 
### Vijjivu

John W. Regan

Text Copyright © 2016 John W. Regan

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**Table of Contents**

1. Where Wab and Utley Are Introduced

2. Where Wab and Utley Swim

3. Where Wab Eavesdrops

4. Where Wab Bathes and Utley Drinks

5. Where Wab and Utley Seek Shelter

6. Where Cuttler Feels Uneasy

7. Where Wab and Utley Meet the Natives

8. Where Wab and Utley Meet The Missionaries

9. Where Zab Talks

10. Where Vijji Reveals A Surprising Tribute

11. Where Wab and Utley Conspire

12. Where Wab Demands And Vijji Accepts

13. Where Wab and Utley Make a Speech

14. Where Vijji is Baptized

15. Where Wab and Utley Return to the Beach

16. Where Wab and Utley Return To Vijjivu

17. Where Wab Details His Plan

18. Where Wab Feeds His Flock

19. Where Wab Finds Succor

20. Where Wab Makes A Discovery

21. Where Wab Wanders Deeper

22. Where The Barquentine _Anapa_ Makes An Appearance

23. Where Utley Promulgates Into Environment

24. Where Utley Is Found

25. Where Wab And Yarbrough Bicker

26. Where The _Anapa_ Finds Accommodation

27. Where The Captain Meets Wab

28. Where Wab Reconsiders

29. Where Wab and Vijjivuvijji Converse

30. Where the Cyclone Passes And Discourse Cascades

31. Where The Yawl Returns And The Drama On The _Anapa_ Resumes

32. Where A Crook Is Disemboweled

33. Where Repast Begets Expedition

34. Where The _Anapa_ Cruises West To Sumatra

35. Where The _Anapa_ Encounters The _Eclipse_

36. Where The Malays Ransack

37. Where The _USS Columbia_ Joins The Fray

38. Where The _Columbia_ Meets The _Eclipse_

39. Where The _Eclipse_ Is Boarded

40. Where Wab Disappears

41. Where Po Allen Is Presented
1. Where Wab and Utley Are Introduced

The moon's radiance lapped oak hull and, skewed in slurping light chop, reflected a sublime silver conduit atop murky surf. Two men padded barefoot toward the bow, hunched like scoundrels, with belongings strung over bare backs in burlap sacks. Utley glimpsed the distant island, a black smear the size of his hand, then gawked at the luminescence.

"Blimey! Behold, an exultant trail to paradise," he alleged.

"Hold yer tongue," Wab warned, cautious of the marine watch prowling the forecastle. "We ain't nowheres yet, Utley. Save your noisy declarations when we prance on yonder loam."

Another peril, a snotty and his retainer, were astern on the aftercastle, busy with sextant and astrolabe. Although the frigate was at anchor, observations for the voluminous loxodograph were recorded with fussy detail. The pedantic Commodore Downes cherished scrupulous information, an aspect the sagacious Wab destined to abuse. The Commodore demanded the nature of atmosphere and Oceania, as if he were the first man to breadth this profane portion of the compass. This was not the circumstance and their station begged exploitation.

***

Under sail two days prior, within eyesight of the anonymous archipelago, the master-at-arms mustered the bluejackets on the afterdeck. From his foul mouth came a grim warning:

" _These islands, yonder, you cocksuckers may fancy," Petty Officer Cuttler thundered above the snapping jack. "Should you not pay heed to another word I say, listen to this. Cannibals on them plots. A thriving mob of savages."_

The gathered enlisted, except for one, murmured. The lone mute scratched his temple and debated asking a question he knew would invite ridicule.

Cuttler seemed pleased with the response and stomped his foot. "A'ight, knuckleheads, end of sermon." When nobody moved, he peered 'round, spit jacky, and barked, "What you cocksuckers waiting for? Me old cat tails to meow? Back to work!"

Against better judgment, Utley raised his right hand and asked in a meek voice, "We be afraid of cannon balls?"

The master-at-arms spun, almost tumbled on the turbulent deck, and then squawked, "Utley, you ugly, stupid heathen!"

" _I'm not understanding, petty officer," the ordinary seaman stammered. He was a scrawny lad and his back bent such he looked like a hook on bowed legs._

" _What I'm sayin', Seaman Utley, and to all you cocksuckers, is there be man-eaters on the isles."_

Utley flinched and croaked, "Wha?"

" _Heathens who consume the flesh of Christians," Cuttler said, jabbing Utley in the chest. "From crown to the corns on yer unpleasant feet. And everything in the middle."_

" _Blimey!"_

Cuttler crossed his arms. "Now you understand, eh? Heed! We'll be laying anchor soon, to snatch water and foodstuffs. The Commodore is picky. In the calm lee of one of these dwellings, we shall collect essentials. These beasts will scatter from a group of us. But should you be tempted to run amok because your feet taste dry land, be presaged." He thrust his face into Utley's, their noses almost touching. "You will be consumed."

***

Wab appraised the drop, three fathoms to the brine. The splash would be audible, but the crew was relaxed. The watch standards deemed the island to starboard nary a threat. The marines talked of solitude during their dogwatch, code for a kip. Late evening was unspoiled stillness and the perfect time to hurdle for freedom. Still, he wasn't a chancy sot and desired no malingering or elegiac discourse, lest he and his insensible bunkmate be discerned in the leaden light of the plump night sun.

He checked the hemp knot sung around his wrist. The short rope cinched the opening of a sack stuffed with the tatty and moth-eaten garments of a meager seaman. If need be, it was a makeshift flotation device. Or so Utley believed. Now, bonked by deduction, Wab measured it a hindrance; the items inside, once saturated, would become weighty. A worsted, fustian anchor good for nothing but a plummet into Amphitrite's domain. Utley would adore the hippocamps, seashells and whatever else the goddess assembled in the ocean deep. Mayhap mythological notions satisfy the moronic, but this was between them and the almighty. The swim was only a half-league; the surface, for all intents, calm. A means of floatation was unnecessary. Moreover, where they were going, they would need no clothes. Loosening the knot, Wab heard the creak of teak.

To his right, Utley stared across the water, hypnotized by the rocking _Potomac_. He was deaf to the intruder, lulled by the dreams of the future by flouting dangers of the present. Such short-sided distraction would be his undoing.

"Heed man, the watch is coming," Wab warned, swinging his legs over the forecastle balustrade. Distressed, Utley twirled 'round. His sack struck Wab in the face; the aggrieved party was none too pleased: "Christ, me nose! Thanks for the smart blow. If God ain't cursed me with enough of a crooked beak, you saw fit to finish the job. Hurry man. Being tardy to the spray means a whippin' from Cuttler."

The hunched dupe clambered over the railing, gulped, and said, "Blimey. I ain't got the fortitude. What if-"

Wab labored with no misgivings, and had no answer to the query. He released his grip, almost scraping the barnacles on the frigate's gnarled hull. His last sight, before water engulfed in a frightening churn of foam, was Utley's lanky, disjointed form illuminated in starlight, arms pin-wheeling like a bird trying to fly for the first time.
2. Where Wab and Utley Swim

Entangled in the cord, legs kicking through viscosity, Wab foundered in bubbles. He wriggled to grasp the spume, as if the surface was finite. Fingers tickled air, but only a tease of humid ether was afforded. Then he was dragged below, to churn in the tricky toil of the tide. The Commodore's incessant babbling, Wab now realized, a foreboding caveat.

***

Weighty bower was tossed the evening before and the Potomac claimed her spot in the calm harbor with escutcheon overlooking verdant isle. Pushing open stateroom windows, the Commodore fell asleep with this serene view, thankful for a respite from the desert of water. An absurd burst of sunshine crushed his slumber hours later. By his calculation, the frigate rotated nearly two hundred degrees counter-clockwise during his torpor. The plumb-bob, reported the snotty, indicated a smooth surface. Inclinometer and calculus derived a floor only four fathoms below the keel. In contrast, the pallograph didn't register juddering above the bilge.

" _Quite a churning undercurrent," the Commodore remarked to the helmsmen as Wab scrubbed the poop deck within earshot. "Best we drop kedge to halt rotation, though I fret digging fluke into sludge. Be a tricky chore to retrieve said anchor if it compels a plunge."_

" _Plenty of volunteers for such an imposition if windlass fails to do the trick," said the snotty as he stared at Wab. "Ordinary seaman like to swim with fishes. Isn't it so, swabbie?"_

***

Indeed, should it be necessary to provide a testimony of the undertow, Wab could preach. Although, one way or another, his intention was never to return to the frigate. He drew body slack, straight as a rod. Sinking, his head felt under tremendous pressure; ears pricked with high-pitched sounds of discord. Frightened, but not panicked, Wab spun like a top, the rope unwinding until it floated from his wrist. He untied the bob, watching the flotsam waggle away. Borne from his handicap, Wab shot to the surface. Whilst below, the sack and its hemp tale, like a strange sea creature, bathed in the fermentation.

He engulfed air and tried to fix position. A small wave washed over his head, pushing body forward as eyes yearned for sanctuary. There it was, a worthy jaunt. Rotating, Wab saw the dark shape of the frigate receding, a tawdry voice from the forecastle bawling indistinguishable words. We are known to have skipped, he thought. Wab cared not of the implications, lest he remain immobile. Soon, a whaleboat would be lowered to scour for the deserters, the punishment for such behavior a branding or worse. Gazing for Utley, he saw nothing, but took no time to deliver more than a cursory fetch. Utley's adventure was his own, be it sink or swim. No man could want independence if he didn't fight to assert it.

Putting the island in front, Wab paddled and thought of the felonious constitutionals of his childhood. A scoundrel never sashayed in the Bowery and Wab became an adept dryad thanks to healthy legs. A dash from tomfoolery demanded physical stamina. The sea, though, commanded more. How exhausting the swim! Stopping to rest, Wab sought the bottom, but his feet treaded space. A splash, from behind, was followed by a burbling cry.

"Wab," came the joyless greeting. It was Utley, clubbing through water, hampered by the rope attached to his forearm.

"Aye," Wab whispered, weary not to taste saltwater.

"This be an undertaking," Utley gasped.

Wab began wading towards shore and called over shoulder, "Save your strength and persist. You'd best be served to castaway thine burden."

Utley's countenance darkened and he sputtered, "Me Bible be in there."

"Drowned by religion, like every fool," Web retorted. "I will see you on land, or I won't." While his bunkmate thrashed, Wab glided away, angling his body to correct for the current. The island loomed, its dark silhouette gaining clarity with each stroke. Soon the surf could be heard heaping thunder. Wab saw the spray of mist as rocks churned water into sputum. He rode through eddies, at last feeling the silt squish between his toes. The seabed turned to rock and shell as he plowed closer, jagged points cutting into his feet. He scarcely noticed the discomfort. Ahead was the beach littered in seaweed and shells. Exhausted, the seaman waddled, emerging head down from the water, clothes dripping. Wab collapsed on his knees, breathing hard.

A squat creature bristled near, snapping a hostile warning with sharp mandibles. Wab stood, creeping until feet and ankles were caked in fine grit. Near the tree line, four fathoms from the strand, he halted. In a haze lay the _Potomac_ , an obscure blob barely decipherable, its lamps unlit. But for the croaking of frogs, it was silent and tranquil.
3. Where Wab Eavesdrops

Utley clambered up the shore later with sack trailing behind. His coarse hair was matted atop pointed forehead like a snow pack on a mountain. Tottering, he paused to vomit. Two retches and a trumpeting blast of flatulence emptied the man of impurities. Wiping his mouth with the back of an unsteady hand, Utley beheld the alien world. Wab found a frond, careful to avoid its thorns, and cracked it over his knee. Utley crouched, scanning the dense foliage, and balled hands-into-fists.

"'Hoy," Wab hissed, tossing the fractured branch. "Resume a posture of peace. 'Tis be me, here by the trees."

Utley raised his hand in salutation, trundling forward with a groan. Every couple steps, he yanked the rope tied to his right arm, drawing the soaked gear closer. The bag left a broad swath of muddy water in its wake.

"Blimey," Utley croaked. Out of breath, shivering, he collapsed on the ground, remaining motionless while Wab surveyed his worn path. He calculated high tide wouldn't eradicate all the evidence.

"You left a trail with your knapsack," Wab scolded.

Utley sat up, moist and quaking, and wheezed, "So I did." Then he squinted at the _Potomac_ and testified, "The swim...it's a mite further than I figured."

"A vigorous constitutional, no more."

"Let me disagree with your assessment. 'Tis a mite of a constitutional."

"No mite. A mete, more like."

"Seemed we swam leagues, Wab. Oh, me ears are full of water. I can't hear but plashing."

"They will drain. I agree about the exertion. These bags of ours weren't a prudent idea."

"Where's yours?" Utley asked as he peered around.

"It's gone bathing."

Utley untied the rope, pulling the bag closer. He lifted it with a grunt, dumping the contents on the ground. In a wet clump the innards plopped, like a jumbled newborn from the womb. Some clothes, a filigree, his blanket and a Bible, soaked through. Utley snatched the book, fanning the pages. "I don't go anywhere without me book," he confessed.

Wab dug the ornament from the sodden mess. It was silver, the metal laced around a circle. A small gold chain wound through a miniature hole. It was meant to be worn around the neck.

"Me mothers trinket. All I have left of her," Utley explained.

"A sentimental charm, eh?" Wab weighed it in his hand before dropping it on the garments. "I keep me valuables in the noggin. No chance of misplacing 'em."

"I'd do the same, but I caught a kick in the head by a horse when I was in the orphanage. I don't remembers so good. And the things I do ain't make pleasant comfort."

"Rest easy. This be why we're here. Time to carve new memoirs."

"You think I can shove the old ones aside so easy?"

"Look, man, I ain't a packrat. One thing about a hard life is the commitment to make it better. If you lack fortitude, or flounder in a personal morass, then a-dithering you shall be until covered by swamp. You get what I'm tellin' you?"

"I comprehend."

"Wonderful. Now, speakin' of fickle elections..." Wab nodded to the _Potomac_. Pinpricks of light danced on the frigate. Lamps scoured the water. "Poor bastards have broken sleep to seek us. He-he. Little do they know we peep them. Hello Mister Cuttler, you bastard bugger!"

"Blimey, Wab! You're gonna invite our capture."

"Pfft. They can't hear me and they won't risk coming ashore now. They might drop a boat to search the surf, but-"

"Like they did for Volk in Sumatra, eh?"

"Aye. But one thing is certain. Tomorrow morning they'll beach the boats. Won't take 'em long to pick up a scent."

"We could stir our inscription."

Wab shook his head, thinking of the master-at-arms. "It won't matter," he claimed in a somber tone. "Cuttler's bloody dogged. He'd see through the ruse. He'll be out for blood."

Utley stopped drying his book and asked, "Where do we go?"

***

Wab was amidships stacking timberhead when the marines returned from the afternoon expedition. Two boats had been launched to reconnoiter the island in the morning, their excursion a grab for fruit and water. He watched the homecoming; ten men scrambled up the Jacob's ladder with demijohns and bushels of bananas. They were sweating and swatting at invisible insects. Lieutenant Foyle conferred with the Commodore within earshot of Wab.

"' _Tis a forest beyond the beach, a solid wall. Bursting of mosquitoes, too. Hacked through thicket, we did, and found a fine stream. We followed the watercourse to a pond, filling our bottles. The bananas are lush, the ground worn. It appears to be a native gathering place," he added with a whack of his puffy neck._

Commodore Downes rubbed his chin whiskers and inquired, "No sign of indigenous?"

" _No, sir. They were in repose or scared. We sought no confrontation, nor did we thrust further. I will complement the location you've divined. There was tamarind aplenty, breadfruit too. With your blessing, I will lead a second crew to plunder the drupe we couldn't carry."_

Downes shook his head. "I cannot assume you shall be so lucky a second time. These creatures naught engage at first sight. I'm satisfied with the bounty you've procured Mister Foyle."

***

Wab measured the jungle, menacing in the melancholy of midnight. "We go inland, away from the water," he announced. "The hackneyed trail should be visible. It will lead to water. We will scout the area, find seclusion, and wait the lads out."

"And the cannibals?" Utley rejoined, casting disparaging eyes on the flora.

Wab considered his companion's worried brow and said, "Be wise to be fearful, but be open to amazement. No matter. Like any creature of sound mind, the savages slumber beneath the moon."

Utley fished his charm out from the pile of his clothes. Untangling the chain, he placed it around his neck, the sparkle from the metal casting a dismal gleam from the setting moon.
4. Where Wab Bathes and Utley Drinks

The worn conduit was discernable. So were other disruptions. Leaves were thrashed by cutlass, but pushed aside by tender hands. Soil gnashed by boot was imprinted by barefoot. Wab stroked an excited chill. The natives were about.

The watch with the spyglass had seen nothing untoward at dusk. There was scuttlebutt the savages might take to their water vehicles to accost the interlopers. Wab dismissed the dialogue as irrational, a rumor to generate angst amongst the watch. However, these unnatural hints suggested the _Potomac_ had been observed.

Utley barged behind, his saturated belongings like a weighted ball. Wab warned him to cease his ruckus and heave the cargo. The mosquitoes were rambunctious. They flew in selfless regard, buzzing the ears, sticking in hair. Poor Utley had no defense; his hands were occupied with his pack. Wab fought them off in dramatic flourishes, his skin gummy with salt, sweat and dead pests.

They burst through a final layer of vegetation, emerging in a clearing. The moon showered feeble light.

"Blimey," Utley muttered as he scratched his neck. "I'm hexed."

Wab stifled a response, pasting a thick cloud of bugs. If the baby-faced lieutenant was truthful, the stream would be near.

Utley continued to babble: "Pests in multitudes. A vicious foray. I won't last long among these bloodsuckers."

"Hush," Wab commanded, stalking the ground. A spree of water, looking like lead in the night, materialized and burbled to the left. He motioned to Utley. They followed the tendril as it crept towards an expanse of sparseness. The trees in this location were felled, cut away, their stumps like tombstones. In the middle of the timber boneyard was a smooth, glassy surface. Wab stood over the pool, seeing his dark, featureless shape and a pale globule of the orb above.

Utley dropped his sack and, without comment, stuck his head into the water. The ripples distorted the images on the surface until Wab's silhouette appeared discombobulated.

***

Wab premeditated desertion the moment he marched onto the Potomac. His enlistment was borne out of necessity, not desire. Cuttler, the master-at-arms, was a vicious tyrant. Fresh sailors were his nemesis and he derided the greenhorns as if they'd affronted his sensibilities. The officers seemed indifferent to the harsh management of the petty officer.

" _This ain't no picnic," the master-at-arms raged on the first day of muster. "This be this man's navy! My name is Cuttler. I once walked in yer stinky boots. See these chevrons? I earned these. They ain't officer stripes, either, so don't a-one of you cocksuckers ever call me sir. You best listen to me and you might survive this trip. I don't mind bragging I was in the Second Barbary War. Any of you cocksuckers heard of it? Hm... I thought not. I sailed on the Epervier, with Mister Downes, into the African waters along with the Independence and their crackpot Captain McCrane and the Commodore of the Fleet Bainbridge. The Independence thought they were the cock-of-the-walk, with their fancy officers, stripes and bluepeter. Who do you think gave the Berber's the best thrashing? Be us in the Epervier. I mean to run the best lot and I'll do so with all the means at my disposal. You best not cross me or you'll be kissin' the gunner's daughter."_

Stretched in the berth were the rope bunks of the enlisted seamen, stacked three high. Wab had a middle sling. Beneath him was Utley, a worthless tar who earned Cuttler's enmity, and phallus, on a regular basis. Above was Volk, an angry German keening for escapades in distant milieus. Wab kindled in him affinity. The two nattered of their plight and Wab confiding his desire to abscond. At first Volk seemed agreeable. However, nary a chance presented itself on the long stretch 'cross the Atlantic and down the African continent. They rounded the Cape in good weather, sailing north into the Indian Ocean without reprieve. The Commodore was harried. He was making for Sumatra with vigor.

A local chieftain, Mahomet, had attacked an American merchantman called the Friendship, slaughtering almost all its crew. The Potomac was an instrument of vengeance. Off Sumatra, Wab expressed his desire to swim for shore. This was the first parcel they'd approached in eight months. Volk demurred. It was unsafe, he cowed, crawling with locals who were barbaric and leery of outsiders.

" _The thrashings from the brute Cuttler could be no worse," Wab reasoned._

While Web badgered, Volk remained diffident. A day's sail from Quallah Battoo, the stronghold of the Malay rabble, the German changed his mind. He had no lust for bloodletting.

" _I'll take my chances away from the fray," he clarified._

Wab contrived Volk was a coward, but held his tongue. Instead, he outlined his scheme: "Using the cloak of night to conceal, we dash for the forecastle. The leap is short, the swim while vigorous, will deliver us to wild country. We can secrete in the rough, wait for a whaler or trade ship to come to for provisions. Yes, Volk, we'll feed them a sad tale, plead for passage. With luck, we'll be delivered to our shores without further consequence."

" _A whaler? I ain't seen a whaler in days. Maybits a week."_

" _Or whatever vessel comes along. Heed, we're no longer captives aboard this prison."_

Volk mused, but acquiesced. Wab failed to declare it was a rehearsal for him. He had no intention of swimming for Sumatra. The habitat was enormous, the species dangerous. Verily, the chances of encountering a dinghy launched from a foreign vessel were slim. Only the Dutch had a measure of respect amongst the Malays and they kept a prudent distance. While Wab decided to stake his chances on a remote island, it wouldn't be this one. However, he would not know of the crews response to a man gone missing until he saw it himself.

The truants agreed to meet topside in separate jaunts. Volk strolled from the hold without fuss. Lolling bodies were fast asleep in the muggy chamber, the groans of the frigate mixed with the wheezing and snores of its bluejackets. As Volk's footsteps echoed down the corridor toward the orlop platform, Wab rolled out of his sling. He felt an arm grab the cuff of his pantaloons.

" _Where you going?" Utley asked._

" _The head," Wab replied. "Lo, free thy cuff before I wet myself. Unless you yearn for a golden shower."_

Utley relaxed his hand. "I'm nervous about the assault tomorrow," he admitted. "Are you?"

" _Aye. So much so I must release my bladder, or it'll be all over your head."_

" _Blimey," Utley cried. "Go on, then."_

Up top, the wind was fierce, rattling the mainmast. Wab listened to the twinging of cringles, cordage and bluepeter. The frigate was making haste in rough surf. Only a fool would jump in these conditions. Wab strained, catching a glimpse of Volk mounting the forecastle, ducking behind the foremast.

Relaxed, Wab ambled forward, encountering a starbolin. The marine sentry examined him with rapid eye movements but continued abaft. Alone again, Wab scampered to Volk's position.

" _Freedom," Wab said with pleasure. He thrust his finger to port to emphasize the statement. Spread across their perspective was continuous Sumatran corpus._

Volk was jittery and hemmed, "I don't know. It's farther than I recollect and the sea a jagged bastard."

Wab guffawed and then grabbed the elbow of his shipmate. "It's now or never," he said. "Tomorrow we raid the villages of Mahomet. There be no chance to escape then."

" _Aye," Volk whispered. "Aye, but this ocean. Becalmed she is not. We jump together?"_

" _Yes, of course. Now hurry, before we're discerned." He assisted Volk to the balustrade and said, "Swing the leg." Complying, but off balance, Volk snatched Wab's wrist. Whip quick, the devious seaman withdrew his appendage and thrust his shoulder into Volk's teetering frame. The German screeched, tumbling head first into the agitated sea. His cry joined the windy howl. Where this hapless apostate wallowed was a rough guess. Wab didn't bother to waste time searching. Yanking down his dirty pantaloons, he unleashed a bulky stream of urine which undulated in the squall and became a yellow mist._
5. Where Wab and Utley Seek Shelter

Utley rubbed his tummy, belched, and then said, "Blimey, I drank too much."

"Swill now and in great quantity. We'll be hiding until the _Potomac_ departs."

"I've swigged my ration. I'm no longer thirsty."

"So be it." Unvarnished, Wab wadded into water and then rolled onto his back.

"How long until...someone happens upon us?"

Wab scoffed and said, "Tis an impossible question to answer." He closed eyes as body and soul allayed.

"If you had to guess?"

"If I had to speculate I'd say months."

"Months?"

Wab stood and splashed water over his face.

"Months?" Utley pressed.

"Yes, Utley, months. This is one of a chain of islands. You saw them. A passing vessel could have its pick of any of these dusky jewels."

Utley quieted. He was not pleased by this riposte. Not pleased at all. This plan was Wab's, drawn over weeks of discreet musings. This was the best strategy he'd devised, which wasn't saying much given the prize. All along, though, when Wab spoke of a grand plot...well, it was a scheme like a religious promise of the afterlife. And, as all scrupulous parsons, Wab was something of a rhymester and a huckster. He loathed doing anything on the _Potomac_ but conjure literate complaints and contrive escape. He cared not one stich but his own spirit. Utley had been dragged into this venture, a meek subordinate, and hadn't rallied appropriate scorn. This is where tameness lands the docile: to wallow on alien loam. Mayhap Wab didn't care what his fate be; mayhap Wab wanted to expire and desired a mate to share the expiration.

It was not Utley's nature to mistrust. Instead, he concentrated on a prolonged abandonment. It wasn't isolation he feared. He spent years in an orphanage trying to be invisible. Utley feared the cannibals. They pledged a death deserved for heretics, not a believer. Wab appeared undaunted, but he never betrayed passion. Even when Volk went missing, he seemed indifferent.

***

The Potomac laid anchor for muster beneath a sky flecked with puffy clouds. The chop was light, the men somber. Commodore Downes designed a ruse for the heathens at Quallah Battoo. He would raise the Dutch flag, disguise his ship as a Dutch craft, to draw a horde of rascals to their trading partner. Once captured, he would barter the lives of the Malays for one, the vile Mahomet. If this failed to stimulate the proper response, Downes would unleash his marines and sailors in an amphibious assault of the Malay strongholds. President Jackson demanded the Navy "inflict chastisement on the band of lawless pirates" by any means. Downes served with distinguished valor on the Barbary Coast. He knew negotiations with pirates required the audacity to use force when banter proved fruitless.

Now, what's this? A shout from the irate Cuttler. Downes cursed and touched his scalp with a nervous hand. The luxurious pelt had thinned during the journey. No doubt a reaction to the stress of command, but baldness represented a troubling accusation of vanished virility. The Commodore compensated by growing prominent whisker chins. They itched and magnified what he lacked up top.

" _Where is the cocksucker?" Cuttler barked to the assembled bluejackets. No one dared speak. Like a primate, he beefed out his chest. He found Utley and Wab, hammering the deck with his footfalls, and snarled, "He's a dangle above you two simpletons. What say you?"_

Utley swallowed and then cheeped, "I-I saw him leave the hold last night, but I fell asleep."

Cuttler glowered at Wab and said, "Eh? And what say you?"

" _Same as Utley testified, sir. I went to the head but saw nothing of him."_

Perturbed, the petty officer groused, "This is why we have bunkmates, you cocksuckers!" He barged away, gesticulating to the officers gathered at the helm.

When Cuttler was out of earshot, Utley elbowed Wab and asked, "You didn't see him when you relieved yerself?"

Wab shook his head.

" _Nothing? Oh heavens, he might have gone overboard."_

" _Then he has perished," Wab replied._

" _The poor fool."_

" _Poor and foolish he was. Or is. Whatever the case. Let Volk's futility not be our downfall. There is a parable in his suffering."_

***

"This place," Wab said, "is trouble. Here the natives congregate and our shipmates know its location. One way, or another, discovery is a certainty. We must find novel concealment."

Utley desired no speedy return to the insects but lacked the energy to argue. Wab was correct, or would claim as much.

"Go then," Utley relented. "I will follow."

"Best you do. I've a nose for sanctuary."
6. Where Cuttler Feels Uneasy

They found concealment cowering in an enclave of ferns dripping in dew. The hike had been strenuous, but the mosquitoes subsided. It could rain blood as long as leafy prongs sheltered.

Utley fell fast asleep, his head squishing on the sack. Wab felt refreshed after his bath, cognizant and fierce. He sat cross-legged in contemplation.

The men from the _Potomac_ wouldn't waste time beyond a cursory glance, especially what he'd conjectured in the conversation between the Commodore and Lieutenant Foyle. Inexorably, contact would be made with the natives. Cannibal or not, Wab would need to impress his prowess. The natives could provide food, shelter, and companionship. Between the two men, they didn't have much to barter. A weapon would be valuable.

Catching a marine alone, Wab surmised, might be a tactic. They'd create a diversion, lure one into the growth, and disarm him. While a feasible plot, Utley would be hesitant and clumsy. The man was gifted with a profound inability to accomplish rudimentary tasks, combined with the elegance of a sloth. Web knew he could cajole the man into almost anything. Utley's lack of self-esteem made him pliable, but without proper guidance he was a burden. When it came time to kill (not _if_ \- Wab was convinced this was an assured future), Utley would need a subtle stroke of ego and preparation. Tangling with a marine straightaway was asking too much.

Besides, this wouldn't work. The _Potomac_ would never depart with a marine missing. They'd send more men ashore. The full complement of bluejackets would be roused. Two-hundred eighty men, less a few. While not impossible to remain unmolested, their chances would plummet.

***

Cuttler swung over the gunwale, his nasty mood heightened by this needless jaunt. Utley and Wab could suffer the indignity of abandonment. It made no difference to him. Forced to this island to corral them was another matter. The rough petty officer had no desire to quarrel with the residents. He'd almost been run through in the Sumatran Expedition by a child armed with a scimitar. A hapless bluejacket named Racey, one of Cuttler's responsibilities, had been killed in defense of the master-at-arms.

When it came down to it, the entire mission had been a wasted exercise in Commodore Downes lavish deception. Disguising the _Potomac_ as a Dutch merchantman, a contrived plot, hadn't fooled the Malays. Mahomet didn't appear from concealment and, in the end, the landing was ordered. All the ruse bought was time for the Malay horde, and they were armed and angry when the U.S. Navy appeared in whaleboats. The outcome, a rout by the Americans, could've been decided days earlier.

The point being, advantage had been frittered and good sailors had died. Now, more time misused scouring for the two worthless salts. Who else would perish because of this needless jaunt? Cuttler didn't know, but he was going to make damn sure it wasn't him.

Cursing, he raised his head. Sun raked skin. Sweat rolled off brow, stinging eyes. Cuttler mopped the perspiration, then grabbed musket, growling with fury.

The dozen marines jogged in a shabby line towards the jungle. Charging behind them in giant steps, Cuttler yelled, "Wab! Utley! You best show your ugly faces!"

"Cuttler, hush!" Lieutenant Foyle scolded. "You'll rouse the natives!"

The master-at-arms never broke stride as he passed. "I'm sorry to disturb you sensibilities, sir, but go fuck yourself."

The young officer halted. He was left speechless; the look on his reddening face a confection of outrage and hurt.

Cuttler darted to the tree line, attaching the bayonet to the musket with practiced hands. The marines crouched in protection, daring not to enter. The silence stirred apprehension, but the men were more interested in the exchange between the young marine and the grizzled master-at-arms.

Foyle sagged behind Cuttler, his indignation acute. "How dare you speak to me this way," he susurrated.

"Sir, it's best we're loud. Let us testify to the locals we're tramping about. They're not to give us trouble if our ruckus is startling."

"You're an expert?"

"Aye. Ask the Commodore my qualifications."

"At the moment, Mister Downes can't speak on your behalf."

"Barbary War, my man. I've earned my right to demonstrate prowess."

"Mayhap, but I'm the ranking officer. Lest you forgot, the key word being _officer_."

"Listen you, I will not be slaughtered on this miserable shithole. If you desire the fate, by all means continue as desired. I'll respite with a pinch of me bonded jacky and await your return. I might be waiting for a spell."

"Cowardice," Foyle spat. "Fifty lashes, if memory serves."

"I hold the whip when punishment is warranted. When you don't return, I'll make sure to let the Commodore know the charge you recommended."

"Sir," a marine hissed. "What be the order?"

"So..." Foyle mused. "This is what it comes to?"

Cuttler shrugged and said, "It comes to me tryin' to keep our necks from being cut."

The marines scrutinized the argument and fidgeted with unease.

Foyle stood erect and ordered, "All right marines! Forward through the bush!" Then he raised his cutlass with a dramatic flourish.

Grabbing his arm, Cuttler smiled. "Beg your pardon, sir. We can't go in there spread like this. Single-file is safer." He indicated the worn trail and concluded, "The men will get separated in the growth if we're spread thin."

***

Wab rolled over, alert. He'd discerned tangible movement in the confection of his dream. There was no wind, but the plants were vigorous. Now voices, their words subdued. He scrutinized Utley, but the fool was passed out. He slunk further into the enclosure as bodies emerged, watching their feet. They were chattering in a strange language, laughing, no more than a dozen of them, all women. He crawled forward as they passed, seeing them fuse with the jungle. None of them were clothed. They were heading for the pond.

"Get up," Wab instructed as he slapped Utley's face.

"Wha?"

"We've got company. Come on."

Utley sat up, face puffy, and asked "Who?"

"Islanders."

"What'll we do?"

"We go introduce ourselves," Wab scoffed. Before Utley could reply, Wab scampered forward.

"Blimey."

***

The search party stopped at the pond. While the thirsty marines lapped water from their hands, Foyle surveyed the area.

"We didn't get further yesterday," he informed Cuttler.

"If they came this way, they're well-hidden. I don't think it's worth going deeper."

"I never reckoned you for such a yellow-skin, petty officer."

"And I never reckoned you for a scholar, sir. Are you too unwise to discern caution from fear?"

"I don't see, or hear, anything to warrant attention. Nothing but achene and insects. Fruit make you-"

The crack of branches and the chatter of voices interrupted the lieutenant. A gaggle was stomping toward them with brazen indifference.

Cuttler smirked and whispered, "Eh? What were you sayin'?" He raised his musket and motioned for the marines to stand.

"Animal?" Foyle squawked.

"Hush and make ready to tangle."

Suddenly, the shrubbery parted and revealed a clutch of nude, brown females. Separated by mere feet, both groups stared at each other.

"A'right," Cuttler hissed. "Nobody do anything rash."

The lead woman, thin but large breasted, shamelessly stepped forward. She raised her hand and greeted, "Hallow."

As if the words were poison, Cuttler retreated a step while his eyes darted to the surrounding murkiness

She stood motionless, smiling, trying to hypnotize with a heathenish spell.

"Sir," Cuttler whispered from the side of his mouth, "it would be wise to take them with us."

Foyle twisted his face and sputtered, "As-as what?"

"Prisoners. Concubines would yield leverage. We could move about this island with impunity."

There was a thrashing of leaves somewhere behind the women, followed by more sounds of disturbance. Cuttler cocked his head, frowned, and changed his mind. This was a contrived ambush, a trap.

"Let's beat a hasty withdrawal," he snarled. "I ain't liking this situation."

"What about Wab and Utley? I have my orders, petty officer. Retrieve-"

"Leave 'em for these natives. Doubtful I could lash them two truants any worse than what these headhunters will do to their skin."

Foyle hesitated and Cuttler repeated the request, adding "sir" at the end for decorum.

"Hallow," the woman repeated.

"Christ, man," Cuttler said. "Can't you see what's happening?"

"I see you want to abscond."

"We're at a disadvantage. More of 'em are coming. Can't you hear 'em?"

"They're unarmed."

The thrashing continued and Cuttler backed another pace. "Willing to bet your life on supposition?"

"My orders are-"

"Were your orders specific to getting us killed?"

The women moved closer.

"Sir," Cuttler hissed. "One way or another people are dying. Us, them, or our irrational shipmates. Time to be wise."

"Damnit. I can't-"

"If it makes you feel better, I'll shoulder the responsibility. The Commodore will respect my judgment."

Foyle sighed and lowered his cutlass. "Your nervousness is contagious, petty officer," he said. "Marines, double-time to the beach."

"A wise decision, sir."

"Shut up, you. Humiliated by a horde of naked women. 'Tis a sacrilege."

Piecemeal, the soldiers retreated single-file. With his weapon trained on the women, Cuttler was the last to depart. As he withdrew, a tangled root of a tree tripped the flustered master-at-arms. The native at the head of the group giggled and Cuttler, from a seated position, tilted his head. There was something odd about her quim. Profuse, yes, and no less a jungle than the whores he'd frequented in the States. But... could it be? He strained his eyes-

"Cuttler!" Foyle yelled from behind. "Are you coming?"

"Good Christ," the petty officer mumbled.

"Cuttler!"

"I'm comin', sir," he said, getting to his feet. "Hot on your heels."

The creature sniggered and jiggled her bosom.

"Stay away from me, beast," Cuttler warned. "Else I'll give you a real gash to finger."

"Byte," she said, offering a wave as the strange man receded from view.
7. Where Wab and Utley Meet the Natives

Wab emerged from the bush and found the women chattering, bathing. Transfixed, he stood dumbfounded in a ring of sunlight. Not counting literature, he'd never seen natives in the flesh. Illustrations in dime novels and newspapers showed teeth-baring, wild-haired banshees, waving spears and sporting necklaces with shrunken heads. The pictures of women had been droopy-breasted doyennes stirring cauldrons like witches.

Utley followed, out-of-breath, and bumped into Wab. He ogled too, mind grasping the sight of immodesty with mortification and arousal.

"Blimey. A clutch of cannibals."

"Do they appear like man-eaters?" Wab asked. "Let's not be hasty with declarations."

So wholesome was the behavior, the visitors went unnoticed for an interval. The women frolicked, combed their hair, and gathered fruit. One of 'em defecated near a tree, continuing to chat as she cleaned herself with leaves. Bizarrely stimulated, Wab's head felt airy. Knees knocked. He struggled to think of something to say, but relented to quiet observation in the interval.

At last they were perceived. A young girl beheld the two meddlers and raised a shrill alarm. The others ceased chitchatting, casting their charming, dusky faces on the men. Wab bowed, feeling foolish. He could think of nothing else to do.

"Hallow," one of them said.

"Hello," Wab greeted, nonplussed. He took a step forward, arms outstretched.

"Hallow," the rest cried in unison.

From the tarn, a conversational woman emerged, wringing long hair like a mop. She slinked forward, grinning. Her eyes were round, her nose enormous. She pointed beyond them and said, "Byte."

"My name is Wab."

"Nammes Wab,"

Wab indicated his companion and said, "His name is Utley."

"Hisnammes Uttlie," she responded.

"Wab and Utley."

"Nammes Wabantutttlie." She motioned at the sun and said, "Nammes Gahd."

Wab didn't understand, but he joggled head and repeated, "Gahd."

She appeared pleased and pointed at her chest. "Nammes Vijjivuvijji," she said. "Nammes Vijjivuvijji."

He tried to sound it out. "Vij-uv-ji?"

She beamed and then said, "Vilit nammes Vijjivu." Then she pantomimed walking legs with her fingers. "Vilit," she explained. "Vilit nammes Vijjivu." As she prattled, Wab watched her bosoms ripple.

"You're talkin' to her," Utley declared with astonishment.

"I think she wants to take us to her village."

"Should we go?"

"She's congenial. Why not?"

"You don't think it's dangerous?"

"Their immodesty suggests otherwise. 'Member the banshees on Sumatra? These beings are their opposites."

Utley shrugged.

"I'll do the talking," Wab said. "Just follow me lead."

***

The woman departed, the last beckoning Utley and Wab to follow. They rambled along a threadbare path, surrounded by thick foliage. Nobody spoke. Wab concocted a story in his head connected to the _Potomac_. He would threaten danger if they were harmed. Topping a small ridge, the path dropped into a valley surrounded by rising forest on all sides. In the valley lay a small circle of thatched shelters. Wab counted twenty. He saw natives milling in the clearing, some armed with spears. Few were men.

