Legends of the Vengeance : The First Adventure (9781310742866) Page 6

  Could he ever learn to draw and paint well enough to create such a credible likeness from his own reflection and imagination that his father would pronounce it true and accurate? The idea nearly drove him wild with eagerness. It would be such an accomplishment, but he couldn’t hope to do so well for a long time. Why, Angelo must be even older than his father! It would take years…

  He shook himself and jumped from his bunk. Why waste time with daydreams when he could practice? As he hurried to claim his gruel from the galley, Sebastian tried to remember the words of the artist regarding light and darkness and how they created shadows and highlights. These give your work depth—richness—life.

  Never had he bolted his food so quickly. He guzzled his watered-down wine and scurried out of sight and down to where he hoped to begin his training. The area was too dark. Even with the light that crept in through the cannon deck holes, there wasn’t enough to see if he connected two lines of a circle. He needed the lantern.

  Whirling to find it and find a way to bring it below again, he ran into Jaime. “What are you doing, Sebastian?”

  “Um…”

  “You know you can’t keep a secret from me, so just tell me.”

  His friend spoke truth. Somehow, everything he ever thought or did, Jaime found out inevitably. “I want to draw, but it’s too dark down here.”

  “So draw on deck.”

  “I don’t want anyone—”

  “So, draw in your cabin.”

  “I…”

  Jaime led him up to his room and shut the door. “Your father will kill me for showing you this, but…” He reached for a stick beneath the bunk. “See those pegs?” Sebastian didn’t. Exasperated, Jaime jerked clothes from them. “Those.”

  “Yes.”

  In one smooth movement, he dropped the stick between the pegs. “Locked. All the privacy you want.”

  “Really? How did I never know that?”

  “Because your father didn’t want you to know.” Jaime lifted the stick and handed it to him. “Enjoy. I want to see what you draw before you wash it away.”

  Alone in his room, he scrubbed an area of the floor and stared at it. What to draw? He had no idea. His mind was as blank as the space on his floor.

  He considered the ship’s wheel and thought it seemed simple. Starting with something easy made sense, didn’t it? The circle didn’t work. Over and over he scrubbed and drew until he wanted to throw the stick out the window and quit. A quiet knock sent his head whipping to the door.

  “Jaime?”

  “Yes. Let me in.”

  Sebastian scrambled to his feet and lifted the stick. “What?”

  “Let me see. What are you drawing?”

  “The ship’s wheel.” He stared disgusted at the confusing blob of circle and lines that looked more like a drunken spider’s web than a ship’s wheel.

  “Well, you have the right shape.”

  With a playful shove, Sebastian sent Jaime flying to the bunk. “Thanks.”

  “Maybe you’d have more success if you tried to draw something you can see—your boot or the porthole or even your hand. Maybe from memory isn’t a good way to start.”

  The idea made sense; instinctively, Sebastian knew he’d do better even if not well. “I’ll try it.” His eyes roamed around the cabin, and he shrugged as he set his boot in the shaft of light coming through the porthole.

  A new sense of self-consciousness filled him as he tried to draw the basic shape of his boot with Jaime watching. The result—a mess. However, unlike the last mess, at least he knew it looked like a boot—a misshapen, ugly one, but a boot nonetheless. “It’s not good, but it’s a bit recognizable.”

  Sebastian grabbed the rag to wipe it clean, but Jaime grabbed it. “No! Just scrub off the parts that you want to change.”

  He spent an hour working until his changes began to make the picture worse. Jaime held out his hand for the rag. “I’ll go wash it out for you.”

  With a grin, Sebastian passed it to Jaime and stared at the result as the door closed behind his friend. He tried to add a loop to the back of the boot, but the faint lines that resulted caused him to jump up and open the door. He hesitated. If his father came in the cabin…

  A glance at the bunk answered his dilemma for him. Sebastian snatched his blanket from the bed and tossed it on the floor. It might earn him a scolding, but his father would never pick it up for him. Nicolo Soranzo insisted his son, as well as his crew, do their own work.

