The First Horizon
Days slowly began to turn in to weeks aboard The Darkskull, as it continued to plow through the humid and murky waters of the English Channel. Every day seemed to become a little brighter as time went on, the days becoming warmer and the sunlight sustaining itself for just a little longer each afternoon. John could not tell whether this was a sign of his future clearing before him, or just simply the affects of heading due south - either way, he welcomed the change in atmosphere. He had never been outside the damp and boring climate to which he had assimilated to.
John slowly began to mingle in to a spot amongst the crew. He began to memorize names, appearances, preferences, routines, and ranks among the vast crew that the ship had to it, so that he could make it feel as though he were fitting in. And to that much effect, it did - by learning who everybody was throughout the ship, he was given the same respects by his fellow shipmates. And while he was still subject to the constant harassment and mockery that came with the job of a swabby - the animal noises, the kicking of his equipment as he tried to go about this work, and the usual unnecessary spit or slap - it came with a lighter sort of dignity, as though they did it not out of punishment or disliking, but simply because it was protocol.
Whenever John found himself without much work to be done aboard the ship, which was usually in the late afternoon when the ship's activities began to quiet, he would not lollygag like the rest, playing cards or lying about, but instead put himself to practice. He would take the cutlass that Commodore Rutherford had given him out from its hiding spot, under the farther stack of utility barrels behind the staircase, and practice his motions on the deck of the ship, off to the side where he would not be a bother, nor gather any attention. He began to learn how the blade moved in his hand; how to properly hold it to keep it from wavering as he cut, how to follow through and pull back his swings, and how to steady his balance by putting the right amount of weight on each area of the foot. It took him at least a week to get to the hang of it, but once he did, he knew he could begin to deviate from the basics, and learn the ways of a sword like a real soldier.
It was on one particular evening when John was working on a few variations of the traditional hack-slash-cleave method did Commodore Rutherford watch silently from the helm, accompanied by his long-time friend, who he had served alongside with in many campaigns by the British, First Mate Roberts. The two soldiers watched silently from across the ship as they watched the teenager repeat through the same pattern over and over, slowly gathering force and speed, and then repeating back at beginning of the sequence. Rutherford commented, "Do you see what I see in the boy, Hugh?"
Roberts returned the Commodore's comment without turning away his vision. "What do you mean, sir?"
"He's driven, my friend. Not like the drive that comes with any warrior, the need to serve his country, but something higher than that. It makes him.... stronger."
The First Mate tilted his head a little bit, as though he were questioning the Commodore. "Commodore, are you trying to imply this simple boy would be put to use someday?"
Rutherford took a heavy sigh, looking back over the ship. "Not so much as put to use, as being useful."
1
April 23rd, 1702
Martliona, Basque Country, Spain
Sometime before noon
"Yes, there, the third one past the small beach. That one should be his." Commodore Rutherford pointed out across the bow as he spoke to Roberts, the First Mate guiding the schooner through the crystal clear waters of the warm port. John could feel the hot sun radiating on him as watched over the railing of the ship, gazing out at the port that waited before them.
The port circled around them as they proceeded through the curving bay, which seemed more like a river than a bay as it narrowed upon you. Small docks poked out of the base of the areas around them, which were the arms of the port. The entire city around them was not dominated by large, beautiful buildings, or crowded living quarters. Instead, it was hilly land that was led through by dirt and stone roads, connecting plain, spaced out stone homes that lived amongst the vast amounts of trees, plants, and other greenery. The town gave off the feel of a warm, delicate countryside, yet still maintaining a calm sense of economy with its abundance of full, yet quiet docks. In itself, it was like a perfect harmony between urban meccas and nestled villages, so pure and cultural that it felt as though you were looking at a painting of the rural regions of the most serene European countries. It left the entire ship in awe at its magnificence, particularly John - he had never seen anything remotely close to such a marvel.
The ship docked itself at the dock the Commodore had pointed out to Roberts, at the very end of the channel. The crew went back to their business as usual, John trying to concentrate on waxing the mast, yet so distracted by his surroundings that his eye kept wandering over the banister of the ship, to scan his eyes over the port. The Commodore walked down from the helm, and within twenty minutes, had managed to get a small group of soldiers to proper themselves, uniforms and weaponry tidy and in place. He whispered something to them, which John couldn't make out despite his efforts to ease towards them, and then prepared to lead them off the ship. But as his small militia ferried out in front of him, he caught eye of John.
