Michael Aye - The Reaper

“Let it go, Witz.”

“Damned if I will. He humiliated me-a King’s officer.”

“You’re alive, let it go!”

“No,” cried Witz. The sound of Gabe cocking his pistol instantly gained Witz’s attention.

“I said let it go. I gave my word.”

Witz bolted from the tavern and back to the cutter. Word spread quickly about Witz losing control of his bladder. Lt. Kent had no choice but to have Witz replaced as he had become the laughing stock of the town. It appeared Witz had had it in for Gabe since then.

“Yes, sir. That’s the way it were Cap’n. Had young Gabe, pardon sir, had Mr. Anthony not stopped it, I’d lost me timber ‘fer sure when the gun went off. I’ve seen it happen, sir, same as you I’m sure.”

“Thank you, Dawkins,” Anthony said, “I’ll weigh your comments heavily in my decision. You are dismissed.”

The old sailor was almost out the door when he turned and said, “t’wernt no use in Mr. Witz acting so, sir. I been to sea more ‘n thirty years, man and boy, and I ain’t see’d the like sir. Just wanted ye to know, sir.” Then the wizened old sailor continued on his way.

Anthony had just finished his formal inquiry into the incident. Dawkins had been the last witness. Gabe was guilty all right, but of trying to save an old man’s leg and maybe his life. A better, more experienced officer would have looked at the situation, tried to make something positive of Gabe’s initiative, and been glad they’d not crippled a good seaman. Witz was neither experienced nor mature enough to put his petty differences aside for the good of the ship and crew. Anthony looked at Buck, who had been standing quietly since Dawkins had left.

“Rupert, old friend, would you be so kind as to summon Lieutenant Witzenfeld?”

“Aye, Cap’n,” Buck said and left the cabin. He couldn’t ever recall the captain calling him old friend. A sign of weakness? No. No one could ever call the captain weak. Friendship, he was the captain’s friend. Buck felt very privileged to be considered Anthony’s friend, especially when the captain was at his wit’s end.

Buck had sent Paul, the master-at-arms, to find Witz and inform him of the captain’s summons. Then he was to go to the cockpit for Mr. Anthony

“Allow Witz plenty of time with the cap’n before you bring Mr. Anthony aft,” Buck had whispered to Paul.

The salty old sea dog looked at the first lieutenant, “give ‘em time ta feel the heat for awhile, is ‘at what we’s after, sir?” Buck only nodded as Paul ambled of, amazed at how the old sailor always seemed to have a quid of “baccy” causing his tight cheek to bulge to gigantic proportions. A permanent brown stain seemed to fill the crease at the cornet of Paul’s mouth. Yet Buck could not remember ever having seen the man spit. Recalling his own youthful experiment with “chaw-baccy” Buck could only imagine what was happening to Paul’s innards.

Silas had poured Anthony another of his coffee brandy concoctions. “Ta steel yourself, sir,” he said by way of explanation. “His kind ain’t worth loosen ya temper over.”

“The first lieutenant, sir,” the marine had barely gotten the announcement past his lips when the cry from above was heard.

“Man overboard! Man overboard!” Lt. Earl was already turning the ship by the time Anthony and Buck hurried on deck.

“Well, at least that’s a chapter that’s closed,” Buck said, “And I for one am glad.” The man overboard had been Lt. Witzenfeld. Every effort had been made to recover the man but to no avail. The bosun had said, “He musta headed straight ‘fer Davy Jones locker from the onset. No ‘bobbin or cries like you’d expect from a man trying to stay afloat.”

The quartermaster, who had been at the wheel when the incident happened, tried to explain what he saw. “‘E ‘ad a fit ‘e did, sir, went berserk. He was acting like a madman, just a slobbering like and flinging his arms about, like ‘e was swatting at bees, sir. Screaming ‘is bloody head off saying the devil was on him. ‘E was touched sir, so ‘e was, just plain touched. It put a scare in me, cap’n. I ain’t shamed to say it. No sir, it was frightful.”

When things on deck had settled down, Anthony and Buck had the opportunity to talk with Peckham who had also seen the incident. “Witz was headed aft to report to you,” the master explained. “Dagan was standing close to the hatch, outta the wind so he could light his pipe. As Witz approached the companionway, he appeared startled and upset to find Dagan standing there. He gave Dagan an angry scowl. Dagan looked up from lighting his pipe and said, “Careful where thy step sir. Accidents happen, a misstep could haunt you a lifetime.”

“Well, sir, Witz turned ghost white pale. He let go a scream to make yer blood curdle. It ‘twere like the banshee was after him. Then, like the quartermaster said, it was over the side he went. You know the rest.”

Anthony had let the master tell his story without interruption. Then he asked, “Tell me, Mr. Peckham, would you consider Dagan’s words a threat to Lt. Witzenfeld?”

“Nay Cap’n. More like a friendly reminder I’d say.”

Long after everyone had gone, Anthony was lying in his cot looking at the deck beams overhead. He found himself taking in all the sounds a ship at sea will make. The water sluicing down the hull as the bow plunged through another wave. The gentle groan of timbers as they were being flexed as the ship cut through a trough only to have its bow lifted by a swell. The sound of the watch on deck, all familiar but distant. In the stillness, Anthony’s body gave a sudden shiver and once again he could hear his father’s old servant whisper, “He’s a soothsayer, sir. A sorcerer.”

Anthony woke with the foul taste of cheap wine and bad cigars. His head felt worse than his mouth tasted. He had been a guest of the wardroom last evening, and this morning he was paying for the merriment. Since the incident with Witzenfeld, the ship had seemed different. The crew seemed happier and more content. Anthony had heard some go so far as to say “can’t say’s I’m sorry he’s gone.” Well, to be honest, neither was he. Gabe was now acting fourth lieutenant and so far all seemed well. Gabe and Earl had performed for the wardroom last evening. Some of their renditions were lewd and provocative. The wardroom officers laughed at each attempt as Gabe and Earl set to music some profane rhyme, one trying to outdo the other. The surgeon was the judge and proclaimed neither winner nor loser, but a draw.

Silas entered with coffee, and hot water for Anthony’s shave. “The Master says if his calculations are on, we’ll likely see land by the end of the first dog watch. It’s a good thing too, sir. With Mr. Buck dropping in as ‘e does, we’ve just about run outta coffee.”

Anthony grunted, “You and Bart don’t tip a cup now and then do you?”

“Occasionally we does,” answered the servant. “Iffen you’ve ‘ad yer fill and they’s a swallow left in the pot, we’s don’t like to see it go to waste.”

“I’m sure,” Anthony said.

Bart had entered the cabin. “Dawn’s almost on us, sir. It’s sweltering already and the master says we’re shaping up for a squall. Mr. Pitts got the watch, sir. He’s dancing around like a whore in church. He’s got one eye on the horizon and the other watching aft for you.”

This brought a smile to Anthony. Someone else undoubtedly was feeling the worse from last evening’s merriment. After far too many glasses of wine, Mr. Pitts had stood to make a toast before ending the evening’s festivities. He was too much in his cups, and when the ship was hit by a large swell, the roll of the ship threw Pitts off balance and he sprawled head long onto the wardroom table. The surgeon had pronounced him “drunk for the evening.” Anthony could only imagine how embarrassed the young officer felt. If he’d been in his place, he’d certainly keep a weather eye out for the captain until he saw how he fared after last night’s actions.