Owned by the Ocean by Christine Steendam Read Free Book Online Page B

nothing more than gold and stores, all in the name of weakening
an enemy of the crown.
    When the order
came to board Brant lunged forward with the rest of the men,
screaming and yelling their bloody war cries, but not feeling the
hu-rah that the other men seemed to possess.
    There was no
chance to collect one’s thoughts when he landed on the deck of the
other ship. Immediately someone charged at him with a sword ready
to cut him open. Brant parried and thrust skillfully, protecting
his life and fighting to take another’s. This was different from
sparring. There was no cool calculation of moves and steps, out
here men fought with desperation, and screams of death overpowered
the music of clashing steal. There was no one-on-one or rules of
engagement. An attack could come from any angle, from any number of
men. Bullets whizzed by and you could only pray that one didn’t
find its mark in you.
    Brant felt a
sharp pain in his side and he looked down; a growing red stain
covering his dirty white shirt.
    “ Don’t!” Corbin’s blade jumped into view and blocked a thrust.
“Brush it off or yer dead!”
    It was enough
to shake Brant out of the stupor the sight of his blood had put him
in, and his sword arm was immediately back at work, but his vision
spun a little. It had just become a little more real; if Corbin
hadn’t been right there he would have been run through because he
stopped for a split second. That was all it took; a second.
    For Brant the
fight seemed to take forever but in reality it went quickly. The
crew surrendered and LaFleur had their hold cleaned out of anything
valuable and then the ship was left to flounder in its ruined
state. Corbin took Brant directly to the surgeon to have his stab
wound looked after but he kept assuring Brant that it was nothing
to be worried about.
    After getting
his wound cleaned and stitched, he joined the rest of the crew to
stow things away below deck. His side ached, reminding him of how
close he’d come to death, but he was proud of himself. Death hadn’t
left him weak kneed or nauseous. He had held his own, and in time
he would get better.
    He’d told Karl
after the first raid that he’d learn to live with it, that he’d be
okay with death, and he was. He never lost his composure again
after that first raid. But after seeing the life leave a man’s
eyes, he understood what Captain LeFleur had meant when he said
ghosts haunted him. Brant wanted to hurt for the men that he had
killed this afternoon and never forget the look in their eyes as
their souls left their bodies.
    As he
celebrated their victory that night with the crew, he took a swig
of rum and passed the bottle on, listening to stories of close
calls and staring death in the face. Brant smiled and laughed, he
showed off his wound and the men congratulated him on his first
stabbing, a rite of passage it seemed. But underneath all the
bravado and laughter, he was hurting, hurting for the men that he
had taken from loving mothers and waiting wives. He vowed to
remember each life he took so that when judgement day came and he
had to atone for the sins he’d committed, he’d know the face of
each and every man that testified against him, and he’d know that
he deserved to suffer for eternity.

Chapter
Five
     
    Three Years
Later- 1663
     
    Brant’s eighteenth birthday came and went, then his
nineteenth. Three years he’d served aboard the BlackFox, spilling more blood than
he cared to measure, developing calluses on top of calluses,
spending countless hours working harder than he ever thought was
possible; and he loved every minute of it.
    Corbin had
taken his leave, true to his word, after their second season
working together, and was working as a cartographer in Port Royale.
He hoped to take his wife and young son to the new world and map
out the large and wild land, but the last Brant had heard he had no
real plans to leave yet. Maybe it was all talk.
    Brant had
continued to learn the skills required of a