As the clutch approached, the women, in unison, let forth a piercing holler. In response the villagers poured forth to line the trail. Like their escorts, they were naked, but skinny and lacking muscle. Their faces were filthy, distorted in rabid scowls, as they squawked and danced. These undressed, gyrating beasts startled both men. Utley clung to his sack, wrapping his arms around it. Wab wanted to cover his ears, but dreaded movement. The demonstration became garish as the natives fought to touch the skin of the white men. It goes without saying, but Wab began to reconsider his decision.

They walked this gauntlet until they were in the core of the village, standing in front of a longhouse. It had no door, but was elongated, topped with a crude "T" made from wood. The guides dispersed, leaving Utley and Wab alone.

Neither man expected to see what next appeared. Out of the hut, through the high opening, came the oddity of not one, but two Caucasians. Both were old, with gray in their unkempt hair and beards, dressed in tatty slacks, no blouses, deeply tanned. They waved for quiet. As the hullabaloo subsided, one of the men paced forth and assessed the newcomers with a faint smile.

"Hello trespassers," he said. "Welcome to our mission."
8. Where Wab and Utley Meet The Missionaries

They were invited into the longhouse, out of the sun, and bade to assemble on the ground. Outside the villagers crowded, chattering in frenetic dialect.

"I'm Brother Elijah Zab," the taller of the two said. "Next to me is the esteemed Brother Hannibal Yarmouth."

Wab related their names.

"You must be from the ship at anchor," Zab assumed.

Wab cleared his throat and then nodded.

"What brings you to our sunny shore?"

"Well..." Wab began. He scrutinized Utley, winked, and said, "Like you, we're missionaries, here to spread the word of the Lord."

"Quite right," Utley rejoined. He opened the sack, presenting his Bible.

"Ah, the Lord delivers," Yarmouth pipped. "We've been hard at work on these creatures for a while."

"Exactly sixty-eight years," Zab continued.

"Blimey!" Utley exclaimed. "How old are you fellows? Ninety?"

"One hundred forty-eight years old by my calendar," Zab corrected. "I've constructed one, based on instructions from the Lord. It's all in Exodus, should you care to research."

Utley regarded Wab with a raised eyebrow.

Yarmouth continued, "It's an arduous process, taking these godless souls into the garden."

"Indeed," Wab responded. "We are looking to do the same."

Zab produced a scratched spyglass from a barrel and said, "You came from a warship. I didn't realize they were packing apostles on those boats."

"It's a matter of colonization," Wab answered. "First the people must be indoctrinated, then assimilated."

"I see," Zab said, pitching the spyglass aside. "Well, you should go back to your ship. Tell them these people are in good hands."

"Indeed," Yarbrough chimed.

Wab stood and said, "We're not going anywhere. This is where we were plunged. We cannot return."

"Cannot or will not?" Zab asked.

"Sanctify Christ as Lord in your hearts, always being ready to make a defense to everyone who asks you to give an account for the hope that is in you, yet with gentleness and reverence," Utley quoted.

"Ah, Peter," Zab said, nodding. "An apposite digest." He beheld Wab and then asked, "Would you like to say anything?"

"I'll second the passage. We're to spread our word at this place, no other. We were called here."

Zab's tone relaxed as he relayed: "I'd argue you'd rather _not_ be here. I'm not trying to be difficult. The Lord's work is satisfying, but this place is hard. If you are intent on remaining, you will be busy."

"Indeed," Yarbrough said.

"You will see," Zab snickered. "Nothing in the material world, or God's guidance, can prepare you for the toil of this tropical horde."

"We were warned about cannibals," Utley interjected.

Zab laughed and said, "Cannibals? Nay. There are no such creatures here. Perhaps on the other islands. These inhabitants are docile, or they were. Verily, I fear the disruption of their hierarchy. It has become aggressive."

"Indeed," Yarbrough added.

"How so?" Wab asked.

"I'm not a scholar of human behavior," Zab responded. "I can only testify to what I've seen."

Outside, a harsh snarling voice resonated. The noise was supernatural in effect, quieting the villagers. Yarbrough and Zab exchanged worried looks.

"What beast fashioned this sound?" Utley asked.

"Vijji," Zab muttered. "He's the chieftain. I'm afraid he can be snappish. I've weaned the brute of a stupefying tonic and the consequence has been a manifest insolence."

"Precisely," Yarbrough whispered, shaking his head.

Wab walked to the opening, sticking his head outside. The inhabitants were dispersing. Strutting towards the hut was a short, plump islander dressed in the furnishings of a man of high society. The pants were too long for his squat legs, the cuffs dragging through the muck. The white blouse stretched tight across his broad belly, sullied in sweat, tarnished with dirt. Atop his head perched a brown derby beneath which knotty locks spilled out like tiny serpents. His visage was tempestuous; his eyes were narrowed, the mouth tight.

Zab placed a hand on Wab's shoulder and whispered, "Vijji is he. Please, while we have a moment, let me indoctrinate. The more you understand, the better equipped you will be." Zab sat, fanning himself with a straw hat, and waited for Wab to sit.

Then he launched into a rambling tale:
9. Where Zab Talks

"There were six of us in the beginning. Only Brother Yarbrough and I remain. The others died of malady, with the exception of Guinnup. He chose to leave this world by his own hand. He grew wrathful. Ferocious! Disregarding scripture, he sought solace in misery. I won't speak of him again.

"We made contact with the heathens in less than a fortnight. Had we not, I suspect we'd have perished. God delivered us to them, to redeem them by saving us. In my estimation an equitable trade, considering the ignorant squalor these heathens tenanted. Our passage was a merchant vessel, the clipper _Timmy_ , out of Salem. The captain promised to bring provisions, but never returned. I observed the waters daily, seeking reprieve. Over time, I've accepted this will not occur. Imagine my surprise to see your vessel squatting in the waters. 'Twas only a warship, not the _Timmy_. Verily, I am committed to staying. It is my fate. But for a moment of weakness I let myself dream of swimming for the comfort of civilized man.

"When we arrived at this village, we were hailed with caution. It was larger then. Through rudimentary communication, I learned it was named Vijjivu. This island they also call Vijjivu. You could say the people have a simple method of categorization. I subscribe their modest thoughts to a stupefying herb smoked in pipe."

"Precisely," Yarbrough intoned.

"A drug, eh?" Wab mused.

"Yes. But hark, the Good Book has replaced dishonest intoxication for the opiate of the Lord. Let me tell you, it was a chore. These heathens grew sick in withdrawals until the Holy Spirit entered and cleansed."

"Amen," Yarbrough said.

Zab continued, "The chief was a hoary, wrinkled man. Deflated, bedridden... he had no control over his rabble. By the way, his name was Vijji. He promised protection, in exchange for our help. His people were straying, he warned. Desperate, he sought to embrace the Lord, wanted to understand the mystery of the Almighty. I suspect he sought salvation. We strained to deliver this capability.

"Once weaned of the herb, the heathens became receptive to seminary. We built this longhouse for administering teachings. To amass and worship. God was great, our message strong. We thrived. Vijji was pleased. Alas, appalling misfortune provoked discontent. Disease binged on the village. Three of our brothers died, as well as many of the horde. Thankfully they departed this world as Christians. Vijji succumbed, bringing misery to the multitude. They mourned for three years. I sought to assure he was with God, but my enunciations were ignored.

"It's confusing to understand the complexities of the power struggle which followed. I can only relate it in the tawdriest manner. All of these creatures are sons and daughters of the chieftain. The men are named Vijji, the women Vijjivuvijji. There is no variation. I tried to impart Christian names, but to no effect. They co-habitat with each other, producing offspring. Most of these infants are deformed, sick beasts dying shortly after their births. I've blessed so many of these distorted monstrosities, I shan't dwell on it. I've tried to spread this message: God disproves of these unions through the dispatch of defect. Again and again, I've been disregarded. Then there is the matter of what has happened to the gonads of these things. There is an androgynous portion of the population, a-"

"Androgynous?" Utley asked.

"It's a myth," Wab answered. "Fantastic rumors conjured in the brains of wizened storytellers. No such thing exists on this globe"

"Oh, I assure it's no folk story," Zab said. "It be a curse, a mark of Cain. Brother O'Leary, before he passed, sought to strengthen and cleanse the bloodline with our seed. The women were selected, brought into worship for carnal education. We succeeded in conception. It was joyless work. I penetrated my discomfort of comingling with the benevolence of my tool. Once round, the women were castigated by the mass of Vijji's. I harken to describe the purge. They jubilantly tilled our offspring through force. Many Vijjivuvijji died during this process.

"What followed was a protracted battle for the throne. The menfolk who remain are few in number. The champion of this bloodletting is striding to our church now. He dreads no man, only the return of disease. I pledged I will curse his flock with pestilence would he bring harm to Yarbrough or myself. I distress this keeps us alive. He tolerates our presence with the barest supplication. Watch his eyes. They blaze with misadventure. Be warned! We were sworn to celibacy. Our punishment for straying is wrath from the Almighty in the physical hazard of Vijji. If your design is to administer the scripture, you must be habituated with the structure of our community. I beg of you to show decorum."

Zab beseeched Wab, and then Utley, for compliance. The two sat slacked-jawed. It was this look which greeted Vijji as he burst into the hut with bluster.
10. Where Vijji Reveals A Surprising Tribute

"Nammes of newmen," Vijji rumbled. He, like the others, bore a sensuous chocolate complexion, with a bulky nose pulsating in pursuit of aroma.

Zab rose and said, "Chief Vijji, these are Wab and Utley. They are servants of God."

Vijji frowned. "Uh, servs," he mumbled.

"Yes, they are here as emissaries."

The chieftain removed his derby. Hair fell over his face like a waterfall. "Uh, serv nammes Gahd."

Wab observed it was like talking to a child.

Zab nodded and then said, "Yes, they serve God. Like Yarbrough and I."

"Nammes Wab. Nammes Utlee. Nammes Vijji, da chief."

Bowing, Wab motioned for Utley to do the same. Vijji was placated. He sat, almost busting the buttons on his blouse.

"What nammes chief?" Vijji asked. He looked at each man.

"I'm the chief," Zab responded.

"Uh. Nammes Wab, nammes Utlee no pini." Vijji puckered his lips.

Zab looked at the new arrivals and bit his lip. "No pini," he repeated.

"Uh. No pini." Vijji clapped. He rose, brushing the gnarled mane from his face. "Nammes Gahd, bless nammes Wab, nammes Utlee." He stuck the derby on his head.

"God bless," Utley said.

Satisfied, Vijji departed, woofing as he left the hut.

"No pini?" Wab asked.

"The regulation of celibacy," Zab explained. "It's the only law Vijji cares to enforce. He alone wants control of the females."

Wab thought to the Bowery. A thug named O'Neill was territorial like this. Wab put a dagger in his throat.

"Vijji requires a tribute," Zab mentioned nonchalantly.

"We have no money," Utley elucidated.

"No, no. Currency has no value on the island."

"What then?" Wab asked.

"Ahem. As a vow of celibacy, Vijji requires a tribute of the phallus. This...honor is to be paid on the new moon, which is coming shortly."

Utley felt the blood run from his head. Lightheaded, he gasped, "Wha?"

"I'm certain you'd not care if you're devoted to the word of the Lord. Yarbrough and I have been fixed."

_No pini_. Wab understood one flawless definition in their native tongue.

"It's not an awful pain. I'd call it a melancholy throb. The wound is cauterized in an instant."

"Lo!" Utley bawled. He hurdled forward, grabbing Zab's left arm, and cried, "I can't do this!"

Zab patted his hand and said, "Yes, son, you can. Before the ceremony, Vijji allows one final evening of comfort. You can decline, of course. It would be virtuous to abstain. If you choose to comingle, Vijji must be present to observe. For those with the gash, no carnal exploration into the flower. No emission of seed into womb. For those without, you're allowed to penetrate the anus, or the mouth. These acts, I caution, are sodomy. I beg of you to consider the spiritual implications."

"What do you mean _for those without the gash_?" Wab asked.

"It's a strange civilization, me boy. Soon, you'll be one with a slash. As such, the responsibility of providing comfort to those about to face the blade is an obligation."

"Quite," Yarbrough chirped.

"Not all the menfolk are clipped," Wab observed. "Why us?"

"I tried to explain," Zab said, "and you ridiculed. There are no true females on Vijjivu. Vijji has to carve his own."

"But...I've seen women."

"Thine eyes play tricks with the mind."

"Hogwash! I know what this be. A tribute, you said? No, 'tis a castration to establish the pecking order."

"You have all the answers, Brother Wab," Zab said. "See what you think when you become one of Vijji's concubines."

"Bah! You're a broken man and your brain has cracked."

"Nonetheless, Vijji won't let you remain without a tribute. As I was saying, you're allowed one more release. Comingling with the natives is dirty business. If you'd like the luxury of pious arms, I'd suggest unencumbering into Yarbrough or me. It would be an honor to take your last offering."

Utley collapsed, burying his face in hands. "Blimey," he sobbed. "We have to leave!"

Wab was pensive and nibbled on a jagged fingernail.

"Yes," Zab said with glee. "There is no shame in a bid goodbye. Brother Yarbrough and I are capable administrators."

Yarbrough opened his mouth to, no doubt, second this statement, but Wab hushed it shut.

"Utley," he argued, "what kind of prelates would we be if we ran from duty?"

"But..." Utley's eyes crossed as he struggled to make sense of the ironic declaration.

"Boy," Wab trumpeted, "it's been decided from high. We were put here to tend flock. How would it look if we shirked responsibility?"

"Amen," Yarbrough affirmed.

Utley crawled to Wab, tears streaming down his face. "I don't want me manhood chopped," he whimpered.

Wab hugged him and stroked his hair. He smiled at Zab but his mind raged of violence.
11. Where Wab and Utley Conspire

"Take solace this afternoon," Zab tutored. "Rest and unburden from your travels. With a clear head, you may begin your work in the evening." Then they were left alone in the hut while Zab and Yarbrough went to sermon.

Now, Wab had to calm the hysterical Utley. "We must remain unruffled," he ordered.

"This is sick," Utley babbled between hitching breaths. "I'd rather deal with the punishment for desertion. Let's haul to the _Potomac_ , throw ourselves on their mercy. I can handle Cuttler's whip."

"No," Wab argued. "We didn't come all this way to return, tail-tucked, like shunned dogs. Before you do something rash, let me educate. Every problem has a solution. It's a mathematical certainty."

"Vijji has a solution for a problem. It's not one I reckon to receive."

"Aye. There is our problem. Vijji. We must be rid of him and assert domination."

"How?"

"These creatures are docile. There are only a few men amongst them. We must get him alone, quicken his demise. Poof! We take the crown from the king and reign with impunity."

"We have no weapons!"

"Hush. We need none. We have the power of the Lord."

"Discourse? It won't kill a man."

"Of course it can. The Good Book is an apt weapon. Vijji can be handled by the two of us and a blast of scripture."

Utley was confused. He lamented his gullibility. Mother, rest her soul, said he had a sweet heart. Father, in drunken verse, claimed the boy was _weak and gutless, a toy for the callous_. They were both correct, but Father's words forecasted a life of misery Utley was unable to avoid. Lacking self-esteem, he'd always been quick to agree to outlandish entreaties. At the orphanage, the older boys engaged him in unsophisticated lascivious experiments. Utley thought he was creating bonds by being pliable. This compliance bought nothing but shame. On the _Potomac_ it was more the same.

***

The absence of Volk distressed Utley. He could do nothing but dialogue non-stop. Wab, on the other hand, was apathetic.

" _It's a lamentable fate," Utley moaned. "Don't you harbor a shred of sadness?"_

" _At least he had the guts to make a swim for it," Wab professed. "Think of it. Perhaps he made it to shore. He'd be free now, watching us sail to tangle with the Malay gang."_

" _You think he jumped on purpose?" Utley asked with disbelief._

" _I'm certain it was no accident."_

" _Could it be?"_

" _I suppose we'll never know. But tell me, Utley. Lo, look me in the eye. Have you not thought of doing the same?"_

Utley demurred. Of course he had; every sailor in the hold griped about such nonsense.

Wab lowered his voice and confided, "I have, though I wouldn't do it like Volk. I'd pick the right time for such action."

" _When is the right time?"_

" _Hush and attend. Let me relate the particulars."_

***

"Are you listening?" Wab asked.

Utley shook his head and then said, "Sorry, I was drifting into me mind."

"Pay attention," Wab lectured. "The brute Vijji has necessities. Despite his foul odor, he ventures to the pond, or the ocean. He bathes. We must surprise him in purgative behavior. We must drown him, Utley. It's either this, or we strangle him with our hands in the village. Heed. Killing him here would be difficult. He's a large man and sneaking on him would be tricky. Do you follow my words?"

Foul play didn't appeal to Utley, but neither did castration. "Aye," he said. "Aye, I comprehend."

"Good. Once he's dead, we blame a vengeful God for his demise. We must convince the others his behavior was worthy of smiting."

Using God like this was immoral, but Utley remained silent.

"It's the only way," Wab prodded. "I'm not keen to being pruned. Are you?"

"Blimey, no."

"Thus, we must protect ourselves. Our two brothers won't aid."

"We can't wait too long," Utley insisted. "The moon will be new in a few days' time."

Wab bit his lip in thought and then said, "Yes, you're right. Perhaps there is another way."
12. Where Wab Demands And Vijji Accepts

They gathered for a meager supper: a slim meal of fruit, sprigs, and leaves. Lethargic bugs crawled on the fare, making repast a difficult endeavor. Vijji joined them in the hut with a concubine who might have been sister, daughter, mother or brother. The thought made Utley's skin crawl and he stared at the food with anguish.

"Excuse me, Brother Zab," Wab began. "Has Vijji been baptized?"

Vijji was chomping on an unpeeled banana. The fiend stopped masticating when he heard his name.

"Come to think of it," Zab said, "I don't believe he has. He was born before we arrived. We've been rather negligent in baptismal behavior. This is a shameful admission."

Wab smiled and then asked, "Would you mind if Brother Utley and I performed the task?"

"Well... I'm not certain it's necessary."

"Huh? What say you?" Wab was appalled. He threw his mango to the ground. "Bite your tongue! You call yourselves missionaries? How will these creatures ever be saved if they aren't christened?"

"Indeed," Yarbrough testified.

Zab was reticent: "It's tricky work. We mustn't upset Vijji."

"Hush," Wab scolded. "I see this as a necessity. Wouldn't Vijji like to be saved?" He craned his head at the chief.

Vijji was a mess. He discarded his shirt before dinner and the hairy gut protruded over his lap. Bits of banana speckled his face and double-chin. "Uh," he spat, "Nammes Gahd bless Vijji."

"No, no," Wab cried. "Saying you're blessed is like blowing a kiss. You must be washed pure of sin, cleaned in the eyes of the Lord. Tell him Utley."

Utley lowered his eyes as he spoke. He dared not gape at the grotesque chieftain. "Jesus answered, Truly, truly, I say to you, except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God."

Looking confused, Vijji resumed chewing.

"Didn't you tell Vijji," Wab said to Zab, "how he will get sick if he isn't born of the Spirit?"

Zab shifted uncomfortably and mumbled, "Brother Wab, you are being audacious."

"Am I?" Outraged, Wab shot to his feet and confronted Vijji. "You must come, be baptized. We will go at first light."

"Nammes baptease," Vijji boasted. "No nammes sick." He faked a cough, elbowing the woman in her ribs.

"Yes," Wab smirked. "He understands. Once Vijji is baptized, we can convince the rest of the villagers to do the same."

"Indeed," Yarbrough said. "I've always felt this was necessary."

Clucking tongue, Zab was calamitous. "Brothers, you must be gentle with these sheep. This might prove to be a terrifying experience. It might have dire consequences."

"No," Vijji thundered. Everybody jumped. The chief stared at Zab and said, "No, nammes Zab. Gahd nammes Vijji da chief. Da chief nammes Gahd. Nammes Vijji be nammes baptease."

Zab sighed and then said, "Vijji, it isn't...you won't become God."

Vijji grinned and stood. He hugged Wab, then grabbed his "pini" through the pantaloons. His eyes grew enormous.

"You impressed?" Wab asked.

"Ah, big pini. Like sawing... nammes tree." The chief laughed, then motioned to his women. "Commes, nammes Vijjivuvijji. Da chief is nammes Gahd." He meandered outside, girl in tow, and repeated the statement with a chortle.

"He makes me ill," Utley pronounced.

"All the more reason to baptize Vijji," Wab said. "Flush his system of devilish humors."

Zab asked, "What gives you the right to walk into my mission barking commands? You're undoing the hard work I've sought to impart."

"Brother, we must adhere to the trusty chart of faith. If Utley and I must undergo their customary ritual, wouldn't it be fair if Vijji was subject to a Christian ceremony?"

"Indeed, and how," Yarbrough crooned.

"You don't understand Vijji," Zab warned. "He believes you're making him God. I mean... think man! What use are we if Vijji considers himself omnipotent?"

Wab retrieved his mango, brushing it clean of dirt. "Vijji is ignorant," he explained. "We must navigate his spirit in the direction of the Lord. If you won't make the effort, Utley and I will. It's no wonder the disposition of this society is immoral. Look at how they dress, or I say lack dress. This insult is directly related to your laziness. You've been content to plant the seed, but not water the soil."

"Indeed," Yarbrough acknowledged.

Between mouthfuls of mango, Wab concluded, "Lest you forget your duty, Utley and I were sent by the Almighty to remind. You must relent and let us conduct the baptism. The rest will work itself out, God willing. Have conviction, Brother Zab."

"Amen," Yarbrough peeped.
13. Where Wab and Utley Make a Speech

After supper, the community gathered in the center of the village. A large pyre was lit, the perky fire raging sunny in the shadowy dusk.

"It's time for the evening blessing," Zab stated to Wab and Utley. "I would ask you recite a supplication."

Wab saw the entire of the village huddled around the conflagration, peering at the hut. He counted about one hundred souls, including a handful of children. The woman from the pond, the one who established diminutive communication, stood next to Vijji. He felt instant possessiveness.

"I've never been one to lecture," Utley troubled. "I'm not much of a speaker."

"It's time we overcome our shortcomings," Wab articulated, putting his arm around Utley's shoulder. "There will be many acts we need to become comfortable."

The four men strolled unhurried to the furnace, Zab at the head of the procession. The villagers hushed, studying the strangers before bowing their heads.

Zab began with the Lord's Prayer, followed by a blessing for Vijji. Amused, the chief patted his stomach. When Zab was through, he beckoned Utley and Wab. "These messengers from God arrived today, on a ship from the other side of the world. They're here to make our transition easier. Brother Yarbrough and I are grateful for their presence, thank God. Brother Utley, Brother Wab, please say a few words on your behalf."

Wab nudged Utley with his shoulder. With the heat of the fire at his back, Utley composed himself. "I would like to thank the Lord for blessing me with the chance to serve the great people of Vijjivu. It is a miracle I find myself in front of you today. I am grateful for the opportunity." All of it was lie, of course, and he finished as quick-as the words could be passed from brain-to-mouth.

Vijji immediately jumped up-and-down like a baboon, hooting with passion. The others followed his behavior. The entire throng was in ecstatic chaos, their naked parts bouncing in blasphemous salutations. Wab waited for them to settle before he took his turn.

Scouring the mass with scorn he launched into a tirade. "Like Brother Utley, I too am grateful. I'm thankful I was delivered to your shore before it was too late! You people are beyond retribution! You need the Lord to save you! Let us begin our work in earnest, with no cause to hesitate. Amen!" Wab bowed his head, awaiting the response.

It was the same. Vijji screeched, danced, and his followers mimicked the vivacious behavior. "Do they know what I've told them?" Wab asked Zab as the natives gyrated.

Zab said, "You can see the shortcomings I've been dealt."

***

While Yarbrough and Zab dozed, Wab lay awake listening to the cicadas. Utley tossed on the ground near him, unable to sleep.

"It's useless," Utley whispered. "My mind is rotating."

"Aye," answered Wab.

"I feel trapped."

"Avast! If you trust in your Lord, you'd take solace everything has a reason."

Utley was skeptical and asked, "Do you believe this?"

Wab didn't rely on superstition, but he knew opportunity when it presented itself. "Utley, we're in a better place than on the _Potomac_."

Utley leaned up on his elbow and demanded, "Care to explain how?"

"We have the ability to control our condition."

"By endangering ourselves?"

"Did you think this expedition would be otherwise? What were your suppositions when we left the vessel? This island is full of danger. We need to use what we're provided to survive until the next boat comes."

"I must be naïve. I didn't expect this," Utley reflected.

"Listen man, by exerting our will, we can flourish in this cesspool. It's a matter of a little manipulation. If you won't take heed of the Lord, let me be your guide."

"Murder, though. I distress the consequences."

"Does the Lord kill when it suits him? You must think beyond your comprehension of morality. It's either this or the fate of those doddering men sleeping adjacent us."

The prone figures snoozed in the grip of irrelevance.

"I suppose," Utley demurred.

"No, no, don't suppose. I need you to be compliant in collusion. If you falter in resolve, we will both end up mutilated, or worse."

"Let me say a prayer for him," Utley necessitated. "I can't be a participant if I don't satisfy my soul."

"As you desire. Now, let's catch a kip. Tomorrow is approaching. We must be sharp."

His mind turbulent, Utley lay down. Beside him, Wab began snoring.
14. Where Vijji is Baptized

Daybreak on the island was a budding floret.

Sun burst o'er eastern ridge, spreading across the tops of green trees, filling the sky with orange. The air steamed with the first strands of sunshine as Wab emerged from the hut. He was naked and, by the look of his pini, excited. Utley trailed behind, dressed in grungy pantaloons. Alone with Zab earlier, Wab demanded he and Yarbrough remain to oversee morning services, to organize the others for their baptisms. These events would transpire over the coming hours.

"We will take the males," Wab said. "One-at-a-time."

"This event should be celebrated by the lot," Zab argued. "They should glorify in the reclamation of soul."

"Oh, they will," Wab responded. "Those baptized will stand by the pool. I don't want the non-believers clouding the service. I'm afraid of their collective agitation. Once cleansed, they will be our passive flock. Begin sending them every few minutes."

Wab strolled to the center of the village beside the smoldering ashes of the pyre, watching. The natives began to gather outside their huts rubbing sleep from their eyes. Vijji burst from his abode in a blouse, raising his hands to the sky.

"Uh," he snorted, "Vijji nammes Gahd."

Wab bowed and then said, "Today is a great day for Vijji. He will be reclaimed by the Lord."

"Wab nammes Vijji Gahd," the chief proclaimed.

"Yes, Vijji."

While the villagers watched, the three departed for the pond. Vijji waved at his people, for the last time, with a wide smile.

***

"I'm worried our brethren are overstepping their bounds," Zab confided. He and Yarbrough observed the trio climbing out of the valley until they were absorbed by the wilderness.

"They are enthusiastic disciples," Yarbrough commented. "We've become too domesticated. Young blood needs to take the reins when the elders are unable to clasp them."

"Brother Wab seems a devious lad. We must be observant."

Yarbrough stroked his beard. "I enjoy his fervor. I think I lost my passion on the night of our castration. It seemed an unnecessary stroke of destruction."

Zab considered the haunting memory: the invocation, the pain, the blood gushing from him like an unplugged weir. Then he remembered the scalding and the smoke rising from the wound. So fraught with the ache in his abdomen, he scarcely comprehended his limp phallus tossed from Vijji's gory hands into the depths of the pyre. He shuddered, and understood odious sin was responsible for the mutilation. From this awful deed came the cleansing of his wanton desire. Zab expected the same from the new disciples. He would wait patiently for the new moon.

"Let us prepare the flock for their baptism," Zab instructed. He and Yarbrough began gathering the men.

***

Vijji conversed in rapid, unintelligible statements. He beckoned to trees, pests, and achene, babbling like a baby. Wab grinned senselessly to the monologue.

When they arrived at the pond, Wab instructed Vijji to remove his shirt.

"Vijji nammes Gahd," the chief repeated, slipping off the garment. His simple nattering filled Utley with regret. This was like slaying a child.

Wab jumped in the water, assisting Vijji with his hand. Utley joined with torpor. With Vijji in front of them, Wab squinted at his companion.

"Chief Vijji," Utley queried, "do you take the Lord as your savior?"

Vijji murmured incoherent noises.

"Do you renounce all others for the one true God?"

"Da chief da Gahd!"

"Vijji has accepted God, thy will be done."

With a flourish, Wab spun Vijji around, putting his arm around the thick neck. He slowly sank to his knees, dragging Vijji's head below the surface. For a moment, Utley saw Vijji's joyful eyes focus on his. His face was cherubic, surrounded by the floating tresses. As Wab tightened his catch, Vijji's expression became distorted. His mouth opened in a silent scream, while arms and legs thrashed the water. The splashing was defiant. Wab struggled to control the slippery victim.

"Quick, sit on him," he demanded.

Utley leaped on the body. His world became a torrential tempest of limbs, liquid and exhalations. Vijji rolled, but Wab held fast, breathing hard. As life seeped from Vijji, Utley retreated, viewing the final spasmodic reflexes of the bloated figure from the shore. When Vijji was no more, Wab released his clutch, his face bright red. He stood over Vijji's corpse, urinating with embellishment, as yellow water speckled brown skin.

"That wasn't such a chore," Wab said wiping his hands.

Speechless, Utley fell on his rear.

"We shan't get too comfortable," Wab instructed. He grabbed Vijji's hair, guiding him to the edge of the pond. "More are coming."

"Wha?"

"Yes, the whole lot of men. I counted thirty last evening. Best help me with Vijji before the next one arrives."
15. Where Wab and Utley Return to the Beach

It was actually thirty-two, counting the two young ones. Wab took care of the children himself. They averaged eight kills an hour, pulling the dead into the bushes until they piled atop each other. It was a grueling slog, and in short order the revulsion of homicide gave way to the annoyance of repetition. It helped no native questioned the situation. As directed, they went into the water as prattling mortals, emerging as hushed corpses.

"If there is a God," Wab proclaimed, "they are cavorting with Him now. You cannot say we're not doing the Lord's work, eh Utley?"

They were finished before the sun was overhead, throwing the last body into the verdure like garbage. Utley restrained the urge to vomit as he stared at the discarded carrion. The wild creatures will feast for months, he thought.

Wab took one final plunge in the pond. While he frolicked, Utley tried to reconcile the awful deed he'd participated. It was an appalling mistake, assured cognizance. It was this or castration, reason argued. Perhaps Wab knew they were all cannibals, he rationalized. However, nothing conjured justified the feelings he harbored. Switchbacks named shame, wickedness and sorrow were mere staging points ascending a Herculean mountain. Guilt was the blinding snow peaked summit and he stood knee-deep in slush. These poor men wouldn't be dead if it wasn't for him. How could an act of desertion lead to _this_?

"Feeling better?" Wab asked as he stepped from the water.

"Blimey, I'll never feel right about me self, Wab."

"Aye, it may haunt your conscious. The first man I killed...I see him in my dreams on occasion."

"Vijji?"

"Gawd no! Vijji wasn't my virgin. Me first was a roughneck in the Bowery. I stabbed him on Lafayette Street. He was a thief who'd robbed me once. Me pappy was a pickled sot, but he taught this boy one thing. You let a man steal and he'll keep coming for more. After a bit, you'll both enjoy the arrangement. It's a cruel world, Utley. You got to decide which side of the equation you fit. Victim or vanquisher?"

Utley looked at his hands and said, "Man ain't divined into two factions."

"You believe not? You think good and evil aren't the absolute demarcation. Mayhap you need to study the Good Book you tout like a talisman, and scrutinize those doodles. I'm not a scholar of ancient scribbles, but there is one thing the scripture has correct."

"What we've done is not a pious act. The Lord wouldn't sanction-"

"And there be your problem. While Vijji is sawing-off your cock, you'd take solace in turning cheek."

"We could've left, like Zab said. Like we fled the _Potomac_...go somewheres else."

"Don't be thick. They're different situations, man. You need smarts to know what can and can't be conquered. The thug I was telling you about...the bastard who robbed me. In the Bowery, if you get pegged as chum the scavengers will pick your flesh clean one nibble at-a-time. I decided the next would be the last, and it was. Once you develop teeth and bite, you catch a wide berth. Aye, he never saw it coming. I pricked his jugular with me dagger. A lucky bash for virginal hands, but my aim was adroit. As if I was designed for bloodletting. I recollect I felt the apprehension you tickle now, but I wrapped me brain around the necessity of the act. Truth is, I had no choice, just like we had no choice to dispatch Vijji and his horde."

"You weren't caught?"

"Nay, not then. I got pinched a year later for killing a pimp on Bleeker Street. I didn't bat an eyelash when it came time to dispatch the fiend. He was unsavory and nasty. Treated me sis with malice. She'd come home cut and bruised. I found him one night. He, as always, unrepentant and insulting. Me, a lad. Of course, he dismissed my presence. I'm certain he'd wrestled with worse. But ah! He never saw it coming either, the knife I'd sharpened for hours on a butcher's stone. We scuffled. I managed to notch him a few times but he ran off. The coppers found him bleeding out, gave them my name before he died. They hauled me in, tossed me about. Frug was what he called hisself. The coppers told me Frug was a degenerate, but they'd give me a choice. I could go to jail or join the Navy. I figured I'd have a better chance of escape with the Navy. Aye, was I a perceptible lad?"

"Blimey, you got quite the body count."

"As do you," Wab said, nodding towards the corpses.

"And I ain't the least proud."

"Settle your soul. All this couldn't be avoided. We solved our problem. Now we need to think of a solution for the next dilemma. Life is a continuous set of complications, with a predictable resolution."

"Killing isn't always the answer," Utley protested.

"Not always, but most of the time." Wab ambled along the stream and then called, "Enough debate. What's done is done. This dialog is a conundrum our simple brains can't solve. I'm going to peep the shore, see if the _Potomac_ is at anchor."

"I'll come," Utley said. The thought of sitting with the dead bodies made him queasy. They tackled the trail through the bush, emerging to the spot where forest met beach. Spread out before them, wide hopeless ocean, dotted with whitecaps. Where sea and sky met, the horizon stretched bare to Utley's dismay. The _Potomac_ had sailed on. Had the frigate been staid at anchor, Utley would've had no compunction. He'd sprint to the water and make a swim for the vessel. Instead, he faced the blank canvas from his marooned home with trepidation.

"As I expected," Wab surmised. "She's gone. We're our own masters of this world."

"What are we going to tell the villagers when we return?" Utley wondered aloud. He hadn't considered this until he embraced his estrangement as a forgone fate.

"You leave this discourse to me. Whatever happens, remain by me side. We must show solidarity in the tumult."

"Will the natives be stormy? I desire no harm to the women."

"Neither do I. I'm not speaking of the females, Utley. They will bend to our whims so long as we are strong and demonstrative. Did you not see the hold Vijji inspired by his primal gestures? They'll be submissive. It is Zab and his capon I fear we need to address. This is our next tricky puzzle. Fret not, I've an idea."

"I'm certain you do."

Wab gently stroked the locket hanging from Utley's neck. "Pay attention to my words. This is what we shall do..."
16. Where Wab and Utley Return To Vijjivu

Zab pushed aside the gawping rustics blocking his way. The lot of them snarled the path, inspecting Wab and Utley as they roved from the jungle. It was late in the afternoon; Vijji hadn't been seen since he'd departed.

The inhabitants became agitated as their wait stretched late into day. They'd speculated amongst themselves in boisterous merriment about the new powers Vijji would gain after the baptism. Zab strained to explain, first with patience but later with annoyance, Vijji would have the capacity for eternal reclamation. It was an intangible quality without measure, lodged in the heart, he said, thumping chest. His pontifications fell on heedless auricles. Their existence centered on their chief. Without his direction, they were impassive chickens, pecking at filth. Zab sought to distract them with a section from the Good Book. His octaves failed to inspire enthusiasm.

At last Wab and Utley emerged, but alone. Zab heard clamoring outside his hut, felt the footfalls of the natives thundering to meet them. He snapped his Bible shut, inhaled the disturbed dust kicked by anxious feet and prayed the Lord give him strength to weather whatever tempest Vijji's baptism created.

Then he beheld only Wab and Utley in his scrutiny, the obscene visage of Wab's pini swinging freely as if mocking Zab. Enraged, but unable to explain his sudden emotion, he burst forward scattering the villagers. Yarbrough dawdled behind like a kept woman.

"Where is Vijji? Where are the other men I sent to you?" Zab demanded as Wab approached. The naked man carried something large in his hand. His eyes narrowed on Zab with contempt. Zab comprehend the object at the last second, a large rock with jagged appendages, before it struck him in the head.

He fell like weak timber; the gaunt body flexed a puff of dirt as it hit the ground. Wab struck a second time with the ragged stone. Zab's skull cracked as if it was an eggshell. Wab stood over him, debating another blow. Zab stared at his attacker, fixed eyes starburst with broken blood vessels, and tried to work his mouth. He emitted a thin, weak peep. Mollified, Wab turned to the villagers.

They shrunk from him as he grew erect. Wab found the woman he desired, gazed at her, dwelling on lurid fantasy before pointing at the immobilized Zab.

"This creature is an abomination," he declared. "He's misled all of you. He is a false prophet. So is his partner. Both of them have conspired to destroy you with their lies."

Yarbrough protested in ragged bursts of incomprehensible verse. Wab raised the gore-soaked rock, quieting the trembling man.

"Vijji is dead," Wab professed. The blow of his words was worse than any physical punishment he could've inflicted. The group immediately understood what he meant. Shocked, they looked at the ridge. "Vijji is not there. He's in the sky." Wab indicated the blue firmament and said, "All the men are with him. They were punished for the lies you've chosen to believe."

The creatures remained rooted in skepticism. Impatient, Wab raised his arms and looked at the sky. "God has given me a message. He implores you to listen."

"Hogwash," Zab croaked. He'd regained control over his body and sat-up.

"Ah, the heathen speaks," Wab mocked. "You'd say anything to deflect the Lord's wrath."

"It is you who shall feel his wrath, false prophet."

"No, Zab, it is you who'll feel the rage. I ask the people of this village what shall we do with the villain Zab? Has the Lord not taken the chief Vijji because of Zab's dishonest representation? What could be an apt punishment?"

Zab remained defiant and said, "I've done nothing wrong! People, listen to me, this is a ruse! He is spreading lies!"

Wab threw his rock at Zab and then whispered, "Hush, heathen. Save strength for your trial. You're wasting energy by protesting."

The villagers didn't understand the complexity of the power struggle, nor did they comprehend the conversation between the two men. Wab saw confusion scrawled upon their countenance and cleared his throat.

"Friends of paradise," he began in a solemn tone, "it's clear to me now why I've been sent to you. Pay attention to my words and heed their importance...
17. Where Wab Details His Plan

"The Lord's trinkets are buried on this isle, submerged in sand, planted beneath trees. The wandering eye of the wastrel is blind to the locations of these artifacts. A discerning eye, probing for the locations of the Lord's relics, can stumble upon them, but only through the clarification of a talisman. Behold!"

Wab beckoned Utley to his side and fingered the locket hanging from his neck. "Yes, like a divining rod, this ornament showed us the way!"

A murmur rippled through the villagers.

Wab smiled. "Do you understand, my friends? Buried in the tangled vines are instructions from God, wondrous passages of compliance and education. Utley and I have found them and will impart their directives. Lo! Was I upset Vijji and the rest were struck down by the Lord? I say, you'd be hard pressed to find a creature more agitated than I. There was no sense to be made by the culling. We sat on the ground and cried, waiting to be taken next. Ah, the Lord spoke to us through vibration. This piece of a metal glowed red hot and strained against the chain, yanking poor Utley in tow. He was powerless to do anything but follow its pull. Do I deceive?"

Utley shook his head and swallowed the knot in his throat. "Is plain fact," he acquiesced, plastering a smile on his face.

"More lies," Zab squawked.

"We can skip the trial if you don't shut yer mouth," Wab warned.

"Trial? What pretense of judgment do you lay claim?"

"Of me own, you clipped man."

"Thy own, not the good Lord above. You are malevolent."

