip-man appearing behind him, and grinning, and shouting his approval for he, Billy/Dela, had been gone far too long, and it was his great day.

The drummer-leader jumped from the crowd of whirling, sweating people, their devotion and worship apparent to the most jaded disbeliever, and guided him through the passionate crowd, shouting his joy. Billy/Dela looked about, and saw for the first time, the hole, that women were standing around, shouting and swaying, and he walked over to the hole, shaking off his guide the drummer-leader to sate his curiosity.

In the hole was his wife. She was dressed in the greatest finery he had ever seen, and he had forgotten how young she had been. And he knew that she had not looked so finely the last glimpse he had of her, and it gladdened him to see her. And she had moved on. The drummer-leader caught him, and grinning and shouting, dragged him bodily to another place, and the crowd in their joy momentarily lifted Billy/Dela off his feet and swept him along.

He didn’t think the song could intensify but it did.

The hole appeared abruptly. In fact it looked as if it had suddenly dug itself. Billy/Dela gazed into this carefully scraped entrenchment, and saw the man at the bottom, dressed in the finery of an English Lord. He puzzled over this, and what its meaning could be, if it was a spell somehow, and as he watched, he knew the man in the hole. It was his greatest day and his burial was the finest ever known, and the man in the hole was himself.

Thomasse shouted, “WAKE OPP!”

[The Chapman]

Billy blinked, woke up, and looked firmly at the two white men before him, huddled pathetically in their dark hovel. They were plotting nonsense with their small minds. They couldn't comprehend the vastness and grandeur of the spirit world which swirled about them constantly, and brought valuable messages which Man ignored at his peril. He paused, caught a breath, and said quietly to no-one in particular,

"...Ay'l die a wealthy manne".

[The Chapman]

That damn Billy had been sleeping, Thomasse thought. Why was he even here, if the fool couldn’t stay awake?

But at least the business with Behar was more or less concluded. He knew the merchant would likely prove untrustworthy, but yet, what choice did he have? And anyhow the point was not so much the transfer, or the money, but the end of it. The end of it! How good that seemed, for the captain of the Samuel. He’d be lucky to escape the noose. He knew it. And if he had learned one thing in the voyage of the Samuel, it was that he did not want to die, and even more, was afraid beyond description of death, terrorized in fact.

He’d seen so much simple death, and altho’ it had been much the same in England, with the sicknesses and plagues, it frighted him so much more when it occurred from the actions of men beyond his control. The terror of it. It shamed him and made him feel weak… but it was almost over.

He stood in the dark room, and Behar the merchant stayed seated. Once, twice, he did that terrible hand gesture, and then it was done. The Jew remained silent, merely watching the two men, Thomasse standing rigidly, Billy stretching and swiveling about.

Finally Thomasse said,

“We’ll begyn unloading immed’tely, and the other two shippes will be under way as soon as they are able”.

The merchant replied not, but nodded his head, and the two men of the Samuel took their leave, walking into the streets of Lascars, which was now lurking in soon-to-be twilight. The air was still, and the noise of the town trickled out fenesters and through the alleyways. They walked, and Thomasse said to Billy,

“Return to the Samuel, and tell th’ men to send for the other ships; the dealinge is done, and it is tyme to liquidate and move onne”.

Billy looked mild askance; and what was Thomasse going to do?

[The Chapman]

They were now walking in the dimming light, Thomasse and Billy, the lanthorns and candles beaming but still not breaking through the dusk. The sky was afire to the West, flaming down into the sea, the oblong ball of flame extinguishing itself. The last of the light hit the tops of trees along the hillside, giving it the appearance of paper burning from the edges in.

That wouldn’t last forever, Thomasse thought, the plantationers hadn’t yet got to the ridges to butcher down the last of the greenery to plant who knows what? The crop of the moment, pushing the soil down into rivulets, into the swallowing ocean in gouts of mud and filth. Leaseholder in cities was so much better, and distinguished, than being some dirty slave-beater married to a former whore. Thomasse hated the islands.

Billy walked along, quietly, and Thomasse noted him casually holding, at waist height, a small cartridge-apostle, loading the small piece he carried on the sash around his neck. ‘Die a wealthy man?’ Foolishness, insanity. Impossible.

He’d die, all right. Wealthy, unlikely…

What was his answer to this conundrum? Finding his way out without swinging? He could sell the materiele in the ships, yes… well, it wasn’t technically his, but hang the riffraff. And that may be the answer. Hang them all and take his share and bribe his way back into graces, with heavily lined pockets. He caught himself short, and glanced quickly at Billy, suddenly aware of the ramifications of his thoughts.

Who knew but what that damn African could read minds?

[The Chapman]

On the Samuel, Byrd was bored.

The Colonial runaway pot of piss marked for the watch was too drunk to stand; he should have lost his share under articles, but the articles had been quite loosely applied. They were not, truthfully, under way or for that matter, really in harm’s way. Or so they should hope; at any rate, Byrd had taken his watch, and it seemed no harm done.

He rested his elbows on the rail and looked out over the bay, which was still active, but not so busy as before. Here and there barges sidled up to ships, winches at the ready, slings rolling. Livestock and horses disgorged; he heard the distant bellow of an affronted cow, and the barking of dogs, large and small.

