Fair Winds

FAIR WINDS

“Is it going to fit?” Henry asked concernedly.

“About as well as the limb that was there before it,” replied The Surgeon, pushing the prosthetic up onto the place where Henry’s elbow used to be. “How does that fit?”

“Oh well done Doctor! Fits like a glove,” Henry replied excitedly.

“These new beeswax molds have proven to be successful so far, but we may still need to make a few more adjustments,” the Surgeon said, looking the apparatus up and down with his expert, critical eye. He dealt exclusively in the fabrication of prosthetic limbs. Henry swooped the blade across the space in front of him with broad hissing strokes. “Careful boy! I just had that blade sharpened and I still need to tighten the buckles at the shoulder.” Henry rested his arm across his chest. The blade, about the length of the forearm and fingers that were there six months before, smiled in the candlelight. The Surgeon tightened the buckles around Henry’s shoulder and gave the entire unit a hearty tug. It held fast. “Thank you Doctor,” Henry said with an appreciation sincere enough to be the affection of a favorite son.

“What time do you set sail?” Asked The Surgeon.

“ Changing of the tide,” said Henry

“Still serving with Captain Henderson, are you?”

“I am,” Henry claimed proudly.

“Henry, that man will get you killed hunting for his treasures and ghosts and God knows what else.”

“You know he is the only captain that will give me a job since I lost my arm,” Henry said lifting the his shining new appendage.

“Yes, it was under his command that you lost that arm,” came the pensive reply from The Surgeon.

“It was my fault I lost this arm. I should have been more careful.” The Doctor knew better than to argue this point.

“Well you better hurry, before you miss the tide.” Henry scurried to the door, threw it open with his free hand, turned and said the last words The Surgeon would hear him say, “Thank you Sir.” Henry bolted from The Doctor’s surgery with his shinning new limb in front of him.

“Poor fool,” The Surgeon said but, all that remained of the boy, was his eager footfalls down the cobbled street.

Slowed by the unfamiliar weight and size of his new appendage, Henry hurried as fast as he could through the labyrinthine city streets. The nostalgic harbor sounds drew him closer, the gulls’ hungry squawks greeted him from ten city blocks away. The city itself encroached close enough to the harbor that he could smell the day’s fresh catch in the fishmonger’s baskets before the last street crossing brought him out onto the wharf. He burst from the alleyway between a rope repair shop and a fishmonger’s into the expanse of the port. Seagulls scattered into the air with fright. A woman buying a fish shrieked at the sight of him, sword-armed and scrappy sailor attire. “Damnit boy! You’re scaring my customers,” reproached the owner who threw a fresh wriggling squid at Henry. It squirmed through the air, Henry ducked, it landed on the combat boots of the port authority watchman marching by with the baring of a serviceman proud of his uniform and duties. “Sorry, Sir,” from the fishmonger.

“Not yet ye’ aint,” promised the watchman. Before a fight could ensue, Henry sprinted toward the water. He had a ship to board! He looked left along the long line of sailing ships lining the harbor wall. Captain Henderson’s ship had a black ensign flying on the main mast. Not that direction. Henry looked right. There! Among the straight forest of masts and rope, swaying wider and higher than all the others: the black ensign. Retribution was her name, a behemoth galleon capable of carrying 200 sailors. For this voyage the Captain had managed a commission of 155 men.

Captain Henderson had long since left the Royal Navy. He was their most successful commander, credited with destroying 22 enemy vessels; French, Dutch and Portuguese. When the Royal Navy offered him his retirement villa in the British countryside, he refused and instead asked for ownership of his ship which was ready for decommission. An unprecedented request, but he was an unconventional warrior whose methods among other achievements had secured Cape Town on the southern tip of the African continent.

Besides, Captain Henderson’s retirement strategy did not involve sitting in the countryside growing grapes and growing old and dying. He had a score to settle. His last battle had gone un-won, against the notorious Dutch navy man, Captain Dekker, known as the Ocean’s Devil. Captain Henderson had been forced to retreat after being out maneuvered by the Dutch captain. Before his retirement, Captain Henderson had secretly recruited old seamen, people he trusted, most of whom had served with him during his 30 years as a commissioned navy officer.

Holding his arm blade as close to his side as possible, Henry sprinted along the harbor wall, weaving in and out of the crowded neighborhood. Cattle, horses, chickens were being taken aboard ships. He sprinted past a man lying over a barrel, being whipped by his ship’s captain for some or other offense. Henry found the long line of sailors filing aboard Retribution. Captain Henderson stood on the quay and greeted each boarding sailor, all 155, by his name and an encouraging remark. He had the appearance of a man from a long forgotten past.

The Captain wore his old navy uniform. The same outfit he wore on the fateful day he had fought against the Dutchman, Captain Dekker, the Ocean’s Devil. Where one of the jacket’s arms should have been a liver-colored shirt sleeve protruded. In the front two tarnished buttons held the jacket closed and a charred circle above the right breast pocket foretold the world-wide battles this old man of the sea had fought in. The three stripes on his lapels, once a bright gold now bore the color of a world travelled yellow. None of the numerous navel officers at the port complained about his disheveled appearance for Captain Henderson was recognized as one of the navy’s tireless servants. He had sailed every sea and was afforded leniency where all others were not. He was far-famed for his volcanic temper. He was barely spoken to by those not serving on his ship.

Henry arrived last in line. “Ah Henry!” came the captains jovial welcome. Henry came to an abrupt attention. He whipped his hand up in salute. The blade bit the air and kissed the brim of his sailor’s cap. The captain’s eyes lit up, “What a fine blade you have there son! Fit for any sea fighting man!"

“Permission to come aboard Sir!” Henry called out.

“Eye’ Permission granted lad!” The pair, master and servant crossed the gangway.

From the horizon, agonizingly slowly, the imperceptible peristalsis of tide and time brought a ship into view, a mighty vessel but, severely damaged. All of her masts were missing and a horrendous gaping black mouth comprised her stern. As she approached greater detail of destruction emerged. A dozen of her upper deck cannons lay heavily and forlornly on their sides. She moved by the power of oar. A slow drum beat metered out the strokes. All movement in the harbor ceased as she past. An awestruck, silence heavy with respect hung over the water and harbor. Somewhere on the hill behind them a cannon sounded the first rounds of a 21 gun salute. Louder, louder the drum beats metered out the oar strokes. As Henry raised his head from a respectful bow he saw the ships name emblazoned on her bow, Retribution. Henry’s eyes met those of the fearless Captain Henderson who before shouting, “Cast off!” winked at him conspiratorially.