Wab squatted in front of the man's face and said, "No, you are the maligned. I shall prove it by flushing your soul from stalk and discarding it to the breeze. These simpletons will become my flock and your existence will be but a rumor. Your demise will be a specimen for their simple minds to recall. You and your doddering capon."

"The Lord won't be a hand to your activities," Zab protested.

"We shall see, won't we?" Wab stood and raised his hands. The natives watched his theatrics with increasing unease. "The necklace guided to unadorned text on a smooth bedrock slate, upon which the words of the Lord were inscribed. It announced the bitter denouncements of this fragile man. I was hesitant to accept the assertion but...a trial to test faith is in order. This will prove the merit of either your claim or mine."

"'Tis a rigged game," Zab muttered.

"Spoken like a heretic."

"Nothing shall be proven but your evil. These creatures will see you for the scoundrel you are."

Wab lowered his arms, smirked, and said, "Doubtful."

***

Under Wab's direction, a hole was dug near the pyre while Zab screeched and gyrated, Wab standing menacingly behind him.

"Thy medallion is the tool," Wab announced, "and the words on the tablets buried in the jungle are decoded through thy jewel."

"Lies!" Zab yelled. He was trussed ankle-to-wrist by hefty vines.

Wab stood over Zab and crossed his arms with annoyance. "How he continues to screech in defiance! What does the Lord say of liars, Utley?"

Utley cleared his throat and looked at his feet. "Proverbs 12:22," he said. "Lying lips are abomination to the Lord."

Wab said, "Notice how I don't stem your orifice. Plead until your tongue grows tired. We shall see how the Lord handles your blabbering."

Zab closed his mouth until it was a firm line upon his face.

"This trial will prove one of us a liar," Wab continued, raising his arms. "A gruesome death or a grand testament. Let's see how the Lord chooses to work." He snapped his fingers and pointed. Utley grabbed the man's feet and dragged him to the hole. Zab struggled but did not speak. After he was deposited into the earth, Wab began throwing kindling on him. The natives watched wide-eyed until the man was covered in sticks.

Wab procured a hefty branch and handed it to Utley. "Make haste with the flint and produce a torch."

"Blimey. I can't do this, Wab."

"Seek comfort in knowing you can. It is a pure cleansing of this unfortunate creature's misery. He is in great pain, deprived of manhood and made to suffer on this rock. Let's go forth with the plan and make our paradise ripe."

Utley stared at the stick.

Wab put his hands on Utley's shoulders and groused, "My God, man, must I entreat you to do everything. This is a necessary purge lest we live like beggars. Once removed, Zab will be free and so will we. Free from his arcane drivel."

"Such barbarity is beyond comprehension."

"'Tis necessary if we are to be masters of our own domain. Go on, make heat," Wab said, delivering a firm push to Utley's chest.

Yarbrough, trussed and kneeling, stared at Wab with a quivering lip.

"You watch your man," Wab told him. "Behold his pain. Find in him the limit of your endurance. Zab will be a worthy emulation."

"Indeed."

"So you croak."

"What then, sir?"

"What then? I mean no harm to you. Compliance is my desire. Be ripe with my way or be gone. The choice is not mine, 'tis yours."

Utley returned with a healthy flame on the head of the branch. Wab grabbed it from his hand and walked to the hole. He lifted the fire and the natives retreated like dumb animals.

"Now we shall see how God determines the nature of this creature," Wab surmised. He bent down, touching fire to tinder.

"No!" Zab screeched. "No!" He tried to roll but the spark ignited and spread. Within seconds the blaze was bouncy. Zab screamed as thick, white-gray smoke billowed skyward. Wab stepped back as the temperature of the pit intensified. Soon nothing could be seen but the red of fire. The crackling was sharp and lasted longer than Zab's wretched wails. The natives edged closer but Wab waved them back with his torch.

"The Lord has made his judgment known," Wab declared, dropping to his knees. The natives followed suit. He tossed the stick into the pit where it was consumed by the conflagration.
18. Where Wab Feeds His Flock

It took some time for the fire to retreat. An hour later the pit glowed in weak light, emanating thin streamers of gray smoke smelling of cooked meat and wood. Wab stared into the hole and beheld Zab's crispy body beneath the tangle of charred sticks.

"What next?" Utley whispered.

"What does the Lord say about wasting?" Wab asked as he rubbed his chin.

"Wasting?"

"This is a meal. We can feed this group and ourselves. Better than fruit and leaves. Meat, Utley, juicy and sustaining."

"I'm not comfortable with this idea."

"We shall endure ourselves to their stomachs before we shall claim their bodies."

Utley raised his hands and claimed, "I desire no such repast. I'll be satisfied with fruit."

"No you shan't. If we are to be the leaders you must partake."

"Blimey, Wab! You can't be serious."

"Waste not, my friend."

"If it's this or starving, I'll fancy a gnawing hunger than a chubby conscious."

Wab strode to Utley and leaned close, whispering in his ear, "We must eat."

"But why, for God's sakes?"

"This is man's fate. Behold! Reduced to carrion. Consuming Jesus is part of the Eucharist, is it not?"

"Zab is not Jesus."

"No, but witness how I feed my herd with this bounty. Watch." He grabbed a stick and skewered a piece of Zab's crunchy flesh. The portion of charred skin streamed with reedy tendrils carrying petite pongs of a honeyed bouquet. Wab blew on the chunk before sinking his teeth into beef. Rivulets of grease ran down his chin as his jaw strained to rip fibrous strands. At last he tore a hunk and masticated with noisy demonstration.

The villagers gasped and took tentative steps forward.

"Is virtuous," Wab pronounced after swallowing. "Eat," he instructed, pointing at the smoldering pit.

Nobody complied, at first, until Utley sighed and grabbed a splintery spike. He helped himself to brochette and prayed God understood this blasphemous act was an extemporaneous sin. Unplanned transgressions were the work of malevolence. And eating Zab's sinewy epithelium defined the profanest malice.

The natives watched Utley consume a petite portion and chattered. Wab smiled and spread his arms. Soon, shrieking like starved primates, the indigenous picked apart the pyre and devoured Zab until blackened bones remained. His skull, picked clean, leered with crude indifference.

Though the act was repugnant, Utley's bloated belly attested to the satisfaction of collation. All the villagers were sluggish after the improvised feast. They lay like maggots, sullen in the humid darkness of night. Even Yarborough consumed Zab's coarse cuisine and, in short order, collapsed in a stupor of exhaustion. As did Wab who lounged, satiated and plump, like a smug regent.

The satisfaction of a bursting gut gave way to revulsion. "Blimey," Utley whispered, "what next?"

"Huh?" Wab asked. "What next? You don't want to leave, do you?"

"I don't desire to stay."

"And go where?"

Utley looked around. The pit with bones, stripped natives, the incessant wet pall of Equatorial mugginess, marooned on a bleak speck of island, removed from civilization and left to laze with savages...this described the situation.

"We have a right fine dominion," Wab argued. "You and I can be the masters of paradise."

"Masters of what? I see nothing resembling paradise."

"Use your imagination. What we desire can be constructed. Think, man. We'll have no apprehensions, no trepidation."

"I fear homesickness and missing the conveniences of evolution. These people are simpletons and mired in ancient methods."

"You don't give them enough credit," Wab scoffed. "They have yet to be guided by the sure hands of architects. Instead, they've been relegated to drawing squiggles." He stood, stretched, and walked to Yarborough. "Yes you, fossil, kept these rubes from progressing with your rudimentary religion and groveling."

Yarborough opened his eyes, yawned and then asked, "Say what, dear chap?"

Wab stood over the man with hands on narrow hips, giant phallus dangling inches from the missionaries sunburned and drawn face, and said, "Sham deafness won't cease my talking. You heard what I said."

"I fake nothing," Yarborough pronounced, avoiding prolonged eye-contact with the flaccid serpent. "As a retainer of God, I profess scorn for the accoutrements of the Devil. These people are pure in naivety and the ripest fruit to be tasted by the Good Lord's teeth."

"Ah... you should mean to say the fangs of His serpent mouth."

"Never!"

"Regardless, you and your comrade were complicit in spanking life from these energetic souls."

"We tried to give them life!"

"By drowning them in religion?"

"It is you who drowns," Yarbrough hissed. The display of angst from the erstwhile tame gentleman made Wab flinch and retreat a step. "Yes, I said it. You. You and your murderous companion."

"Well," Wab observed, "the man gets real food in him and he becomes possessed. Perhaps it's true what they say about the transferring of soul. You've been spiced by Zab's perky seasoning."

"I mean to point out your hypocrisy."

"The irony is exquisite," Wab laughed.

"Leave me be. I've suffered enough degradation today."

"And it has clouded your mind. Do you not see I've given this rabble subsistence? I've freed them and imparted sentience. Through the stomach comes emancipation."

"A mind you mean to cuddle," Yarborough said as he looked at Wab's organ.

"It appears you have all the answers. Fine. You're lucky I'm in too decent a mood to debate. Just this fair warning: don't step on me toes. I tolerate only a smidgen of disrespect. Ask our dinner," Wab said, rubbing stomach. "I'm off to make water, Utley. And then, perhaps, a steaming mound of our old, keen friend. One can never be sure about these gut rumbles. Keep an eye on our future feast. Ha-ha!"

"You know," Yarbrough confided after Wab was out-of-earshot, "this man is a tumor."

"I wonder his motivation," Utley confessed. "Yet without his guidance I would be dead."

"We all die. There is no man capable of preventing nature from taking its sacrifice."

"What is your point? Why did you grovel to prevent your demise if your outlook is pessimistic?"

"I don't know. The smell of poor Zab stirred the juices of my hunger. Now I stare at the hole where he roasted and regret greediness. I've sold my soul for a morsel of man. The savor of real food. What a foul creature I am."

"Don't judge yourself."

"Who would I be if not my worst enemy? I am capable of rendering verdict. I know my heart. It beats because I fear the moment it no longer does. Yet all my life I've sworn to trust in Gods will. Let thine light guide, o'mighty Lord. At my moment of redemption I strayed from bright goodness."

"It is this way because God desires," Utley argued.

"Bless your heart for trying to keep me on an even keel, but your explanation defies what I've spent my life preaching. I'm a fraud. Please, leave me alone. Strike conversation with one of the other urchins. I'm a miserable sot who has a stomach ache and a black heart."

Utley moved to console the fragile soul but Yarbrough shrunk from his shadow. Instead, he lay back and let his eyes feast on the obscurity above. The light of stars bore the coming of night and the half-sphere of moon hung in the damp cosmos. In this state he closed eyes and slipped into a dreamless slumber. Soon his snoring mixed with the sounds of indigenous kipping. A loud, unified siesta settled over the village.
19. Where Wab Finds Succor

Wab returned from emptying his bladder to find Utley insensible. Yarbrough, too, curled like a fishhook. Many of the villagers had also passed into blackout. Amazing to consider what power food had over body. But Wab...he was not tired, not in the least. Emboldened, he walked amongst the nursery of natives and contemplated the flock he'd put to bed.

This was what he imagined in the coarse, dingy, sleeping quarters of the 44. The frigate creaked and swayed, and with it the scruffy cots plump with tanned, exhausted sailors...but not Wab. While they collected winks, he premeditated a future outside the custodial light oak hull.

His sister once told him the mind conjured two worlds: one domain reigned with tangible spite; the other was a flight of fancy. When the concrete realm grew too agonizing, musing lulled and undertook relief.

"Anything you want," Sister promised, "exists in abundance. No matter how awful the present, you can escape to the pretend. Let your soul live there. One day, brother, you'll find yourself unencumbered by mortal cloaks. A glorious escape awaits."

Sister bragged of a place Wab needed creativity to distinguish. The foul borough lurked of loathsome creatures that lived to steal, murder, and violate. Anyplace would've been better than the present. One afternoon, however, he understood what she meant. Sister described the theoretical afterlife, with all its charms. Dying was what she yearned, and with it the freedom from dreaded existence. Wab, meanwhile, didn't want to chase fairy tales. He wanted to be the persecutor, the pimp, the plunderer of all things living. And now he'd found it.

A handful of women, sunk in a dusky, overgrown trestle of bush, blathered with capricious sniggers. He heard their chuckles over the snorts of the sleeping and cocked his head like a curious animal. Following the sound, he tiptoed over the prone until the lair of these lasses loomed. Four of them, sitting on their ankles, arranged in a square and leaned towards the center. Wab caught the aroma of sweet smoke and frowned. What was this?

He stepped closer, crushing a twig. The girls straightened and turned their heads with alarm on their faces. He saw the attractive daughter, Vijji's preferred concubine, among the clutch. (To avoid further confusion, though all female islanders were known by the nomenclature _Vijjivuvijji_ , Wab considered her exquisiteness most suitable for designation. Thus, she would be the one, and only, referenced by this heathenish name.)

Beholding him, relaxed postures resumed as Wab ventured closer. One of the natives held a pipe in her hand and offered it to him with a respectful bow of her head.

"What is this?" Wab asked as he took the object. A ceramic bowl attached to a long, reedy stem, emitted an intoxicating fragrance.

"Nammes Verdilac," she said. Her eyes were wide and attentive. Even in the darkness Wab perceived her amplified pupils. All of them, in fact, vibrated with nervy vitality.

"Ah... 'tis the smolder of Vijji. Was this not deemed a reprehensible intoxicant?"

The brood shrugged in unison.

"Zab claimed a profound dislike of Verdilac," Wab said to himself. "But I know his mind was warped in abstinence. These supple wenches look at ease and I deserve a respite, if I do say so meself."

They watched as he put the shaft to his lips and inhaled. The smoke, an unalloyed spoor, coursed down his throat and into lungs like a breath of fire. Lightheaded in a jiff, Wab coughed and blew the smoldering blasphemy out mouth and nose. There lingered a tickle in the back of his mouth. He swallowed, feeling each drop of mucus coat his esophagus.

The women giggled, amused by his reaction.

"Nammes Verdilac," another said, echoing the first. "Nammes Gahd is near." She pointed at the sky and closed her eyes, swaying and humming.

Wab gazed at the pipe and studied the bowl. A small mound of leafy plant, resembling a boule, smoldered and crackled. The red-hot kernel, lodged in the kink of herb, provided spirit for the puff. Intertwined stanches, made orange by the ember and resembling cobwebs, gushed with vigor.

Vijjivuvijji giggled and Wab fixed juddering eyes on her moonlit form. She was shirtless and pristine; large firm bosoms solicited to be fondled. She wore a thatch skirt and unlocked her legs to reveal a dark spate of pubic hair. A green aura clung to her skin and an essence twirled into the sky. Her dark eyes shone with five-pointed bright stars in the pupils. Soon the light consumed her eyeholes and shot from her ears and mouth. Wab felt lightheaded as he perceived the sight. It looked like a fire burned in her temple.

"Nammes Wab, our new Vijji," she gushed.

"Aye," Wab slurred. The words sounded elongated and reverberated in his head.

"Nammes Wab, sit," she ordered.

Wab fell to his ass but comprehended no pain.

The others laughed but Vijjivuvijji said, "Nammes Gahd beats," as she thumped her chest.

"Aye," he repeated. "I feel God too." And he did, thudding through every fiber and cell in his body. The sensation was supernatural and Wab tried to make sense of what was happening. The whole world breathed with him, the sky pulsated, and everything seemed sacred. He rocked backwards and stretched on back. What he stared at required concentration. Galaxies rotated, swirling into a miasma of yellow and blue gasses. In the center of this welter, a giant black hole consumed solar systems in greedy gulps of gravity. Worlds reduced to particles the black hole shat. Wab grasped this was God, a consumer of vitality, a parasite. It was not an entity but a consequence of nature.

He let his mind cartwheel into a labyrinth of reflection. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years flipped with rapidity. Inconsequential moments in life unwound while terrible ones blurred past. They contributed to a collage of an unsatisfying existence with no discernable point. Did there have to be one? Did anything matter? Nature consumed galaxies. What Wab did was insignificant.

The magnitude of triviality unraveled like a ball of yarn. His behavior was no greater or worse than a bugs annoying fluttering. Smashed, smote, consumed...the end mattered not.

Vijjivuvijji squirmed beside him but Wab didn't take notice. She stroked his chest, twirled the thin chest hairs, and nuzzled his neck. They laid like this for a spell until Wab felt her tongue taste the inside of his ear. Her seductive lapping and nibbling served as proper stimulus for his libido.
20. Where Wab Makes A Discovery

So they carried on like this, wild groping and puckering lips, until both felt florid passion in their reproductive zones. Wab's organ oozed warmth and vitality. It begged for discharge. The ache of stored essence sent daggers of tetchy knots into his fingers and toes. Vijjivuvijji rollicked in time to his gyrations, feeling the phallus rub against her leg.

Wab removed, with the swiftness of a magician, her grass skirt and crawled upon her. Vijjivuvijji smiled and stared into his eyes as his hand wandered towards her crotch. There was a warm wet spot down there, Wab knew, begging for him like a ravenous child. He felt in this furtive plot until he found something peculiar. There was no moist cavern attached to this harlot. No. In fact, what he discovered drove a bolt of confusion into his eyes. A nubby protrusion, attached to which were two soft sacks, greeted his fingers. He yanked on the scrotum and Vijjivuvijji moaned.

"What the bloody hell?" Wab asked, withdrawing his hand like it'd been burned. "You're a man!"

She, or he, gripped his face and kissed his lips.

"I can't do this," he said. Buggery wasn't a foreign concept. Men on the ship engaged in blasphemous action. It was considered a crime, but it went unreported and the officers never cared to make inspections during the time-of-night when said deprivations occurred. There was a hierarchy to the ship beyond the formal chain of ratings. Older men, veterans and lifers, sought the youngest recruits. In some cases boys as young as thirteen joined the _Potomac_. Revolting and lascivious behavior took place in the cofferdam. Among the creaking and swaying of ship came wretched howls and frenzied yelps. Wab had never been accosted. One look at him told a prospective suitor this boy wasn't worth a tussle. Utley, on the other hand, had been passed around for a few months until fresh fish arrived. Wab had wanted to ask him what it was like being violated, but the look on Utley's face didn't require elucidation.

"Nammes Wab," Vijjivuvijji cooed, "pini be ready."

"Aye."

"Pini," it murmured, rolling on belly.

Wab groaned. There was a no way to resist desire and, as he stared at the smooth back of Vijjivuvijji, he recalled the revelation nothing he did mattered.

With fumbling digits, he sought to find an orifice worthy of this profanity. The examination was clumsy and his hands shook. He recalled the first time he fornicated with a woman, a prostitute in the Bowery, and how petrified he was. In this respect, he felt like a virgin again.

***

Web whispered, "Wake up."

Utley blinked his eyes. "Wha?"

"I have to talk to you."

"Blimey, man. I was asleep, and deep. The best kip I've had in a fortnight."

"Come on," Wab said, grabbing Utley's elbow.

"What's going on?"

"I have to tell you something."

"Well, speak then."

"Not here. To the hut."

"None of these creatures understand much of what we say. Blow your horn."

"I'd rather keep it between us, if it's all the same."

Utley bit his lip and stood, following Wab to the longhouse. When they were inside, Wab rubbed his chin and sighed.

"Talk, damn you," Utley barged. "Enough theatrics."

"The females are males," Wab blurted. "And the males are females. It's a bizarre confection."

"Wha?"

"Bloody hell. Do you understand what this means? It's hard to fathom, but Zab was truthful."

"About what?"

"The androgynous population."

"Are you sure?"

"I've had a close and personal inspection."

"Is it contagious?"

Web laughed. "You can't be this daft."

"Mayhap I be dumb, but 'twas me who raised the pertinent question of residence. I stress, yet again, we don't belong here. Do you want to remain a denizen among these...beings? They ain't natural, and cohabitating with them is grievous."

"It matters not their orientation," Wab pronounced with grandiosity. "What does your Good Book say about loving thy neighbor."

"You dare quote _that_ after what we've accomplished today? Who's the daft member of our party?"

"A different situation. I mean the literal expression of love."

"With them? How?"

"Use your imagination."

Utley frowned and fashioned the intricate gymnastics in his head. "If it's how I think," he said at last, "it be a sin. Sodomy is a worse sin than murder. You mustn't stray down this carnal path. It twists into a smutty hell."

"And you would know, eh?"

Utley blushed. "Mine was never a willing cohabitation."

"A convenient excuse. You didn't see me rutted in the bunks of the non-commissioned."

"What is your point in bringing this unsavory matter to my sleepy attention?"

Wab gulped and gripped Utley's wrist. "I've been induced to sacrifice me self-respect."

"Wha?"

"They gave me a wizard's toke. The world became surreal and I ached for outlet. Verily..."

"Blimey!"

"Aye, you understand. I couldn't be any clearer."

"Well...take solace you were seduced by turpitude."

"I need no excuse to account for me actions. Strange...I thought I'd feel disgusted, but I'm not the least revolted. I am invigorated. It has to be the smoke lulling my mind into incongruous acceptance."

"At the heart of every act is a modicum of yearning."

"This is a scrap of my personality. Aye, though, like you stated. I craved for a Nirvana to plunge my sword and deserved the sheath I buried it."

"This is randy language, Wab. Try to use decorum in describing your dalliance."

"Ha! This degradation deserves no less a crude description."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing. I had to share this information lest it cause me to burst."

"'Tis guilt which compels."

"Guilt? Nay. Never had I carried compunction for a single act in my life. Not before and not after."

Utley shrugged and turned for the opening. "A shadow world opens to tangible reflection. You should see if your eyes aren't blinded by squalor. In blasphemy you find sight."

"My travail makes you a scholar. If nothing else, take succor in this revelation."

"I take nothing from your actions. By-the-by, I wish you hadn't awakened me with this dilemma. I'm going to retire. Again. Goodnight."

Wab watched Utley walk outside before returning to the improbity of his dazed ambiance. How did he feel? The sensation of copulation was hearty but queer, as if the act was nourishment gained from a mechanical fruitage. There was something to be said about the lack of a face to stare into during the moment of ejaculation.

So be it. Wab had traversed a mystical line of demarcation. He was reminded of crossing the Equator months before on the _Potomac_. Breaking the line entailed a riotous two-day ceremony in which Shellbacks indoctrinated the virginal Griffins. The day the frigate crossed the Line, all Griffins received a paper summons to appear before the court of King Neptune and receive judgement. The embarrassing ordeal included posing in the nude, kissing men dressed as women, and being flogged with mushy sacks of fruit. Grog made the ritual somewhat affable, but the pawing of body by affectionate sailors emboldened by alcohol added to the sense of danger. A few of the boys were taken below deck to be locked in chains and molested. Commodore Downes permitted the activity and watched with a bemused expression. Wab understood denying this rite would've made the sailors mutinous.

Again, as before, Wab didn't suffer at the hands of besotted tormenters. But he saw Cuttler jeering at him throughout. Cuttler, the Royal Baby, naked but for skimpy drawers and lathered in whale oil. Every first-timer over the Line was required to kiss the Royal Baby's belly. There was no avoiding this fate and Wab did so with the quickest of pecks as Cuttler mussed his hair with slimy paws and laughed like a crazed infant.

Wab didn't enjoy this in the least. Or, he told himself as much. Maybe he had. Maybe this perversion for the same gender was borne from the experience of crossing the line. If so, he had the Navy to blame for the sickness. Yet, from this spoiled experience begat a joy of self-discovery. Watch how it bloomed in young Wab's heart! Never had he been so mystified or thrilled by requite. Vijjivuvijji had allowed Wab to perform the surliest act of love and endorsed unfettered access to the coarsest domain of man. This alone had to declare what pedestal Wab found himself in Vijjivuvijji universe. What did this say about love? Desire knew nothing of orientation. Desire had to be expressed.

With a tremble, Web sank to the floor and closed his eyes. The last vital moment of his old robes were cast aside with a haughty shrug. If it was time to coil with the snake, so be it.

Love, he reasoned, knew no hurdles or prejudice.
21. Where Wab Wanders Deeper

Introspection had never been a staple of Wab's diet. Self-reflection was a vegetable, unpleasant and lacking flavor. The confection of existence was sweet indifference. It helped to swim in the brackish swill of sophistry. Imbibe deep in the pool of flawed currents cluttered with strange creatures. Heed! Reality can be constructed in sublime and heartless masochism. All, by-the-by, are worthy ventures. The struggle to overcome hardship is a cruel satisfaction of aspiration. Quenching a thirst is accomplished with urine or water. The difference is the perception of said fluid.

Of course, this slope Wab rolled down was aided by the sled of this wondrous treatment called Verdilac. Whether or not Wab believed his newfound solipsism was the result of consultation with the soul or discourse with the serpent didn't matter.

Utley watched his shipmate transform into a shaggy peripatetic. The ambiguous discourse chirping from his mouth bordered on the fringes of a man suffering delirium. Sundry notions of existence, pleasure, and satisfaction buffeted his robust vocabulary. Utley needed a dictionary to determine the meanings of Wab's lofty words, but even then he wouldn't have understood what it was Wab was harkening. The answers to his riddles lie in the mind of the man who constructed nonsense.

Yarbrough discerned Wab's yammering as a plummet of reason, not the beginning of enlightenment. It was easy to lose track of what was holy and what was profane in intoxication. Wab had drawn into the web of Verdilac and wooed by Vijjivuvijji's unchaste temperament. Wrecked was Wab by lust, and the cunning Yarbrough fashioned a reasonable plan to free himself of horrific enslavement and possible consumption.

"Your friend," Yarbrough began one morning as Utley passed, "has become fragile with the inebriation of these natives' solitary vice."

Utley snarled. Days or weeks passed (he'd lost count of time on the island) in the same, predictable routine of sunrise and sunset bookended by tedious marches to the watering hole or to the shore to spy the sea. The villagers, absent leadership, meandered in a state of undress and bickered with each other. Several factions of women longed to lounge with Wab in the longhouse and congregated with gaudy catcalls and wiggling of breasts or rear ends. They'd become ferocious with each other, snapping jaws and throwing rocks. Wab would cruise the village at times, stumbling with a grin as he stroked the shambolic beard snaking from his face. Always, at his side, was the enigmatic Vijjivuvijji, fusty with the foul mist of sexual ecstasy and desecration.

"He's become sick," Yarbrough said. "Look at how he dribbles with cloying importance."

"Aye, I worry for his sanity."

"The use of Verdilac was a common transgression before Zab restored order. Even then, Vijji consumed vast quantities. Hence his maladroit mood swings. Worse, the natives believe it allows them to perceive their deity. 'Tis a false idol, and your chum has fallen under its spell."

"I see as much."

"Good. Discerning the state of squandered lucidity is the first step in destroying the urge to cuddle with squalor."

"Believe," Utley snapped, "I have no intention of becoming a puppet to intoxication. Me Father drank hisself to a grave and me Mother died a thousand deaths trying to save him before her actual demise. I will be no such fool."

"Amen," Yarbrough whispered. "We are of staid concentration. If your man is incapable of grasping reality, then it will be up to us to seize it from him. Then, God willing, we can restore sanity to this bedraggled lot."

"The problem is Wab seizes too much reality under the smoke. The ether has opened to him in a disturbing manner. His ability to reason has been snuffed by the pert flame of opiate."

"An awful justification for intemperance and deviancy. God help him."

"Listen, despite his shortcomings, Wab has a calculating mind. At the least, I am indebted to him for preventing my neutering. You mean to split us, don't you?"

"Ah, you don't trust me?"

"What about you is trustworthy?"

"I am a man of God. As are you. Wab... he lacks the prerequisites for divine exertion. It is easier for him to be tempted into sin. You know this better than I can describe. And, if you don't, then nothing I say will change your opinion."

"What do you propose?"

"You must rid him of the smoke. It is a chore to wean the disabled of their crutch, but a clear head requires a purge of noxious fumes."

"Go then, speak to him and see how he addresses your supplication."

"He won't listen to me. I reek of Godliness and order. Wab desires no such jacket."

"Quite right, and nothing I can say will change this either."

"No, no. You can talk to the man."

Utley stroked his chin. "I don't-"

"Yes, you can."

"And tell him what?"

"Demand him to regain decorum."

"Does he seem like the kind to care?"

"You can't expect to live like this among such immorality. This is a savage civilization. We can restore order."

"Lo, Yarbrough, there is a side to Wab I fear. He's, at heart, a heathenish lug. This is the order best suited for a man like him."

"You don't have to convince me," Yarbrough said. "I've seen what he's capable of committing. Better now we put a halt to it before his transgressions incur the wrath of God."

"What do you suggest?"

"Like I articulated. A civil discourse should provoke a return to sense. If not, there is no hope for sanity."

"Aye. And if so?"

"If so it becomes an elementary execution in the quashing of malevolence."

"I don't know. Wab cannot be tricked."

"I'm not suggesting trickery. I know the Lord finds dwelling inside your home. Your countenance is pure and your Good Book a worn testimony of devotion. How you were lulled into Wab's ungodly plans is another issue. Most would be cursed with eternal damnation of what you and your friend have done. Incinerating Zab was the roughest method of penance. But see, the Lord allows a chance at redemption. Use this chore to restore goodwill."

Utley gazed at the longhouse and watched a cloud of smoke waft from a window. He heard sounds of merriment and longed to join the festivities. Yarbrough snapped his fingers and drew his attention.

"You must be resolute," he instructed. "Find courage in the strength of God."

"I'll seek His hand," Utley said, "but I promise no certainty. I hope Wab ascertains my desires are honest."

"As our mine," Yarbrough smiled. "In this presumption, you have made a divine covenant armored to any attack."

***

A half-dozen bodies, in various stages of unpretentiousness, littered the floor of the longhouse. Wab, naked and beaming, lay amongst a tangle of limbs. He inhaled from a pipe as Utley entered and emitted an asymmetrical swirl of smoke.

"'Tis my old shipmate," Wab said with a jovial grin. "At last you partake. What a grand scheme we have on this island. Don't you agree?"

"I have yet to partake in the altering plant," Utley answered.

"Come and see what you're missing," Wab ordered as he shoved arms and legs from his demesne. "Please, sit with me and share a wisp. We shall embrace the capricious dimensions together."

"I have not come to be whittled by effervesce," Utley said as he fidgeted with fingers.

"No?"

"Your conduct is worrisome. I thought we'd...our intentions were not to sink into disharmony. We rid our sphere of conflict, but you've took hold of the newest outrage."

Wab frowned and put down the pipe. "This is lofty language coming from you. Who talked you into this confrontation?"

"This is an entreaty from me pure heart. If you cannot see reason, I will stomp from this soil and walk into the deep waters surrounding this island. I'd rather take my chances in the brine than in this bastion of tension."

"I should've known," Wab muttered. "It was the castrated Yarbrough, wasn't it? He's trying to usurp my power. Jealousy brews in his feeble mind. And yours too if you entertain his petition."

"He's concerned, as am I. There is no doubting your state-of-mind. Look at yourself! Tatty, entwined and sullied. You appear uncouth. I am trying to wrestle the demons from your body."

"Such nattering. I should've expected your fragile soul to be slayed by the pathetic braying of Zab's bitch."

"Oh? And who be your bitch? Or are you a bitch to the jumble of Verdilac?"

"Hush. I am nobody or nothings servant. Given our state of freedom, I am shocked by your insolence. Did I not free you from both the _Potomac_ and the pasteurization Vijji desired to implement?"

"Your plan bought us pardon from excruciating travails, but you've become just as impotent in the anarchy of this wretched smoke."

"I'll show you who's impotent!" Wab roared.

Utley backed a step and gulped.

"Perhaps you'd like to be stained like my concubines," Wab said with a leer. "I can make my mark if you desire."

"Blimey! What has happened to you?"

"Bah! You aren't worth the expenditure of fluid. I'll save my hearty seed for Vijjivuvijji."

"This is what I mean. You're a fountain of drivel."

Wab coughed and lowered his voice. "I jest. Ribald humor, you see?"

"I don't find it funny."

"Ah, but you can. Discern the pipe, lying at the feet of these euphoric vagabonds. Take a hit and release your inhibition for a mite."

Utley shook his head and then said, "I don't desire to reside in a dazed state."

"Dazed? No, they are in a world of my design."

"What say you?"

"This potion concocts a kingdom we can manipulate. Behold the power."

"I don't know..."

"What is your hesitation?"

"Shall I repeat my monologue? Or would holding a mirror to your visage suffice?"

"I determine my image in your eyes."

"Could you do a better job of fabricating said appearance?"

"Ha! A stitch, as always. Humor is the marriage of intelligence and honesty. Sir, you are the perfect mate."

"Your flattery is a designed feint. I am no smarter than a sea star, and less so if I ingest the pollution of mind-bending tinctures."

"Eh? The foggy effluence from the bowl is potent smog bestowed by the Creator. Without ink the quill imprints invisible scratches on parchment."

"Blimey. How can I joust with your addled logic? 'Tis a lost cause."

"Let's forgo duel and embrace companionship. Rise to my level, Utley, and refurbish my faith in your judgement."

With an aggrieved sigh, Utley studied the pipe as Wab watched wide-eyed.

"I suppose a puff wouldn't hurt," Utley reasoned.

"Yes man, a draft won't wound."

"I pick up and inhale?"

"Indeed. Treat it like a tobacco conduit, but breathe deep and let the haze smolder in your lungs."

Utley retrieved the pipe, gazed into the bowl, and gasped.

"Aye, she's a mesmerizing tangle of wildflower," Wab said. "Even more so after a taste. The tang isn't unpleasant and the effect is like opening a blinded eye lodged deep in the subconscious. Go on. Whet your whistle."

The act of placing lips on shaft seemed blasphemous, but the trickle of smoke stimulated a cataleptic swallow until Utley felt inflated like a sailor's pocket after visiting the bursar. The result was prompt.

Unlike Wab, Utley didn't tumble into a whirling world of self-reflection. He sank, like a stone, submerged into a sea of shimmering hallucinations. The texture of reality took on a fuzzy, lax appearance. One hit was more than plenty to impact the senses, but Utley gulped a second for good measure. Then he dropped the pipe and swayed, lulled into a mystical trance.

"Blimey," he croaked. "I'm satiated."

Wab leaned forward and cooed, "Tell of the world you conjure."

"It's...as if I'm standing on the bottom of the ocean. The air is heavy. This room moves and reassembles."

"A wonder, isn't it?"

"I have no words to describe the condition but one: peaceful."

"All your trepidation has liquefied into oblivion. I know thine state."

"How can I conceive of an existence with no consequence?" Utley asked with horror.

"Imagine being an infant. This is the purest form of life. Right and wrong are not defined until society delineates this brink."

"My God, you're correct!"

"And here, among these islanders, we can apportion a realm of freedom."

Utley nodded, hypnotized by bliss.

Wab stood, slung his arm around Utley's shoulder, and said, "You see? I've our interest at heart. We left tyranny for our own rule. Bless our coup! We have graduated from slave to sovereign."

"It is plain. How I doubted you. What a fool I am."

"Not you," Wab whispered. "Your ignorance can be excused as a nervy tactlessness. I forgive your indiscretion."

"Kind sir. I appreciate the consideration. Thank you."

"However, Yarbrough is a devious zealot. I underestimated his guile. He's trying to drive a wedge between us."

"He be concerned, not shrewd. Let no harm come to him," Utley implored as he grabbed Wab's wrist. "I can't stand the sight of another man being condensed to cinders."

Wab smiled and rapped Utley's cheek with a light slap. "Let us meditate on his fate with a smoke. With careful hands he can be a useful tool."

"How so?"

"I would rather you consider an apt reprimand for the man. As you have stated, my methods are far too cruel."

"I-"

"Silence," Wab demanded. "To the pipe we pull pong and then to banter we bloom."
22. Where The Barquentine _Anapa_ Makes An Appearance

The Russian ensign snapped from the square-rigged foremast of the vessel and the whiskered Captain let his eyes drift from compass to flag with a glower. Barometric pressure, a solid reference for incoming changes in weather, had slithered into the lower 29's while the perceptible signs of a raging tempest gathered yonder. Profuse, black clouds bunched in purple mist emitting jagged veins of lightning and sharp cracks of thunder.

"Plumb line reads ten fathoms and diminishing," the brawny Brac reported from amidships. Naked from the waist-up, he wound the string around a wooden baluster in deference to the obscene tattoos cataloging the misery of his hardscrabble existence. Shooting the storm, the Captain realized, would justify more ink on his ornamented skin. Moreover, Brac would welcome the challenge of a duel with nature. He laughed at death, as if were a trifling nuisance, and welcomed hostility.

The Captain was no coward either, but the storm was more than a pest. Judging by the girth of the pall, he was staring into a mariner's nightmare. Yet the sky above was an unfathomable cerulean. They were a suitable distance from the outlying cirrus clouds, and even further from the twirling nexus, which allowed time to consider reasonable options of sanctuary.

"Keep the course," The Captain told the gnarled helmsman, a flaking roughneck named Groot. "I'm going below to ponder the chart."

"And 'ave a wee sniff of quim," Groot smirked.

"She's become a right stinky tart," the Captain replied.

"'Eve 'ad a school of sharks in tow for day or three. 'Ey snort the menstrual juices of harlots from the spray. In our wake we leave a gritty trail."

"Could be, but I ain't done with the missus."

Groot grunted and eyed the storm. "Well you 'ite not waste vigor on the bag-o-bones until you scarf a safe place to lay anchor."

"Scared you be?"

"Pfft, I isn't scart. But I reckon to see a few more 'unrises than the silt 'low the stern, if you 'atch my 'eaning."

"You and the crew. Comprise meself in this rabble of sundowners. Steady southeast, as the gale compels, until I weigh a just haven for our motley bunch."

"Aye," Groot remarked, gripping the wheel with lobster claws. "Quite a shimmy from the current. A churning boil 'neath the rudder. I feel seism in the skeg."

"To be expected. See the standard? We rode a breeze bearing from the northeast this morning, but it's spoiled now and quartered starboard in the last hour. We're west of the bitches brew, but watch, Groot. She'll wrap around and smother with tentacles spitting spray sideways and deluge with steep surf. Then this ole Russian whore will be windbound and walty."

"A chancy stroll, wouldn't ye say?"

"Peril is thwarted with meditation" the Captain replied, tapping his temple. "When I was a pressed boy I rode the lighting in the Atlantic. The patroon erred into a feint of fair weather without leaving a way out. Never be I more frightened. I don't desire a sequel to the storm of youth."

Groot's voice dropped an octave and he said, "I ain't privy to nothing but the sight of cyclone and by spectacle it appears to be a man-eater."

"Aye, and so I need space to ruminate away from the holler of gale and lashing of cordage. Listen man, if I ain't topside when the wind shifts due west, send one of these brutes to rattle me door."

"A reg'lar scholar you be."

"I picked up a few things from the ratings in transit. This storm they call a typhoon and the winds twist due to convergence. 'Tis a fascinating phenomenon."

"If you say so." Groot professed ambivalence for the workings of nature but a head-scratching zeal for piloting the three-masted craft. He stood at the polished wheel for hours, budding rosy with the sun's color. He slept meager winks at night, anxious his relief would ground the old girl or sail her into a churning whirlpool. Superstition was Groot's avid fixation and he wore a necklace of adolescent teeth as a talisman around his scrawny neck. Groot had gathered the tines from the handsome mouth of the cabin boy he'd domesticated and kept in irons in the bilge. This pet had squealed like a pig for the first three days of imprisonment, but the yelps had subsided since and the Captain wondered if the boy had perished or been tamed by the cat-o-nine tails.

"I do allege and hitherto nature has complied," the Captain declared. "But the old Mother is known to seduce."

"Like all women," Groot barged. "Sprites full of malice. I'll stick it to me boys, Captain, and you can cram it to the wenches."

***

The Captain's stateroom sparkled in gold fixtures and stank of decay. A small bed, lodged in the corner of the chamber, drew his attention. Atop a soiled quilt was a prone naked woman. Groot's pointed observation echoed. The Captain longed to caress the lass but work subdued yearning.