"John, boy, how’s about you take the trip with us?" The Commodore turned his head just as he prepared to step down off the ship. John turned around, his face showing signs of inner struggle, of whether to accept the offer or not.
"Oh.... no, Commodore, I'm sure I'll just get in the way. I'm much more useful on the ship." He reluctantly said, rubbing his hands slowly up and down his sides as he looked downward. He wanted to go with the Commodore, but felt he would get in the way of things.
"Nonsense! C'mon, you'll be just fine." The Commodore waved his hand, beckoning John towards him. Trying not to act overly excited, the boy put down his tools and walked over to the board that descended off the ship, where the Commodore was going down.
The small group of soldiers, the Commodore, and John ferried themselves up the low, stone dock, which was odd in comparison to all the wooden docks that were parallel with it along the little cove of the bay. The docks were empty, despite them being lined with ships and boxes. The silence was only monitored by the chirping of birds or bugs, but there were so few that they could not be pointed out in the vegetation that waited in the port, nor be heard so profoundly.
They marched up from the short dock up a dirt road that led up the crowning hill that met them right as they hit land, twisting up to where it began to curve over not too far up. They passed a few small cut outs of the road that led towards homes, quaint and tidy on the side of the street. They passed rarely any people, and when they did, it was either a young child, or an older woman, carrying baskets on their heads, bags in their arms, or so forth. They weren't in any sort of hurry, regardless of their age - they were quiet slothish, actually, like they wanted to take their time with their walk.
The road they followed took them far from the bay, continuously up the hill that flattened, steepened, and slanted at random points through the journey. After a good twenty minutes of well-paced moving, they could look out towards the docks from where they stood a good height from which they had covered. The path had finally flattened, and they trudged onward, assured by the Commodore they were almost there.
After making a sharp left, the crew was able to walk along a narrow, covered, dug-in-the-ground path, with the hill descending out towards the waters steeply to their left, and in the same equivalence upward on their right. There were large gaps in between the ferns that were at their left, which let them look out towards the water, them noticing that they were now walking along side it, instead of away from it. They gasped in awe of the beauty of the view, so natural, yet homely and serene.
Finally, they reached two large yellow, stone pillars from which the road converted from wild and dirt to kept and stone. From behind a large fountain that sat in a small unwalled courtyard was a large mansion, wider than it was tall. The face of the building was lined by twenty glass windows, six on the first floor, and seven on the two floors above it. It was decorated lightly with twinning vines that ran down the sides, and small carved stones running as the cornerstones. But while the soldiers focused on the beauty of the home, John had his eyes caught on something else. On the side of the house facing outward towards the bay, a small balcony stuck out from the second floor. Light silk curtains flew in the wind outward, as they skirted by a lean, tall figure, looking out to the waters. It was shadowed, but nevertheless it caught John's eye, and would not let go.
John was then drawn back forward where the rest of the group proceeded, around the fountain, up a few small stone steps, and to the front of a thick, dramatic wooden door. Commodore Rutherford reached out a hand and knocked on it, waiting a few moments until the door was finally answered by one of the servants of the household - obviously, a slave. He was dusted up in almost regal attire, the proper jackets and ruffles, but you could tell by the soulless look in his eyes that the wealth he was draped in was but a mask over his real emotions.
Before the slave was given the proper opportunity to ask any questions, a shout came from the inside of the house, which could not be seen past the small creak in the door. "¿Quién está ahí?" a deep male voice echoed, as the apparent noise of footsteps against echoing marble came closer and closer to them. The slave was pushed aside by a large man, around six foot four inches. His face was very robust and stern, looking almost as thought it would feel like sandpaper if you rubbed your hand against it. He had no facial hair except for a small patch of fuzz on his chin, sitting neatly under a shimmering red ring on his lower lip. He was dressed in no so much proper attire, as it was that which was meant to boast his richness - a heavy, Spanish leather long coat, a gold silk vest laying over a royal-looking lined shirt, with bright red pants. And at the top of his head sat a wide brimmed hat, brown with a golden feather, and two Spanish pieces of eight balancing on the edge ever-so slightly.
When the gruff man caught eye of Rutherford, he let out a smile and outreached his hand to shake the Commodore's, them both laughing happily. The man spoke in an almost maniacal Spanish accent, "Ah, Señor Rutherford, pleasure to meet you again."