  The busyness of the crew ensured his ability to run the length of the ship and scramble into the galley. Mac didn’t even turn from cutting up chunks of meat. “I don’t have time for games right now. The men’ll be hungry come time for dinner.”

  “I’ll just load the stove for you before I get out of your way then.”

  “That’s a fine laddie. Yer father don’t appreciate just how fine a lad ye are,” Mac muttered as he hacked at the meat.

  Sebastian worked quickly, shoving the wood in the stove and holding a smaller stick in the coals until he was sure it had burned into the wood a bit. A water bucket tempted him to plunge the flaming stick into it, but at the last second, he realized he’d have to wait for it to dry if he did. Blowing on it, didn’t work like it did with a candle, but eventually he managed to roll and blow enough to put out the flame and stop the smoke. Back through the ship, waving at his father as he slunk past, Sebastian tried to look as nonchalant as his excited self could manage.

  He burst into the room and found Jaime examining the drawing, the blanket tossed aside once more. “I think you’re worried too much about the details. Worry about the shape. You can add details once you know you have the outline correct.”

  After staring at his work for another minute or two, Sebastian scrubbed the floor clean and felt his stick. It was still hot. “I should probably wait until it has cooled so it doesn’t leave a permanent mark, shouldn’t I?”

  Jaime felt the stick and nodded. “You’re right. Still too hot.” His father’s voice rang out, calling for Jaime. “I should go. Keep trying. I’ll grab a couple of lemons and a lime when I can sneak them out of the galley. They’re simple shapes. Maybe they’ll be easier.”

  Just as Jaime started to pull the door shut behind him, Sebastian asked, “How long do you think it will take to know if I have any talent for it?”

  His friend smiled and shrugged. “I don’t know, but I imagine not until months or even years after you are sure you don’t.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  The wind pushed the ship through the water at speeds they hadn’t felt since they sailed to Sicilia. Everyone, crew and captain alike, felt the excitement of progress and smooth sailing. Nicolo stood on the quarterdeck and viewed the sea before them. They would arrive in three days of good sail.

  Within hours, they saw that they were not the only ship taking advantage of the storm that blew around them. Rarely did Nicolo risk his flag unless trying to capture a ship with the least amount of battle necessary. For a moment, he was tempted to raise the yellow jack—warning of disease—but it might tempt a ship to try to capture while people were ill and weakened. The risk was as great as the benefit it worked.

  “Hoist the flag, Jaime.”

  The solid black flag rose quickly, flapping and snapping in the brisk wind. The other ship, a merchant, ran the moment it spied the flag in the air. Nicolo smiled—a good decision. Hector stormed up to him, furious.

  “Why did we not give chase? It is a merchant ship, is it not? We could take that ship easily.”

  “Yes, we could, but it is not Spanish. How can you get your revenge if you gain your wealth from a Portuguese ship? You put your trust in me; now let me do my job.”

  “So we get a Spanish ship later. Why not both? Do you think we would complain about more money?”

  “You are the only one complaining. The other men are not bloodthirsty. They are willing to wait—to trust. Learn patience.”

  Hector’s frustration exploded. “Patience? Ten yea
rs in prison—tortured—do you not think I have demonstrated enough patience?”

  Before Nicolo could order the man to pick up his holeystone and finish sanding the deck, Eduardo stepped up and hauled the man away, shouting, “Should I throw you overboard and let you swim for the ship? Perhaps you have learned enough to take them by yourself in your week of experience on a ship.” The quartermaster shoved Hector back to where he’d been working. “You are pathetic.”

  Jaime stepped up to Nicolo grinning. “Our friend is impatient, isn’t he?”

  “Very. I have to remember that I promised to help the victims of injustice, not the victims that I like. Cruelty begets cruelty—sometimes in a different form, but it happens.”

  As Jaime turned to leave, Nicolo stopped him. “Where is Sebastian?”

  To his surprise, his boatswain hesitated. “Um, I think he’s in his bunk.”

  “Is he well?”

  “Very.”