Thus he resisted her flirtations, aware the seductive glance would trigger cupidity, and plopped in the seat behind the bureau. A dog-eared chart, inscribed in Cyrillic, sprawled across the smooth oak surface. The words were a supplementary nuisance. He couldn't make sense of the blocky script and had given up decoding the nonsense in short order. The lines of latitude and longitude, though, were as basic as the Kings. He had Pittman fix the _Anapa's_ position with astrolabe before leaving the stern and presently dotted the map with a mark from the gaudy peacock plume.

Groot may have been impressed by the Captain's skills, but Groot was a perverted dunderhead. The crew entire, miscreants and murderers, were awed by erudite language but their patience balanced on the head of a pin. Quick tempered fools, the lot of 'em, embraced violence with no guilt. Through wit or will it was easy to rile the horde of seamen. Nonetheless, a perceived slight was the surest way to find tapered blade shoved into bowels. So far the Captain had maintained order, but a dash of woe would test his sway.

The _Anapa's_ previous occupants had learned this lesson the hard way, though it wasn't their behavior which insulted. Providence saw fit to deliver these beeves and the scorched islanders relished the gift, though they disregarded a prayer of thanksgiving to the Maker.

The ship had weighed anchor off the Kili Atoll and launched with a thirsty quartet seeking water. Little did they know the residents of Kili were British convicts marooned on the hellish cay. And speaking of ignorance, the Captain couldn't distinguish how long they'd been stranded; seasons didn't pass in the Marshall Islands. The temperature remained a constant sear and the men gave up making marks on the knotty trunks of desiccated palm trees. At first, the stretch could be measured by death. A month into dismal internment, three men died. Thereafter it was one a week until only a dozen remained of the fifty villains. Not all succumbed via natural order, but the criminals had their own way of maintaining direction. Those too weak to be of use succumbed to law of the island.

The Captain sat back and the chair creaked. He rubbed the purple feather against his forehead and contemplated the freshest pat of ink representing the xebec. The Marshalls, branded " _Jolet Jen Anij_ " on the map (one of the few labels not in priggish Russian, not like the Captain understood what the hell the words meant) were distant flecks. Ten days of travel had brought the _Anapa_ south, away from British commerce and the threat of maritime examination. At first, the convicts resisted this prudent idea. They desired to splash east with the swiftness of predators. But the Captain stood tall to the worst of the protestations and won the argument with sound reasoning. For the trouble, he was rewarded with a prestigious moniker but the command was fraught with danger. One wrong move and he'd be expunged of life.

With this nugget of penalty weighing on his mind, he gazed at the map and sighed. Nary a speck of soil was represented in either Cyrillic, English or otherwise. He knew islands freckled the plenteousness ocean. They'd made spray past many in the days prior, although the notion of stopping was an unorthodox consideration. With the storm growing chubby on tepid water and warm air, a safe haven would be in order. But where, pray tell?

An archipelago, less than a day's sail if the wind remained as predicted, caught the Captain's eye. As did a Russian label of the islets: " _Брошенный камень_ ".

"What do you think, me dearie?" he asked the woman. "Make for this piggish place or bracket the cyclone?"

She didn't answer and the Captain chuckled.

"Silent as a sinner in church," he mused. "So be it. The choice is mine, regardless of your opinion." He spun the chair and regarded the whore. She had an obscene mouth...until he cut out her tongue and consumed it. Truth was, he didn't know what she babbled in Russian but the inflection expressed pejorative insults. The waif's sinewy muscle was an unsatisfying treat and she watched the consumption with revulsion and sobs. Thus, the next to go were her green eyes. Amazing the rattles her throat discharged. Absent tongue, the Captain thought she'd be a total mute.

There was an obvious remedy for this problem and he handled it with felonious tact. Her throat, once whittled, looked like a cavernous gill. Even then she made a clamor, thrashing and clawing as the blood ran from her gash. Now she was a ripe, pliable partner, decorated with unrefined fluids and flamboyant lividity. Her vessel had sailed into the confection of the afterlife, whatever it be. The Captain was satisfied just the same. There were worse fates than the one he'd bequeathed his concubine. If guilt bloomed, like it did on occasion when he studied the battered cadaver, he offered an artless rejoinder to quell the nagging:

"Don't believe me, eh? Ask ye old cabin boy how he fancies life at this moment." The ship answered in a creaky remonstration, sliding a tacked painting like a metronome back-and-forth across the bulkhead. The Captain stood, adjusted the frame, and gazed into the eyes of the frosty regent (or whatever he fancied himself) as the deck bobbled underfoot.

***

Brac spotted the ship first, when it was a black pimple on the horizon, and informed what remained of the castoffs. Speculation drove barmy gossip, the worst of which gave birth the foolish notion the vessel was coming to retrieve the lot of miscreants. The Captain knew this was a flight-of-fancy in the dehydrated minds of simpletons. Their kinsmen had dumped them on the strand, though this had not been the intended destination. Rather, the crew of the convict ship Urchin decided the atoll was proper terminus to the expedition. New South Wales was a hellish jaunt and the Urchin's master decided to strike for China and obtain classy cargo while jettisoning the human detritus.

" _Say 'ello to yer new home," the Urchin's Master-at-Arms declared after beaching the yawls and mustering the vile horde. "You brutes are the lone inhabitants. Even the islanders want nothing do with this scrubby dump. The proper name is Kili. I reckon Hades is a better suited nomenclature. Better get used to the heat, you heathens. Where you go after expiring will be a similar clime. If you want to hasten your demise, try swimming for Jaluit nor 'east of 'ere. Seas are bloody rough and the shallows jagged. This speck can't be reached for much of the year. Lucky you be, we encroached when the sea be reasonable. He-he. Good riddance bastards. I detest idiom but speaking from the bottom of me heart, I wish nothin' but the worst for you lot of murderers."_

He hadn't been exaggerating, but the heat could be tempered with dips into sea. Venturing too far from the rock, however, meant introduction to riptides. The buggering Copple learned this lesson the hard way, becoming the first of many to perish. His death was tame compared to others. Soon starvation took root in the pits of stomachs and the rabble grew lean. The island had copious coconuts and kernel was used for copra, but the nourishment was high-fiber and difficult to digest. Squash, breadfruit and bananas littered the stretched island (measured by the Captain one day as 1,569 paces from tip-to-tip) but seafood was impossible to catch in the tempestuous surf. It appeared the island would serve as both tormentor and tombstone.

Therefore, when the interloper was sighted, the dozen cutthroats decided not to spoil the opportunity of escape. They watched with baited breath as the boat, a barquentine according to a knowledgeable ex-seaman named Pittman, frapped sail and then pitched grapnel. The audible splash of the anchor increased tension on shore. Minutes later a dinghy dropped from davits amidships and oars beat the surface. The water, calm and clear for a change, allowed the craft unfettered access to the shingle. The convicts helped beach the ferry, wading waist-deep and cutting their feet on jagged coral. The denizens, four men armed with flintlocks and cutlasses, were dressed like British slops: natty dungarees, duck frocks, scuffed Jack boots and flimsy Regency hats.

They weren't English so far the Captain distinguished. The ensign flying from the barquentine was Russian and the men chattered among themselves in oblique vernacular, eyeing the emaciated inhabitants and their ramshackle shelters.

At last, one of the visitors cleared his throat and addressed the throng in broken English with coughs bookending the beginning and end of each sentence:

" _We seek the keys called Marshall. Yes?"_

So head scratching the accent, nobody answered until the Captain stepped forward and spread his arms. "Welcome."

" _Eh? So this is Marshall?"_

" _One of 'em. Who be you?"_

" _My name is Lockov. We of the Anapa. Forty days out of Arkhangelsk. In transit for Yerba Buena."_

" _What be yer cargo?" the Negro ruffian Pillbox asked._

" _Is a transport. Fares and fancy sartorial. If it was mere cloth, eh, would not be a trouble." He smiled and shrugged. "But clothing does not require water. Not a drop in weeks but for what contains brine."_

The Captain understood and nodded with benevolence. "I comprehend a dry scuttlebutt is a worthless provision."

" _We hope you have water but...this appears to be fanciful dream."_

" _Don't let the condition of our humble island fool you. We have what you want, and plenty. But donations don't warm our hearts."_

" _Is good. I am instructed to barter." The Russian looked at the men bedecked in tatty linen. What once were blouses had evolved into sullied muslin-like rags. Pantaloons, frayed at the ankle, were threadbare and malodourous. "We have trunks of new attire. Fashionable and comfy. Exchange, yes?"_

" _Indeed," the Captain said with magnanimous agreement._

" _Kapitan sudna... the captain master of Anapa made miscalculation. How do I say? Took bad route through Barents More. Is a plodding escapade until we catch...vostok krugovorot. Eh, I translate. Is like air rotation." He twirled his right index finger in a clockwise fashion._

" _Gyre," the Captain said. "Trade winds."_

" _Is right. So...what is this settlement?"_

" _A British post."_

" _Is how we say a desolate spot."_

" _We manage for the Crown."_

Brac grew tired of small talk and said, "What are your numbers? So we knows how many casks of water you pursue."

" _Eh...with us it's thirty-two. Crew is twenty. The women consume a-"_

" _Women?" Brac squeaked._

" _Is families. Women, children-"_

" _Let's see what we can do to help these poor souls," the Captain interrupted. "First, though, we'd like to meet your ship's master. We call it breaking bread in these parts."_

" _Yes, a splash of vodka and a handshake to stamp the exchange. We have same tradition in Rodina."_

" _Let's get to it," Brac fussed. "Your lassies must be dying for potation."_

***

"Truer words were never spoken," alleged the Captain to the watercolor portrait on the bulkhead. The cultured engraving applied to the frame avowed this image was claimed by one " _Николай I Павлович_ ". The Captain recognized the pomposity of royalty in the man's styled mustache and rigid posture. Whoever this charlatan was, or is, the one thing the convicts agreed upon was the desire to serve vengeance on this breed. Them and those who supported the traditionalists of so-called refinement.

The strategy for meting a day of reckoning began the moment the men boarded the _Anapa_ and took aggression on the stunned sailors and their wretched fares. Seeking solace from the storm and reassessing the next move would be a wise decision. Phrased in this manner, the Captain knew the convicts would agree...more-or-less. If they were lucky, they'd contact the shabby residents of another civilization and purge supplementary hostility before edging east towards the Sandwich Islands.

The thought never crossed the Captain's mind they might blunder into a group of habitants more vicious. It didn't seem possible a gathering of rowdies such as what plundered the hapless _Anapa_ existed anywhere else on the globe. Least of all in proximity.

Decision made, the Captain stood and removed his sweaty chemise. He was in the midst of passion when the pounding at the stateroom hatch forced attention from voluptuous postmortems to the practical proclivities of a brigand's survival. The Negro, Pillbox, announced a drastic change in wind direction. Moreover, Groot had secured a hemp boltrope 'round his narrow waist and fastened the end to a capstan. The rest of the men lounged in a state of anxiety.

"And I thought the rollicking was from my good woman," the Captain said. "No matter."

"Frivolity aside, master, we be beating the spray into an assured smother."

"Relax, Pillbox. I lapse into lust when my mind is lessened. All is well in our realm. Gather the boys and I'll explain."
23. Where Utley Promulgates Into Environment

Utley realized there were worse places to be marooned but, between stints of Verdilac, clarity criticized euphoric perception.

Hikes to the pond or the shore consumed much of his time. Of this he had abundant spells, more freedom than ever, but the dearth of structure introduced boredom. The villagers lacked commerce, organization, and a duty to infrastructure. They were a languid mob and stared at clouds. Some resisted the Verdilac but their motivation wasn't any less lethargic. Utley conceived one truth, a lightning bolt of introspection, and it shocked with potency. Paradise was a theoretical goldmine of lassitude, but ennui fashioned poverty in the soul. He longed for purpose beyond the abstract waste of time.

Wab seemed not to care what the villagers did, so long as it left him to lounge in the longhouse, naked and astride the he-she creature. Moreover, Wab had stopped eating. His face thinned and his eyes bulged. A coarse beard descend from his chin. Always, be it day-or-night, his skin dribbled beady sweat. He confided in Utley a strange desire to fashion a new tongue, a conglomeration of English and whatever it was the islanders spoke. He also alleged he achieved power over the tangible world.

"This is my fancy," Wab asserted. "All of it."

"Eh? What do you mean?"

"None of this world is real but my own body."

"I assure you I'm real," Utley argued.

"Aye, I knew you'd argue this point. You speak what I design."

"Blimey. Well couldn't you conjure a better place to spend your time? Like a palace with servants. Anyplace but this bloody island."

"I'm working on it. This kind of manipulation requires copious Verdilac and study in the nature of pliable reality. Regret I'm but a novice. There's another vexing problem I can't erase. Those we drowned in the pond. You recall?"

"Every day, tho I try to forget."

"I hear their screaming at all times," Wab confessed. "Bloody hell. Do you?"

"No man."

"Guess your conscious is clear. Mine needs a good waxing. More of the smoke will tax recollection."

However, Wab had no guilt rutting. Frequent, loud, and obnoxious reverberations testified. A harem tended to every whim and folly. Utley had joined in some of the parties, growing stoned and amorous. Several times affection bloomed. Utley even cracked-the-can of one such girl or boy. He wasn't about to ask the gender of his romantic partner, so help him. While a technical blasphemy, Utley wondered how something so profane could be so pleasurable. Even Wab's strident instance of hovering in the background to watch the act of sodomy didn't dampen the joy.

Remorse ate at him later. Thus the solitary walks. Moseys from the madness in the village pacified his soul. Utley regarded this black hole he'd been sucked into as purgatory. At some point he'd emerge from the cloak and regain sensibility.

Yarbrough responded with a respectable obligation to peddle the Lord. He conducted sermons, taught seminary, and help tend the fare. Without his direction they might've starved. The contrived agreement with Wab swapped life for servitude. Yarbrough accepted but presented Utley with a baleful look. His gaze said " _You failed and now you're damned."_

So there it was, the state of things on Vijjivu. Two factions, each guided by opposite ends of the mind. Utley felt stuck in the middle between the two and neither path promised salvation.

In the jungle he bonded with things lacking human complicity. In an ironic twist, he began ascribing human traits, complete with names, to plant life and insects. He spent one day watching a colony of ants. Another day discovering the conduit from the pond. Turns out it ran into profuse bramble. Utley crawled through the thicket and found a family of petite monkeys. Or they found him. The details were fuzzy, but not the outcome: they screeched, threw sticks, and frightened him away.

Staring at the ocean he strained to conjure ships at sail. Something. He'd hitch a ride with the British if it came to it. But observation was another wasted venture. Day-after-day of nothing but natural irreverence. The geyser spray of distant whale spouts, clouds chubby with carbuncles, crying terns, clumsy crabs... dead, stinking fish swathed in shoots of brunet seaweed. The sea, unfettered cerulean, blinding with sundogs. Fuzzy mirages added to the aggravation; Utley swore the staves were telluric emblems. Then poof...a blink, a darting eye, a cough or sneeze. Delusions frayed.

One night he saw ships in the sky, a dozen bright circles, racing east-to-west. Then they climbed and Utley stared slack-jawed, neck craned, ears perked. The crafts hummed in a sing-song babble: " _holy"_ pounced in triplicate. So rapid the ascent, the light reduced to dim aureoles in seconds. And the soothing voices with them, receding into black ether.

Utley had heard of ball lighting but the firmament was clear. There was no doubt what it was: a message from God. Utley recognized he'd been selected...but for what? He troubled over the vision, consulted the Good Book, but could not untangle parables. Ezekiel's Wheel came closest to explaining the event, but substance lacked in the words of antiquity.

He went to Yarbrough and explained the situation. The old man scratched his chest and listened without interruption.

"I'm losing me head," Utley surmised.

"There is no doubt in my mind," Yarbrough said.

"Aye. I'm sorry to bring this up. I know how it must sound."

"No, no, dear boy. I don't question your sanity. You describe Angel Wheels."

"What say you?"

"The vessel from high? A seraph's style of transportation."

"Blimey! You think?"

"All the elements avail. Light and the Trisagion. I'd assume the vessels emitted heat. A white bright source."

"What do they want?"

"The angels present a portent. They've come to warn you."

"About what?"

"Isn't it obvious? Your behavior. God wants to save you before it's too late."

"I've been saved. Baptized when I was a wee runt."

"If you've a better explanation I'd like to hear it."

"I've to dwell on it. Lucky for me, leisure time is a commodity."

"Yes, about our flocks turpitude and sloth...they must be engaged with meaningful activity or we risk losing them to God's wrath. He abhors debasement, as you know."

"Indeed."

"Well, then, I need your support."

"And what about my mate, Wab? If I need altering, so does his course."

"If he's unable to recognize the direction he's tumbling, then nothing will change his stumbling."

***

We find Utley at the ocean again. Neap tides, rising quarter moon, light breeze, silent. Worst of all no ships. Nothing terrestrial or otherwise. Utley wadded into the ocean, stopping when the water crossed his knees. He'd smoked Verdilac earlier in the day and the effects lingered. On the surface of the water his form wavered in silhouette, outlined by the setting sun.

Perhaps, if he waited long enough, the luminosities would return. Above, the universe spiraled. Night looked like a pincushion of stars. Behind, the decrepit realm stacked with bones and populated by the stoned. He had Wab to blame for the unhappiness and fingered the locket around his neck. Mother would've been appealed at what her son had become. Utley's intentions were honorable, but he'd subject himself to Cuttler's hazing instead of wasting away on Vijjivu if he had the chance to do it again.

He wanted off the island and imagined walking east to America. Towering into the sky like a moonraker. Passing atolls and observing the simple occupants. Tall, mighty, omniscient.

Seduced by vision, he step forward and sank another half-foot.

He'd come ashore in Alta California, a sodden giant with a hearty tale. People would clamber to inspect Utley. He wouldn't stop in the Mexican territory, instead springing across the plains until the East Coast loomed in coal smoke and strident splendor. It'd be an incredible journey and he'd be hailed as-

The next thing perceived, sea enveloped and enclosed overhead, drowned the dream. The atmosphere turned rheumy and green. Utley gasped and inhaled deep. The world became distorted and he foundered with panicky screams.

A robust undertow seized ankles, pulling him leagues into a marine world shimmering with florescent creatures, while he kicked and strained. Not blessed as a strong swimmer, the current strangled what remained of strength.

"Quit struggling," a female voice said. "The depths are not a muzzle. Come into my fins and feel my cuddle." The owner of the credence floated into reach: part she, part creature of the deep. Her face was olive-colored, lacerated with gills and plump fish lips all-a pucker. Lengthy green hair flowed from the scales on her chin. Three giant teats flopped in the current, each with four petite nipples sudsy and slim. Below her diaphragm, two feminine legs meet in the crock of a beardless quim.

"Blimey," he gurgled. "What be this fate?"

"I am the sovereign of these gates," she explained, "and I'm looking for a mate."

"An impossible marriage, oh fetching waif, for I breathe air and avoid the sea's salty taste."

"I command you to be sedate. After we join, you'll respire brine and not be debris for Nāmaka."

"Who be this deity?"

"'Tis a fiend. An orca, white and black, hungry and mean. Thus I am your relief."

"As your husband I'll be owned. For my troubles, I'd rather share a throne with Davy Jones."

"You're a defiant soul, and I admit I harbor lust. I've been alone and need the warmth of a phallus." Her legs latched 'round his waist, stimulating urge he couldn't crush.

"Oh, woe! I've been plucked," Utley gushed. "Enticed by a sea creature and I'm not the least repulsed!"

The fish mouth savored cheek and nibbled genteel morsels of his meat. The sensation was queer and brash. He let her continue to feast as he fumbled with her snug gash. Each time he thrust, she withdrew and took specks of his husk.

"Come on and quit yer frosty games," he sloshed. "Let me in and hear you call my name!"

"I'm always looking for a mate," she repeated. "Not a frivolous game."

"You've made me enflamed. Let me deflate. I want to pump warm seed into your cold-blooded veins."

"May I continue to feed while you dispatch germ?"

"Aye. Let me be your trough while I work my worm."

"Ah, you have a magic way with verse. Rake me," she cooed, "and then I'll consume you."

He beamed and beheld his aquatic lover, gyrating into her with the intimacy of a married couple.

Ejaculate raced up his sluice, a throbbing bulge, until his juice was ready to be expunged. Moments before eruption, the sea woman clamped onto his shoulder and tore a chunk of complexion. Utley screamed; his underwater howl was distorted and crazed. A cloud of brown blood dawdled in the marine layer like a haze.

No longer was she part-human and, Utley grasped, she never was. What the creature be was a true predator of the sea, with black eyes on either side of a hammerhead protruding teeth. Bits of beef (hisself in pieces!) floated in the space between as Utley cocked his head and puzzled over his instant misery.

He desired to screech outrage at such duplicity. Utley had no grudge to bear against fish. Why did she wish turn him into nourishment? Of course, it didn't matter what he said or how much he bitched.

The shark spun with a whip of its tale and swam into obscurity. Light-headed and peeled, his chuck was split, leaking with a volcanic zeal. Utley stroked for the surface when it reappeared, the pillager bearing with swiftness on its hungry meal. It drove its mouth into his lean left thigh and thrashed, ripping the leg at the hip and affecting a prompt searing. This nightmare became a churning confection of bubbles, blood and shearing.

"Deceived, I am chum," he understood with glum. "The shark lured me into her tum-tum."

But the final insult, and there was one, happened in the next instant with aplomb:

"You be too gaunt," the shark sneered. "I'm done feasting and leave you to bleed. Goodbye to you, Godspeed, sorry for the blunder. I'll swim for a banquet better suited for my hunger."

"And me? I'm torn asunder."

"Take some solace in your futile chunter. You'll be a delicious feast for mollusks and miscellaneous hunters."

"Oh, I can't help feeling mawkish! Gore creeps out-of-me like I was designed with pockets!"

The shark leaned close, opened its mouth, and Utley shut his sockets. Mayhap it had second guessed jettisoning this meal and desired to stalk it.

But nope, she clasped teeth 'round the chain floating from Utley's neck.

"Me mother's locket," he burbled as life retreated in abstract specks.

"And a fine memento," said the shark. "It deserves respect. Not to fester in salt but be displayed and flexed. For my troubles I've found a gem. As for you, I tender cheerio again."
24. Where Utley Is Found

"Wavesome!" Pittman shouted from his perch on the mainmast.

The Captain followed the barrelman's stretched finger and squinted. Whitecaps dotted the surface, rendering the sea a blemished exterior.

"Not a surprise," Groot intoned. "Wonder how many wrecks we'll contact."

"Keep the helm steady," the Captain said. "We want no interaction with flotsam, lest it jab a hole in our keel."

"Easier in command than action," Groot groused. "We better find our bumpkin soon, lest the storm find us."

The Captain didn't reply. Weather had worsened with rapidity and he fretted striking for the island. Scudding would've been a better gamble. Based on the scowls of the wind whipped and waterlogged mob, they'd reached the same conclusion.

Pittman informed, "It'd be a parcel!"

"What kind?" the Captain asked.

"Can't reckon from expanse. Size of a steamer trunk, mayhap."

"Might be a useful to retrieve the bole," Groot said. "It may contain-"

"Not in this weather."

"Lo!" Pittman rejoined. "It not be wavesome but a body! We're going to run it down!"

"No matter," the Captain said. "'Tis the rubbish of this world and a burden for the next."

Pittman raised the spyglass to his right eye. "It ain't done bein' garbage yet, patroon. By the sight of it, I'd say it's been pecked a bit."

"Aye," the Captain said. "Feeding schools and fueling the life-cycle. Let it rot and give the bastard his peace. Where it be?"

"Ack," Pittman spit, lowering the lens. "We're going to miss it. Current is erratic." He sounded disappointed and watched the carcass pass abeam before it merged into the multitude of pale flecks.
25. Where Wab And Yarbrough Bicker

"Your man Utley hasn't been seen in days," Yarbrough informed the moribund Wab. Setting foot in the corrupt longhouse was bad enough. Conversing with the sullen addict was added misery.

"Eh?"

"He's vanished."

"Doubtful."

"What could be the alternative?"

"Don't be a fusspot. He's about."

"What makes you certain?"

"Because I design the universe and don't desire to be rid of him. Yet. You, on the other hand, are becoming a nuisance."

Yarbrough lowered his voice in difference to the harem scattered about the room. "Hasn't this depravity gone on long enough?"

"Hold yer tongue! My intercourse is no less righteous than yours."

"Hmm...a noble attempt at justification but lacking merit."

"As if you know. You're a fruitless queer. Your judgment about carnal scripture is as informed as mine about biblical lyrics."

"I once crowed, I'll have you know."

"Your hand doesn't count as partner."

"You are a vile man," Yarbrough seethed.

"What happened to the capon I could push around? You've gotten fire in your loins."

"Serves me right for trying to be messenger. If you won't scour for Utley, then I will."

"Have at it."

"Meanwhile you'll dilute your mind with the abominable Verdilac. If you're not careful, this paradise you've built will collapse. One day you'll snap-to reality and find nothing remains."

Wab leaned forward and yawned.

"Have you no reaction?" Yarbrough huffed.

"I ain't worried. If it happens, I'll move to the next place of refuge."

"Hmm...a salient comment. Perhaps Utley got wise and fled before the rapture."

"Where could he go? If it wasn't for me, he'd still be a bluejacket suffering indomitable abuse."

"I have news to confess."

"Gossip?"

"Utley claimed he saw lamps over the ocean one evening. He described flying lanterns."

"Did he?" Wab chuckled. "The intoxicant manufactured winged oil lamps?"

"I think he had a supernatural experience."

"Sure he did. If so, I've been sanctified by God's creative shows many times."

"Utley's vision was genuine."

"No, you fool, it's up here." Wab pointed at his head and shrugged. "Conjured hallucinations, like what prophets stretching back eons pronounce."

Displeased by this answer, Yarbrough strode for the opening. He turned around at the aperture and said, "One more thing, should you care to be bothered."

"What other frivolous chatter must you spew?"

"Seclusion does you no favors. Take a gander at the heavens if you can motivate your lethargy."

"Oh? What will I see? More lanterns soaring like spry fowl?"

"What you'll perceive is inclement weather. The skies have darkened and the wind has amplified. I foresee a whirlwind. Fifty years prior, one tempest roared through and killed-"

Wab lit his pipe, inhaled, and then blew a ring of smoke into Yarbrough's face.

"Your insolence is astounding! I'm saying we might receive a rash or a fracture...but I should've known to save my breath on heedless lobes."

"You're as much an expert on climate as I am about caliphates," Wab responded in a slurry voice.

"You're not concerned?"

"Like the thing with Utley...'tis an inconvenience. It'll resolve itself, or it won't."

***

Yarbrough slunk past the pond, shooing copious flies, and plodded through bush with aggravated sighs. If there was one thing he understood: God would restore order in due time. Wab's presence manifested from the nadir of hell. Of this there was no doubt. More to the point, the crass degenerate was a test of faith. God didn't construct gauntlets out of hatred.

"Utley!" Yarbrough called. The breeze intensified during the hike from the village and, for one of the rare times on the island, the air was dry and cool.

Several natives trailed behind like loyal canines. Yarbrough tolerated their company because supplementary eyes couldn't hurt.

"Nammes Gahd angry," one of them pronounced as she stared into the sky. Gray clouds swirled, merged, and assured deluge.

"Yes, angry at the sins of our so-called brothers," Yarbrough griped. "Utley! Where have you lost yourself?"

"Nammes Utley!" the natives bellowed in unison.

Through coppice and scratchy branches, emerging on a knoll overlooking the strand, Yarbrough assessed the bleak perspective. Surf pounded, a thunderous roar, shooting spray into ether. Foam bubbled beyond high tide, almost to the base of the mound.

"He'd be a fool to test these waters," Yarbrough said. "But in a stupor nothing seems unwise."

"Nammes Gahd angry," the native repeated, clapping her hands. "Boom!"

"Names Yarbrough!" another exclaimed. "See nammes eyes."

"What? What do you see?"

The indigenous squawked, danced, and waved her arms. The handful of others repeated the nonsense. Yarbrough tried to hush the wretched sound, but stopped when he perceived the ship approaching from the north.

"Oh my," he tittered. "My, my, my! What is this?"

"Nammes Gahd! Nammes Gahd!"

The ship showed three masts and, as he observed, canvas was drawn from the mainmast. He assumed they meant to hunker for the storm. The distance was too great to discern the ensign, but she didn't look like a frigate. A cargo or passenger vessel and, if God was gracious, an amicable crew. For the first time in a long while, Yarbrough allowed elation to bloom in his heart.

"Is new nammes," a native said.

Maybe Utley had seen the lights of this ship and confused them for something supernatural. Perhaps Utley had swum for the sanctuary of the boat. No matter, Yarbrough would greet these visitors if they set foot on the island. Better him than Wab. Who knew what Wab was capable of these days?

Yarbrough said, "My, what a splendid vision."

"Nammes friends?"

"Mayhap. They aren't military. This is a positive indication. Come, let's retreat to the scrub and peep. If they come ashore I can judge their intentions." He assessed the half-naked natives and calculated their presence wouldn't add a foreboding element should the newcomers display aggression. Yet, if this was it came to, the villagers had nothing to stop such behavior. All the warriors had been killed in Wab's purge. What remained were the meek females and the he-she creatures Wab enjoyed defiling.

"Nammes Gahd gifts," one of the simple-minded women squealed. Soon, the rest of them had joined in her excitement, yelling and waving their arms at the distant ship.

"No, no, girls," he fussed. "We need to be quiet until-"

They ignored his supplication and beckoned, "Hallo!" until Yarbrough could do nothing but join them.
26. Where The _Anapa_ Finds Accommodation

"Report," the Captain demanded.

Pittman, straddling the crosstrees on the mainmast, swayed with the _Anapa's_ roll as he scanned the shore with the eyeglass. The Captain watched him, certain he'd come tumbling from the heavens to be smashed as paste on the deck. Pittman's death wouldn't be cause for mourning in most circumstances, but his loss would leave a vacancy nobody else would have the ability to fill. Only Pittman dared scale the tall masts and his knowledge of the finer aspects of rigging sail was the reason they'd been able to limp into this desolate harbor.

"The beach is high tide. Can't get much closer, but we're snug in the lee."

"Then this is the place we be."

"I can't see beyond the jungle. It's a concentrated mess."

"Aye. Climb down, then. You've risked enough for so little information."

"Lo!" Pittman yelled. He leaned forward as the ship rolled, becoming vertical to the beam. The Captain inhaled as the watch teetered, but Pittman was oblivious to his precarious posture.

"What is it, man? Speak!"

"'Tis a collection on the shore."

"A collection, say you?"

"Eight. Ten. Hard to discern the number. Yes, near the tree line. They wave. There's no doubt, patroon. I'm certain we're perceived."

"And of what eminence is their weaponry?"

"Naught a glint of steel. Female by the look of things, if you catch my meaning."

"Aye, but even females have a dark side. Recall the Amazons."

"I know nothing of 'em, but these harlots appear pleased."

"Good enough. Join me down-"

"I can keep peeping," Pittman said with a sneer. "Rather, I'd like to keep peeping."

"Scale down, Pittman. We might as well get this over with. You'll have a chance to fondle the real thing. Pillbox, ready the yawl for a boarding party," he commanded.

"In dis weather?" the Negro asked.

"Better it be made to perform instead of tethered to this ship during the storm."

"Bawd da weather? Lookit the waves!"

"Watch heroic Pittman scurrying down the ratlines and tell me we can't cross a half-league of rough chop. The islanders know we're lurking. Best greet them while they appear amicable."

"Who you want in the 'gregation?"

Pittman jumped to the deck, wiped his brow, and said, "Patroon, I volunteer."

"No," the Captain responded. "You need to mind this girl while I'm conducting business. I don't trust anybody else as caretaker."

"Argh...me acumen dooms me to being slave to this bucket."

"Be calm, man. You'll get your turn in due time. As for this excursion, I want Brac, Groot and you, Pillbox."

"Jus three?" Pillbox asked.

"Four, including me. I don't want to scare these beings with a large group. We'll scout and return with stratagem. Hail these docile rubes with grins before we arrive as horde."

***

"Don't you reckon we're setting ourselves for the same tomfoolery we gained our Russian sledge?" Groot asked.

The Captain, sitting lead in the yawl with spyglass to right eye, rejoined with a chuckle and said, "You'd be careless to believe we'd be deceived by rogues."

Groot clung to the tiller as the boat pitched between swells. His flintlock tumbled from bench to bottom and the heavy mizzen boom swung as Brac and Pillbox tried to lasso slack from shroud. Trimmed light, the craft took a battering from the rough water and gale. Thrust down into abysmal troughs and up the other side of mountainous swells, the yawl was more a cork than a sea vehicle. The four men fought various battles with their gag reflex; the loser, so far, was the brawny Brac, who blew a stream of vile yellow vomitus not five minutes after pushing from the _Anapa_.

"Steady, Groot," the Captain said. "Keep the helm pointed towards the island."

"As she runs," Groot responded, "I'm doing me best."

"Tell it to my stomach," Brac grumbled as a cascade of water drained over his head.

"Windage is tetchy," the Captain said, "but we're holding our own."

"I'll trust my feet when they're standing on soil," Brac countered. "And even then I might need to be convinced I haven't perished and landed on heavens shore."

"You think you'll be swept into the Kingdom of Light?" Groot asked. "Jiminy, man, did you spew common sense when you purged the contents of your belly?"

"Shut yer hole," Brac raged above the howl of gale.

The Captain turned a deaf ear to the bickering and concentrated on what lie ahead. Through a kaleidoscope of spray and nauseating motion, the scene presented was thus: six inhabitants stood shoulder-to-shoulder on a weedy knoll above the shore. One looked a fair shade paler and a head taller than the rest, but this description meant nothing but what was the most important. It was clear the _Anapa_ had been spotted, as had the yawl and the people inside struggling to the island, but those on shore had not fled. They were either accommodating, curious, or ignorant, but they weren't scared.

The yawl careened down the lee of a wave and the Captain lowered the glass as the sailors groaned with trepidation.

***

"My," Yarbrough jabbered, "my, what a journey." He grabbed a floating rope tossed from the craft as the islanders struggled in hip deep water around the gunwales.

"You speak English," the Captain pronounced with astonishment.

"Yes, yes. I'm an Amer-"

The Captain jumped from the bow and said, "We'll have a chance to talk, but only when we're on solid parcel. Take the lead and haul, old man."

"Of course."

"Wrap the sails," the Captain instructed to the three in the yawl, "and make haste. Let's ground this bastard before we're swept into tarnation."

Brac and Pillbox fumbled with wet canvas as Yarbrough strained and waded forward and the natives pushed. It took a hearty struggle, much cursing and the Captain's panting instructions to wedge the vessel at the brink of the knoll. After the masts were hoisted from the tabernacle and tossed to the ground, the yawl was careened and the weapons retrieved. Brac, Pillbox and Groot inspected the scantily covered indigenous with shifty eyes as they shook their weapons of the ocean. Then, the soggy group thrashed to high land in pelting rain.

"I hope you have shelter," the Captain said to Yarbrough. "Judging by the look of things, we'll be staying a fair piece."

Brac coughed as he ogled the chest of one of the women and then said, "I'm happy laying until the weather calms."

"I'll guide to the village in the valley of this island," Yarbrough said. "It's not a long hike."

"I could use a bit of grub," Groot added.

"We have food," Yarbrough said, "and you're welcome to a serving. What is the flag of your vessel? I admit my sight is not what it once was, but I don't recall the ensign flying from the rigging."

"We're running cargo under a Russian cocket," the Captain answered as he tossed his arm around Yarbrough's shoulder. "Sundry items. Clothes...and so forth. We are cruising for Mexican territory when lo! Waylaid by this storm. Truth be told, we could use necessities. We caught unfavorable winds near the Marshall Islands."

"Russian, you say? Are you fluent in the language? Why, you must be if you're doing business of their behalf. Always wanted to go. Their religious beliefs diverge on superstition, I've been told, and-"

"Aye, it's a strange place with odd people. Advantageous and without scruple, but this is another topic best discussed later."

"You're the captain of the frigate?"

"Not a frigate, old man. The _Anapa_ is a barquentine and 'tis correct, I am the captain. I left my second in command while I risked life and limb to greet you virtuous people."

"Well, captain, I'm afraid we don't have much to offer."

"A mite respite is worth its weight in gold. Speaking of which, I'm afraid we have little to spare for the accommodations."

"Money wouldn't be of any use to us," Yarbrough clucked. He looked at the Captain's flintlock and continued, "And if you're thinking about bartering, the last thing this place needs are muskets."

The Captain wasn't planning on trading the Russian guns, but he feigned consternation with a pout as they entered growth dripping with liquid.

"Perhaps there is something else you might be of service with," Yarbrough said with contrived indifference.

"Eh? We've bundles of clothes if you desire. No offense, but you and yours could use some new rags."

"Clothes? Ha, you'll see what these natives think of modesty. No, I was desiring something else."

"What then?"

"I run a mission for these people, one of a handful of God's messengers left on this place and the only true one remaining."

The Captain slowed a step and said, "A warrior for the Lord, praise thee. Needless to say, I've foundered on my catechisms since going to sea."

"We can be good Christians in other ways, beyond the questions we ask the Lord. Sometimes his answers come in splendor, or else in subtle finery." Yarbrough halted near the pond and gestured at the thicket abeam. "We have a devious shaman amongst our midst. Muddled, intemperate and a false prophet, among his other unsavory characteristics. Look in these woods and spy what remains of our men-folk."

"Groot," the Captain snapped, "sneak a peek."

"Aye," the man said, double-timing to the vegetation. He peeled layers of branches before disappearing into darkness as the group watched and Yarbrough fidgeted.

"This rascal," the Captain said to the old man during Groot's absence, "is a missionary like you?"

"Nammes Gahd," a native proclaimed. "Nammes new Vijjivu nammes Gahd."

"Pardon?" the Captain asked. To Yarbrough: "What a curious fusion of tongue. You wade through this...audial mismatch and persist?"

"Life is more a study of passion rather than patois. Flamboyant gesticulations mean more than dialogue ever could. The value of tiny sounds strung together is an overripe currency."

"Speaking of which, thine own calling is an ironic endeavor if you embrace this philosophical standard."

"I never said the printed word is an anachronism. There can be no misconception of what verse is fleshed on parchment." Yarbrough nodded at the gun in the Captains hand and continued, "You carry fire and converse with aptitude. A curious combination of two elements requiring keen dissertation. An imprudent soul would vex over the seeming contradiction between posture and pronouncement."

"Is rashness what undid you when this rascal, so-called, darkened your islands stoop?"

"Goodness no! Not rashness but...gentleness. He and his comrade, a dim type, used deception to wrest control of the village from me and Brother Zab. This coward burned-"

"Patroon!" Groot exclaimed from concealment. "My God, man! Quite a stack of bones nestled in this copse."

"You see," Yarbrough intoned. "This be the nature of being reigning o'er village."

"Harrumph," the Captain snorted. "If you ask me, 'tis the God you deserve."

"He represents the Lord, you declare! An insult I shan't bother address. What he is, and I don't exaggerate, is a poison. I was mistaken to believe you were the antidote."

"Now heed, old man. Let's not dance with clumsy feet. I never said I wouldn't be a capable suitor for your problem." The Captain, in fact, had judged the situation with the jealous eye of a reprobate. The ancient missionary had presented evidence of a nefarious force and the Captain ascertained the source of power, and mammon (if it was to be had), lie in the hands of this adversary.

"I should preach caution," Yarbrough said, "lest you fall under his charm."

"Pray tell."

"His name is Wab, at least this is what he calls himself. The pal is Utley, but he's been missing for time eternal. Decades, according to the calendar I keep."

"Decades! How long have you wretched creatures lived on this sad pillar?"

"Almost two hundred years."

The Captain frowned and said, "Two hundred? Mayhap you've mistaken-"

"It doesn't matter if centuries or seconds have passed," Yarbrough argued. "The dilemma isn't eons but ego and Wab's is greater than the Good Lords!"

