Salvation

The taste of salt water and blood filled his mouth with each passing stroke. His limbs were becoming heavy, and he struggled to keep his head above the waterline. Before him he could see his salvation, but exhaustion was taking hold, choking what little hope he had for survival left. Shock kept the pain from the gash in his leg from overtaking him, but Samuel knew that slowly blood was flowing from him, mixing with the water of the dark salty sea, and ensnaring him in the cold grip of the unknown. Only the raft ahead of him could save him, but it was drifting further and further away. Every time he breathed, fresh saltwater rushed in to fill his lungs and he spat it back out when he surfaced again, but he was losing the battle against the tide. He couldn’t believe it, until in a moment of panicked strokes, his fingertips collided with the hardwood of the raft, its coarse and splintered hull ripping into his waterlogged and pulped fingertips.

With what little strength he could muster, Samuel lurched his body into the life raft, his legs still dangling into the dark, churning waters of the Indian Ocean. Slowly, the shock subsided, and he could feel the open wound on his leg snag and scrape against the motley planks of the tiny raft. He let out an unearthly and deafening scream. But no one remained to hear it. Panting and exhausted, Samuel’s vision began to wander. Blurred and unfocused, he drifted into the cold world of unconsciousness, devoid of pain and despair for the briefest of moments.

By the time Samuel regained consciousness, his only companion was the omnipresent glow of the midday sun. Oppressively, it reigned over his world, claiming its dominion. Nothing else remained. Nothing of the ship who had run them through with cannons firing. Nothing of the cargo ship aboard which he had sailed. Nothing of her crew who now rested below the dark tides which lapped against his miniscule boat, dwarfed by the all-encompassing sea which surrounded it. He was a pale dot, irrelevant to the capricious tides and swells which battered the ships in this part of the Indian. He was without help and without hope, but he was not dead. Whether he had been unconscious for hours or days, he did not know. But the wound on his upper thigh had continued to spill blood into the base of his raft. Mixed with the salt spray that continually battered his face, it sloshed and spilled over the edge every time a new wave swept under the raft’s hull.

His clothes were far from extravagant, but each meant something of note to him. Each he had traded for in some distant port until he had comprised an entire set of mismatched and disparate wear. His breeches were a dark viridian and Venetian in make. He had traded for them while in Ras Hamet while ported outside of Alexandria in the northern deserts of Egypt. The merchant who traded them was sure his foreign garbs would fetch a hefty price and had no issue parting with an extra pair. On his head he wore a maroon Monmouth cap which was snug and warm during the cold nights on the sea. The man who had given it to him spoke in a garbled tongue which was worsened by his many missing teeth. That man had passed through the Bay of Biscay on route to Africa on an unknown voyage. On his torso he wore an old and mildewed tunic, stained brown by sweat and sea. This he had not traded or haggled for. This his father had given him many years ago. As a boy he had taken it with joy, and he had worn it with pride nearly every day since. Each meant something to him and carried with it a memory of a short but storied life. But now he was in desperate need of new life.

As the blinding sun blared down on his dark skin, Samuel removed his cap. It was useful in the cold, but his father’s tunic would suffice to keep the hellish heat of the sun off his skin and scalp. With his teeth he bit into the threading and pulled loose the fabric. It was already a deep maroon, but the constant flow of blood from his leg dyed it even darker. He pressed it as tightly as he could, withholding his cries of agony as fresh blood began to flow. With what little thread he could gather he wrapped it around his upper thigh and tied it tight around his skin. But it was no use. Samuel could see with each pulse of his heart, more blood poured forth in larger and larger gouts. It was barely passed midday and he knew he would not live to see nightfall. It had been a miracle that he had clung to life this long.

Samuel looked to the horizon and clutched the cross around his neck. The prayers he was taught were in a foreign tongue, but he recited them as best he could. In broken pleas, Samuel looked for his salvation, but none would come. Already he could see the fins circling his raft as the noonday sun began to lower. Samuel knew he could no longer fight. He accepted what awaited him. He released the cross from his grasp and leaned his torso over the edge of the raft. It titled and leaned to the port side as he pressed his weight against it. Then it capsized and Samuel fell as the warm water of the Indian Ocean rushed over him once more as he sank to the cold, dark which awaited him beneath its waves.