  He eyed the young man curiously. “There is something you are not telling me. What is it?”

  “I think your son would like to tell you himself, but…”

  “But what? What is it, Jaime?”

  “Sometimes you do not listen long enough to hear what the boy says or wants to say.”

  “And what,” Nicolo asked, feeling quite indulgent and excusing Jaime’s mild rebuke, “would you suggest I do instead?”

  Jaime frowned and turned to leave. “I think it would be better if I mind my own business.”

  The tone said even more than Jaime’s words. Nicolo watched the young man as he went to show Hector the proper way to use the holystone. What did the young man mean about his unwillingness to listen?

  “Jaime, come here.”

  The look on Jaime’s face told him that he’d have to press to learn what his wise young friend wanted to say. It had happened many times over the years. Jaime gave a suggestion; Nicolo did not receive it well, and Jaime withdrew his advice until practically forced to share it. Only once had Jaime ever pressed until Nicolo agreed. He had been right too—something that still rankled. Then again, if Jaime chose to interfere at all, he was almost always right.

  “What is this about me listening? What should I listen to?”

  “I am sorry, Nicolo. I know my place, but sometimes I forget.”

  “And this time I want you to tell me.”

  “I am not much older than Sebastian myself. What can I know?”

  So he would resist. As usual, Nicolo would have to press, but this time he had no patience for it. “Let’s not waste time, Jaime. You know something you think I need to know. I want to hear it. I may ignore it, but as we both know, when you do speak, you usually speak sense.”

  “I am not his father. I see with the eyes of a friend, not a parent.”

  “But,” Nicolo had a new thought—one that actually explained something he had always wondered. “Most boys have two parents, do they not? They have a father who is not swayed by sympathy because they will do what is hard, to do what is best. Then they have a mother who understands and feels her child’s pain. They are sympathetic and temper the father so that he does not become too harsh and unyielding.”

  “Yes…”

  “Sebastian has no mother. You, as a friend, give a little of that understanding that I as a father don’t allow myself. I need that balanced picture. Over the years, you have, at times, helped stop me from serious mistakes—ones that might have hardened him to me. We both know I cannot do that. He must be willing to yield to me when it is necessary.”

  The work of the ship continued around them. Sails pulled them, mile by mile, closer to their destination. The carpenter still worked to smooth the side of the boat that no longer showed evidence of battle. Eduardo kept watch for other ships and other dangers. Men climbed the lines to tighten rigging, but still the young man said nothing.

  “Jaime…” Suddenly, Nicolo grew concerned. “Sebastian is well, is he not? He is in his cabin and safe?”

  “He is well, but he is going to be reticent to tell you anything if you go in and demand and react without listening.”

  “Do I do that?” It sounded like him, but Nicolo hoped that perhaps it might be an exaggeration.

  “You do.” Jaime shrugged. “I am sorry, but it is true. Listen to him, Nicolo. He’s a smart boy. He wants you to be proud of him, but he is not like you. He does not have the rage and the need for vengeance driving him as you do.” Jaime spoke again before he could reply. “You would not want him to. When this is over, when we leave this boat for good, you will be glad that he is not a pirate at heart.”

  The truth of Jaime’s words bored into his heart. Sebastian was not a coward, but he did not have the heart for fighting. He tried to hide it, but it showed in his face. As Nicolo pondered Jaime’s words, the young man went back to his work. This time, his boatswain hurried down into the hold for reasons that no one would think of or understand but would ensure their safety or comfort. He was a good one—better than any other they’d ever had.

  With the ship running smoothly, Nicolo went down to Sebastian’s cabin. His hand reached for the knob, but he stopped himself, dropping his hand to his side. Staring at the knob he remembered his childhood—his life back when he was part of a family. He had been away from family for so long he’d forgotten what it was like.

  His hand rose again and knocked.

  Chapter Ten

  Tempests

  Sebastian’s head whipped around to stare at the door. Only Jaime bothered to knock on his door, and even then, he usually called out. Maybe his father had sent Hector to fetch him.

  “Yes?”