"I see the plain trouble," the Captain said. "You've been cuckolded."

"A peculiar assumption," Yarbrough said as he scratched his groin.

"And not altogether false. To wit: God has chosen to lie with a murdering vagabond while you, devotee, toil to keep these natives wholesome. Does this describe the scenario?"

"An apt summation. There are other details you should know."

"Do expound but be succinct. Rain is urging the sanctuary of shelter. Be quick, Groot. I don't need a full catalogue of the aggrieved!"

"Heed," Yarbrough whispered, "this Wab is a slave to the Verdilac."

"A potation?"

"Of the same vein, but far more potent. Design a plant with robust fragrance."

"An herb?"

"Similar. This bud is shoved into bowl, lit like kindling and inhaled. The consequence of one puff is capable of twisting authenticity."

"Ho! You describe tobacco, dear man. A pinch of snuff makes me gums tingle and head loopy."

"Not Virginian gilt, friend. This plant is a danger with no medicinal or comforting traits."

"Then this Wab is blitzed."

"Blitzed and debauched. He-"

Groot burst from the shrubbery with a jawbone picked clean of flesh and threw it at the Captain's feet. "One of many, patroon."

"As I stated," Yarbrough confirmed with a grimace. "All the men and boys were led to slaughter."

"What would you suggest I do with this cretin?" the Captain asked.

"I desire to have him expunged from this domain. Wab steers these simple people into a world of his design."

"And you want to guide them into a kingdom of your enterprise?"

"Correct, but mine is the factual kingdom."

The Captain decided it would be pointless to argue religion considering he didn't know or care enough to present anything but antagonism. In any case, an opportunity presented itself he meant to exploit.

"Of course, the true kingdom," the Captain said with a nod. "Listen...what is it you call yourself?"

"I'm Brother Yarbrough. These natives are the people of Vijjivu and by artless coincidence, this is the name of the island."

"Vee-jee-vu, heh? Fair enough, Brother Yarbrough. Lead the way and let me confer with my men. Homicide is not refined talk among us seamen."

"Dear heavens, I don't desire the man killed! I want you to take him from this place. Although, I suppose he does deserve more in-line for what he did to poor Brother Zab."

"What did he do to Zab?"

Yarbrough closed his eyes and then said, "It was horrific. Wab and his minion Utley burned the man in a pit, then fed his body to the natives."

"He what?" Groot cried.

"Wab had a rudimentary explanation for the cremation, drawn from the Good Book," Yarbrough explained, blinking eyes. "I don't wish to say any more of the affair."

"Well," the Captain said, "you've made a case of this Wab's treachery. Go ahead and we'll follow as we discuss how will shall handle this situation."
27. Where The Captain Meets Wab

"Look at the man," Groot whispered. "He's waving a flag-of-distress with his garb and is emaciated like Job's turkey."

"Aye," the Captain said. "This is a keen situation we've stumbled upon. Yarbrough's all-overish and the natives are a step below children in intellect."

"Let me have a crack at this barbaric Wab," Brac crowed. "Won't need me piece, either. T'will be a pugilistic demonstration."

"Hush," the Captain instructed. "You boys aren't thinking straight."

"How do you figure?" Groot asked.

"Whoever the chap Wab is, he might be a useful tool. Behold," he gestured at the natives ahead, "these are what remain after the men were dispatched. He rules over a harem. I don't know what his adversary, the Brother Yarbrough, does to maintain decorum. Wab, however, holds mastery and doesn't mince with nicety."

"By eating people?" Brac asked. "Not my kind of rabble, I don't mind admitting. Let's take these women and be done with whatever this place is."

"We can't shove off until this storm lessens and wind changes course, lest you desire to float to the _Anapa_ at your leisure. What I'll do is have a talk with Wab and size the man. If he looks to be the legend Yarbrough paints, I'd like him among us to do our bidding. Another cutthroat won't be a burden we can't handle. And, with his control of the women, we could have a right jolly time on the ole _Anapa_ without making the waifs carrion first. I don't know 'bout you, but I'm tired of pounding bliss into the rank Russian corpse I have in my stateroom."

"Speak for yerself," Groot said. "I'm right fine with the squealing boy I got in irons."

"Bullocks to your buggery," Brac intoned. "Aye, the Captain makes a valid argument."

"Gentleman sailors," Yarbrough called from ahead. "Satisfy to keep pace. Getting lost would be a certain death sentence. We've not much further to go, but the route is a maze through jungle."

"Understood," the Captain said with a sweet smile. "By-the-by, we've talked it over and feel we can help with your dilemma."

"The Good Lord delivers," Yarbrough praised.

"He does."

"Remember, I don't want the man killed."

"The request is noted. I'll make Wab see reason and convince him to leave you in peace."

***

The village (Yarbrough said it was also named Vijjivu) was a decrepit gathering of thatch huts seen through the rising steam of radiation fog. A muddy trail twisted from wilderness, through a plain of ferns and prickly weeds, and vomited the ramblers in its mucky center. They passed a giant pit with collapsing sides and the men from the _Anapa_ peered into it as they passed. Charred bones, mixed with pieces of linen and clods of mud, sat in black brackish waters. Groot nudged the Captain and pointed at a skull nestled amongst the detritus.

"The Brother Zab," the Captain said. "Or so I presume."

"Missing quite a few chompers by the looks of 'im," Groot said.

Tatty female natives meandered out of shelters, far less happy to see the strangers than their comrades, and stood with arms crossed in the rain. The Captain counted twenty, with some toting children in their arms.

Yarbrough halted and raised his hands. "Wab," he said with a crooked finger, "is sequestered in the longhouse."

The building in question was squat and speckled in grime. Not a worthy palace for a king, but more than ample for a degenerate madman. At least, this is what the Captain thought. As he watched, a thick cloud of smoke floated from the door-sized opening in the side and dissipated in the wind.

"Looks like everything else in this slum," Brac said.

"Shoo," Yarbrough told the females hovering near. "This is work for men. You'll only compel a scene of nuisance."

"I say," Groot whispered, "we skip the pleasantries and go in with weapons primed. For all we know, this could be a trap."

"I don't believe so," the Captain answered. "Look around. These creatures are a pathetic bunch."

"Come along," Yarbrough implored. "Best we commence."

"Say, old man," Brac said, "what's in this for us if we take care of your problem?"

Yarbrough shrugged and asked, "You want food? We have-"

"Food? I don't desire some flesh of what cooked in the pit."

"I'm afraid I don't have much more to offer."

Brac inhaled and was about to say something more, but the Captain pushed him aside and strolled to Yarbrough.

"We're men of God too," he said with a wink. "We can acquiesce with the knowledge our work is saving these people."

"Precisely," Yarbrough said.

Brac stared at the longhouse and shook droplets from his bald head. "This is barmy."

Yarbrough led the way. A honeyed smell, part-fecal matter and part-flower, assaulted the nose. The Captain coughed and covered his hairy muzzle as his eyes adjusted to the dim, purple-hazed incandescence.

On a straw throne sat a thin, shriveled man naked in ashen skin. A long, white beard spun from face and extended almost to the shaft of his uncovered gentile cock. He smoked from a pipe while a busty native sat cross-legged on the dirt floor stroking his hairy feet. Near, lumpy blobs gyrated and frizzed into various forms of fornication. Noises of lust flittered, overlaid by the constant slapping of skin.

"Wab?" Yarbrough asked. "Can you hear me?"

A dazed look plastered Wab's face and his eyes fixed straight-ahead. There was no response except for the puffing of his whisker-covered cheeks and a vent of smoke through nostrils.

"You perceive," Yarbrough said as he turned to the Captain. "He's a petrified fossil. A mummy."

"This... Vert-"

"Verdilac."

"Verdilac renders the man a hoary jumble?"

"Who be in my house?" Wab asked in a monotone voice. The pipe jutted from the right corner of his mouth. From the left emerged a thin stream of smoke as he spoke.

"It be Yarbrough."

"I can hear it be you. It always be you who beseeches. But there be others. Who be they?"

"They be visitors from a ship at anchor in the bay."

"Be they?"

"Yes, they be."

"And what be their business, Brother?"

The Captain cleared his throat, stepped forward, and said, "We've taken refuge from the storm and came ashore to pluck sundry fruit."

"What is your ship?"

"The _Anapa_. A merchantman from-"

"What year be it?" Wab croaked.

The Captain didn't know what year it was either, but couldn't admit as much. Instead, he recalled the year he was arrested for wasting his wife and children and added a few more for good measure. "Eighteen and thirty-six."

Wab's eyes drifted to the Captain's face. "What?" he asked in whisper.

"Eighteen and thirty-six."

"Who's the President of the United States?"

This was not a question the Captain could not, nor could he pretend to, answer. His knowledge of politics was as robust as his study of the Good Book.

"I don't know," he admitted. "We've been roving in the East, this is our first visit to the West in years. We're bound for Yerba Buena with clothes. Left Russia almost two months previous."

"I know," Wab said, inhaling. "I know all."

"Of course," the Captain said with a bow.

"I invented this. You. Them. These fornicators. This island. The sky, storm, earth, stars, universe and the creature eating worlds in the middle."

"Aye."

"But...let me hear it from your voice. What is the state of things?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are flying boats racing through the sky? Are mechanical vehicles rumbling over the earth? A bomb capable of destroying cities and poisons suffocating thousands in seconds. You ask what I mean? Do I have to make meself clearer?"

"Well," the Captain said as he scratched his neck. "The world has changed, as all things do with time, but it is not as complicated as you fancy."

Wab appeared to frown before sporting a neutral expression on his mug. "As I suspected," he wheezed.

"With your permission, we beg to squat for a day until the weather lessens."

"Find comfort where you can. There is one thing. We have a groundage fee."

Brac bristled but the Captain said, "What be the price?"

"I'll waive it for you men."

"Mite generous," Brac growled.

"Make yourself at home," Wab said, sitting straighter. "And while ye lounge, try a smoke of this remedy. You will sail into dreams, on seas smooth and sunshine bright and slanted. The water looks like butter in the reflection and the blooming clouds yonder are bright white like tubers."

"Let us get comfortable before we trip into fantasy."

"Ahem...Yarbrough, why are you still underfoot?" Wab shrieked. "Get out and bring fruit. Quick! Our guests are waiting."

"At once," the old man sniveled, backing out the door.

"He's a clipped man, you know," Wab confided with a wink.

The Captain recoiled and then said, "I didn't."

"The last chief, the plump tyrant before me, castrated all the men he deemed a threat. But, he was dealt the accurate punishment for a monster. He and his henchmen. I'm new the new Vijji."

"I saw the bones by the pond!" Groot interjected.

"It was this or be reduced to a thing like Yarbrough."

"I believe you made the right choice," the Captain said.

"In truth, I was going to kill him anyway. Had he been a tyrant or true heart, the chief would've died."

"I must know to satisfy curiosity. How did you find this place?"

"'Tis blind folly. I was a sailor in the navy and jumped ship one clear eve with another rascal. This is where our wet bodies found desiccation."

"A sailor. How's this for luck!"

"What do you say?"

"Tell me...you know these seas, do you not?"

"A mite."

"A mite is more than our collective minds. We could use a bloke like you, a brickey through-and-through, with the added skill of seamanship."

"How so?"

The Captain looked at the entrance before saying with a devious smirk, "We're not as we say. Call us brigands. We mean to plunder the South Pacific and desire a crew with like temperament. It looks as if you've done yeoman's work here, but there are lucrative ports spread across the sea. You've nothing to enjoy but debauchery. Come with us and get rich."

"I can't leave my Vijjivuvijji," he said, nodding at the woman on the floor. She continued to stroke his face with no acknowledgment. "She carries my child," Wab explained. "Our first of many."

"Bring 'er with," the Captain reasoned. "We're not too staid to rebuff quim."

"All of them," Wab spat, gesturing around the room, "carry me progeny. I'm going to repopulate this horrid place and make it pure. These other women, the ones congregating with Yarbrough and getting pregnant on God, will wither. This is how I cull the crop. I don't feel bad. They made their choice. Pray to a fictitious God or frolic with a real one."

The Captain assessed the man. He was, indeed, whole-rats and mad as hops. Even as he pronounced this diagnosis, the woman stood and shook her long black hair. Giant breasts perked between threads of the fine mane. She didn't look on the stork, and her belly was smooth and accentuated. Further south his eyes wandered, until he found the cavern except...

"What do you think of my prize, Vijjivuvijji?" Wab asked.

"A gorgeous bride," the Captain answered with dignified politesse.

"Bugger me," Groot whistled, "it's a-"

The Captain coughed and then said, "Your bride appears trim for a woman of carriage."

"Are you implying my tale is false?"

"Not at all. She looks...radiant."

Placated, Wab relaxed and said, "Spoken like a bard. I'm a versifier. Would you like to hear lyrics?"

"I'm no judge of the fine arts. Your words would be lost in my ears."

"By saying them, I'm releasing their echo to the eternities. Somewhere, in some future time, this word o'mine will find its way into the minds of a wastrel youth. Then I will be judged a muse. Imagine such a thing!"

"As I detailed, I'm not-"

"It's no different than making babies. Sonnet or son, immortality lingers in both. A virile man would have one of each to ensure potency. Future generations need not be skimped."

"I agree with everything-"

"Yet, do you know at any instant you could be dead, kind sir? A sudden stoppage of heart, a stroke, a meteorite from the heavens...all of them could end you in the next second. And the next. And the next most. Forever we deal with this immediate demise, thinking of ways to distract ourselves from one certain. It's an endless curse from which we can't escape. Let your mind percolate in what this means."

"I hope this ain't your poetry," the Captain said. "All due respect, I fell it's a smidge too cerebral for my tastes. 'Less you have a couplet about cherubic women lolling on me bed, you're missing your mark on my thick skull."

"I forge ribald and romance from my muse. My Vijjivuvijji." He raised her (or his) chin with a long, tapered fingernail. "And from the pathos of existence I mold worthy testimonies."

"Nammes strangers," the creature said. The voice was low, husky, but infused with a sultry twang. Manufactured, yes, but there was a musk to it the Captain felt alluring.

"Invitees," Wab pronounced. "Guests churned from the seven seas."

"Nammes Gahd?"

"You comprehend," Wab said to the Captain with a wink, "her naivety? How could I not be smitten by innocence and reject the piety she prays me in the ignorance of her eyes? Such a confounding swirl of sensuality. Spellbound I am, and admittedly stoked by her docile subservience, but nonetheless...eh...I'm bantering like a statesman. Hark, unwind and enjoy hospitality. When Yarbrough returns with fruit, fill each paw and return for more." He turned to the woman and planted a kiss on her lips.

"I ain't ready for all this," Groot admitted. "Can we get out-of-here at the first chance?"

"What about takin' their riches?" Brac asked.

"It's plain they have none but what currency comes with the flesh."

"We could swipe da wimen," Pillbox said.

"I don't want nothin' to do with the lassies," the Captain said. "Chicards, the lot of 'em. We can do better somewheres else."

"These blue sacks ain't got their wits," Brac alleged. "They make me nerves jump."

"I confess the same," Groot said. "Let's back slang it."

"Hmm...you all sure?" the Captain asked. "I got to bring something to the ship or the others will get salted."

"Fruit then," Brac said, "and not of the sexual kind."

"Aye," the Captain said. "Meanwhile, I suppose we're going to spend a night in this lair. Let's try not to lose our heads, in more ways than one."
28. Where Wab Reconsiders

Yarbrough returned with a bushel of bananas and a sack of breadfruit and limes. It was the same yield from their atoll prison and the men, hoping for something fleshy and raw, spoiled their faces in revulsion.

"Enjoy the fare," Wab said. "From the garden of the Lord, right Yarbrough?"

"Precisely," said the missionary as he upended the sack.

"Yarbrough," Wab said, "while we suck the juices of the drupe, perhaps you'll share the story of how thine juices were slurped from you."

"Oh," Yarbrough grimaced. "I don't think this is dining banter."

"I say it is and it is with a great smile you'll relate this tale. Now listen, gentlemen, and listen hard. This is the conduct by which I couldn't exist. You can see why I acted as I did. You may think I'm mad, but it's not madness which compels. Brand the behavior as preservation and you'll have an apt understanding."

"You don't have to explain your actions," the Captain said. "We comprehend the burden of survival."

"Go ahead, Yarbrough," Wab urged. "Let's hear the sordid details."

"I wish not to share," Yarbrough argued in a timid voice.

"And I wish not to hear," Brac enjoined.

"So be it," Wab groused. "I can't comprehend the surgery, let alone the aftermath."

"Will there be anything else?" Yarbrough asked.

"No," Wab said. "Go and tend to your flock. How be the weather?"

"As before. Rain and wind. I fear the tallest trees will fold. I would expect the pond to flood."

"As do I," Wab said. "Now scurry and let me converse with my guests."

"Precisely," Yarbrough said.

"Imagine what it is to be him?" Wab asked after Yarbrough disappeared.

"Awful fate," the Captain agreed.

"Although...I can't help to wonder if it's liberating to be free of the burdens of sex and identity. What do you think?"

"I don't have an opinion on the subject. Haven't put any thought into it."

"Not worth the effort, eh? I understand. Try a hit of this spice. 'Tis called Verdilac." Wab passed the pipe to the Captain and then said, "Like a tobacco, nothing more."

The Captain obliged, albeit with the tiniest of huff, before handing the pipe to Groot. Even a small quantity had an immediate effect, one the Captain didn't fathom at first. A sliver of disjointed voices whispered near, like the buzzing of a fly, but without the same clarity. He thought it was chatter from others, but a careful scan revealed his fellow ruffians were muted and jailed in fantasies of their own. As the smoke passed hands, Wab closed his eyes and began chanting:

"Call me a Graybread, sitting high in the shadow," he repeated in a sullen voice.

Brac said, "What is he squawking 'bout?"

"You think I know?" the Captain answered. "How do you feel?"

"Tingly, like I had too much grog."

"I discern the voices of angel," the Captain said.

"What do they say?"

"I don't know. I'm just beyond elucidation. Me body in this dimension, while them in the next."

"Aye," Brac said, as if he understood the statement. He didn't, but what of it? The Captain would have just the same consternation trying to decipher the lunacy popping in Brac's head.

"In the emptiness of the air," Wab said, "see my Graybeard stare."

"He's in another plain too," Brac observed with a giggle.

"We all are," the Captain concluded.

"I've though it over," Wab interrupted as he twirled the long strands of beard between the fingers of his right hand. "So much time has passed since I set foot on these shores. Six years, according to my deduction. A century if Yarbrough was asked. Either way, I've squandered youth on this throne with nothing to show but this Graybeard. Where do you sail next?" he asked the Captain.

"East, hugging the line. We'd like to catch a bigger ride, perhaps one with gunnage. Yet our dilemma is we can't secure such a prize through sheer combat. We'll have to rely on cunning, and this is why I see potential in your partnership."

"My companion, the gent I mentioned earlier. His name's Utley, but he's been missing for time eternal. I estimate he's met an end to the natural existence. As for these islanders...they sap kernel in a rewarding and greedy manner, but provide little companionship. And to think my seed is roasting in each of 'em. How many children can a man have before their collective responsibility debilitates. No, I don't need to feel guilty about anything I've done. Children, with their tiny faces and incessant crying, compel attention. I can't give them it. We shall go with you, Vijjivuvijji and I. Nobody else from this village."

"As you wish."

"We'll need to transport my knapsack of Verdilac."

"It will be done."

"I must ask. What are your plans, beyond the obvious?"

The Captain took the pipe as it came around and snagged another toke, this one deeper, as he contemplated his answer. At last, he plucked the pipe from his mouth and answered, "We have no plan. Spread chaos, disorder. Gather what we can in plunder. None of us are interested in anything but mayhem. Later we might choose to settle, but not until we claim something for our troubles."

"This world is a great treasure to loot," Wab said. "How say you, my bride?" he asked Vijjivuvijji. "Are you ready for an adventure?"

"By your side, Vijji," came the articulate reply.

"You have no reservations leaving this island you call home?"

"Not if I'm with you, my Vijji."

"There you have it," Wab said to the Captain. "We are at your ardent service."

The Captain nodded as he inhaled again.

"There is one thing," Brac said, askew in state of euphoria he'd never reached in the extremity of booze. "Pardon my imposition, but all this copulating has made me randy. Besides the sack of shrub, ain't we gonna grab a girl or two for comfort?"

"We discussed the women," the Captain said. "It's not-"

"I ain't arguing 'bout takin' 'em to the boat, patroon. I mean...I gots to get a hint of quim. I'm bound something fierce."

"The Verdilac is an aphrodisiac," Wab said. "If you're so inclined, help yourself to one of my concubines. You might get a surprise when your hand wanders south, but I ask if it matters?"

"For me a hole is a hole," Groot philosophized. "And at this moment, I ain't the least discriminating."

"You have my permission to do as desire compels," Wab said. "Enjoy and enjoy again."
29. Where Wab and Vijjivuvijji Converse

"Nammes Vijji?"

Wab turned his head and considered the beautiful Vijjivuvijji, nude and perky.

"Nammes Vijji...what find we?"

"My love, it's time we graduate from asceticism to affluence. The pearl is jammed into the mouth of clam, concealed by locked jaws. Does thine not crack the shell when the seal is strong? There is much to see and you will join me, retrieving pearls at every port-of-call."

"Nammes nervous."

"Of what? Wait until you see what lies beyond these shores."

Vijjivuvijji laid her head on Wab's scrawny chest.

"Trepidation is solved by experience," Wab soothed.

"Nammes monsters."

"Monsters? Where? In the sea?"

"Yes. Nammes monsters look like pini."

"You transfix on sea snakes and eels. Don't worry 'bout them. Although, it is majestic to watch them move. Sleek, quick, as if they're on land and not in the viscosity of water."

"Nammes frightened."

"I would not allow anything to happen to my Vijjivuvijji, parent of my child. Speaking of which, we must create a future for this fetus. Bogged in the morass of this island is no place to grow. As I distinguished the truth, these men arrived with a boat to chauffer. It's more than coincidence, my dear.

"Moreover," he continued, "think of poor Utley, wherever he be. The fool is lost to anonymity, another carcass consumed by nature, and his existence a rumor. Dare I say even a rumor has greater truths of kernel? No tombstone to mark his place. No family to remember the bent-backed simpleton. It's as if he didn't exist. I won't dwindle like him. I'll make my mark in this world and so will you."

"Vijji not scared?"

"Ha! If I was apprehensive of anything, it was the unnatural way I craved your bowel cavity. You're glad I did, and so am I. Had I given way to superstition and the unpleasantness of sin, this passion would've never happened."

"Vijjivuvijji loves Vijji."

"And I love you." Wab stroked her hair as she closed her eyes and cooed.

This is how it happened, a great romance no different than millions of others spanning the globe. Wab was infatuated with his concubine and, in moments of lucidity, wondered if he deserved the adoration. He had never loved anyone, aside from his sister. But with his relations, the single sister, the feeling was instigated by blood line and a sense of onus. While she prowled the streets for men with heavy coin purses, Wab sat in their batty-fang slum and tried to pick pockets. His juvenile endeavors had been fruitless and Sister Wab worked the streets with a magical derriere.

Her persistence kept Wab fed and clothed, but this ended when the pimp Frug scarred her face. Marked by the ugly wound she was untouchable, even amongst the crude herd peddling bodies. Wab's enlistment left her alone to suffer and scrape coins to scratch a living. He wondered about her, now more than ever, and assumed she was dead or destitute. There wasn't much of a difference in the Bowery and no one cared either way. Hell, he didn't care but this didn't stop the musings.

For a long time he didn't believe in the concept of love. Passion seemed a trifling waste of energy and a pathetic yearning for distraction. Wab was content trading loneliness for lust. However, Vijjivuvijji changed his opinion. Like all alienated creatures, affection stirred more than the loins. The others in the harem served one debauched purpose, but Wab grew tired of pleasing them. He tried to get Utley to partake, but the man fought a queer moral battle. This left Wab to deal with the sexually bellicose natives and their appetite. He comprehended he couldn't do this forever, nor did he want to.

"I'll keep you safe," Wab promised. "No matter where we go."

"Nammes pledges nammes...vijiuvoi."

"Ah, a new word to challenge my palate. Vu-ov-ah. What does it mean?"

"Nammes...lavish."

"A lavish pledge, eh? Mayhap. But did you think you'd crawl from under the thumb of the brute Vijji? Answer me with honest words."

Vijjivuvijji shook its head.

"There, you see? I do what I promise and will continue to act. But I can't do so unless you're by my side. Understand?"

"Yes," Vijjivuvijji said. "Nammes Vijji is vijiuvoi."

"Always."
30. Where the Cyclone Passes And Discourse Cascades

The foulest weather struck in the hours before twilight, but the duration wasn't protracted. By dawn, clouds gave way to sun for the first time in four days. Some huts were dashed, palm trees were splintered, but there were no casualties among the natives. Those in the longhouse spent the evening in a glazed state, comprehending nothing but the nature of inner turmoil. At one point, a branch crashed upon the roof and startled the occupants. The interruption was a minor inconvenience and most wondered if it had been a shared fabrication brought on by the Verdilac.

Yarbrough appeared in the opening, not long after the sun rose, a disheveled mess. The uneven thong he wore, russet colored and scruffy, swung like a poorly hung curtain from his hips and covered the gap where his pini once jutted.

"The worst has passed," the missionary announced, "with scant damage. None perished during the night, thank the Lord."

Wab stirred on his chair and wiped his eyes. "No doubt God spared us, though what of other islands and islanders in the storm's path not so fortunate?"

"Prayers for them."

"Prayers? You offer invocations?"

"The test of God must be received with thanksgiving," Yarbrough lectured. "Thanks for survival, or thanks for demise. Death isn't the end."

"You didn't seem so fond to embrace the end when Brother Zab was cooking."

The color ran from Yarbrough's face.

"Brother, tendering prayers is as useless as giving money to a beggar. It might make you feel good, but the mendicant isn't better the next day. Save your breath or better yet, shoot prayers at the turtle crawling along the floor there. He has more presence in his wrinkled, dawdling body than the God you waste prayers."

"A figment of compassion lies in the process," Yarbrough said. "But never-you-mind. I'll take my entreaties to those presenting empathy."

"I've something to tell you," Wab said with shifty eyes. "I know we've had differences, owing to dissimilar constitutions and philosophies."

"Precisely. Among the myriad of other things."

"Ahem...if you require a reminder, I did spare you the ignominy of conflagration."

"I'm certain it wasn't from the goodness of your heart. You deride my beliefs, but even the scoundrel brain in your head comprehends the necessity of order. While I provide mandate to those seeking relief, you frolic and smite your soul. Keeping those on the island occupied gives you the latitude to act with impunity."

"Ah...you grasp the mechanisms of society, Brother Yarbrough. Aye, you be essential. Dare I admit I am a mite jealous of your conviction? See, I look at you and ponder why you'd deny yourself the joy of diversion."

"I have a distraction and it's the work of the Lord."

"Whatever you want to call it, you said it best. A distraction it is, through-and-through. Listen, this isn't what I wanted to preach. Here's the news, old man. I'm absconding from this island with the visitors. Me and my bride, Vijjivuvijji."

Yarbrough subdued a cheer and, instead, presented a solemn countenance.

"Speechless, eh?" Wab provoked. "If this was one of your prayers, then I guess it didn't fall on deaf ears."

"Prayer is never heedless."

"Do you know what deity you pray, Yarbrough?"

"God designed man in His image."

Wab laughed, a scratchy caw, and then said, "Doubtful you want to admit as much, but I'll give you the dope. Heed, you beg to me."

"You?"

"I'm judge and executioner of this world. As such, _I've_ answered your entreaties. Verily, I'm parting to let you toil with the remaining clutch."

"There are so many _I's_ in your speech, Wab, you forget your humble spot. We are a speck, on a speck, in a speck, speckled by millions of specks."

"And you forget yours and, as far as _I_ am concerned, this speck is what matters. A speck, by-the-by, _I_ am Lord. But...I'm not conceited to dismiss your feeble shrieks. Don't think _I_ can't eavesdrop into your head. Such clamor and, if _I_ may be so bold, fraught with envy. While _I_ know you can't satisfy the appetites of this herd like _I_ , you provide strength in faith. This is all _I_ would ask of my servants and this is why _I've_ allowed you to subsist despite your obvious duplicity. Now, before you protest, _I_ compel you to listen:

"Take care of this plot, Brother Yarbrough. I've done you the favor of starting the population cycle in earnest. In time, the women of my harem will harvest their brood. Say nothing of me, or shall I say it another way? Yes...speak naught of the creature Wab who spawned rebirth in the tropics. Credit God if you like, but know in thy heart it is _I_ who did the unclean grinding. Like Jesus, I bore the temptation and sin for my flock. I can see in your eyes you desire to refute my words. Go on, say your piece."

"Insolence is a sign of malevolence. To think you are worthy of being put on the same pedestal as the Son of God, well...I'm at a loss to find a suitable rejoinder for fear of castigation."

"Harbor no dread. I promote open discourse as a necessary exchange of philosophies."

"Humph...so you say."

"Aye, though it doesn't mean I accept the nonsense as currency."

"Lo, it is easy to justify indulgence with grandiose blandishment. Ego is your mortal sin. 'If I alone bear witness about myself, my testimony is not deemed true.' John 5:31."

"Words written by an ancient man," Wab refuted with a jeer.

"I'd remind you of the passage in Isiah about carved idols, but it'd merit the same caustic reaction."

"Quite right. You have no tangible method to discount my existence or the miracle I have worked. Accept my seeds, reap thine harvest, and make an Eden on this island. Is this too much to ask?"

"I suppose not," Yarbrough consented with a shrug.

Wab stood, tottered on shaky legs, and yawned. "You suppose not? I should hope you make a better effort than this meek endorsement. I must wake our visitors, sleeping snug in the corner of the room, and make for departure. Then, old man, this slum can be yours for time eternal."
31. Where The Yawl Returns And The Drama On The _Anapa_ Resumes

So, it was time to depart. Like wiping hands of crumbs, or trumpeting flatulence, desertion is a lark. Speak to the devils who live in a state of constant activity and discern ambivalence. 'Tis nothing but an action. But to those catering to the whimsical consequence of what absence defines, and the heart growing fond and all the nonsense of finality, the exploit is like a knife to heart.

Wab roused the muzzy men and compelled them to make haste. In the interim, Vijjivuvijji shared sobbing farewells with the villagers. Their single belonging filled Utley's long-abandon knapsack to the brim: leafy, green Verdilac and a few sentimental seashells Vijjivuvijji collected as a child scattered atop the plant.

The natives followed the group to the edge of jungle, chattering and crying, as Yarbrough lingered in the periphery with a smug grin on his face. Wab desired, in a fit of rage, to drown the joy from the bright eyes of the missionary. The hatred compelled faster breadths; he flogged legs, unused for some time previous, to churn with intensity. By the time they reached the pond the natives and their yammering was an annoying memory, but Wab's lower body ached in exhaustion. He flopped next to the pool and caught breath while the crew of the _Anapa_ stooped to fill their mouths.

"I wouldn't drink from this hole," Wab panted. "Not after what happened in this spot."

The Captain, in mid-swill, spit the water and wiped his mouth. "I forgot," he said with a grimace.

Wab pointed and said, "Imbibe from the brook, if you must imbibe at all."

"I'm parched from the festivities last evening," the Captain admitted. "Your smoke is potent, but scratches the throat."

"One of its evils," Wab said. He examined the pool, spied his reflection on the smooth surface, and submitted a gasp. The emaciated man staring at him looked ancient and unrecognizable. Gnarled beard and wild hair? Who be this? It took him a minute to comprehend this be him. _You_ , Wab, _there you are_.

"I hope the yawl is grounded where we laid it," Groot said. "Otherwise, we might be swimmin'."

"Hand me the bag, bride," Wab instructed with a snap of his fingers.

Vijjivuvijji, who'd hauled the heavy sack slung across its back, dropped it with a grunt next to Wab. He dug a hand into the opening and fetched several plumb buds. As the group watched, Wab filled a pipe and lit a match, inhaling with a satisfied groan. When his gaze returned to the water, the image assembled into a young man with strident, scrutinizing eyes and a smooth angular face crowned with short dark hair. The visage of Charlemagne, unpolluted and regal.

"Best we not get brash with libation before the journey is complete," the Captain said with parental caution.

"A libation is a drink," Wab mumbled as he scrutinized the boyish mirage.

"You know what I speak."

Wab touched his face with a shaky hand and watched the reflection mimic exploit.

"Lo, you listening to me?" the Captain asked.

"It's so queer," Wab said. "I sat over this pond when I arrived, looking into the future. Today I stare at the past. What happened to the time between? 'Tis a blur I can't recall."

"Time does no man favors."

"No man...but how can I be affected?"

"How? You're mortal like the rest of us."

"Can it be?" Wab asked with distress.

"I don't know about this bloke," Brac whispered to the Captain.

The Captain didn't want to profess apprehension either, and stubbornness drove him to defend Wab. A wasted jaunt bothered him more than dealing with the torment bursting inside the derelict.

"What say you?" Brac insisted. "Look at 'im. Driven to melancholy by his face, he is."

"Stuck on this isle, subjected to the natives," the Captain said with a sad shake of his head. "He needs liberation from this place, is all. Give him a moment to digest. You have a short memory if you can't recall how we were on Kili."

Brac mumbled something and withdrew. Meanwhile, Vijjivuvijji slumped to its knees and caressed Wab's back as he continued to lament in curtailed sobs.

***

"Take a gander at the _Anapa_ ," Groot said. "Never 'ave I been happier to see ship."

Even Wab snapped to attention at the pudgy profile of the watching barquentine, looking skeletal without sail in the sunlight. A bevy of gulls loitered over the mizzenmast but no other sign of life could be discerned. The Captain had entertained a terrible thought during the hike. What would they do if the _Anapa_ foundered? The relief of seeing the vessel was soon tempered as he scanned their sanctuary with the eyeglass.

Tho the image in the concave lens was grainy and distorted by gleam of sun off water, the Captain saw what enticed fowl. Two bodies hung from a yardarm, motionless except for diminutive perturbing movements caused by the bombarding gulls. While the birds feasted and squawked, the deck appeared absent of activity.

"What do you spy?" Groot asked.

"Maritime justice," the Captain answered. "Who they be cannot be comprehended at this moment and won't be if we don't locate our return."

The little yacht wasn't where it had been abandoned but flung or drifted down the foamy strand about a quarter-league. Covered in seaweed, starfishes and clumps of wet sand, the craft had been turned upside down. The rudder post looked like a shark's fin, with the noted exception of a giant, snaking crack winding through the middle. Otherwise, the hull was free from holes.

"She be seaworthy," the Captain pronounced, although his knowledge of the subject was far from exceptional. "Just a wee ding."

"A wee ding?" Brac parroted. "What's to say it won't snap at the first stress? And where be the mast we laid? I'll tell you. It's flotsam and journeying quicker to our destination than we be."

"Who needs sail in a flat calm?" the Captain retorted. "Let's turn it over and see if the oars are clasped into place."

"And if they're not?"

"We invent our own. Look around. There are plenty of branches we can use as paddles. Now listen, you fools, when we tip it sideways make sure you handle it with finesse. Don't want to snap the support before we get her into the water."

It took a few minutes to lay the yawl on its port side, but the six oars were snug in fastenings.

"Delightful," the Captain cheered. "Appreciate, Brac? All your fussing for nothing."

"I won't be happy until I'm back on the _Anapa_."

Groot laughed and then said, "First you wanted to step on land, now you want to return to the deck."

Brac wiped his hands clean of sand and said, "What of it?"

"Contradiction is what of it."

"I'll help wrap your mind 'round ambiguity with me fist, if you like."

"Hush," the Captain commanded. "You two can bicker in earnest when we're snug."

Dragging, grunting, cursing followed as they dragged the boat into the South Pacific and tumbled over the gunwale. Oars were put to water in short order but progression was retarded by futile effort. The Captain desired a uniform rhythm with all six occupants, but his cadence went unheeded. Brac, muscle-bound and anxious, stroked like two men while Wab, with feeble arms, cast inadequate ripples with his sweeps.

"We must look like the sorriest sots," the Captain pronounced. "Ye sculling is igniting persiflage chants from those on the _Anapa_."

"All I hear is the gulls," Groot replied. "And me ole back grousing. The lumbar bitches with disdain. Woe is the spine."

The yawl traced a haphazard zigzag over sea, making more distance in back-and-forth yaws than they were going forward. Brac had enough, at last, and took control of Wab's oar with a terse gripe. The fiend worked two in tandem, one on each side, molesting the oarlocks and articulating a strong dislike of everything in God's universe in colorful invectives. His straining effort, and the Captain's direction, guided them to within floating distance of the silent ship after an hour of shambolic seamanship. They'd forgotten about the bodies until nearing the stern where, as luck would have it, another corpse bobbed like a bung. A chafed hawser was tied to the neck of the dead and knotted at the transom.

Brac prodded the castoff with an oar and the object leaned sideways, revealing nothing below the waist but ribbons of flesh, before being righted by the taut slack in the line. The face, puffy and gray, looked like melted frosting. Identification was impossible. Suddenly, a creature shot from the murky depths and latched jaws onto what remained of the human stalk. With a vicious shake, the monster tore a patch of skin before submerging. Brac withdrew the oar like it was mephitic and tossed it into the bottom of the yawl.

"Sharks," Groot said as he looked over the side. "A school of 'em swimming 'neath."

"And the gulls above," Brac said. "A systematic frenzy."

"Lo!" Groot interjected with angst. "'Tis me boy!"

The Captain followed the pervert's finger and judged his declaration as factual. The youth, naked and distended, was black in the face and covered in snowy bird dung. Swinging next to him was the Russian woman the Captain fancied, also bare and ornamented in shite. Her hair, once golden like the strings of a harp, had been removed in bunches. Her face was pitted, bitten, destroyed. Beauty devastated by indifference, plucked by savage avian clefts.

"Me boy," Groot lamented. "They killed 'im!"

"'Hoy!" The Captain greeted. "Cast a line, you bastards!"

"Me poor boy," Groot continued in terrific sobs.

"Shut yer hole," Brac said. "'Twas a pet, nothing more. You can find another."

"But he was sweet," Groot said as he wiped his eyes. "Affectionate and domesticated. I planned a tender way to end 'im and a proper way to dispose the beautiful shell. This be an insult."

"What kind of nonsense happened while we were absent?" the Captain wondered.

"Your crew is distinct," Wab spoke. These were his first words since leaving the island and the tenor projected approval, not consternation.

"Aye," the Captain agreed. "They be a zealous slice of the worst convicts the crown banished."

A scruffy, yawning, face appeared over the taffrail and squinted in disbelief.

"'Bout time, Pittman," the Captain bellowed. "We're a few boards separated from man eaters. Make quick a ratline."

"Aye. Who be the new comers?"

"Companions from the island."

Pittman scratched his face and said, "What of plunder?"

"'Twas a wretched spot, good for the safekeeping from the storm and not much else. But, never fear, we brought Verdilac for the voyage."

"Vert-ic? Be it edible?"

"God-damn man!" Brac shouted. "Ain't you worked your tongue in awhile? Can't you see them dorsal fins circling? We'll grovel when we gots distance between us and the famished."

"Afraid it ain't much better topside," Pittman confessed. "We be starved and hoping you brought grub. There's conversation of drawing lots."

"Listen, man," Brac retorted, "there'll be less to draw from if we're not amongst you. Make speed! I'd rather be consumed by fellow man than these things!"

***

"Me boy," Groot whimpered for mayhap the hundredth time. He'd taken to sitting cross-legged below the stiff, oblivious to clumpy dung raining from fowl, unable to suppress grief.

Pittman, the Captain judged, had fallen into a stupefying bender along with the rest of the crew. Broken bottles of wine and hard spirits littered astern and passed-out men spoiled the forward deck, slumbering with indifference among shards of glass and stripped attire.

"Explain," the Captain said as he motioned at the corpses.