There had been two dogs aboard the Samuel, one some ratter from England which had been Thomasses’ pet, and had eventually killed the ships’ cat along with a variety of vermin. It had disappeared, with no confession from anyone, although there were suspicions. On a ‘regular’ ship there would have been floggings and the like, but the Samuel was no ordinary ship, and those rules did not apply.

The second was a brown mongrel from a village in the Colonies, and had been washed overboard in a storm after bolting from the fenced run on deck. Now the only pet animal on the ship was the cook’s ferret. Filthy, nasty, biting, Byrd hated the thing, as did others. Likely the only reason it was still breathing was its nearly supernatural activity towards the rats, and ability to hide from large threats, such as sailors finding their bedclothes shredded. Miserable stinking animals. Byrd disliked farms…

A largish coracle, lanthorn hung from an up-hook in the center, neared the Samuel. Byrd reached for the sawn-off musket layed out for him, loaded with buck and ball, and pointed it out. In the dusk, he peered into the bowl of the craft, and as it closed, saw it some overloaded with what looked like clothes. Sudden, a coarse female voice called out:

“Hey-O, men there, look ya for lasses for company?”

What had looked piles of clothing were the jumbled skirts and outerclothes of enterprising ladies. Byrd laughed. The voice rejoined:

“Hey-O! Hey-O! Ya there! Ts’ the lonely sailor-men wanting for the lasses’ company? We’ve four fair and pleasantly maids here, for your entrainment, one French! What say you? Hey-O!”

Byrd responded.

“Come closer, there, and we’ll have a look at ya fair lasses, you all! How’s that for fairness in the dusk?”

The voice responded:

“No need to insult there boyo, we’ve plenty of looks …!”

At that the rail lined with men, appearing from the various regions of the ship, boisterous and bargaining. It was pointless to try to maintain order. Byrd began laughing, and wandered from the side, to the step ladder leading to the center housing, dragging the musket along with him. He had no real interest in the proceedings, having had the ____ already oncet, but he was no longer bored, at least.

…and where in the Hell were Thomasse and Billy? It was almost dark.

[The Chapman]

Billy was now walking alone through the streets in the dark. It brought to mind the grave of his dream, and he wondered how the world appeared from the bottom of the hole.

Probably much like this, he thought.

Thomasse had left him, claiming a meeting of importance with a Crown man. Billy didn’t care; only he had trepidation regarding whether Thomasse was at all trustworthy. Likely not, but what was to be done about that, hey? What would the man do, how much COULD he do, to them all? What power had he over them, so much to break them?

Who knew?

Billy felt through the stained linen of his shirt to the comfort of the small pistol he carried. Guns. Never far away, yet so useless, sometimes; and that tavern keeper had been so very, very lucky, or blessed. But his dream had told him pistols were of no use against spirits. It was a good lesson to be learned, and Billy had always been one to take the knowledge of the spirits before things proved themselves, rather than some folk, who insisted on learning after, to their great trouble and detriment.

Whatever Thomasse had done, or not, he had entrained them on the path of riches here today. For that Billy, and he was sure the rest, would thank him, in their own way…

…perhaps with a round ball; and the dockings came into view, headed down the hill, and he could just make out the boat in the dim glow of encased candles.

[The Chapman]

The sullen lad was sitting on the dock, where they had left him. Billy was somewhat astonished to find him still present. He felt sure the little rat-tailed scut would have taken his coin and wandered off to spend same in some hole. Character was indeed a funny thing.

He wandered up the short docking, the boards, loosened and degraded by salt and wind, shuddering under his tread. The small square toppers of poorly made nails caught on the splitting leather of his worn-out shoes. Shoes, he thought idly, soon to be replaced with a finer pair, perhaps dogskin, the better to go upon the town in which to dance; people did so talk up the dog shoe. He’d dwell on that later. The boy-scut rose at his approach.

“Wot you here? Where’s ya master, blackamoor?”

Billy stopped, taken aback; it hadn’t occurred to him someone, anyone, might think him a servant or slave. Byrd had warned him, and he had forgotten just that quickly. Annoyed at both the boy’s ‘greeting’ and at his own inexcusable carelessness, he shoved his momentum forward again. The boy spoke a second time.

“Ya master said he’d folla with another bit a coin, blackamoor. You ain’t got a collar for a silver pay, so where at’s ma coin?”

Billy flung his knee and leg up straight, and impacting the breastbone, hit the boy square in the chest with his full weigh, thumping him. The boy whooshed out his air, stumbled back, and went off the crackling, creaking boards into the waiting ocean, living ink-black with filth, ballast, and stinking offal. He cried weakly as he hit the sludge and sploshed as though stricken with palsy. Billy walked to the piles and began loosening the boat.

The boy squeeched. “Hep. Hep, A can’t SWIM!”

Billy muttered, “Y’shoulda thought, y’little pullet”, and as the second tie loosened, he hopped winglike onto the floor, gracefully popping one oar, then the other, into the stocks with light scraping sounds, and seamlessly rowed away. The boy gurgled, oathed, and then Billy saw two men run down the dock and reach down for the sodden lump of plonk with a hook, rescuing him from drowned ending.

Billy felt vaguely disappointed.