David Wood
Primitive: A Bones Bonebrake Adventure
Prologue
The storm raged. The wind shrieked in a banshee wail. Lightning shredded the slate gray blanket of clouds that hung low over the churning sea. The San Amaro pitched and rolled, her heavily laden holds causing her to ride low in the water, the icy waves breaking again and again over her decks.
Miguel de Morales squinted against the chill wind and icy rain. The temperature had dropped precipitously since the storm that had been brewing all day finally broke with the fury of a thousand hells. He clutched the ship’s wheel, trying to keep her on a southeasterly course that would take them around the tip of La Florida and back out to the Atlantic.
“Captain, do you want me to take the wheel?” Dominic, his first mate, shouted to be heard above the howling wind. Rain streamed down his face like funeral tears and he staggered to maintain his footing on the tilting deck.
Morales shook his head. “The helm is mine until we get out of this storm.” He didn’t need to add if we get out at all.
“Very well.” Dominic turned to look out at the roiling waves. “I’ve never seen anything like this. Not even out in the ocean.”
Morales had to agree. This was, without a doubt, the worst storm at sea he’d ever encountered. He’d already ordered the sails be furled to prevent a broken mast or, worse, the ship capsizing. Now they were swept along by the wind and current, struggling to keep some control over the direction of their ship.
“What kind of storm can carry a ship this size along like a bobbing cork?” Dominic shouted.
Morales had no answer. The truth was, he was deathly afraid, but he could not let it show. He was the captain and, as such, must lead both in word and deed. If he feigned confidence, so might his crew.
The faint sound of cries from the foredeck drifted back to his place at the helm. “See what that’s about.”
Dominic nodded but before he could take a step, a small voice cried out in the darkness.
“Captain, we see land ahead!” A short, slender young man of a dozen years melted out of the darkness. Eugenio was Morales’ page and his nephew. The young man had no business being out on the deck in this storm, but the boy was determined to become an apprentice sailor as soon as he was old enough, and insisted on acting as if he were already a full member of the crew. He turned and pointed forward. “There, off the port bow.”
Morales strained to see what his nephew had spotted. The San Amaro rose on a swell, and in the next flash of lightning he saw the low-slung silhouette of a cayo, one of the small islands formed atop a coral reef that lined the south and west coasts of La Florida.
“We are closer to shore than I thought,” Dominic said.
Morales didn’t answer. He’d performed quick mental calculations and realized they were headed directly toward the southern tip of the cayo. What was more, even if he managed to steer San Amaro around the cayo, another of the low-lying islands lay just to the south. They had only a small gap through which to safely pass. Of course, he didn’t know what lay beyond, but that was a problem for later.
“Tell everyone to get down below!” he called to Eugenio. “There is nothing more they can do here.” While the possibility of being run aground on the cayo was very real, at least in that situation the crew would stand a chance of surviving such a fate. Should a man be swept overboard, death was a virtual certainty. Even those who were capable swimmers could not remain afloat in this churning, black maelstrom.
Eugenio turned and ran for the bow. He’d barely made it ten paces when the wave struck. A massive wall of water like the hand of Satan reaching up from the depths of Hell reared up on the port side. It swept across the deck, scooped the young man up, and carried him over the starboard rail and into the sea.
“Eugenio!” Morales cried. Brief, irrational flickers of thought flashed through his mind like fireflies. Turn the boat around. Toss the boy a rope. Go in after him. They were all absurd, of course. The ship was virtually beyond his control and Eugenio would be dead in a matter of seconds, a minute at most.
Perhaps he should shed a tear for his sister’s oldest child, but present circumstances were too dire for such sentiments. He would do his best to keep his crew alive, and if he succeeded, mourn Eugenio at his leisure.
“Get below!” he shouted to Dominic.
“No, Captain. I’ll be here to take the wheel if something should happen to you.”
Morales gave a single nod. The man spoke sense and there was no time for arguing.
The lightning flashed again, silhouetting the dark fingers of the twin cayos that seemed to reach out to grab San Amaro. Morales leaned on the wheel, trying to gain even a small measure of control against the force of the storm. He gritted his teeth and strained with every muscle, every last drop of energy. His body, soaked with rain, sweat, and sea water, trembled with the effort. He tasted salt in his mouth, felt the shiver of the cold wind, and wondered if these were the last sensations he would ever experience on this earth.
The shadowy form of the cayo loomed directly ahead, seemingly coming closer with each flash of lightning. Dominic hit the deck as they surged forward, carried on the crest of a wave.
Down they came, crashing into the angry sea.
And then they were past the island and its sharp coral reef. Dominic clambered to his feet and let out a whoop of delight. But it wasn’t over.
The force of the storm, powerful beyond belief, continued to drive them forward as if by a supernatural force. The ship swept through the small bay and directly toward land.
“This cannot be happening,” Morales whispered.
“This storm is the devil’s work!” Dominic shouted.
Morales couldn’t disagree. Helpless, he watched the shore approach, the thick tree line standing dark and sinister in the stormy night. What would happen when they ran aground?
And then he saw it.
“A river!” A dark channel wound back into the mainland and disappeared from sight. Could they make it?
The surge carried San Amaro past the shoreline and up the narrow river that fed into the bay. Morales could not help but marvel at the force required to sweep their galleon upstream against the current. But his wonder did not last. They came to a bend in the river and San Amaro, despite his best efforts, did not make the turn.
Morales cried out in rage and dove to the deck as their ship smashed into the forest. The masts snapped with ear-splitting cracks. The sound of splitting wood rang in his ears as the heavy galleon ripped limbs from trees and boards split from the force of repeated collisions as they plunged deeper into the forest.
Morales dared to look up, wondering how far they could possibly go before they broke apart or came to a halt. He raised his head just in time to see a section of mast sweeping toward him. He ducked too late. Pain like hot fire erupted in his skull.
And then all was black.
“I told you this was the work of the devil.” Dominic scowled out the window at the dense foliage of the swamp into which San Amaro had come to rest. “This place is nothing but a haven for foul creatures, both great and small. Biting, stinging, and worse.”
“We lived through that storm. That is the work of God.” Three days later Morales still felt the effects of the blow to the head he had suffered. He’d spent little time outside of his cabin, just enough to remind the crew that he was still alive and in command. Too much exertion made him feel faint, and it would not do to show weakness in front of a crew that stood on the verge of desperation.