"Bait," Pittman answered. "We deem to capture scavengers. As for the sharks, we'll use the yawl to rummage one of these beasts. I've made setline and fashioned a lance."

"Who be the carrot in draft?"

"One of the prisoners squirreled away by the men. The last, I should add."

"My women deserved a better fate than this."

"As did me boy," Groot sniveled.

Pittman shook his head and said, "He wouldn't stop screaming and we got annoyed."

"You drunken louts murdered him," Groot seethed.

"As for the waif," Pittman continued without compunction, "her aroma was an embellishment on this hell ship beyond temptation."

"Tell me you've managed to corral some meat from this degradation," the Captain said.

"Alas, the birds are smarter than they appear. Pea-brained, perhaps, but attune to ruse. Try climbing the mizzen and grabbing one of them grubby things. They flock to torment and peck with savagery." Pittman held up his forearms, ripe with welts and gashes. "Don't want to squander powder with careless shooting. We's expected you'd bring a cache of fruit. This sack of leaves is unsatisfying."

"Try a taste," Wab said, "and see if you feel the same."

"Eh?" Pittman asked. "And who is this?"

"Meet the crafty Wab," the Captain introduced. "An American sailor with knowledge of these waters and a filthy nature to accommodate our own. Next to him be his bride, a courtesan of the natives, queen of Vijji."

Pittman recoiled and asked, "His bride?"

"Aye, his bride and unborn."

"But-"

"Never-you-mind," the Captain said. "How'd the vessel gallop the storm?"

"'Twas a trifling nuisance. Not a scratch and the bilge is free of water. She's as seaworthy as the day she was launched. I have a modicum of respect for these Russian shipbuilders." Pittman rapped the bulwark with his fist. "A robust girl."

"Well, if she's every bit rapscallion as the rest of us, 'tis a good partnership."

"This will take us only so far without nourishment," Pittman said. "Therefore, I request to go ashore and complete a harvest."

"The yawl is pathetic vehicle, I regret to inform. The storm stole her main and mizzenmast while fracturing the rudder post. A glorified rowboat is what we have, and a coffin need be if the _Anapa_ becomes fractious."

"Ye Gods!"

"Not to worry, Pittman. Gather the rudimentary harpoons and exercise thy arm. The yawl can harvest some shark meat from the sea. While you rouse the drunkards, Wab and I will go below to flesh a path of travel."

"Aye. As you wish, patroon."
32. Where A Crook Is Disemboweled

"The chart is Russian," the Captain said, "but no matter. It's a useful tool just the same. We have the accoutrements for navigation and an ebullient seaman in Pittman. Groot is hard-boiled to stand sentry at the helm and the rest contribute under tactful supervision."

Wab gazed at the map and traced his finger along the dark streak of the Equator.

The Captain stood over his shoulder and said, "I propose to continue east and plunder what we can along the way."

"Where are we at present?"

"You don't know?" the Captain asked. "I thought you discerned these waters!"

"I know the area, but of the place I absconded...it went unnamed on the naval charts."

"Here. This be the dot under the Russian gibberish."

"Strange...not so impressive from the birds-eye. Go figure the Russians waste words on this overlooked archipelago. What do you think, my love?"

Vijjivuvijji stretched on the stained covers and said, "Nammes soft."

"So," the Captain said, "about this idea. East?"

"You claim your man Pittman knows seafaring, eh? You can't hug the line and plod east from here. The winds are prevalent from the direction you desire to sail. We'll be bound in doldrums. What we'd have to do is heave north to the 30 degree latitude, or go south to the same demarcation. Either way, it's a tedious journey."

"We did fine trekking south from the Marshalls."

"I estimate the cyclone had a hand in this."

"What do you suggest?"

"This is a sailing vessel and wind is the impetus. It's beyond dispute we rove west."

The Captain studied the shaded landmasses, branded in Russian, but more mysterious than the words he could not decipher.

"This," Wab indicated with his finger, "is German New Guinea. Here's the Malay Peninsula. Ah, the Dutch East Indies. Kalimantan. Sumatra. Ceylon-"

"None of these places will suffice."

"Why not?"

"We have grand plans to make a mess of the world and grow fat with coin is why."

"Does it matter where we go? One place is the same as another."

"To you, perhaps, but I'd like to take my coinage from the hands of those speaking the Kings before I cut their throat."

"Ah...so it's revenge you seek."

"Aye, and we'll taste its sweet lips. We're motivated and livid."

"You're a bright gent," Wab said with careful deliberation, "so I'm not saying anything you haven't presaged."

"Ha, you're a bizarre fellow. One minute a quivering wreck, the next a sycophant. Just spit out what you're thinking."

"What we want and what we have are divergent realities. Raiding islands like Vijjivu won't get you riches, warriors or gratification."

"Sayeth the man who accomplished some of these things."

"What I'm articulating is you need better weapons, a bigger ship and a horde of men to do more than become a footnote in history. You crave retribution. An honorable chore, but it'll take years of discipline to achieve the end result. In the meantime, you and yours will be dodging warships and looking over your shoulders. I think I've found a lucrative alternative."

"Let I be the judge of how lucrative it be."

"Verily, as I mentioned, you won't find loot in the South Pacific. But on the Malay Peninsula there are throngs of like-minded cutthroats. I should know. We sailed to roust villages on Sumatra kept by brigands. Where there be one, there be hundreds and all of these spots detest the same thing you do. However, unlike you, these people have money."

"I understand. We attack these villages."

"Bah," Wab spit. "Pay heed. The navy sent a compliment of marines and sailors, wasted balls for bombardment, and even this didn't crack the Malay nut. At last, our commodore designed a devious plan to capture the thorny chieftain, but this ruse couldn't have been accomplished without extraneous props. No disrespect, but you don't have the same cunning or resources."

"All the reason, then, to avoid Malay."

"Not if we barter."

"You propose commerce? We carry nothing but what the ship contains."

"A minor problem, but you've forgotten one asset. Our sack of Verdilac."

"You think the Malays will barter for plants?"

"Not any plant, as you are aware. One puff and they'll fulfill."

The Captain rubbed his chin and contemplated the statement.

"We can get rich off this stuff," Wab said. "Forget pirating and sacking-"

"Try telling this to the rabble topside."

"All you need do is explicate loot can be had."

"Mayhap..." the Captain mused.

"Let the men who haven't tasted whet their whistle. Their minds will be pliable."

"Business, eh?"

"Think of it."

"This reeks of reputable behavior."

"Not quite, given how you acquired this ship."

"Aye..."

"Even better, we know where to fetch more Verdilac. The supply is endless, as is the booty. Moreover, the Malay have no qualms with the Russians I am aware. This flag we fly may keep us from the same fate as American merchants."

"May?"

"Well...there's always the chance we run into nasty pirates. Yet, from what I've witnessed, they'd meet their match if they picked this ship to plunder. Look at this chart. Here we sit and there we need be. The western shore of Sumatra, the Sultanate of Aceh, controlled by uleëbalang who lack morals as we. The difference is they have money. They also prosper in the pepper trade, as well as the occasional pillaging, but enjoy the proverbial spirits. Verdilac would be well received."

"Hmm...you have an interesting idea and-"

The Captain's words were interrupted by yelling and footfalls on the deck. Both men looked overhead and tipped an ear. The scuffling intensified, mixed with shouts, and the Captain ran for the door with Wab on his heels.

***

The Captain feared an abstract confection of combat, mutiny, or both, and his heart beat heavy as he climbed the ladder and appeared on deck. The sunshine, a tropical brilliance, blinded and it took precious seconds for eyes to adjust. In the interim, he expected to be greeted by stab of dagger or wallop of musket ball but took a stoic stance to convey indifference.

Piecemeal, the scene fashioned: the fantail was awash in gore and a knot of sweaty men stood over a winded hammerhead shark, gouged by lance both fore and aft, swinging clubs and whacking in a synchronized brutality. Each blow sounded like wet thuds and cheers resounded as blood oozed from the serrated harpoon wounds. It was a monstrous sphyrnidae, six meters in length and plump.

"Patroon," Pittman yelled, "behold our banquet!"

"A nice catch," the Captain answered, stepping with dainty meticulousness to avoid the sinuous gore.

Brac, bent over with hands on knees, wheezed, "The bastard's a fighter. Won't give up the ghost."

"Stuck one spike in its fluke," Pittman explained, "and one through the head. Or whatever you call the thing. Ugly bugger. Had to haul it up with windlass 'cause the other sharks were taking nibbles. Soon as we dragged it on deck, bugger's tail thrashed and cracked poor Groot on the dome. He be seeing stars."

"By the look of things, the predator's going strong."

"Ain't they suffocate breathing human air? Look at it!"

The shark wiggled and rolled with an instinct to avoid most blows. Pillbox swung a truncheon, missed, and spanked his knee. He fell to his bottom with a curse and propelled backwards with slippery feet as the hammerhead lashed its long tail.

"Your boys play rough," Wab said from behind. "Prolonging misery for sport."

"Death be cruel. In the face of one snuffed soul, partake in the joy of inhaling their last breath."

"I never take pleasure in delinquency."

"Don't be judge of these men when you're no saint. Besides, one day all of us stare into the eyes of tormentors who feast on our last gasp. 'Tis the circle of life."

"I declare it's the tormentors who bring us into this world. Procreation is a certain death sentence. Those who shepherd us out should be gracious and congenial, for the pain of annihilation is shared doom."

"Do ye see anything resembling emotion in the dumb eyes of the fish?"

"I see enough to comprehend its plight. Destruction is no less a trauma for the stupid."

The Captain spun and sneered. "This from a man who burned another?"

"Was a necessary act and yielded subsistence for the village."

"Why didn't you cut his throat and then cook the bloke?"

"You understand example is a compelling motivator to conjure subjection? Anyway, I was doing the man a favor. Giving him a martyr's death is the highest honor to a devotee of the Lord."

"Aye, and I also comprehend we have diverse attitudes on what is cruel and what is comical."

Another thud of the shark's tail reverberated, halting this patter at a stimulating climax. Torturers, thugs, compassionate caregivers (whatever the label), retreated and made space for the fury of the creature's last stand. It revolved and snapped jaws at sundry legs, squirmed and smeared a tart coating of gore along cartilage, gawked with monstrous cephalofoil. The spasm of existence gave way to subdued gasping as its eyes rolled white and greenish foam trickled from gills. At last it was still.

Pillbox had regained his feet and prodded the beast with probing toes. "Is soul is crushed," he declared.

"Such hassle for one meal," lamented Pittman.

"Worth the tussle," said the Captain.

"Speak for you, not for me," groused Pillbox as he rubbed his swollen knee.

"How 'bout we lapse from chatter and embrace butchery?"

Pittman unsheathed a long knife and flicked the blade. "All's forgotten when we feast," he said. "Now, I've heard the shark has a peculiar affinity for indigestible treasures. Let's see how truthful be the rumors." He pounced on the body and sunk implement, using felonious skill to gash an incision from anal fin to gill slits. Peritoneum opened like a book and Pittman peeled leaves with slashing grunts, as if digesting a tome of antiquity. Then, in handfuls, came the insides: viscera, organs, unctuous spiral intestines and the gelatinous pyloric valve. Last the stomach, a u-shaped structure, was ripped from cavity and smacked on the ligneous sundeck in a red misty cloud.

The proliferation of green waste multiplied as the shark drained, soaking Pittman in a currish bath made worse by the heat. The awful smell had a physical texture and lingered in the air though the breeze was robust. It would take a healthy scrub to remove the worst of the tang but the men percolated with stubborn curiosity.

"It's a ripe fruit," Brac observed, "but I've eaten worse. Whiff the quim of 'em working girls on Regent's Canal and tell me this pong ain't like a bloomin' flower."

The gulls, drawn from their pecking repast of the hanging putrid meat, began methodical forays for a tastier treat. Unafraid of the men brandishing blunt objects, they clambered on the deck and attacked in droves. Pittman stabbed one of them, running it through, but others scavenged with nimble dexterity until the air was filled with beating wings and thrashing limbs. The war with fowl was a battle man was destined to lose. The birds landed, scarfed and took flight before severe blows could be inflicted. Withdrawing to perch on the yardarms, they collected strength until the next raid.

"An inconvenience we're going to have to weather," the Captain declared, though he perjured a moment later by swiping at one of the miserable, screeching creatures.

Pittman gave up after slaying the one and returned to the stomach, determined to divulge the secrets of nature. What he hoped to find, in contrast to what stewed in the slop, seemed worse than getting nothing in the stocking on Christmas Day. In fact, only a solitary item of meager value foundered in gut juices: a silver necklace with locket.

"This be it," he said, holding the jewelry by its greasy chain. "Worth about a halfpenny for my swim in this revolting excrement." The locket twirled, shining in sunlight, until Pittman cast it aside and stood. "The rest of you urchins can carve the meat. I need to find me a drink."

The locket came to rest not far from Wab, but he ignored the trinket and descended on the shark's remains. With an errant step, he crunched the charm like a bug and swept it from the deck with a casual boot.

What remained of Utley took a gravity-aided plunge into the ocean, creating a diminutive plop unobserved by anything with the compassion to care.
33. Where Repast Begets Expedition

"It ain't manna," Brac surmised, "but it beats gull meat."

"Recall the awful coconut kernel on the atoll?" Groot asked. "I'd eat a bloody stick instead of kernel again."

"Bark would be easier to digest," the Captain added.

The group, lounging on the afterdeck, appeared like casual friends instead of brigands and the relaxed atmosphere promoted what transpired next.

Clearing his throat, the Captain stood and clasped his hands behind his back. "Enjoy the peace tonight. Tomorrow we sail with first light."

"Aye!" the men cheered.

"Into the bright," Pittman said. "We shall watch it rise and paint our blight."

"'Bout this," the Captain said, pacing with his head down. "We go west in the morn and milk the wind."

"West?" Pittman asked. "You be serious?"

"What's to our west?" Groot asked.

"Das Africa," Pillbox complained. "I left there on a ship. I don't desire to return on one."

"Sumatra's west," the Captain clarified.

"Sumatra?" Pittman squawked. "Who wants to go to Sumatra?"

Wab, almost hidden in the shadows beneath the mizzenmast, listened to the backbiting as he smoked. Vijjivuvijji slept below in the Captain's stateroom, forced into this isolation by Wab. He didn't want her topside for the assured argument the _Anapa's_ navigational path would produce.

"Lo," the Captain said, "before gettin' ornery, you best listen to what I have to say."

"We agreed," Pittman argued, "what the course be. You ain't the only one capable of leading this ship."

"I be the only one with a wise brain," the Captain muttered. "You'd all be stranded on the atoll if it weren't be for me."

"Better than Sumatra," Pittman said. "And, if you be as wise as you boast, you'll shut the thing in your mouth and do as ordained."

"'Tis my idea," Wab announced from his spot. He siphoned a drag from the smoldering pipe and lurched to his feet. "There ain't latitude for dispute and there ain't room for those who argue."

"Who be you to tell us what's-what?" Pittman growled. "I ain't takin' orders from this bloke."

"Sit down," Brac bade, "unless you desire to be chum for our next meal. You and your concubine, whatever it be."

"I've no argument with you gentleman," Wab professed with a broad smile. "I'm trying to mediate an agreeable, and profitable, solution for all. Heed. I implore you to stand down and listen. If what I say is foul, do as you will. But, I think you'll find recourse in the plot I, and your mate, have conjured."

Pittman was the smartest of the diverging lot, and not by mere happenstance or cunning acumen. He was no Jack Brag, but had made a go of things in the Royal Navy after falling in with a rough crowd as a youth. With structure he excelled as a sailor, earning a commission after five years of hard service abroad. But, as seamen are wont, he got lost in the drink and committed a heinous act of assault on a young girl in the Caribbean. Had she not been the daughter of an island governor, Pittman's sentence might've been a few lashes and a loss of sponsorship. Instead, he'd been lashed, branded and banished, the dreaded "scar, char and go far", and swore vengeance on the whole group of corrupt administrators responsible for the degradation.

So, in this time of escalating emotion, Pittman allowed common sense to replace the lust for vengeance he craved and made way for Wab to say his piece by silencing Brac and the rest with a terse "hush."

Wab said, "Thank you. I know, based on what the good Captain has told me, all ye have a generous chip on the shoulder."

"Generous?" Brac laughed. "They left us for dead on a bloody strand in the middle of the ocean!"

"A valid barney," Wab continued, "but look around and tell me how much damage you can do with a merchantship, a handful of undisciplined men, and a few flintlocks."

"We got cutlass and clubs," Groot interjected.

"Hell man, you're missing me point. It took almost the full complement of crew to slay the shark earlier."

"We be hungover," Pittman said in a meek voice, as if this justified the sloppy effort.

"Be as may, you've no gunnage or armor. In plain speak, this vessel wasn't designed as a raider and she'll be blown to smithereens as soon as you run afoul of a frigate with a bone to pick." Wab glanced at the group and watched their eyes. Peaked as he was on smoke, they appeared captivated, or at the least, interested. "Tell 'em the truth, Pittman, if they don't believe me. Don't be modest."

"'Tis true, I suppose, but-"

"Besides revenge, what'll make the lot of you happy?"

The men looked around and whispered before Pittman said, "Loot, I suppose. Some quim. Drink."

"Aye, and where does revenge _really_ sit on this list of wants? I'll tell you, and there ain't no shame in admitting it. Near the bottom, where it should be, and where you'll be if you let emotion be ye compass instead of common sense."

The Captain strolled behind Wab, resisting the urge to smirk. He'd been dreading this talk, certain it would end in bloodshed, but the newcomer was a natural orator with the charisma of a sociable salesman. This, despite the mental hiccups, would get them further than the Captain.

Wab heard his footfalls and said, "I'll let the patroon outline the particulars, since he's the designated master of this boat." With a bow he retreated into shadows, clamping the pipe between teeth.

"We've plotted a course west," the Captain said with confidence, "into waters ripe with gold. The way to attain comfort is not through violence, but vending. The sack we brought aboard contains a weighty plant."

"Not the goddamned plant," Brac bellyached.

"Aye, and you've had your toke Brac. You recall how you felt?"

"'Twas different, I concede."

"Indeed. All of you, come forth and take a nip from Wab's pipe. While you do, think of the splendid wealth waiting when we present this crop to sultans, uleëbalangs and whomever else we run across."
34. Where The _Anapa_ Cruises West To Sumatra

Off they go!

The joy of vagabond soul, prancing and undisguised, knows no bounds and perks with the promise of unfurled canvas and infinite horizons.

Pittman roused, "Thy slack, mind the shrouds!"

The horde scrambled, belaying snaking rope 'round cleats, and snapped cordage taut.

Listen as the capstan spins, winding with dervish mirth, as sail catches wind.

There be the foremast square-rigged, humming bracing chants. Behind spread the fore-and-aft main and mizzen masts. They answer in duplicate, lippy but content.

Off they go, making haste as the gale blows.

"Steady at the helm," the Captain barged.

"Trim ye spars!" the excited Pittman charged.

High in the spider web of mainsheet, smeared with orange and yellow dawn, refined arms toil as the men sing a working song. 'Twas a practiced group, drilled to perfection. Observe how the scoundrels functioned in tandem. Among them, with dexterity and sweat, Wab pranced on tapered beams, from below he was but a silhouette.

"We're a-sailing," the Captain strut.

"She's binging on puffs," Pittman consented. "What a beauty when plumage is untucked!"

The blazing confection of sunrise brands blue tarn. Ahead, the pall of dusk unravels like a ball of yarn.

Seagulls squawk from perches, disturbed from slumber. The ole ship creaks and lists, slicing sea like foamy lumber.

"How say the helm?" the Captain inquired.

"We be stable," Groot respired.

On the beach, witness Yarbrough's glee. 'Twas nothing sweeter than seeing the bastard flee. 'Cept his thoughts were a variation of this. Being pious he lacked invectives and, of course, the lyrics never left his lips.

"Onward, men," the Captain cajoled.

Hurrah! Off they go!

***

This velvety mosaic, as presented, appeared as generic decoration in cabinets engraved by dandyish menuisier's with petite hands and the knack for artistic lies. Scrimshaw, too, borne the doodles of bored sailors with furtive minds. Thus the scene on the _Anapa_ was a robust vision and the men responded in kind. Lost in the grind, stomachs busting with meat and wine, the sailors envisaged exotic foreign loams, stuffed chests o'erfilling with gold, and roams through blasphemous carnal homes.

It didn't help the lot of them were blitzed on Verdilac as they cruised. This be a trifling matter of fact, at least in their minds. Wab encouraged gorging on the pipe at dawn to stir the imagination. Attest it worked, and all-to-well indeed. By sunrise the ship was bursting with frenetic energy.

A brisk wind howled from the west and Groot kept a steady helm. Shirtless Pittman took readings of the sun on the turtleback and corrected for magnetic anomalies with the dyogram. Pig-iron used for ballast, kentledge in sailor parlance, played havoc with the magnetic compass, but Pittman's math was incoherent and inaccurate. For the time being, small errors had no perceptible consequence. Witness sea, an endless realm, spread in all directions. For days, the _Anapa_ existed in a cocoon of its own unskilled invention.

Wab retired below in the afternoon heat and cuddled next to Vijjivuvijji, benumbed in the Captain's stateroom. The patroon had yielded the opulent chamber for the executive officers cabin, a thanks-giving gift for Wab's assistance in cultivating the outlaws. As far as the woman (or whatever it was) went, the crew paid slight notice. The odd relationship betwixt the two tenderfoots was frequent scuttlebutt, but the convicts weren't above degradations of their own and accepted the lascivious link Wab and the native had with simpering comments. Groot thought of Vijjivuvijji as something of an idol, a charm entreating good luck and a rosy future.

She'd made a few swift appearances topside for air but, mindful of the miscreants, sequestered to the solitary world of comfort. The bed was a wholesome retreat, engulfing limbs in cozy snuggle and rendering spells of lengthy slumber.

When awake, she sat at the desk and examined the tatty chart. The Cyrillic scribbles, indecipherable to her as the other men, went ignored. Yet, like a picture book for children, the shaded demesnes compelled curious examination. Wab showed her where they intended to land while pantomiming exotic animals and the people inhabiting these places: lofty trees, with bizarre leaves, stretched higher than anything on Vijjivu. Man-eating beasts of land not unlike what prowled the seas, but decorated with orange-and-black stripes, nimble feet and sneaky schemes. Giant snakes, capable of devouring animals whole, but before engorging squeezed the soul. Insects aplenty, some with capacity to kill. Be wary of the ants, he prophesized. They organized like armies, swarmed and stripped skin. These descriptions frightened but Wab told her not to fret. She'd be safe on the _Anapa_ while he conducted excursions into this confection of threats.

He warned it'd be a chancy endeavor, at least at first, until confidence was gained and trust established. These natives, he told her, were leery of white men and would seek to steal her if given the opportunity. It was important she stayed hidden when contact was made. He wanted nothing to happen to her. Or their unborn.

So, it was this sublime comfort when he latched to her and dug his scruffy face into the nape of her neck. Domesticity, a principled concept in both their minds, dug solid roots in these stateroom sojourns. Wab had convinced himself she was with child and she did nothing to dissuade the notion, though it was a biological impossibility. All falsehoods took the appearance of truth under the spell of Verdilac.

And while this routine passed day-after-day, so did others. Oblivious to everything the moon rose and set. The breeze was muffled by sail. Brac descended into the trailing yawl and caught fish with Pittman's improvised harpoons. The seagulls, leagues from land, were hostages trapped on the crosstrees and yards. They preached misery, scavenged what they could, and became slaves to the routine as the slavers beneath accomplished rote and mundane chores to dissuade boredom.

Often, the men cast hopeful eyes on the horizon. They perceived land masses, boats, cities and sundry mirages. Alas, these visions never grew larger, or detailed, as the ship bounded into the misty vacuum. It was always the same, tedious gray shapes shimmering with enticement. Though it should've been disheartening, there was never a cross word said or a frustration demonstrated. The Verdilac made annoyance a fleeting pest.

At least for the first few days.

***

It was on Day 7 when an unrestrained change in mood affected Pittman. Like with any change in attitude, there was a particular incident which took hold of his brain in a spastic grasp. Up to the moment of his Newton's Apple, the repetitive use of sextant had become a predictable fixation. Yet he hadn't been using the device, as designed, for days. Instead, he gazed into the telescope, ignoring refraction, reflection and micrometer adjustments. Incorrect calibration, after so much misuse, rendered the horizon as a split body. To Pittman's cloudy mind, all appeared normal until, at last, it didn't. He scowled and attuned the mirrors. Quick calculation generated dumb understanding. What a fool he'd become, but he wasn't the only man lounging in a stupefying morass.

The others had their own hobbies. With a steady western wind, as Wab predicted, there wasn't much to do but conceive habits to waste day-and-night.

Groot had, for all intents, become prisoner to the ships helm. This wasn't unusual; he'd become a doting pilot the moment he set foot on the _Anapa_. However, the hours spent gripping spokes transformed his hands into claws. He'd snap when presented with relief, as if this was an insult, and could only be forced to rest when plied with Verdilac.

Brac, meanwhile, enjoyed the bliss of riding unsocial in the yawl and murdering fish. He, like Groot, squandered hours in silent meditation except his hands clenched harpoon and his eyes fixed on what swam beneath. What he caught, versus the time he spent trying to catch it, wasn't an equitable trade. Try telling him as much and the uncouth response would be a fist in the eye.

Pillbox became obsessed with the gulls and meant to roust them from their impromptu habitat. The exact reason why he disliked the birds was never clear, though he fashioned a grim caricature of these shrieking beasts as rats with wings, plump with disease. He could be discerned high on the main or mizzen with grappling hook, a black speck from the deck, waving the instrument with wild intemperance and striking for fowl. Few he whacked, but what he did tumbled to the deck and exploded, leaving feathery smears. The intermittent thuds of seagulls ceased being a nuisance, as did the hollow tolling of pole on wooden yards and ironworks. His frustrated curses rained down, the only deluge from the heavens, and became supplementary noises lost in the ruffling of canvas and burbling of agitated ocean.

The Captain glided like a ghost, completing endless assessments from forecastle-to-afterdeck and back. His circuitous orbit, preordained like a planets path, was another curious example of frittering which went unnoticed though he would, on occasion, squawk orders. Those in the periphery of said instructions complied with flaccid nods and unenthusiastic motion. Out-of-sight, they'd resume the practice of loafing until the Captain reappeared and the process repeated _ad infinitum_.

And the rest...well, it need not be flogged to death.

Pittman, aroused from a state of sun scrutiny, perceived the condition of utter indolence as he considered the sextant. The commission of using the instrument wasn't tedious, or exhausting, for skilled, temperate hands. Without belaboring the trickery of celestial navigation, it be an optic instrument, relying on two mirrors, used to measure the angle between two visible objects. This slant can then be read off the arc gauge attached to the contraption. Yet, minor discrepancies accumulate large differences in perceived and actual position which, on the ocean, can spell trouble.

The trifling compass error Pittman factored had coxed them well north of where he assumed they travelled. According to the device, checked thrice, the _Anapa_ had just floated through three degrees north and fifty minutes.

"I've been blinded by infernal torpor," he said in amazement. "While beside me these worthless tars are dumb in their own worlds."

As if to reinforce this grim charge, Pillbox's tornadic profanities spiraled from high.

"Groot," Pittman said, "what's the compass indicate?"

The bony helmsman didn't respond as he scanned the purple mist shrouding intangible prospects.

"Groot!"

"Bugger off. I see land."

"Do you?" Pittman asked with skepticism. "Describe."

"'Tis a kingdom of gold. Gold spires atop gold buildings with people wearing gold trinkets and headdresses."

"You discern this in the yonder mist?"

"Ain't it beautiful?"

"I don't see anything of the sort."

"Hush and let me steer. You're ruining me concentration."

The Captain meandered by at this instant, muttering incomprehensible gibberish. Pittman grabbed his arm and the Captain shook him as if his fingers tickled like the wings of pest.

"Patroon," Pittman said, snapping his fingers. The Captain shook his head, woke from stupor, and coughed. "You takin' a gander 'round this tub?" Pittman asked.

"I make regular inspections," he answered. "I be in the midst of one now, Pittman, 'til provoked with interruption. Speaking of which, why aren't you taking readings?"

"All I do is take readings."

"And?"

"And we're sailing west, as we've been doing for the last few days. It's lateral movement which has me vexed. I distress I've made an error. Look."

"I'm a novice with mechanisms of navigation. I trust you'll correct the problem." He started to shuffle past but Pittman blocked his path. "What is it, man? You're preventing me from-"

"Preventing you from what?" Pittman growled. "I asked ye to take a look and my mistake, but if you won't then at least cast an eye on our collective state. A scrupulous stare. Here, now, turn your head and become aware."

The Captain bristled but Pittman stood fast. At last he blinked his eyes and regarded the statuesque Groot. Then the yawl with the feverish Brac stabbing water in futile splash. Next Pittman banging iron and damning birds with impotent words. Last the others...sunning, scrubbing, staring at nothing.

"What say you?" Pittman asked with a cock of his head. "Don't be shy. Let yer tongue lose without amends."

"This boat runs itself with a crew of stoned hands," the Captain replied as sweat rolled down his brow.

"Aye, patroon. We're a ghost ship run by demons. The order we have is fated from hell. If we're not careful-"

"Land!" resounded a cry from the mainmast. A sailor named James leaned from the smooth pike and gestured with impatience. "Land!"

"Where?" asked Pittman, convinced it was an illusion and perturbed at the ill-timed interruption.

"To port," James said with an impatient thrust of his finger.

Pittman strode to the side of the ship, the Captain in tow, and squinted. Dazzled by the bright reflection, he didn't see anything but blemishes of primary colors.

"Hark, I see it," the Captain whispered. "There. Bearing southwest."

Others had joined, excited and yammering, pointing at nature's alleged evidence. Even Pillbox stopped beating the crosstrees and stared, at what Pittman presumed, was summoned strand. But as the blots gave way to the traditional azure of sea-and-sky, he saw a novel hue. Ashen and irregular, with bursts of brunet and jade. It could be the brain had stewed and conjured extant. If so, they all shared the same fantasy.

"A parcel," the Captain said with a nod. "There's no doubt."

Pittman sighed, rubbed his eyes, and concurred.

"What's the matter? While you may have erred, we're tripping o'er protrusions just the same."

"The question is not what our toes stub but where."

"An uncharted spot, I'd venture."

"Mayhap. But now watch... do my eyes deceive? This isle is growing longer. Aye, this be clear. It's unraveling as we near."

"You see?" Groot proclaimed from behind. "I told ye I saw it. Gold, gold, gold!" He laughed with mischief.

"Come to two-hundred and twenty," the Captain ordered, retaining a sober bearing. "Ah Pittman, you appear upset. Let's go below and examine the evidence."

***

They burst into the stateroom, discovering Wab and his partner engaged in a perverse imitation of connubial intimacy. Vijjivuvijji lay face down as Wab thrust into rump. He turned his head and stared daggers at the intruders but continued to hump.

"Beg your pardon," the Captain said, "but land's been sighted."

"Land, you say?" Wab asked. Each syllable was punctuated by a grunt from the prone Vijjivuvijji.

"I need to peruse the chart," Pittman said. "I fear there's been a navigational error."

Wab closed his eyes and contorted his face, but not from distress. His frame quaked and Vijjivuvijji sucked in breath. Then he withdrew from her body and reclined on haunches, taking a moment to rest.

"My essence has been sapped," Wab murmured. "Give me a minute to compose."

"While he buggers," Pittman whispered to the Captain, "we draw near. Do you see what I fear?"

"I can hear you," Wab scolded, rising from the bed. "There are activities in this life not worth neglecting. Now, Pittman, you fear a mistake has been made? Could it not be we near the Malay?"

"If this be the Malay Peninsula, we made haste. This ship has to obey the laws of nature."

Wab argued, "The breeze was strong and the weather fine." Naked, he crossed the room, an immodest sight, and stood in front of the bureau. "What was your last line-of-sight?"

Pittman set down the sextant with a thud. "Before or after acreage was discovered?"

"Ah, I understand why you're intensified. This be a surprise."

"True, and the last measurement I took will cause your forehead to rise."

"How do I know what is correct?" Wab asked. "If before you mistook our spot, then how can I trust now you'll be accurate?"

"The angle is factual. I corrected for parallax, and the rest. Ninety degree subtraction and I derived our true altitude. I took a reading not ten minutes ago. This be us," he said, tapping the map. "Riding the line of three degrees north. Yet..." he scratched his head.

"Then it must be the Dutch East Indies," Wab said. "Ambon is here, see? The capital of the Dutch governance. This is fine. We sail between the Sulu Archipelago and cruise into the South China Sea. It's important we avoid the Dutch ships because-"

"No," Pittman interrupted. "This is not our position. If we be this far west, the sun angle would be different. Thy instrument doesn't fabricate. Here we be and tracking northwest of course. The island we spy is one of the Pulau. The imbecile Groot's been letting the ship drift. Instead of bracketing, he's preoccupied on honing."

"He's bearing a heading you derived," the Captain said. "I've checked the binnacle. The helmsman is a dogged perfectionist."

"Did you correct for anomaly?" Wab asked.

"Aye, but...mayhap I've been erratic," Pittman confessed. "Verdilac plays havoc with simple arithmetic."

"Or you don't know how to align this thing," Wab accused.

"Bugger off. Not a man on this bucket can work the sextant, let alone correct for index error. I took the burden of this chore. If nothing else, we're in the vicinity of what I calculated."

"Well," Wab said, "until you can prove otherwise, it's plain to me we're north and east of enterprise. As for your mistake, Pittman, I'd be remiss to point out the instrument is factual when the caretaker is genuine. Take another reading and I'd wager you'll find our true position."

Pittman scooped the sextant and said, "And I'd be careless to omit you've done nothing but sequester in this stateroom." He spun and stomped from the chamber, curses littering in the wake.

"This is a minor inconvenience," Wab said to the Captain. "In truth, I see now it's better we drifted this way."

"Not the point," the Captain argued. "Look here, man. We need to keep our wits, and comportment, as we encroach on these islands. Collective errors, ripples at first, turn into waves and drown ignorant swimmers. You should've seen the men. We're a tawdry ship of fools, each stuck in a realm of strange obsessions. Best we get hold of our predilections before we're swindled of life."

"I see you're distressed. How 'bout a smoke to calm your fit?"

"No! Are you daft? We need our wits."

"I've never been more attuned."

"So you allege. It isn't you I worry 'bout so much as the others. But to have you intoxicated while the rest of us function in reality would be a temptation inviting disorder. Besides, we can't be inhaling our revenue."

Pittman reappeared and said with a sour expression, "As I expected. This island be the Pulau Karakelong. The mound of Pulau Sangihe is expanding to the south. What I suggest is we split the two, and then hug the South Philippines. The Spanish will be a threat, but so will the Dutch. Either way we'll have to navigate with caution."

"It's been decided," the Captain told Pittman. "No more of the Verdilac. Spread the word. And go drag in Brac from the yawl. This will look peculiar if we're spotted."
35. Where The _Anapa_ Encounters The _Eclipse_

Several days later, after skirting the shallows of the Sulu Sea, the Anapa rounded the north of the Dutch Indies and veered west past the Riau Archipelago. Natives in proas paddled to the _Anapa_ as the ship anchored for an afternoon of bathing and fishing. The islanders were docile and tried to hawk worthless trinkets for coins, but Brac and some of the other irritable men warned them away by brandishing flintlocks. Not a shot was fired, though, as the Captain ordered conservation of black powder and buck-and-ball.

After the respite, the barquentine turned southwest and spied the Malay Peninsula. With this prospect came the appearance of Western dominance. British frigates hugged headland and protected the port of Singapore. From ten leagues, the Captain saw the bobbling panorama of trouble. Another course change, due south, kept the men busy trimming and Pittman hoarse. The constant work made all snippy and morose.

The reality of the situation imparted depressing insight. The lot of convicts had done little toil in their bleak, savage lives. They were, after all, notorious shirkers and found larceny and murder a better vocation than the drudgery of honest work. What's more, they had grown irritable in the absence of mood altering solutions. The alcohol had been consumed and the Verdilac squirreled-away. Petty bickering consumed them and, had it not been the promise of assured riches forthcoming, they ship would've fallen into disarray.

It was the sour Brac who stirred the wickedest of the agitation. As they rounded the Malay Peninsula, and the flotilla of Royal Navy fell astern, he voiced displeasure and seething angst.

"Those bastards ought to be the ones we strike," he huffed. "Yet we tuck tail and tiptoe like we spilled their brandy."

"How," the Captain asked, "do you suggest we attack a flotilla of Royal Navy?"

"I don't know," Brac huffed. "But it'd be better than what we're doing at present."

"We've come far, despite some hefty handicaps. Why sabotage it now?"

"He's bound up," giggled Groot from the helm.

"So what if I be?" Brac countered. "Wab's gettin' his piece and we've got nothing but sunburns and chaffed hands."

The precarious state of emotion worsened when a storm thrashed them for two solid days. Emerging on the serene flank of the tempest, the crew was soaked, churlish and itching for an outlet. The jungles of Sumatra, at long last, blossomed through the humid mist to starboard and Wab appeared on deck looking well-rested and spry.

"Aye," he said with comfort. "We split between Java and the island of Sumatra, the so-called Bakauheini Strait. Should be a close shave but nothing dangerous. Did it meself in the navy and...ah, bride! Nice of you to show your beautiful face and warm our deck with the unborn in your belly."

Vijjivuvijji appeared from the ladder looking sleepy but not a smidge bouncy in the belly.

"My, what a sight," Brac said with a leer. "How do manage this journey in such a state?"

"Nammes Gahd," Vijjivuvijji answered.

"God?" Brac laughed. "You believe in the Almighty?"

"Nammes Vijji Gahd."

"Yeah? Well, I can't comprehend your gibberish but I can say one thing. It's got a cock like the rest of us but gets to sleep like the Queen of Sheba. I say it be time for the queer to pull its weight."

"My bride is with child," Wab said. "No undo exertion compels the mother bearing fruit."

"Bullocks!" Brac exclaimed, rubbing his lean belly. "It be no more pregnant than I, and I can assure I ain't."

Wab clenched his fists and took a step at Brac. "Your insults are grounds for a whacking." The threat was ludicrous coming from the twiggy man, but Brac retreated in surprise.

"Gentlemen," the Captain interrupted with diplomacy, "'tis not the time to squabble about a fair maiden's honor."

"Fair maiden?" Brac cackled. "How rich."

"You, sir," Wab hissed, "are warned. Stay away from me and my bride." He turned and grasped Vijjivuvijji by the elbow and led her towards the bow.

"What I say?" Brac asked with contrived innocence. "We all know the gender of the creature."

"And Mister Wab is the conduit to our fortune," the Captain explained. "If it comes to picking which of you is more valuable, I doubt you'll like the decision."

"Bah! You let him reign like a sovereign while we slog. And for what, I ask? Who knows if these heathens will smoke this plant, let alone pay for it?" Then he too strode away, but in the opposite direction, on boards bleating with heavy footsteps.

"Brac has a point," Pittman said. "Verily, he's not the only one who feels aggrieved."

"I agree, but the last thing we need is open combat on the vessel."

And so, with this jovial contextual, the _Anapa_ threaded the Bakauheni Strait the following morning, passed Lighthouse Tampang, and turned north with the island of Sumatra on the starboard side of the ship. As night fell, the grumpy Brac took position on the forecastle to sleep in the cooler climes of the ether. Next to him Pillbox dozed.

When the moon was above, a brilliant orb at its apogee in the clear night, the watch raised the alarm from the mainmast.

"Ship ahead!" he yelled. "Go rouse the Captain."

Brac stirred and peered, catching sight of a dark entity several leagues distant.

"What it?" Pillbox asked in drowsy inflection. "Frigate?"

"I don't see no gunnage. A merchant by the looks of it."

"I go to sleep then."

