by Wesley Lambert

"Nay, serpent," Turnbull said, his tongue a clacking twig. "And I'll fillet the first man who tries."

Hogarth's smile never wavered, though his eyes narrowed. Turnbull saw his knuckles whiten on his sword's silver basket.

"Bilge-sucking rat. Either it goes, or ye both go. It's of no great matter to me."

Turnbull stepped up on a cask and put his foot on the railing. Taking in the unsympathetic crew with a glance, he leapt over the side.

Warm water engulfed him. He lunged for the surface, terrified at the possibility of the infant breathing in a draught of that salty mixture. He broke the surface and began swimming for shore, beckoning in the distance with waving palm fronds and hot sands.

He rolled over on his back and concentrated on breathing as he kicked toward refuge, balancing the child face up on his chest. He veered away from the sloop, watching the pirates gather up and down its sides, enthralled by the spectacle. Hogarth perched in the rigging, his mouth an "O" of laughter. He spoke between guffaws, and Turnbull raised his ears out of the water.

"--since Port Royal sank have I had such a laugh," Hogarth wheezed. "Fair winds, and all that. If ye see Davy Jones before I do, spit in his eye and give him my regards."

He doffed his tri-corned hat with a flourish and offered a little bow, then vanished from the side.

Turnbull heard a chantey rise as the ship set sail:

I've tasted brine and scoured the decks,
And fled the men-of-war.
A hempen halter waits for me
When'er I reach the shore.

He relaxed his neck and struggled through the waves. Water sloshed in his mouth and captured his breath from time to time. The infant alternated between crying jags and perplexed moans. Turnbull soothed it in hushed tones as the need arose. His limbs went numb with exertion; still, he labored toward dry land.

Something quested up from below and nibbled at his backside, but before Turnbull could attempt to do anything about it, the unknown assailant was off again. Must've been foiled by my unpalatable flavor, he thought.

Turnbull thanked God for its finicky nature, then forced his thoughts away from the teeming masses of the deeps who could be lying in wait at any time; thinking about sharks at a time like this assuredly would not help.

Just as exhaustion settled into him like water in the lungs, he felt the ambient temperature rise. He knew he was in the shallows, now, and the realization supplied strength to his leaden limbs; he kicked with renewed energy. Another ten minutes brought his feet into contact with the bottom. He stood on tiptoes and forged ahead, holding the babe on his shoulder. Soon he frothed out of the surf, feet slap-slapping on the wet sand.

He climbed the beach as in a dream of molasses and collapsed under a cluster of palms, gasping. The child stirred and rooted in his shirt. He saw his home for the last year make headway beyond the curve of land to the south.

He held the infant close and felt himself fading into that unplumbed realm where people drift when they sleep the sleep of body and soul fatigue.

#

Clifton Turnbull awoke to waves crashing as high tide gnawed at the coast. His limbs were stiff planks screwed into his torso, yet he struggled into a sitting position. The living parcel in his arms stirred in fitful slumber. A fine sheen of sweat coated its reddened brow and plastered the thin down of hair to its scalp.

He stood and leaned against a bole, taking his bearings and reveling in the breeze rolling in off the ocean. Skirting the palms lining the beach, he forged into the bamboo stands and watchful trees. Somewhat familiar with the strand and its environs, he found a dirt path cutting inward in just under an hour.

Twilight deepened the sky as he slogged along, bringing premature darkness to the underbrush. Nocturnal insects greeted oncoming night with whirs in the shrubbery. Birds cackled and twittered in the breadfruit branches. Loamy earth slurped at his now-bare feet; upthrust sticks jabbed his soles. Errant lizards darted for cover at the tremors of his passing.

Soon the footway intersected a wide, unflagged road leading north. He paced its route through clouds of swarming mosquitoes and past occasional lone huts by the wayside.

Humidity transformed his wide-sleeved shirt into a drenched towel wrapped around him. He murmured a low curse at the heat, with a sigh of thanks when blessed puffs of air penetrated the forest and touched his face and chest.

He smelled wood smoke and roasting meat wafting to him from ahead.

"Not far, now," he whispered, looking down at the tiny creature in his hands.

In moments the road widened into a village thoroughfare, with shops, huts and houses fronting both sides. He forsook the invitations of lit windows and ignored questioning glances from dark men who sat, smoking, under their awnings.

Turnbull left the hamlet behind and crossed a rude footbridge spanning a creek. On the other side squatted a nondescript chapel, jacarandas standing vigils in explosions of purple in the dooryard. A single candle glowed in a window.

Turnbull rapped on the stout wooden door. At his second attempt, it creaked open and a round moon face poked out.

"Halloo," the balding man said. "May I be of service?"

"Aye, sir." Turnbull nodded. "That ye may."

The man's eyes dropped to the newcomer's burden. "What have ye, there, my son?"

"A babe in dire need of milk and a changing."

The pastor's eyebrows raised in wonder. "Is it not your own child?"

"Nay. I shipped with its parents; they booked passage on a sloop from England, bound for Jamaica. A freak squall took us, one day agone. We capsized as we drew nigh our destination. I and the child survived, and none else." The lie rolled off his tongue effortlessly, though it left a bitter aftertaste. Selling falsehoods to clergy was a new low, even for such a one steeped in lawlessness.

The minister looked him up and down, scrutinizing his mode of dress. "What would ye have of me, son?"

"I ask only lodgment and board for the infant--either here, or in the village." He dug into a purse sewn into his belt-sash's lining, producing two golden coins.

"Two Guineas for the child's welfare, sir, and the same awaits ye when I return."

"How come ye by such a sum, my good man? 'Tis no paltry wharf-wage."