"The pleasure is mine, Señor Avaricia!" Rutherford responded, patting the man on the back as they proceeded to step inside.
2
April 23rd, 1702
Pazo de García de la Avaricia, Martliona, Spain
2:30 PM
John on looked on the two men as they casually talked back and forth in the center of the room. They stood in a large living room on the second floor, with a high ceiling and white wooden walls with gold lining along the sides. It was lavished in tables, cabinets, and other furnishments of materials ranging from marble and granite to simple wood. The floor was covered by a soft, white carpet depicting the Spanish Coat of Arms, with a small sitting area in the middle of the room where two couches, two chairs, and a small table cloaked over by a large map sat. The outside of the room was lined by the soldiers of Rutherford, as well as the servants of Avaricia, all standing neatly at attention.
"I personally don't agree with any of this succession nonsense - if the king just so happens to be interjecting in to both lines, then let it be so, hmm?" Rutherford scoffed as he threw his hand back.
"Oh, but it's so easy to say that as a man of the British flag. I would dare not have myself intermingled with those vile Frenchmen - I've had them stab me in the back much too many times to even consider being ruled under the same throne. I would not dare." Avaricia shook his head.
"Alas, it might be so. Either way, as long as I'm not called forth to supply anything, it's fine by me. So, shall we get to those maps?"
"Sí, sí." Avaricia leaned forward to point at the maps. "I suspect the bandits are somewhere around *here," in a small cove along the coastline just a few kilometers from here. There's only one entrance, which is the mouth by the beach - hence, I'd abstain by approaching it by boat."
John let his eyes wander around the room, becoming increasingly bored by the conversation at hand. He looked at all the carvings and details of the room, but they too became drab by the second pass over of the eyes. He felt lost, until he looked over to his right, and caught eye of a small wooden door just a few steps away. Noticing it's position, he took to it as an escape, and eased against the wall, slipping to the door, creaking it ever so slightly open, and dashing through it, silently closing it behind him.
He found himself in a fore room, farther to his left and his right, than forward, where there sat a wall of glass doors in between stone arches. One of the doors, the one right in front of him, was open, leading out on to a sundrenched balcony - and there, over at its end, stood the figure he had saw earlier. It turned around to face him, and he nearly stumbled back in surprise.
It was a girl, roughly around John's age. She was beautiful - sun kissed, Spanish skin giving away to an elegant yet attractive face, that almost smiled at you even though she wasn't. She had sparkling brown eyes, with long, black hair, that fell in waves like the ocean down to her shoulders. She wore a light nightgown, suggesting she had not changed since when she woke up. Even without any makeup, John could not attempt to take his eyes off of her - she was stunning.
"I assume you're one of my father's acquaintances, yes?" She turned back around, to look back over the bay.
John walked forward. "Perfect English - I thought you were Spanish, though?" he asked.
"Don't let my father's regrettable intelligence give you the wrong image of me, sir. I'd much rather limit myself to reading and writing than to swashbuckling, trading, and all that." she snapped.
John walked up next to her on the balcony, and she turned to look at him. He almost had to look away, the light radiating off of her face. "What do you mean? And who would teach a woman to read and write in this county?" John was perplexed.
"I taught myself, thank you very much. And the books? I received them through my father's trade."
"I don't so much care about the books, as I do his trade itself."
She sighed, rolling her eyes. "Ignorant as they all are. How do you think we could acquire so much with so little? My father gets what he wants by hiring others to do the work for him. He's almost like a crime lord - a
pirate lord, if you will."
"Pirates?!" John gasped. The thoughts of his parents suddenly rushed back to his mind; by the possibility Rutherford was conspirating with the man who brought about their demise.
"If you think we're the ones who attacked that little town in England, you're mistaken - we're much too above that, even though I consider pirates below everything." She shook her head.
"How did you....?" John began to step back, becoming even more intrigued by who this girl was.
"I always read my father's letters before he does - not like he can read in the first place. I knew of your arrival most likely before you did." John chose not to answer, just looking wearily at the girl. When she realized she had created a more-than-awkward atmosphere, she stood straight up and grabbed John's hand, shaking it. "Maria."
"John." He nodded.
Soon, a loud clamber of footsteps came from inside, suggesting that everything had been finished. "I suggest you go back to your Commodore now - and best of luck."
"What do you mean?"
Maria looked at John, running her eyes up and down him. "You'll see. Go."