"Goodnight, sweetheart," Brac whispered. He stared at the ship as he removed the flintlock from beneath his rucksack, rubbing the pistol with a tender caress.

***

"Lo!"

The Captain raised the speaking trumpet and responded, "Ahoy!"

"Request a scuttlebutt!"

The Captain looked at Wab and asked, "What do you think?"

"They want to parlay. It's common practice."

"Yes, I know what they want. I'm asking if you think it's a good idea."

Pittman cleared his throat and then said, "It'd look odd if we refused. On the other hand, what recourse would they have?"

"They might have pertinent information to pass," Wab said. "Uprisings, military activity, whatnot. It would be useful."

"Request granted!" The Captain yelled.

"Although," Pittman said, "it'd be better if we visited them."

"Our yawl needs a crew to row," Wab said. "Have them come to us. It'll be easier."

"Disguising this crew as able-bodied seaman will be tricky," Pittman argued. "Lest you forget, we're flying a Russian flag."

"Yes" the Captain nodded. "Pittman's correct." He raised the trumpet and said, "We'll come to you."

"Aye!"

Pittman, Wab, the Captain, and a couple strong oxen (among them Brac), made the short trip to the stranger. It was a nondescript, three square-mast merchantmen flying an American flag, the name _Eclipse_ stenciled in gold across the bow. A chipped, blond female figurehead loomed from the bowsprit, the manikins skin coated in gaudy aqua green and the mane of hair a bright yellow. The _Eclipse's_ crew crowded the starboard bulwark and watched with subdued comments as the yawl creeped in disjointed, hacking swipes of oars. When the yawl pulled abeam, rope was tossed and made fast to cleats fore-and-aft. A ladder followed and the men ascended to a sparkling deck free of dried bird spackle, cable and overall rubbish. It was a world so pristine, the visitors from the grungy _Anapa_ gawked with amazement.

Four young, clean-shaved officers, dressed in immaculate uniforms with appropriate gold pipping adorning sleeves, approached with extended hands.

"Pree- _vet_ ," one of the officers said with a broad smile.

The men from the _Anapa_ stared at him without response.

"Perhaps I phrase it wrong," he mumbled. " _Pree_ -vet."

"What's he sayin'?" the Captain whispered to Pittman.

"You speak English?" the officer asked.

"Aye," said the Captain, as if this was beyond explanation.

"Greetings! I'm Captain Powell of the _Eclipse_. Our home is Boston, but we've been in passage for eight months."

"This be the _Anapa_ ," the Captain said, gesturing towards the ship behind with a dismissive wave.

"I was trying to say hello in Russian," Powell explained. "I guess my inflection needs work. Then again-"

"We're from England," Pittman interrupted. "Under contract. I'm the second, Mister Pittman by name. The man next to me is the bursar, Mister Wab."

"Contract seamen," Powell mused. "Does it pay well?"

"We receive a stipend for what we deliver," Pittman answered with tact. "This trip has been a struggle. We're heading to Aceh to see if we can unload cargo."

"Ah... we just departed Trobongan. Fair warning. The natives are awful frisky."

"What'd they do?" Wab asked.

Powell scratched his ear and said, "Well, well... I be a fool if I couldn't discern a Yankee accent."

"I'm from the Bowery," Wab said.

"Quite a conglomeration aboard your vessel, sirs. What say we take a nip in the wardroom? Let the men break out the fiddle while we chew the faddle?"

***

Powell poured seven jiggers of rum and then another seven after the first round was polished in short order. The second round also disappeared down throats with no lollygagging.

"My second, third, and master-at-arms," Powell said as he poured a third cluster of libations, introducing the three other men by name. "What's your cargo, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Clothes," the Captain answered.

Powell almost spit his poison. "Linen?" He laughed and then said, "Good luck bartering with these natives. They're as immodest as a North End trollop."

"We have other things," Pittman said.

"I should hope. The Malays have turned stingy, by-the-by. What was it? Five, six years since our boys in the Navy put a lash to them? I've been sailing these waters in the interim, my fourth trip now, and what was once complicit commerce has become a wrestling match to secure pepper."

"I was a partner to the lash you mention," Wab responded.

"Oh?" Powell asked with raised eyebrows. "An old Navy salt? You'll see. We stopped first in Quallah Battoo and were accosted by ruffians demanding firearms for pepper. Next port was where we just departed. Trobongan. They ain't refined there, either, tho we met a chieftain by the name of Po Allen who at least understood the principal of equitable exchange. I'd suggest paying him a visit. You might have luck unloading your clothes to him. I'd avoid Muskie at all costs. This was our third station. It's less a settlement and more a stronghold. The fiends there are unabashed ruffians. Shorted us on the exchange and we raised a fuss, they threatened and cajoled. Nasty men with no scruples, they are. Best to keep a wide berth."

"Your advice is noted," Pittman said, though he was thinking the opposite.

"I get the sense these tribes are primed for battle. Both with the white faces and each other. Let 'em go to it, I say. Mayhap they'll smite each other and leave the reasonable like Po Allen."

The _Eclipse's_ master-at-arms had gravitated to a torn map tacked to the bulkhead and stared at it as he supped. "Where'd you boys depart?" he asked between sips.

"Archangel," Pittman replied.

The MA grunted as he searched before saying, "And I thought we had a long haul."

"You'd be better off trying to peddle garments to the Brits or Dutch," Powell said. "At least you wouldn't be dealing with the threats of these godless brutes. We're making for Jakarta."

From above filtered out-of-tune fiddle, feet-stomping and song. Powell closed his eyes and hummed.

"How'd you hook up with the Russians?" the master-at-arms asked before taking another drink. He studied each man as his throat worked.

"An opportunity through the goodwill of our nations after defeating the French," Pittman said as set down the shot-glass.

"Spend much time there?"

"Only what's required before we sail."

"I've always wanted to learn the language," Powell said. "I apologize for butchering it. How do you say hello, pray tell?"

"You were close," Pittman said, anxious to end this conversation, "but we should be pressing north. Right, Captain?"

"Aye. They'll be hell to pay if the men don't earn a stipend. They're an ornery team. I promised them we'd be back before the end of the year."

"Good luck!" exclaimed the MA. "You've got less than four months to round the Cape and by November it'll be a regular ice field in the White Sea, won't it?"

"Nothing we can't handle," the Captain boasted,

"Wait," Powell said with a giggle. "I'm a bit tipsy so I apologize for the language, but how do you say-"

"Captain Powell," Pittman said with forced amity, "the next encounter can be a longer study in semantics. We need to be pressing."

"So be it," Powell said with disappointment. He poured another drink and mused, "Not much of a uniform standard in the Russian merchant fleet, eh?" His vernacular hinted of disdain and Pittman was about tender a curt, diplomatic reply when the fiddle stopped with an abrupt screech.

"Looks like the festivities topside have come to a sudden halt," Powell observed. "As good a time as any to shake hands and say bon-"

Interrupted by gunshot, Powell's eyes widened and he dropped his glass. A second salvo stirred the rest of the officers. They tumbled for the hatch and up the ladder, whispering the words "Malays," as they climbed. Pittman, Wab and the Captain trailed behind, fumbling for their flintlocks.
36. Where The Malays Ransack

It shouldn't have been a shocking sight, at least to the trio from the _Anapa_ , but it took a moment to digest the bloody scene:

Brac and others had drawn weapons and forced the forty-odd seaman of the Eclipse to their knees. Two men lay dead or dying and a third was about to meet his maker: the hot muzzle of Brac's weapon kissed the temple of a trembling young man.

When the officers appeared, Brac spun and leveled the gun at Captain Powell. "Ah, just the man I wanted to see," he sneered.

"What in Jove's name?" Powell asked as he raised his hands.

"All you in the fancy garb," Brac instructed, "throw down thine side arms and make yerselves comfy."

"Brac!" Pittman bellowed.

"And you can join 'em too, Misser Pittman, if you desire. I've had enough of this stupid expedition. Me and the fellows have taken a vote and it seems valor is the better part of discretion, he-he."

Behind Brac, Pillbox and the others brandished clubs, firearms and cutthroat scowls.

The Captain watched the proceedings and decided he wasn't about to become a martyr for a group of Americans. He moseyed behind Brac with his head down.

"We'll give you what you want," Powell simpered. "But we've got families back home we want to see. There's no reason to get violent."

"No?" Brac asked. His voice sounded like gravel. "You think I give a fancy fuck about ye families? I ain't seen mine in twenty plus years and you don't hear me whining."

"Mister Brac," Pittman said with patience, "I understand you're aggravated but-"

"Whose side be you on, _Pitstain_? Oh, 'tis a trick question. I recognize you and the conniving weasel Wab are in cahoots. You think I'm dense? On your knees. Both of you." He thrust the gun at Wab's chest and motioned him to kneel.

"You need me," Pittman said. He jerked his head at the _Anapa_. "Who's gonna tell you where to go?"

"We can figure it out. Besides, if you think we're stepping foot on that stinky, bird-shit stained, Russian claptrap, you be wrong. We found ourselves a better ride. By the way, sir," Brac said to Powell, "I thank thee for the generous gift. I hope thy mess is well stocked."

Pittman turned to Wab and said, "Sorry, boy, but the mob has spoken." He sidled next to the muscular cretin and crossed his arms.

"A smart choice," Brac said. "As for the rest of you, I suggest you start swimming. The island can't be too far."

"It's several leagues!" Powell exclaimed. "And the ocean is shark-infested!"

"Ain't my problem," Brac said. "If ye don't want to swim, I can take care of the complexities of livin' here-and-now."

"But-"

"But what?"

Powell's shoulder slumped and he looked ready to bawl.

"Baw-ha," Brac chortled. "You be a simpering Nancy, worse than this shriveled piece-of-meat named Wab. Ya, you Wab. I hope you ain't expecting to get off so easy with a nice swim in the sea. I got something special planned for ye and the thing you stick your cock."

Wab stiffened and said, "Vijjivuvijji never hurt you. She's pure as summer rain and-"

"Good Christ! We have a regular student of the Cockney School among us. Please, kind sir, tell us more about the sweet bee you spray your nectar into. Nothing, eh? Well, drop your weapon and get on yer knees."

Wab complied and stared at the warped brightwood of the _Eclipse_ while Brac shouted orders to the unfortunate lot of prisoners.

***

All hands jumped, almost as one, from aport of the _Eclipse_ with nothing but the britches they wore. Forty men, minus the two slain, splashing, howling and paddling for the Sumatran shore. Feeble cries of the weakest swimmers were a curt nuisance as they drowned in rapid succession. The able-bodied men took flight while others treaded brine, perhaps too shocked to realize what was happening. Brac and his henchman began firing at the malingerers; their shots didn't strike anything but propelled the men away from the craft.

Brac ambled from the railing and boasted, "I be in charge and what I say is sway. Get the rest from the Russian claptrap."

"Aye," Pillbox said. "And da gir?"

"It ain't a girl," Brac corrected. He leaned against a balustrade and eye-balled Wab. "Leave 'er for last, then row it over in the yawl."

"You better not touch her," Wab said.

"You have my word," Brac sneered. "I ain't gonna touch you, either. There's something strange about you, I admit. Something..." he shook his head and said to Pillbox, "Bring over anything of value you can scrounge, including the trunks of clothes. Mayhap we can get somethin' for 'em. But dump the sack of plant. Scatter it and let the waves consume the hocus-pocus. It shouldn't be consumed by no man, even these heathenish creatures on Sumatra. It's a Devil's concoction, a witch's sward, an evil best left for the deep."

"And da _Anapa_?" Pillbox asked.

"Raise anchor and burn it. Good riddance I say."

***

This is where the story would end for poor Wab and Vijjivuvijji. After Pillbox completed five trips, his final brought the woman alone, wrapped in the stained bedspread from the stateroom. The Negro tossed the oars and climbed up, but she was left in the boat. Then, the mooring ropes were cut and the yawl drifted away as Wab watched with agitation.

Brac had laid his meaty arm 'round Wab's shoulder, placed his pistol in the small of the prisoner's back, and whispered in his ear, "There it go."

It was a heartbreaking sight, even to those ruffians on the _Eclipse_. All except to Brac, who snickered with malice. The yawl retreated, thudding into the bodies of the drowned circled by shark fins, as the _Anapa_ burned in the background.

Groot turned away and sucked in snot. The Captain stared at the poor soul and embraced empathy for the first time in a long while. Pittman took a reading with the sextant, deciphering the heavens above, as he tried to dismiss the world around. And the others...it need not be cataloged.

Twenty, forty, sixty fathoms it drifted. The pathetic yawl became a smudge and its unfortunate passenger a hunched refugee incapable of movement. Vijjivuvijji's sad wail floated through the air, though it sounded like a song and not a sob. Such was the beauty of her voice.

"I'll kill you," Wab said, but his words were dull and lame.

"A spasm threat," Brac answered. "Like when you kill a man...you know how they twitch after you think they be dead? This is what your words be." He removed his arm, lowered the gun, and gave Wab a push. "Go ahead, sweetie. There it be. All you gots to do is make a swim for it."

Wab never hesitated as he swung leg over bulwark. He didn't even look at Brac. Not once. Instead, he straddled the wood, dropped his pants, and pissed on the foredeck. So shocking was the behavior, nobody could think of a proper retort. Nobody but Brac, who laughed as the yellow waterfall splattered his boots.

It was a mellow, extensive piss and when Wab finished, he swung his other leg over and dropped into the water below. Brac watched the bubbles fizz on the surface and raised his gun, but Wab didn't appear. Minutes passed, effervesce stopped, and Brac lowered his weapon with a palatable sigh.

"Think he drowned?" the Captain asked. "He's a feeble lookin' sot. Doubt his body can handle the stress of exertion."

"Naw. He'll make a plunge for his concubine. 'Course these sharks might have somethin' to say about the matter."

"There he be!" Groot wailed.

A cheer rose from the deck as Wab's head surfaced. With quick, flashy strokes, he dashed for the yawl. With the men encouraging, he navigated the peril of sea creatures and reached the craft. Vijjivuvijji shook off her cloak and helped the sodden fool. For a chancy second, it appeared the yawl would roll as Wab lurched aboard. But it didn't and he flopped into her arms.

"Hooray!" the cutthroats on the _Eclipse_ yelled thrice.

Despite his animosity, even Brac joined with the chorus.
37. Where The _USS Columbia_ Joins The Fray

"Nothing but the solitary expanse of sea to make a man melancholy," the wizened Commodore Read observed. As if to apply veracity to the statement, he sighed and considered the stars. "By-the-by, a Merry Christmas to you, Petty Officer."

"And to you, sir."

"I suppose it could be merrier."

"The chaplain's service not stir the spirit?"

"Just ruminating, is all. While the spirit is refreshed, it's lacking. The solitary stateroom testifies to what I desire. Never have I been at sea for such a long stretch."

"Miss your wife?" Cuttler bristled, surprised by the gloomy insight.

"You've sailed this way, Mr. Cuttler," the Commodore said, changing the subject.

"With Commodore Downes on the _Potomac_. Six years ago, tho it seems like a fortnight." He nodded at the dark shape of the _John Adams_ abaft, reefed and cuddling the accommodating draught of the frigate _Columbia_. "We didn't have the benefit of supplementary assistance and were a mite smaller in compliment."

Commodore Read grunted and slipped a pipe in his mouth, enjoying the stolid aftertaste of tobacco on the stem.

"Course," Cuttler considered, "I never thought I'd be back. The Sumatran Expedition it was called by Mis'er Downes. There was no ' _First_ ' presaging the label. Guess our foray will be known as the ' _Second_ '."

"No war ever ends at one," Read said. "Not until the whole lot of bastards responsible for starting the first one are fed to the noose." He removed the pipe and shrugged. "Harsh sentiment, I understand, but the logic is sound."

"You won't hear no argument from me," Cuttler said in a voice frosty with unpleasant recollections. "Almost got run through on the beaches when we landed for Quallah Battoo. L'il boy with a scimitar. The bastard cut one of me good mates, then turned for me. Ain't never killed a boy before, hope I never have to again."

"The Malays are stubborn children," Read surmised. "Spanked them once and yet here we go again. Downes should've pressed the advantage and torched all their rustic villages near-and-far."

"Eh," Cuttler mused, careful to sweeten his words without insulting either Commodore. "He was tasked with arresting the head rascal, and he did. Guess he figured it wasn't worth pressing our luck."

"How many men were felled during the landing?"

"We lost two marines."

"Two? Out of 280?"

"I respect your opinion, sir, but you ain't seen the jungles of Sumatra. Would've been difficult to go inland and maintain cohesion and communication"

"I suppose," grumbled Read, though inflection attested otherwise.

"We lost others on the expedition," Cuttler explained in a feeble attempt at defense. He hadn't thought of this in years and sudden memories stirred resentment. "One bluejacket absconded leagues from the island. German boy. Damn fool jumped from the frig in rough chop. Never found him. Later, two others dove and took refuge on the strangest island. I even remember their names. Ordinary Seamen they were. Wab and Utley. We went in pursuit the next morning and wandered into a trap."

"Trap?"

"Islanders. No doubt heathens and headhunters. The greenhorn lieutenant in charge would've got us killed if I hadn't ordered a sensible retreat. These natives, Commodore, were beautiful..." Cuttler trailed off and gazed at the moon.

Read leaned forward and, when the Senior Petty Officer didn't continue, jabbed him in the shoulder with the pipe stock.

Cuttler stirred from reverie and blinked. "Beautiful, busty women," he whispered, "but they had peckers like men."

"Peckers!"

"Aye, sir. Not big ones, but little teeny protrusions." Cuttler held up his pinky. "'Bout this big."

"Succubus," Read alleged with a shudder.

"I don't know 'bout _that_ , but I did know it was time to make haste. As for Wab and Utley...they be damned. And good riddance, I say. Both were lousy seamen and Wab...there was somethin' odd 'bout him. Commodore Downes decided we were done skipping 'round the South Pacific, but I don't think he right believed what I testified. But _I_ know what I seen."

"I'm getting old and my memory isn't like it used to be, but Downes ran both Capes in the _Potomac_."

Cuttler puffed his chest and said, "Yes, sir. This be my second round-the-globe in six years."

"I want to add one of those ribbons to my dress. _Will_ , I mean to declare, when this is over. Can't say I'm happy with this detour."

"You ain't spinning straw, sir. Blunderin' in these waters again isn't my idea of a good time."

"Well, between the _Adams_ , our compliment of 500, and the 50 cannons snug on this frigate, I don't plan on staying long. And to answer your question...yes, I miss my wife, Mister Cuttler," Commodore Read sighed. "The last thing I want to do is think of her as I wander like a transient across the ocean."

"You're dwelling on the poor bugger below, ain't you?"

"I recollect I am. Nothing has stirred my angst like him. The composure, the will to live...and all of it after the hell he endured. I mean to extract a measure of revenge for him, as well as his men."

"Aye, sir. Rest assured, the crew feels the same."

***

Cuttler liked Commodore Read. He was a relaxed commander and little agitated his temper. They'd set sail from New York five months prior with the John Adams in tow and not once had the Commodore appeared melancholy. In fact, he and Cuttler developed a canny affinity, raising eyebrows amongst the officers.

Read wasn't a queer man; he saw in Cuttler, the Columbia's experienced master-at-arms, a kinship worth stroking. Cuttler was a vital component to keeping the ship running tight and had the added burden of dealing with lawlessness. It was best to cultivate a good relationship with this conduit to the enlisted. At some point, Read understood, he'd need Cuttler when things became rough, which they were wont to do on long journeys. He was even willing to overlook the monkey business below decks the senior enlisted foisted upon the greenhorns.

The randy debauchery was a given in the navy, though many commanders had attempted to stamp it out. Circumnavigating the globe, as the Columbia was doing, would be a time-consuming venture spanning almost a year. Nothing unforeseen was forecasted, but the Commodore knew the waters they meant to tickle were ripe with danger. Keeping the senior personal happy would make the trip a toothsome endeavor.

Things had gone well until they neared Ceylon. It was early December and the Commodore scheduled lay days, giving the men time to rest and tend to sundry housekeeping. The frigate was in dire need of a good scrubbing and a restocking of perishables. Cuttler spent the afternoon's topside, supervising the numbing grinding of greenhorns working holystone, while Read and the commander of the John Adams squirreled away in the Commodore's stateroom.

This is where they were found on the morning of the 15th, drinking and playing cards, when Cuttler ran below to summon Read. The Commodore was tipsy, red-faced, and the wild shock of white hair radiated from atop his scalp. Cuttler wouldn't have disturbed him for a trivial matter, and the Commodore knew as much, so he dialed-down agitation and offered the master-at-arms a drink.

" _No, sir," Cuttler said. "The barrelman caught sight of a dingy to starboard. Looked abandoned, and the bull ensign assigned a crew to gather the flotsam."_

" _Eh? Good, good. Thanks be for the prompt report. If-"_

" _There be a man in it," Cuttler interjected. "You need to see this poor bloke, before he dies. And I ain't exaggerating when I say death is a quantifiable fact."_

The malnourished exile had been hoisted from the battered yawl and laid atop canvas on the quarterdeck. The act of transporting the aggrieved was a ceremonial act of kindness. Nobody thought he'd live long and the officers desired to make his last wretched moments heartening. The surgeon pronounced, after an eye-ball examination, the body was beyond salvation. The best anyone could do was save his soul and administer last rites.

When Read arrived, he pushed aside the knot of gawkers and beheld the creature. Skeletal, but with a beard as long as a forearm, the man was nude and grotesque. His ribs protruded from beneath antediluvian yellow skin covered in open sores. The hair on his head had fallen in clumps but patches of bushy, gnarled tangles remained. Eyebrows had fused together in a grim, intertwined line above bulging eyes. His tongue was thick and swollen; the lips chapped and bloody. All his teeth had tumbled and the gums were tar black, as if he'd sipped from a spittoon. When he supped water, it could be heard bubbling in his belly.

" _Lord have mercy," the Commodore said with a bow of his head. Cuttler, beside him, mimicked the act._

" _You ain't know the half-of-it," Cuttler whispered after an appropriate moment of silence. "The dinghy he arrived in...what a sight. Littered throughout are bones. Picked clean, if you catch my meaning. Come see-"_

" _Heavens no! I understand men are capable of wanton desecration when life is at stake. I won't begrudge this sorry casualty the scorn of my intemperance."_

" _Yes, sir."_

" _Say," the Commodore said as he leaned forward, "can you speak?"_

The man opened his mouth, then his eyes, and focused on Read. "I can try," he rasped.

" _What's your name?"_

He wheezed, was about to talk, when his eyes found Cuttler to the right of the Commodore. There was a momentary squint, but to those in observance it appeared the creature was suffering discomfort.

" _No matter," Read said, standing up. "Make him comfortable. I'll be below if-"_

" _Powell," the man croaked._

" _What? You want water?"_

" _Powell," he said louder, trying to slip the consonants between copious tongue and damaged mouth._

" _Powell?"_

" _Yes."_

" _Is this your surname or-"_

" _I'm captain of the Eclipse. Home port be Boston. We were ransacked by Malay tribesmen off the West coast of Sumatra."_

" _Malays?"_

" _Yes. I was able to board this yawl with my shipmate and..." exhausted, Powell trailed off and closed his eyes._

" _When did this happen?"_

" _What is today's date?"_

" _Fifteen of December, 1838."_

Powell opened his eyes and gasped. It sounded like a death rasp.

" _Did you hear me?"_

" _Aye. Could it be? I've been at sea four months."_

The crew, as one, murmured. Even Cuttler, who'd stopped being impressed by most things in this life, took a step back and appraised the man with thoughtful inspection.

" _There is no way," the surgeon tutted. "A month, perhaps two, but one-hundred twenty days plus on this sea? It's impossible."_

" _Look at him," Reed argued, as if Powell was not in plain sight. "He wears the badge of an awful tour."_

" _I ate my companion," Powell confessed with a sob. No tears flowed, but his body was wracked in spasms. "Piece-by-piece."_

" _There, my boy," Reed comforted. "There's no shame in surviving on what others provide. I'm sure your mate wouldn't want their shell to go to waste."_

" _My crew is dead," Powell wailed. "And here I fester, with no recourse." He raised his left hand and gripped the Commodore's sleeve. "I thank thee for plucking me from the sea."_

"' _Tis our duty, sir, and it does not end with your salvation. I promise, there'll be a day of reckoning for these monsters."_

" _Thank you, kind sir. I am your eternal servant."_

The Commodore patted Powell's hand and turned away, summoning the surgeon with a snap of fingers. "You better make sure this man survives. He's come too far to die on our deck."

" _I'll do what I can, sir, but the humors must be-"_

" _Excuses won't justify failure. Understand? Treat him like you would an officer and spare no dawdling."_

" _Yes, sir."_

" _Mister Cuttler, it appears our expedition is going to be taking a detour. I gather you know what this means."_

" _Of course, Commodore."_

" _Excellent. And, I gather, you'll have the men ready for what this entails."_

Cuttler nodded and studied the emaciated Powell. Something about him kindled recollection, but the specifics were jumbled.

***

"Merry Christmas, Mister Powell," Cuttler greeted as he stepped into the sick-bay berth. The victim had grown sprier in the last ten days, his body flooded with fluid and whatever tinctures the surgeon had concocted. In fact, he looked almost cheerful with his head on pillow and feet elevated. Some weight had been restored and his skin wasn't a rancid, buttery tinge anymore. The fierce beard remained, as did the pattern baldness, but this wouldn't kill a man.

"And to you," Powell answered.

"Drink?" Cuttler asked, hoisting a bottle of rum.

"I suppose I could imbibe, being it's Christmas. What did you say your name was?"

"Cuttler. Senior Petty Officer."

"Yes. Sorry, my mind's been-"

"Don't apologize," Cuttler said as he wormed the cork from the bottle. He handed the vessel to Powell and helped him take a swallow before exhausting one of his own.

Powell savored the alcohol, swallowed, and grimaced. "My mouth is a giant sore," he confessed.

"You'll be happy to know we're scant days from the strongholds of the Aceh Sultanate," Cuttler said before taking another sip.

"An even better gift."

"Some would beg to differ. I've been here before, years ago, on a different expedition but under similar circumstances. An American ship was taken, the crew killed, and we were sent to crack the bastards."

"The _Friendship_ ," Powell said. "I remember."

"Aye. Which reminds me of something else. I swear to the Almighty I've seen you before and it's been a bother on my mind for the last ten days. Were you in the navy?"

Powell beckoned for another swig and swallowed before nodding his head.

"I knew it! What rating?"

"I was a schoolmaster on the frigate _Independence_ in the late '20's."

"Schoolmaster? Ensign work."

"They still have 'em in this man's navy?"

"They be around today. _Independence_ , eh? Would this be the same _Independence_ from the Barbary Wars?"

"A little before my time."

"Who was the old man?"

"McCrane, if memory serves."

"It be the same. Make senses, I suppose. She was a Boston vessel, same as the _Eclipse_."

"Listen, Mister Cuttler, you've all been too kind to me in the most trying time of my life. Lo, you can't fathom what I've endured. The thought I ate the flesh of fellow man is tough to swallow as I stew on the specifics now."

"Memory be the worst asset the Almighty sees fit to provide."

"Truer words were never spoken, sir. I respect the peril all of you will endure at my expense."

"Think nothing of it. We serve to defend our citizens, wherever they be."

"But you understand I share a burden for the coming battle. If we weren't sailing those waters, this would've never happened."

"Hush, man! This is guilt talking. Take another drink and relax."

Powell did, this time a longer plug, and wiped his mouth when he was through.

"Better now?" asked Cuttler.

"I'm fortified. So much, I must ask a favor."

"Speak."

"If my ship is sighted, I want to board her with the marines."

Cuttler frowned. "Well, no offense Mister Powell...you're a bit worse for wear. I don't think a foray into danger is prudent. What if you were to be killed after what you've endured?"

"I imagine, should the _Eclipse_ be spotted, the buggers on board won't give up the ship. They'll molest and destroy her like they did my crew. But, if the chance arises to storm her, I'd like to be there. Aye, first aboard in the phalanx is not smart. I concur with your seasoned prudence. Mayhap with the second wave after the subversives have been mollified. I have personal effects stowed in my stateroom, keepsakes of my wife and family, I'd like to recover."

"I'll talk to the Commodore, but I s'pose a prayer to the Almighty wouldn't hurt. Like those rascals did with the _Friendship_ , the Malays will burn your rig to the waterline. If we find her, I should add."

"Will there be a landing on Sumatra?"

"Aye. I gather the Commodore wants to put a spanking on the Malay. We should make quick work of 'em, I don't mind sayin'. Between us and the _John Adams_ , we've got over 700 bluejackets and marines. Add to these impressive number 70 cannon. You could watch the festivities from the quarterdeck with a glass of something potent and enjoy the show."

"Ha-ha. While appealing, I'd like to extract a mite of requite. I wouldn't be a thorn on most occasions, but-"

"Save your breath. I hear you, cap'n. Worry about catching a few winks and I'll speak to the Commodore. Me and the old man are on good terms, but I ain't promising you the world."

"Appreciate it, Cuttler. You be a fine ear to bend in my miserable state."

"Think nothin' of it. Say, how 'bouts a razor to shave the grungy nest off your face? It's got to be an itchy fur ball."

Powell closed his eyes and said, "No, but thank you for the thought. I'd rather keep it to remind me of the hardship I've endured. Consider it a talisman, if nothing else."
38. Where The _Columbia_ Meets The _Eclipse_

The day was bright, boiling and breezy. Sumatra lie ahead, the crude earthen fortress of Quallah Battoo visible on hillocks, while masses of Malays loitered on the beach, brown specks on the russet sand. The village of the same name, nestled beneath bulky palm trees, appeared flush with commotion.

The two frigates, splendid in sail, had been spotted from miles away and a flotilla of Malay proas paddled from the strand to greet the Americans. Through a series of complicated riggings, and signals exchanged on flag hoist, the _Adams_ and _Columbia_ turned in tandem, hardening-up to the wind, and presented their starboard hulls glittering with exposed gunnage, to the approaching boats.

The _Columbia_ , bearing the ensign of flagship, had tactical command of the encounter and Commodore Read barked orders to the gaggle of officers surrounding him on the quarterdeck. With eyes glued to spyglass, he had no time to discern the activity around him, and the shouts of the officers translating his instructions filled the air.

Powell, privy to stand in the nexus of command few civilians were afforded in battle, watched the rigmarole with agitation. The attack on the Malays would be interesting to behold, but his concern wasn't on them. He scanned the horizon for sign of the _Eclipse_ and hoped the ship was near. The bastards wouldn't have dared take the craft anyplace crawling with Westerners, he assumed, but they might've sailed to distant milieus of equal lawlessness as Sumatra.

Cuttler appeared on the quarterdeck, festooned in blue dungarees and long sleeves, and stood next to the Commodore. The master-at-arms had talked to Read a few days prior and the Commodore told him Powell wasn't allowed to join the raid of Quallah Battoo, if such a thing transpired. The amount of grief Read would catch if the man died in battle would torpedo what was left of his career and this wasn't a chance he was willing to take. Should they spot the _Eclipse_ , the Commodore said, and should it be made to raise a flag of surrender, Powell could join the boarding party to identify those responsible for the slaughter of his crew. Cuttler related the news to Powell with an apologetic shrug.

"Make ready the guns," the Commodore said.

"Ready to fire," belched an ensign. The call resonated across the deck and a standard was looped on cable and cranked aloft to signal the _Adams_. An ordinance officer, carrying a stopwatch, paper and pencil, stood next to the Commodore and watched the village.

"I want to hear the atmosphere roar," Read said with a scowl. "Smoothbore. Let 'em loose."

"Smoothbore fire!" cried the ensign.

The sound was deafening and the ship recoiled, rolling to port as the smell of cordite and white tart smoke blanketed the ship in a pungent fog. Powell's eye's watered and his ears rang. The salvo arced, sizzled over the heads of the approaching Malays, and peppered the fronds of Quallah Battoo with shrapnel produced by a succession of airburst explosions. Seconds later, the _Adams_ released a volley and the thunder echoed across the sea. Their torrent struck the beach and scattered the Malays, but the forts were not hit.

"A draw," the Commodore announced with irritation. "We destroyed branches and they scattered women."

The ordinance officer checked his watch, studied the spinning anemometer, and scribbled numbers on a piece of paper. This act of destruction was sport, or an elaborate puzzle, and the officer handled the task with callous indifference to those he was about to obliterate. It was also a competition. The _Columbia_ and _John Adams_ each sought to claim hefty bragging rights, though in theory they were working together. A case of hard liquor rested on the outcome and, in addition, the losers would be responsible for cleaning and polishing the others gunnage.

The mathematics was complicated, employing tangents, wind vectors, the speed of gravity, and calculus derivatives to determine the proper angle of the cannons and the amount of powder to be used. He handed the stub to a runner, a young boy, who leapt from the afterdeck and disappeared down a ladder. Had this been a real battle, with a potent enemy returning fire, the officer would've stayed below deck to direct the action. But this being, more-or-less, a glorified exercise, he took leave to view the destruction from a better perch.

"We got their attention, sir," an officer said to the Commodore. Ahead, the proas halted and bobbed in the water. In the lead boat, still a half-league from the _Columbia_ , a Malay rose and waved his arms.

"He's shouting," Read said as he adjusted his spyglass. "Must be their chief."

"Uleëbalang," Cuttler corrected.

"Whatever he fancies himself. Doesn't look none-too-pleased."

"Want to try and knock them out?" the ordinance officer asked with a grin.

"No. I don't want to waste cannonade on them. They don't even look armed. Must've caught them by surprise. Go with the thirty-two pounders," Read said with a yawn.

"Make ready to fire thirty-two!" shouted an officer.

"Fire," the Commodore said.

An hour later, Quallah Battoo was a ruin. The forts were reduced to splinters and pockmarked holes. Bodies littered the beach and village. Huts had been vaporized as the fire became concentrated and precise.

Cuttler jabbed Powell in the ribs and said, "How's this for a taste of revenge? We ain't even gonna have to land. There ain't nothin' left of the slum."

"Wonderful," Powell said with no inflection.

"You ain't sound so chipper. Don't waste tears on these heathens. They had it comin'"

"Are my ears bleeding?" Powell asked as he exercised his jaw.

"What?"

"I can't hear so well."

"Didn't you get cotton to plug yer holes? Criminey, man! No wonder you look sour."

The proas remained fixed between the village and the ships, watching the destruction. When the barrage ceased, Read studied the Malays and said, "I bet they have an ardent need to talk. Wave 'em over. Mister Cuttler, be ready to greet these sots. Should they make a move, you have permission to plug the lot of them. Don't stop until they're all chum."

***

The uleëbalang was led to the quarterdeck by Cuttler, his wrists bound in irons. He was a thin, wrinkled man dressed in a garish, mismatched outfit of red pantaloons, a yellow waistcoat and purple ascot. The officers hooted at the blinding combination and Powell perked to attention at the sight of the ridiculous linen.

"He's come sportin' his best," Cuttler said as he shoved the man forward. "All of 'em in the boats look like they belong to an actors troupe."

Read flicked the ascot and said, "What's your name?"

"My language of your tongue is bad," he answered in stuttering English.

The Commodore pointed at what was left of the village and said, "You understand you attack no more Americans?"

"No more!"

"Ever."

"No more!"

"He look familiar?" Read asked Powell.

"No, but the clothes..."

"Quite an ensemble. What about them?"

"The _Eclipse_ carried linen like this."

"Ah..." Read tugged the ascot from the man's throat and held it to his face. "How'd you come to acquire this fancy tie?"

"Trade. We trade."

"Trade, you say? Not steal?"

"We no thief. We no wrong," he cried, pointing at the smoldering village. "We no wrong!"

Cuttler cuffed his neck and said, "Shut up, you. Nobody's interested in your babbling."

"Who did you trade with?" Read said as he tossed the ascot to the wind.

"American boat," he pantomimed, extending his hands.

"He's lying," Cuttler said.

"No, no! American. Americans on ship! We nice and trade!"

"What was the name of this ship?"

The uleëbalang shook his head and looked at the men with wide-eyes.

"What was it called?" Read asked again. Frustrated, he pointed at the name _John Adams_ emboldened on the escutcheon and enunciated, "John Adams."

"Join Ad-im?" came the puzzled response.

"John Adams, the name of the boat. See? What was the name of the boat you traded with?"

At last the man understood. He opened his mouth and said, " _Ee-lips_."

"Yes," Read said with a smile. " _Eclipse_. Where is it?"

Again the response was met with a questioning gawk.

One of the officers produced a chart and held it in front of the Malay. Through trial-and-error, the man understood the basic premise of the question but nattered a convoluted story in half-English and half-heathen dialect as he studied the map. Then he gestured at the chart and found the village of "Muckie", located some thirty miles south of their current position.

"Muckie?" the Commodore asked.

"Is Ee-lips. Americans."

"Grand. Get him out here, Mister Cuttler, and let him return to the sticks of his home."

"Aye, sir."

"Best I never see you again," Read warned as the man was led away. "I swear we'll do worse next time."

***

"Him yarning about Americans," Read said. "Must've misunderstood my question. Perhaps some of your men were taken prisoner with the ship."

Powell rubbed his ears and said, "No. They took no prisoners, just jettisoned us off the ship. Well, all but two."

"Two?"

"They executed two of the crew as a warning."

"It isn't usual they take prisoners," Cuttler added.

"No, I suppose no," Read grumbled. "Though I can't help thinking the chieftain was more than surprised to see our ugly faces."

"They're sneaky and contrived, sir," Cuttler said. "Like his outfit, he desired to play the role of aggrieved."

The wind had changed direction, swinging northwest as day faded into twilight, and the two frigates bounced south in choppy swells. The Commodore wanted to reach Muskie before dark and inflict the same damage as what befell Quallah Battoo. It was doubtful word would reach the Malays of the destruction to the north, but he didn't desire to wait until morning to begin the assault. By then the rabble would have perceived harm and fled, leaving the Commodore no choice but to launch the marines to sniff their trail.

Mother Nature, it seemed, agreed with this sentiment. Making good time, the duo of American muscle passed between the sharp cliffs of the island Pulau Ujung Batu and the spike of smooth coast defining Northern Sumatra from the Aceh Sultanate territory, before button-hooking southeast. Within minutes, Muskie assembled in waning day. A squat, crenelated stone parapet materialized beyond the beach, forming a solid line of obstacle. Earthen mounds, supported by tree trunks, were supplementary impediments stacked at the base of the wall. What lurked beyond the rampart, the guts of this Malay fort, retreated into dusky jungle. Muskie was less a village and more a connected series of defensive positions resembling the European settlements of North America, circa mid-18th Century.

Though they presented an odd site, it wasn't the battlements drawing the attention of the Commodore. There, in the harbor, sat the _Eclipse_ at anchor. Her sails were reefed and bundled, the masts stark like winter timber, presenting hull-to-stern in the red sear of sunset washing over sea. A profile of slumber 'twas the craft, but she wasn't quite asleep. A thin streamer of smoke wafted from a chimney on the afterdeck and a dingy, tethered to the stern, showed the unmistakable form of several hunchback men casting fishing line.

"Ah, our catch is weighed fast," the Commodore observed. "Look, they be so relaxed not a barrelman stands in the nest. They're boxed, upwind and at anchor. It'd be foolish for the scoundrels to press the issue." He passed the glass to Powell. "Go on, captain, take a peek. Your girl looks in reasonable shape."

Powell pressed his right eye to the eyepiece and adjusted the cylinder. Magnified, the _Eclipse_ looked like a model inside a bottle. Several men, blurred by distance, milled on deck. Those in the dinghy were also too fuzzy to conjure recognition. The lot of them had no discernable appearance, nothing to give hint they were pale of skin.

"Luff and touch her," the Commodore instructed. "I don't want to get pushed too far lee. Signal the _Adams_ : heave to and commence fire. Let them work the shore."

"Aye, sir," said a lieutenant.

The commotion of canvas being drawn, the abrupt shudder as the frigate slowed and sail was deprived of wind, went ignored by Powell as he focused on the _Eclipse_.