  “Sebastian…”

  The rest of his father’s words were lost to him as shock and dismay flooded his heart. Why did his father knock? What would he say when he pushed on the door and it did not open? How—

  Impatience laced his father’s second call. “Sebastian!”

  Frantically, he scrubbed at the floor with the rag until it looked like a dirty mess rather than an artistic one. He tossed the rag and the stick into the corner and jerked the short pole from the door. “Yes? You need me?”

  “What took you so long? What are you doing in here?” His father stepped into the little cabin and peered around the room, stopping with eyes suspiciously fixed on Sebastian’s face.

  He flushed until his face nearly matched his hair, and he knew it. “Nothing important.”

  “I asked you—” Nicolo began, anger welling up in his eyes, but he closed them, took a deep breath, and sank to the bunk. “Are you feeling well, son? Is there something you should tell me?”

  Confused, Sebastian shrugged. “I—what do you mean? Of course I am fine.”

  His father’s eyes bored into him. “And you have nothing you think you should share with me? Maybe you have questions…” Nicolo swallowed visibly. “Perhaps about the raid,” he suggested quickly.

  Sebastian shook his head. “No… it’ll be the same as usual, right? I am locked in the room looking like a stupid girl while everyone is out having adventures.”

  His father’s hand reached for him, pulling him onto the bunk. He felt an arm around his shoulder, but Sebastian stared at his feet on the floor. “You do not like our way of protecting you, do you?”

  “Would you like it? Would you like to be stuffed into a padded dress with jeweled combs in your hair to make you look like a woman?”

  “I think my beard might make such a thing ineffective, but no I would not.”

  “I look forward to the day that I have hair on my lip and my chin. Then maybe yo—people will see me as something other than a fragile child.”

  Neither of them spoke for some time. After a few minutes, his father tried again. “Perhaps we should talk about what you were doing before I came. I don’t see…” It seemed as if his father was hesitant to speak.

  “I—”

  “Sebastian, why won’t you talk to me?”

  Once more, a very long silence hovered between them. Sebastian
fidgeted with his hands while Nicolo seemed to fight his desire to say what he thought. His father’s silence when he obviously had something to say unnerved him. Usually Nicolo would have exploded in a rage when Sebastian did not answer quickly. That he tried to be understanding prompted Sebastian to try to explain.

  “When I was in Siracusa, I went to the house of an artist. The woman, Rosa—”

  “Yes, her son Angelo. I met her.”

  Curious, Sebastian stared up at his father. Why was he so tense—so bothered by it all? “You did? Did you meet Angelo too? He is an artist. He showed me so much. He had me pose for him. I learned…”

  Nicolo’s eyes closed and Sebastian watched as he swallowed deliberately. “What did you learn, son?”

  Never had Sebastian heard such dread in his father’s voice. “I learned about drawing. While he told me how to pay attention to light and dark, shadow and highlight, he sketched me. He said I had the soul for art—that my face had something in it. Longing, I think he said.” Sebastian dropped his head. “The drawing was good, Papa. It looked just like me. He made me promise that I would return for it someday. He told me to practice, so…”

  Nicolo’s shoulders relaxed a little as he urged his son to continue. “So… what?”

  “I took a stick with a charred end. Look.” He jumped from the bed and grabbed the stick and the rag. “I was practicing. I thought you wouldn’t like it, so Jaime showed me how to lock the door so no one would see…” Again he hung his head, shamed. “I am sorry for hiding it from you, Papa.”

  Laughter reverberated around the room, first confusing and then frustrating Sebastian as Nicolo howled so loud that he wiped tears from his eyes. “You—were—drawing?” he gasped between guffaws.

  “Yes. I am not very good,” he admitted. “I want to do it, though. I need to, Papa.” Those words stopped him, and Sebastian frowned. “It is true—I do need to. I know this. But I don’t know why. Is that not strange?”

  ~~~~~~~~~~

  Nicolo wanted to forbid his son from such foolishness, but Jaime’s words echoed in his mind. “Show me.”