"But for the barnacles on the hull, your square rig looks pert," Read said.

"She appears fit," Powell said as he returned the spy piece to the Commodore. "Yet I shudder to think what the brutes have done to her insides. Men like them know how not to treat a lady."

A marine officer appeared on the quarterdeck, saluted the Commodore and said, "Fading light, sir, compels a hasty decision. I don't mean to be pushy, but the men are itching to ruffle feathers."

"I have designs on the merchantman, Mister Wyman. _Adams_ will shower rockets on the Malay bulwarks. Alas, I divine it'll be too chancy to hazard a landing with dusk approaching. I doubt the risk is worth the reward. Besides, we'll need a boarding party for the _Eclipse_ should she raise the colors."

The marine scowled. "This is a chore for the squids, sir, no offense. We've got a slack tide and cover fire."

"Scandalize the sail!" Read bellowed. "Helmsman, bear south. We're going to bull into the bushwhackers."

"Sir," an ensign interjected, "activity from the _Eclipse_."

Powell has seen figures spider-crawling up the mainmast ratline well before the ensign and knew they'd been spotted. Hoping for an artless surrender was a fanciful dream of the Commodore and Powell perceived the vagabonds wouldn't submit without resistance. The desire to see the ship cut to pieces was tempered by the want to board her and inflict misery of his own.

"You're distracting, Mister Wyman," Read scolded.

"Sorry, sir."

"Can you get those whaleboats in the water in five minutes?"

Wyman smiled and snapped to. "Aye, if you're rabble can slow this beast."

"A company, no more," Read said. "And mind the _Adams_." He looked aft and watched the smaller frigate tally canvas. "Use their windward as concealment until the first few salvos have commenced."

"Thank you, sir," Wyman said, turning on his heel.

"They're assembling on deck," the ensign reported.

The quarterdeck was filled with officers and Powell was shoved aside as they gathered at the port railing to watch the _Eclipse_.

"Mayhap our appearance is enough to elicit a swift capitulation," mused Read. "How many of the buggers boarded your boat?"

"A dozen," Powell answered.

"Find Mister Cuttler," the Commodore told the runner. Just then, the first barrage from the _Adams_ erupted with fury. Seconds later, portions of the parapet disappeared in a geyser of mud and rubble, opening gaping holes to the interior of the fort.

"Lucky shots," the ordinance officer scoffed.

" _John Adams_ is earning their liquor," Read said with a smile. "This crack will give the marines a clear path."

"Sir," Cuttler said from behind. "Reporting as ordered."

"Get a squad assembled to board the _Eclipse_. Should they offer their surrender, I want..."

The _Adams_ fired again, masking the Commodores words. As before, their bombardment ruined portions of the wall. Distressed Malays emerged from the smoky ruins, running amok and waving frantic arms at the American vessels.

"... no point in transporting the pirates with us," Read finished as he crossed his arms.

"Aye, sir," Cuttler responded. "I have your permission to handle the bane."

"You have latitude to exercise due process," Read corrected. "This is how we'll report the outcome."

A third round blasted, arcing into the jungle, and speckled Muskie with unseen results. A cloud of smoke, pushed by the wind, floated towards the shore. Six crammed whaleboats of marines emerged from the haze.

"Message received from the _Eclipse_ ," the ensign reported, though it was plain for everyone to see. "They're waving the white flag." A scrawny, naked sailor had scaled the foremast and unrolled a billowy sheet.

"Well, well," Read said with contentment, "this was easier than I expected. Seems, Captain Powell, we're going to get your ship back in one piece. These folks have no stomach for real, honest-to-goodness, tussles."

"Appears so," Powell answered with contrived enthusiasm. "No doubt the owner will appreciate this outcome. Bottomry is a wager and he'd have lost his entire fortune with the _Eclipse_."

"It's a fool who gambles collateral on the future. They reap pustules, loss of sleep and humor impurity in the evolution of procuring opulence."

"My men staked more, and lost, for a hefty purse."

"Fire a shot across their bow," the Commodore instructed. "Let them know we have a bead on their station."

"Yes, sir," the ordnance officer sang.

"What about him, sir?" Cuttler asked. "Only be fitting if he took the helm from the heathens who took it from him."

The Commodore studied Powell, sighed, and asked, "You feel strong enough to board with Mister Cuttler?"

"More than capable," he answered with a bow.

"I shouldn't do this...but, I'm feeling cordial. I'd love to see their faces when you step aboard, Captain."

"Thank you, Commodore. I'll keep out of their way."

"Go to it, then, gentlemen."
39. Where The _Eclipse_ Is Boarded

The squad of twenty was comprised of leathernecks and bluejackets, led by a disfigured lieutenant who sat at the bow of the whaleboat and sharpened his bayonet. Cuttler, astern and with tiller, directed the sculling and kept a keen eye on the _Eclipse_. Powell sat next to him and watched the activity taking place in triplicate: the marines inbound for Muskie, the _Adams_ and her rolling barrage, and the goings-on of the _Eclipse._

Muskie was all but a crater but the _John Adams_ continued a relentless volley, fine tuning its explosions to drive the aggravated Malays from the beach and allow an unfettered touchdown for the six incoming boats. A fire burned somewhere in the thick of the jungle; orange flames had crawled-up trunks, illuminating the landing area and providing a show for those far from the festivities.

Ahead, the _Eclipse_ lay motionless and half-lit by the receding sun. Several men stood at the balustrade amidships, watching the whaleboat. Obscurity blinded features and not-a-one moved. Several more joined them, sidling to railing and taking the pose of statues.

About twenty fathoms from the ship, Cuttler ordered, "Let her drift," and reached for the speaking trumpet. The rowers, in unison, raised the oars and stowed them with the clumsy clacking of wood drumming wood.

"You on the _Eclipse_ ," he shouted through the mouthpiece, "prepare to be boarded. Show your crew topside and raise yer hands."

"Make ready," the lieutenant growled.

Out came the muskets, raised in front of chests so the barrel faced the heavens. Only Powell lacked the comfort of firepower. The Commodore forbade him from brandishing anything but his face on the _Eclipse_.

"This be our crew in totality," someone rejoined from _Eclipse_.

Cuttler frowned, lowered the trumpet, and whispered to Powell, "He talks with an English accent."

"They had an uncanny grasp of the language," he answered with a yawn.

"It sounds-"

"Cuttler!" the lieutenant barked. "Tell them to make ready for seizure!"

"Yes, sir," he said as he raised the bulky instrument to his mouth.

Powell spied the dinghy, drifting from the _Eclipses's_ stern, by accident. It had been forgotten in the excitement and had worked loose from its mooring line. Except, as he watched, he realized the boat wasn't empty. Two heads appeared, like perverts sneaking a peek, from above the gunwale.

"Drop cable and make fast!" Cuttler continued. "We will fire if provoked! The ship behind will do the same!"

"Aye," came the lackadaisical reply. Two heavy ropes were flung over the railing, flogging the water with a splash.

The dinghy continued to float unnoticed by all but one man, who decided to pretend he hadn't seen it. Instead, Powell leaned forward in his seat and lowered his head, hoping to avoid what was sure to be the first of many shots. But he knew, like everything else, he'd be left without a scratch.

This world was Wab's creation, after all, and he wasn't ready to die.

***

"They're encroaching in shadows," Commodore Read groused. "I can't see make out what's happening."

The ordinance officer, standing next to him, said, "By my vantage, they're ten fathoms to the scallywag. They've just dropped rope."

"The iron is loaded with chain-shot?"

"Ready to fire."

"If it comes to this," Read said, "I hope your math is correct. If you blast our whaleboat I'm going to be angry."

"Sir, if I miscalculated, it's not your wrath I fear. Cuttler will skin me alive."

"You'll think there'll be anything left of him?"

"He'd live long enough to make me his last degradation. Lo! Slacken thy conscious, Commodore. The arc of fire will take down their masts and he's wise enough to harden up."

"Say..." Read said, jabbing a finger at the _Eclipse_ , "you see the vessel floating free?"

"Ah, looks to be the dinghy. Mayhap they cut it loose. We should send a boat to retrieve it before it becomes a hazard."

"A prudent suggestion, but one best handled later. First this other business before we collect rubbish."

***

The whaleboat was brought snug against the hull of the _Eclipse_ and secured while a rope ladder was lowered and grabbed by the lieutenant and a bluejacket. The first couple of marines began lumbering climbs, fifteen feet from waterline to deck, swaying with the ladder as it yawed with the ship.

"You'll be in front of me, captain," Cuttler said. "You can raise your head, man. Ain't nothing to be scared of."

"I'm afraid to identify the woeful condition of me ship," Wab answered, lifting his head a fraction.

The first five scurried over the rail and the lieutenant asked for a report.

"Count nine topside," was the testimony, muted by another salvo from the _John Adams_.

"How many?"

"Nine. They are submitting."

"Next five," the lieutenant directed, "up the ladder."

"I hate boarding like this," Cuttler confided to Wab. "Makes for tense moments."

"Would you rather be running the beach?"

"Well, this can be tricky too. I was with a green lieutenant once who would've walked us into our deaths."

"Oh? Was this when you were fighting the Berbers?"

"Naw, this came later. Few years ago. I was reminded about it the other night. Queerest thing...hey, you see the dingy to starboard?"

Wab feigned a peek, lowered his head again, and said, "Aye."

"Detritus?" Cuttler wondered. Puzzling over it could come later. He'd be ascending in a moment and reached for his musket.

The second group of five had cleared the railing and the third group was working up the ratline.

"Come on," Cuttler said, pulling at Wab's collar. "We're next and the lieutenant is a stickler for precision."

"I don't think I can go," Wab said in a pitiful voice.

"Criminey, man, you've climbed a ladder before. Ain't worse than working a topgallant in tempestuous chop."

Wab peered at the dinghy and saw the two inside rise, swinging rifles to firing position.

Cuttler, with exasperation, said, "Look, I can leave you here but I figure you'll want-"

Cannons from the _John Adams_ belched, masking the sound of gunfire from the dinghy. Wab didn't hear the shots but heard Cuttler grunt and felt the boat rock as he fell hard against the port gunwale, dropping his musket into the water.

"Christ," he moaned, reaching for his shoulder.

Wab dove forward, across the bench in front, as the lieutenant tumbled next to him. The two others in the boat, both marines, had yet to react and sat upright like paper targets.

"I'm shot," the lieutenant lamented, though his inflection made the statement either a puzzling question or a statement of surprise. "I can't feel my legs."

A second hail struck the two marines, and they fell sideways. Wab glanced at the _Eclipse_ and observed those on the rope ladder. Terrified grimaces adorned their mugs as they held fast with one hand and fumbled with their muskets with the other. A moment later the steps were flung from the _Eclipse_ by unseen hands. The men, arms pinwheeling as they fell, entered the water with yells.

The mooring ropes, still attached, would be cut next and Wab had to act with swiftness. He rose, stepped over the prone lieutenant, and plunged into the water.
40. Where Wab Disappears

"Mother of pearl!" Commodore Read exclaimed. He dropped the spy glass, grabbed the ordinance officer by the arm and gestured, "They're fighting back, the bastards!"

"Aye, sir, looks this way."

"In the face of adversity they resist? What gall!"

"They scrum on the deck," the officer reported, "as well as on the water." He lowered the glass and shook his head.

"Raised a surrender and reneged," Read said with contempt. He grabbed the runner and said, "Inform the marines to make ready two squads to board the _Eclipse_."

"Yes, sir."

The ordinance officer cleared his throat. "The iron is ready to fire on your command."

"We have a boarding party aboard."

"Sir, by the looks of things, they are going to be felled one-way-or-the-other. They've been swarmed and disarmed by clever distraction."

"Woe, what plight!"

"Now is not the time to lose bearing, sir. Give me the order and I'll rain retribution."

The Commodore bit his lip before nodding with sour disappointment.

"We'll give 'em a spanking," the ordinance officer promised before leaping from the quarterdeck.

"What have I done?" Read whispered. He supported on the banister and sighed, drawing his eyes to the _Eclipse_ and the unfolding mayhem.

***

The _Columbia_ carried a mix of smoothbore, 32 pound long-barrel (known as Demi-Cannons) and Carronade batteries, the design of each different to accommodate diverse situations. Carronade, each weighing 42 pounds, were stubby iron used to bash enemy ships. The artillery package, diverse depending on situation, was primarily round shot ordinance: heavy balls with no fuse, serving the purpose of smashing mast, rigging and punching holes in unreinforced hull. While the range of the 42-pound Carronade was limited (about 1,300 yards at 5 degrees of incline), owing to the stout barrel, a barrage of these hard rocks could disable a vessel in short order. While damaging, it was possible to disable but not raze the target if the shot was elevated above the hull.

The Demi-Cannons, on the other hand, had a greater range and employed explosive shells known as canister shot. Upon impact, the ball would detonate and set fire to wood, as well as scatter the contents jammed into the interior of the missile. Musket balls, wood and steel disks, packed with sawdust, shed a swath of debilitating chaos. What didn't maim would burn and, owing to the construction of ships in the early 19th Century, this meant several well-placed volleys would incite vigorous conflagration. Unchecked, the inferno would consume a ship in minutes.

The long-barrel mortars had been used earlier during the shelling of Quallah Battoo and the ordinance officer had been pleased with the results. Now it was time to give the Carronade lads their turn at something other than a theoretical target. In anticipation of just this moment, the crews had loaded chain-shot into barrels. Two round balls, connected by a heavy manacle, worked as a boleadoras. Once airborne, the spinning device cut through rigging like a hot knife.

The firing solution had been derived from rough approximation, drawn from chart and sextant reading. The _Eclipse_ lay less than half-a-nautical mile and the cannons were elevated by wooden wedges to give the ordinance a trajectory which, if unimpeded, would reach an arc beyond the target before gravity compelled the shot to fall without consequence into the shallows of the harbor. Yet with the rigging of the _Eclipse_ in the way, the chain-shot would strike as it was still rising and gaining speed, but before it achieved terminal velocity. Of course, this mathematical certainty was prone to error. Once fired, a number of factors diminished performance. Black powder measure was sometimes undisciplined, the wear of the grooved muzzle not uniform, and drag altered theoretical aerodynamic computations. However, sheer number of projectiles compensated for the gradation of miscarriage and the _Columbia_ was prepped to unleash the twelve port cannons, in staggered intervals, to ensure complete ruin.

The ordinance officer hustled down a series of ladders and dropped into the musky gun deck, the fetid odor of powder, sweat and turpentine assaulting his nostrils. The gun gangs leaned on barrels of powder, lounged on the deck, or conversed in hushed voices. Sweltering and sticky in the enclosed space, the men wore only pantaloons and dabbed sponges on their skin to generate relief. A snotty was the notional officer, but the gun gang could run itself and did so with an autonomous zeal allowed by the officers. Entrusted with governing the dangerous work, enlisted petty officers excelled in crafting diminutive dictatorships in the clammy hell and pitted each team against the other in drill. The reward for speed was extra ship biscuits and liquor, comforts the sailors cherished.

"Make ready to fire the Carronades," the ordinance officer told the snotty.

"Carronades," the midshipman snapped, "make ready."

"Carronades," echoed the gun gangs.

"One solution should be plenty," the officer said, "but make ready a second salvo."

"What of our boys on the rogue?" the snotty asked.

"They're on their own. The Malays have decided to be obstinate and the Commander is through being kind. Fire when ready."

"Aye, sir. Carronades in sequence. Fire!"

***

Wab treaded water and rotated, bumping into a marine struggling to stay afloat. He pushed the man aside, using the momentum to reach the hull of the _Eclipse_. Above, the sound of a rambunctious skirmish was in effect, complete with screams and gunshots.

Cuttler moaned again, ducking as another shot missed his head and splintered the gunwale. The master-at-arms disappeared into the bottom of the whaleboat and Wab saw the two in the dinghy, grubby men he knew by appearance but not name, reload the muskets. As he reached for one of the mooring ropes, he spied the _Columbia_ in the dusk, sails rolled tight to yardarms.

"Lo" one of the dinghy assassins said. "By the rope."

"He be mine," the other sneered, elbowing the other off-balance as he raised the rifle.

Cuttler picked the opportune moment to rise, and did so like a snake from a basket. But this snake held a weapon beyond the poison the Good Lord bestowed and Cuttler fired with a war yell, striking the man in the chest and driving him to his ass. For the encore, Cuttler raised an officers pistol and repeated the damage to the other sot. Satisfied, he slumped to a sitting position and inspected the bleeding wound on his shoulder. He didn't flinch when the _Columbia_ fired her guns.

Wab, however, did. The sound was more frightening from afar, somehow, than standing above it. Perhaps proximity made the difference, or the knowledge the iron was aimed in his general direction. He released the rope and sunk to his nose, eyes watching the incoming rockets as they traced red lines across the dark ether.

"Incoming!" someone squealed from the _Eclipse_. The words left his lips a scant moment before the barrage struck. The result was muted beneath the water, but Wab heard enough to know some of the shot found target. Timber from the rigging split and fell to the deck in crunching thumps. The ship vibrated and yawed. A second and third volley added to the carnage. One chained-ball struck the side of the ship, feet above Wab's head, ricocheted and landed with a sizzle before sinking. Then there came a blessed reprieve and Wab scrambled for the rope. With a determined grunt, he lifted out of the water and began scaling the ship hand-over-fist.

"Captain," Cuttler hissed. "I thought you were a goner. Get to the boat and stand fast. More will come and we can board with them."

"My ship," Wab replied, never looking back.

"They might fire again!"

Wab didn't reply. The determination to achieve summit outweighed common sense or fatigue. Though his shoulders screamed, he squirmed to the balustrade, took a breath, and hoisted over the damaged woodwork.

The chaos was a subdued carnage, a scene of soft moaning from the wounded. Split masts, felled like trees, swayed from recoil. Gulls screeched overhead. Splinters, large and small, dotted the surroundings and gaping holes in the deck provided peeks into the interior of the vessel. Men lay dead in individual sacrifice, but a jumbled group of bodies protruded from under a fractured crosstree. He slipped on gore, righted his gait, and began a hurried search for an undamaged weapon. Next to the hands of smashed marine he found a musket and kneeled to pick it up. As he was deciding where to go, and how to avoid the multitude of impediments, a scuffling from behind drew his focus.

It was the dogged Cuttler, panting, an appalling combination of waterlogged, weary and wounded. Wab could've shot him, but the man's fierceness stirred a wretched compassion.

"Christ, man," Cuttler coughed, spitting water from his mouth. He collapsed on his back and inhaled.

"You can't be more determined to die today," Wab said with a chuckle.

"Says the man who scaled into the mouth of the lion."

"I have designs on revenge. Nothing will stop me."

Cuttler rolled to his flank and then said, "I need to signal the _Columbia_. If they fire iron again, we'll be assembling with these cadaverous ranks."

"Do what you will," Wab said as he stood. "This is my gig. You don't know what these monsters did."

"What's left of 'em, you mean. And I'll testify these souls have an uncanny grasp of the nuances of our language."

"They should, considering they're English."

"As I assumed. The despicable spawn of Henry Jennings, eh? This information would've been useful before we attempted to board."

Wab smiled and stepped away, leaping a jagged fissure.

"Criminey," Cuttler sighed.

***

"You want to serenade them with a second?" the ordinance officer asked.

"Stand fast," Commodore Read said. "There's not much left to shear from her hackles."

"Aye, she got the flat shave. And a well-deserved one, sir. No fretting the outcome. It had to be done."

The _John Adams_ had quit firing in the interim and Muskie was ablaze. The remaining thorn, the _Eclipse_ , was a disabled prow. Beyond salvageable, in other words, with dead marines and bluejackets littering her deck. In every aspect, though, it was a successful raid. Even the loss of life could be rationalized, but Read wasn't ready to pat his back.

"Rig the sails," he instructed. "We're going to belay and board her. Muster the marines."

***

Wab picked his way to the helm, checking corpses as he went, and found the pervert Groot wilting against a capstan with eyes closed. His head had been bashed by blunt force and blood caked his face like a dark mask. The raider emerged from the dust, squatting with the musket in both hands, and kicked the helmsman in the shin.

"She won't go no further," Groot lamented.

"Look at me," Wab commanded.

"If it be the angel of death, I'd rather keep me peepers sealed."

"Look at me, Groot."

The sound of his name aroused interest. He opened his eyes, blinked, and then rubbed 'em for good measure. "It be you," he declared in a whisper brimming with reverence and fear. "You and the bloody Armada."

"I don't need the help of the United States Navy to deliver what's coming to you."

Groot glanced at the ruined ship and said, "I beg to differ."

"Open your mouth."

"You want to stick it in," Groot taunted. "Go ahead. I ain't particular. I know you have an affinity for the lads."

Wab whacked the man upside the face with the stock and then stuck the barrel in Groot's throat.

"Now, wait, you," Groot croaked, raising his hands. "I-"

The shot, stifled by skin, almost severed the ruffians head. As Groot fell backwards, Wab dropped the musket and plucked the dagger stuffed in the dead man's waist.

Next he encountered the Negro Pillbox, with a companion. A marine had the black man trussed on stomach, foot-on-back, aiming a pistol at the back of his head. Pillbox struggled against the ligatures and banged his head on the deck.

"Mister Cuttler requires assistance raising the ensign," Wab said, pointing to port. "Go quick! I'll watch this scoundrel."

"Aye," the marine said, stepping from his prize. "But no contrived excuse is needed, cap'n. Makes no difference to me what you do with him. I can help you throw him into the drink."

Wab showed the dagger and said, "I'll take care of this refuse."

The marine nodded, kicked Pillbox in the ribs, and bowed. "Enjoy," he said, turning away.

"'Ello, Pillbox," Wab greeted as he crouched.

"Ah, dis be unhappy reunion."

"For one of us. As for the other, the joy is unbridled."

Pillbox raised his head and said, "'Tis be Brac's doin', sir."

"And where be the beast? Where be Pittman and the old man?"

"The Captain went low to hide. Brac...last I seen 'im he was on the afterdeck directin' da fight. I don't know where Pittman be."

"Goodbye, Pillbox," Wab said. He rolled the Negro on his back and cut the man's throat with a jagged stroke, watching him to bleed as he cleaned the blade on his wet pantaloons.

***

Cuttler meandered like a drunk, holding his shoulder, bouncing from obstacle-to-obstacle. At the helm he found the remains of a worthless soul, throat blasted to kingdom-come. The musket Wab had been holding lay on the man's chest.

"There you be," a marine hailed.

"You seen Powell?" Cuttler asked.

The marine jerked his head and said, "He's back there and said you needed help with the signal."

"I'm trying to keep the fool out-of-harms-way and he's hell-bent on running into it."

"I think Cap'n Powell can hold his own."

"Regardless, he's my charge. I told the Commodore I wouldn't let him get hisself kilt." Cuttler grimaced and lurched past the marine.

"What about the signal, petty officer?"

"Damn the signal. The _Columbia_ is coming. Greet her as she comes broadside."

***

Brac, what remained of him, was a gooey muddle. All the sins of this life had been repaid, and with vigor, but Wab wouldn't be placated until one final inequity was tallied.

"Lo, you bastard," Wab gnashed.

Brac stirred, roused from the netherworld between life and death. His right arm was a tangle of sinew and tissue, resembling the tentacles of a jellyfish. The left leg, cut clean below the knee, bled in pumping rivulets. So warped was his face, undone by a falling stalk of lumber, it appeared his nose had been pushed a few inches lower than where it started. The right eye was swollen and sealed shut, but the left cracked enough to grant him sight of the specter straddling his body.

"Wab," he hacked.

"I made a promise when you cast me to the sharks."

"You ain't killed me. 'Tis the hand of God smacking the life from me lungs."

"Think what you will, but I led these men to your domain."

"Bah! To your claims I laugh." He coughed and spit a glob of phlegm. "But if it gives ye comfort, then take solace in illusion."

"No illusion before me, Brac," Wab said as he juggled the dagger. "I will admit, you had me worried you'd submit to terms. It wouldn't have mattered. They'd have slaughtered you as I'm about to, but my chance at the prize would've taken some finagling. With gratitude, I salute your obduracy. Though it won't gain a measure of clemency, it satisfies the notion I'm the master of this world."

"All about you," Brac muttered, closing his eye. "I'll prove the fallacies of the cloak you wear with arrogance. Watch as I drift into the darkness."

"Here, let me assist," Wab said, jumping on the miscreant. Brac offered futile resistance and made a strangled warbling sound as Wab plunged the dagger into the criminal's eye. Bubbling with gore from both mouth and socket, Brac squirmed as if amplified by lightening, his hand clawing at Wab's face, fingers pulling matted beard. It was an erotic sensation, both in the intimacy of contact and the finality of being. Sex and death, in this aspect, were interchangeable. The seizure of orgasm equated to the vaporization of soul. Wab wanted the moment to last but recalled when he strangled Vijjivuvijji. Out-of-compassion, he reminded himself, not cruelty. The flashback stirred angst and he snapped to the present.

The knife sunk quick, increasing Brac's spasms, until it could descend no more. At last, Brac was terminated and the hand fell away with a tangle of Wab's kinky facial hair stuffed under dirty fingernails. Wab gave the hilt a final smack with his slimy palm and stood. The need to piss filled his groin and he tugged at the drawstring, but Cuttler's bellow from behind halted the act.

"Powell!"

With a curse, Wab stumbled over Brac and continued aft.

"Powell!" Cuttler barked, watching the man disappear behind the afterdeck weather shed. "Gawd damn, man! Get back here!"

The clanging of a ships bell interrupted pursuit. Forward, the lanterns of the _Columbia_ blazed as it approached. Marines crowded on its deck, waiting for the signal to board.

"Criminey," Cuttler said, rubbing his shoulder for perhaps the hundredth time. "Powell! Where in tarnation are you going?"

The desperate words chased Wab down the ladder. Alone in the dark passageway, he felt along the bulkhead and peeked into the officer's cabins. The captain's stateroom would be the furthest chamber aft and he hoped the Captain would be there, hiding like a scared child.

At the end of the passageway, illuminated between the crack of a door, a sliver of moonlight painted the deck. Wab's footstep creaked on the teak, but the sound didn't slow him. Grimness plastered to his face, he strode without fear, certain his judgment was divine. Five paces away, the door flung open and the silhouette of a man loomed in the narrow opening.

"Don't come no further," the Captain warned. "I've got me a weapon."

"Make use of it," Wab said without slowing.

"You're...wait, I know thine voice."

"And I recognize yours. Small globe we bounce upon, when it's all said and done. The tangle of life is but a divine knot. By-the-by, what be the awful smell wafting from the room?"

"Leave me Wab. Leave me and my concubine. I need a moment with her before I'm hauled before the man."

"You'd be so lucky to have a conference with the man," Wab said, stopping in front of the Captain. "You're reckoning is with me and of this there is no mistake: I am the man."

"I didn't want to toss to you to the sea, Wab me lad. 'Tis Brac's horrid idea. I had no quarrel with you."

"I remember you didn't stop it and, by simple addition, I have a quarrel with you."

"Did your bride survive?"

"A stupid question. But from her skin I gained sustenance and the means to survive. Vijjivuvijji is me, and I am Vijjivuvijji. We are one. She'll enjoy this moment as if her own hands was depriving you of breath."

The Captain exhaled.

"Let me in and finish what you have coming," Wab whispered.

Quick-like, the Captain raised his right arm but Wab was quicker. He thrust his palm upwards and caught the Captain beneath the nose, breaking the beak with a crunch. The pistol fell, lost in the darkness, and the Captain crumpled to the floor with a wet gasp. Wab pounced, closing fingers around the man's throat, and squeezed until the tips touched at the spine.

"Powell!" Cuttler yelled from down the passageway. "Where you be?"

Wab continued to squeeze, feeling trachea crush, as spittle dribbled down his chin and landed on the Captain's forehead.

"Captain!" Cuttler bellowed.

Looking over his shoulder, Wab saw the master-at-arms blunder into a bulkhead before righting and spying the open stateroom.

"Your lucky day," Wab said, releasing the throat. The Captain wheezed and Wab smacked him one final time in the face. "Until next time," he said, standing.

"Powell, there you are," Cuttler said. He rushed into the stateroom and tripped over the stressed body as Wab flung open the stateroom windows and jumped from the ship. A second later came the splash.

"What is this?" Cuttler croaked. "Powell! Where you goin', sir?" He leaned outside and scanned the harbor, seeing nothing but ripples of water. "Damn fool. What's he jumping for?"

The _Eclipse_ lurched as the _Columbia_ mated. A bell clanged and the scuffling of boots topside announced the arrival of reinforcements. On a bureau next to Cuttler, a small triptych tumbled over. The master-at-arms grabbed it, meaning to right the ornament, but caught the engravings underneath the three color depictions. "EMILY POWELL" was stenciled 'neath the picture on the right; in the middle an infant named "BABY SAMUEL" sat stone-faced. Under the likeness of the third was "CAPT. W. POWELL". Cuttler frowned and held the frame below the slanting moonlight shining through the open window. "Captain Powell" was depicted as a young red-haired man with mustache. The resemblance to the man who called himself the same, if there ever was one, had either vanished in four months adrift or never existed.

The injured on the floor moaned and Cuttler crossed the stateroom, thrusting the image in the man's face. "Who be this a representation?"

"What?" the man rasped.

"Was this the unlucky bloke you thieved this ship from?"

"Aye, 'tis him," he answered, rubbing his throat.

"And he was just here strangling the life from ye?"

The man laughed, a gasping chuckle, and shook his head. "Nay. The distressed be Wab," he said.

Cuttler flinched and the room started to spin. He sat on the bed but jumped with a start when he made contact with the gash laying naked and spread-eagle. She was a dark woman, perhaps beautiful in other circumstances, but her throat was cut. Judging by the aroma of her, she'd been dead for a fortnight.

"My concubine," the man said.

"Who are you?" Cuttler asked with revulsion.

"I need water, then I'll talk. Please, a spill from the canteen."

Instead, Cuttler walked to the window and scanned the sea. In the distance, swimming with vigor, was a speck inspiring whitecaps.

"Wab, eh?"

"Aye. Now how 'bout a sip, kind sir."

"Shut your fool mouth," Cuttler snapped before dropping the picture into the water.

"Just a teeny-"

Cuttler strode to him, put his hands on his hips, and stomped the man in the face. "And I ain't a sir," he retorted.

***

"Your shoulder, Mister Cuttler," Commodore Read said as he stepped onto the _Eclipse_.

"Nothing but a bug bite. Ball went clean through."

"I'll have my surgeon look at it. The last thing you want is infection."

"I got off a mite better than some of the others, sir. The lieutenant in the boat can't move his legs or arms. Shot in the back and felled with the paralysis, I fear."

"Where's Mister Powell?"

"The captain..." Cuttler dropped his gaze and ground the heel of his boot into wood. Several teeth worked their way out of the tread and he kicked them aside with a casual flick.

The Commodore watched the teeth and then asked, "What about him?"

"He drowned, sir."

"Drowned?"

"When we were fired on. He dove from the whaleboat and...well, sir, I lost sight of him as he disappeared under the water."

"Dammit, man!"

"Nothing to be done about it. He panicked and..."

Read clucked his tongue and then said, "A shame. Surviving what he did..."

"Aye, a shame."

"And as for the _Eclipse_ , a spliced shard. The Malays were determined not to give her up."

"Aye, sir. A stubborn lot."

"Let's gather what we can. Perhaps we can salvage some of her cargo and return it to the owner. As for the _Eclipse_ , there can be nothing to do but burn her."
41. Where Po Allen Is Presented

The corpulent chieftain of the village Trobongan arose to the clamor of excited shouts and shook his fat head of lethargy. A bottle of rum sat within reach of left hand, a plump breast sat beneath right. After careful deliberation, he decided the medicine worthy of stunting the ache wasn't carnal. Two hefty swigs, an acidic belch, and a groan as he lumbered into a sitting position stirred the mind of lascivious inclinations. Whatever the commotion outside... it could wait, and would, because Po Allen was the chief and nothing happened in Trobongan without the chief's permission.

"Ah, my flower," he sniffed, "your aroma is enticing."

The girl didn't stir.

"Girl," he said, trying to remember her name. She was the daughter of one of the coffee wet grinders, an arthritic man with a hunchback who missed his quotas with unvarying precision. Her name didn't matter, of course, but he _should_ know it. But, with so many to remember, it was natural to forget a few. After a moment of deliberation, and another swig, he gave up the pretension of chivalry and pinched her nipple.

"Ow," she moaned, swatting his hand.

"The chief is frisky, girl."

Cooing (it sounded like a coo- she wouldn't dare sigh), she parted her legs and arched lanky pelvis.

"Yes, girl," Po Allen snickered as he rolled atop her. "The chief is pleased."

"Can you be faster than last night?" she asked. This sounded liked a complaint, no doubt about it. Po Allen may have been many things, but he wasn't dumb.

"I'll go as fast as I desire," he countered. "Love cannot be rushed, nor the blast of honeyed essence."

She laughed, a derisive chortle, and closed her eyes.

"Am I too big? Is this the problem?"

"No," she answered, mayhap a bit too quick in Po Allen's estimation.

"Honesty is a virtue," he said, "but your scrupulousness infringes on insult."

"My apologies, chief. I'll shut my mouth and let you dribble sweetness into me."

"Humph... and you'll be all the better. Humors are transferred in the fluids, girl. My loins brim with splendid regency. You should be so-"

The commotion outside the hut increased to an annoying racket, interrupting Po Allen as he was about to impart, and insert, salient points.

"Ack! This noise," he grumbled. "What has stirred my docile society?"

"Chief!" yelled Po Allen's brother, Po Edward. He appeared a moment later, bursting into the hut, out-of-breath and red-faced. "Chief!"

"Po Edward, do you not see I'm indisposed and in the confines of lessening?"

"I-I apologize, my chief," Po Edward stammered with a clumsy bow. He lowered his eyes and stared at the thatch floor as he said, "We have a visitor."

"A visitor? Is it the Englishmen again?"

"He's a white face, but arrived on foot, clad in a uniform of boastfulness."

"Dutch?"

"No. Come, you must see."

Po Allen muttered and looked at the girl. "Later, my sweet, we'll finish our dalliance." He slid off her, stood, and rubbed plump belly. "Well, a guest calls for special garments."

"I'd be hesitant to call this man a guest," Po Edward said. "He appears to have encountered trouble and is fleeing misfortunate."

"Oh? Do tell, brother."

"Either this story or...he's a confident man."

"Confident?"

"You'll behold. What is of no doubt is he does not lack importance. He speaks to us with no hint of anxiety."

"Good! Apprehension leads to mistrust. The rambunctious grumps in Aceh have soured relations with the whites. I heard the Americans razed Quallah Battoo and burned Muskie. The last thing I want is trouble. If our fellow countrymen have harassed this poor wanderer, it'll be up to me to make things right."

"As I stated, he does not appear aggrieved. Cordial, in fact."

"Wonderful," Po Allen said as he picked through a steamer trunk of clothes. Out flew frock coats, waistcoats, breeches, trousers and a corset. He stared at the pile, scratched his temple, and plucked the corset. "Help me squeeze into this contrivance, brother."

"Not the dreadful squeeze device."

"I traded good women for this ensemble. Stop gawking and assist. I'll need help with the breeches. And the boots. Mayhap the shirt, too."

***

Po Allen emerged from the hut, waddling due to the constriction of the formalwear he'd selected. He expected a greeting from his subjects, but none came. This was a minor irritant; he couldn't blame them for the slight. Their attention was a fickle luxury. Childlike in disposition, ignorant in mind, Po Allen's followers needed constant stimulation to keep occupied. This annoyance vexed the chief to no end. Even trivial acts of nature, ascribed to God's whims, invoked mind-numbing interference. A visitor would plum blow their simple minds, and did, with the subtle explosion of a cannonball.

The villagers gathered in a semi-circle, rippling with excitement. Po Allen shouldered through the fringe and caught sight of the visitor, gesticulating with his hands. He scowled, mimed a pistol with his finger, and pulled the trigger.

"Boom," he testified. The natives gasped and the man nodded. He pulled the imaginary trigger again and repeated, "Boom!"

This didn't appear to be robust bragging. He looked like he'd endured an engagement with cutthroats and prolonged abandonment in the jungle. Thin, bursting with a wild beard and matted hair, the guest reeked of menace. He was also naked, and not the least bit uncomfortable. Po Edward's description was truthful: the guest appeared confidant as his hands recounted some tale of woe or adventure.

Po Allen adjusted the tall hat and smiled, pushing the villagers aside.

"...swam," the man said, mimicking the motion. "Then walked and-"

"Hello, friend," Po Allen interrupted. "I'm-"

"Yes, yes," the man said, waving his hands, "I'll get to you in a moment. As I was saying...where was I? Now look, man, I've forgotten the story."

"A shame," Po Allen responded with contrived sorrow. "My people need to get to work." He clapped his hand and barked in a foreign tongue. With a collective sigh, the residents disbanded. "Besides," he added, "I'm the chief. If you should be talking to anyone, it should be me."

"Ah, so you're the majesty of this humble estate. Must I kiss your feet, or a ring, to sit among your luminescence?"

"No, no," Po Allen said with a chuckle. Though the man was grinning, Po Allen recognized the sarcasm. Years of dealing with white traders had been helpful in learning the nuances of the English language.

"I'm called Wab," he said, standing with the crack of bones.

Po Allen tried to avoid staring at the phallus and said, "I'm Po Allen, a friend to...your inflection suggests an American."

"You be spot-on, chief Po Allen. I was about to remark your English is exemplary, but it's clear I'm not the first insipid man you've encountered."

"Yes, I've entertained many whites. English, Dutch, French and, of course, Americans. I'm fluent in almost all the tongues, though my French is, how they say, _qui ont besoin de travail_."

Wab raised his eyebrows.

"In need of work. See? So poor you can't understand."

"I don't speak French. It sounds like urbane tripe to me. However, this does explain the garish outfit you're stuffed into. A gift from the Europeans?"

"Oh this," Po Allen tutted. "Not a gift. I traded for a chest of wardrobes from the English. You don't find agreeable?"

"Eh...it's a vision. Must've cost a portion of purse, if not the entire bag."

"Some sterling and a few other items. The merchants were anxious to unload their cargo. However, this isn't a pertinent subject."

"We call this chit-chat where I'm from. A little discourse to introduce ourselves."

"If I may be candid, you've made your introduction."

Wab spread his arms and said, "Ah...I lost my outfit in the excitement of escape."

"Whom do you flee?"

"Do I need explain the disposition of some of your countrymen?"

"We're enjoined on this island, Mister Wab, but we're not united as compatriots. Those in the north are aggressive. Here, I run a diminutive enterprise. Coffee."

"Coffee makes you wealthy?"

"Coffee beans, to be exact. And pepper. I have almost a thousand subjects and they work for me."

"I can't tell you how relieved I am to find a gentleman of stature who understands the necessity for honest work. The menfolk who took my boat are the basest of humanity. Cruel and lacking compassion. They cast us adrift. Of my shipmates, I may be the lone survivor. Where am I, pray tell?"

"Trobongan. It's not much, but we live in comfort."

Inhaling, Wab nodded at the hut behind Po Allen and said, "This be no lie." A nude girl appeared at the opening and smiled.

"My mademoiselle," Po Allen bragged. "One of many. The perks of being the chief."

"Aye, a lithe benefit."

"Indeed. Ahem. Let's get you some food and linen." Po Allen snapped his fingers and the girl tilted her head. He barged in Malay, pointing at a caldron hanging over a fire.

"Listen, Po Allen," Wab said. "I can serve meself and-"

"Nonsense! You're our guest. The trek from evil requires recuperation. The girl will serve, you will gather strength, and when a ship appears you'll go back to your people with quite a tale. I hope you will elucidate not all of us on Sumatra are the monsters we're portrayed. Some of us are kind."

"Oh, there is no doubt."

"Wonderful!"

"But perhaps," Wab smiled, "I might stay a bit longer than planned."
