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ISBN 1-59201-009-1
Books Unbound E-Publishing Co.
http://www.booksunbound.com
Publication March, 2003
Cover Art by D. Lee




Satan at the Helm
Karl Heffelfinger
Copyright 2002
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
April 1721


        He brushed something from his upper lip, something wet and annoying, then regarded his sticky fingers with unfocused eyes. Ned Loe saw the blood on his hand, but could not relate it to his gushing nose.
        He sat in the sawdust on the floor of The Pine Tree Tavern, knocked there by a seaman's fist, his brain addled by the blow and an evening of downing warm beer and New England rum. He cleared his buzzing brain with a shake of his head, and saw the boot swinging toward him. He reached out, grabbed the sailor's foot and twisted it. The man stumbled, off balance from his thwarted kick, and fell against a table, spilling cards and coins and beer.
        Loe struggled to his feet, and dove onto his opponent before the sailor could sort himself from the debris. He straddled the seaman's chest and began pounding the man's head on the floor using the sailor's ears as handles. The sailor clawed at Loe's eyes, but could not find a purchase on the bobbing, twisting face. Loe bent, and fastened his teeth around the sailor's nose. He yelled in pain and groped for Loe's offending jaw. Unable to pry his assailant from his nose, the sailor arced both his hands outward, then in to clap Loe's ears with his palms. The pop went into Loe's brain through his thrumming ear canals, and echoed in his skull like he was inside a pealing bell and the devil himself was hammering on the gong with fiery hammers. He rolled away, holding his ringing ears.
        The sailor scrambled to his knees, then onto his feet, and heaved a fist into Loe's temple. The noise in Ned's head grew to a vibrating clanging. He opened his eyes to see the next punch swing into his face, and he snapped back with a split lip. He held his fists up to protect his head, and met the following punches with his forearms.
        Through the blur of flashing fists Ned glimpsed an earring in the sailor's left ear, glinting in the lantern light. He snaked a hand through the punches, and caught the gold ring like a rider on a nightmarish merry-go-round. He tugged, and ripped the ornament down and through the sailor's lobe, splitting the little flap of skin and showering the sailor's neck with blood.
        The seaman roared and dropped his guard to grab at his cleft ear. Loe took the advantage and shot his left fist into the sailor's right eye, then followed with a right, smashing into the man's chest just over his heart.
        The sailor's knees wobbled, and his hands dropped to his sides. Loe closed and swung a left, right, left onto his victim's head, stumbling the man backward. Then a final right uppercut, brought from the floor, that flattened the sailor to the sawdust.
        Ned Loe found a chair, hoisted it over his head, and readied himself to smash it over the prostrate sailor's pate. The seat was wrenched from his grip. He tried to turn on this new threat, but felt the landlord's one hand in his hair and another on his belt. The landlord growled, as he skidded Loe out of his inn, "Th' few coins ye drop 'ere don't pay fer th' damage ye cause, mate. Ye're out, an' stay out!" The man unceremoniously threw Ned out the doorway, and into the street.
        Ned Loe squatted in the rutted cartway, next to a scatter of fresh horse droppings, rubbing his head. "By damn," he yelled to the closing door, "I been tossed outta better places than y'rs."
        He struggled to stand, then slowly made his way down Fleet Street to Charter Street and the rows of sea-faded cedar-sided houses.
        Ned spied Marble's rig tied in front of his house. "Bugger 'im," he mumbled. As he stumbled up the splintery steps, his father-in-law opened the door. Loe squinted up at the stern faced man, and nodded.
        "We are keeping Elizabeth to our house," Mr. Marble announced. "You are no fit father for our granddaughter."
        "Can't do that!" Loe yelled.
        "Can, and shall, sir. With the constable, or without. Look at yourself--drunk and bloody. No doubt penniless, as well. What has she to look forward too?"
        "I'm tryin'...."
        "Trying to what? Ruin her, as you did my daughter and grandson?"
        "Ya still blamin' me fer that? Th' poor little lad was sickly all along, an' my dear Liza...." Ned paused to choke back a growing lump in his throat. "My dear Liza had problems with Elizabeth."
        "Problems! Eliza was worn out trying to tend the boy. She never did gain her vigor, and then to be pregnant again."
        "We was happy...."
        "How could she have been, living in this hovel? With sewage running in the gutters outside, the wind blowing through the cracked panes, and vermin underfoot!
        "I'll never understand why she married you, Loe. I knew you for a ne'er-do-well the moment she brought you 'round. But that was her choice, and now she, and my grandson, lie beneath the earth. By damn, you shan't kill the only thing remaining to me!"
        Ned Loe's round face paled and then a red flash began at the nape of his neck and tinted his cheeks. He balled his hands into tight fists.
        "Go on, pummel me!" Mr. Marble said. " 'Tis the only way you know to settle your disputes. But 'twill be all the more for the constable."
        Ned's anger slowly ebbed, as he realized the consequences of such a rash action. He explained instead, "It wasn't always like this, sir. Granted, I can neither read nor write, but I make a decent livin' as ship-rigger. And I always brought my pay home t' Liza, ya know."
        Ned looked around at their home and then continued, "I let it go t' seed a bit, since 'er passin', but I can have this place ship-shape again. I'll quit drinkin', I will. I'll make a fit home fer Elizabeth. You'll see."
        "I cannot take that chance, Loe. Not with my granddaughter's well-being at stake."
        "Give me a week, sir. If I have reformed, will you at least discuss returnin' 'er to me?"
        Marble turned from his son-in-law, and went to the doorway. Then he said, over his shoulder, "Seven days."
        Ned collapsed into a chair, lay his head on the table, and sobbed.

        Edward 'Ned' Loe had been born in Westminster, England, and had been educated like most boys of his time and class--in the streets. He joined his brothers in the family business, petty crimes, as a pickpocket. He would, occasionally, cause a distraction while one of his brothers, carried in a basket on another brother's back, would swipe wigs, and hats, from the heads of passersby.
        Strong for his age, and handy with his fists, Ned would badger other boys that roamed the streets around the House of Commons for 'contributions', and beat them if they did not come up with their share. He had been the defender of the brother's illegal realm, and they were a close-knit gang through his teen years. But, when the eldest sibling had finally been caught and hanged at Tyburn, Ned and his other brother had left the streets and had gone to sea. They had sailed the world's ports for four years, then eventually had gone ashore at Boston where Ned had found employment as a ship-rigger.

        A splinter of morning sunlight speared Ned's eyes. He recoiled at the hot pain, and tried to raise his head from the sticky tabletop. Sometime during the evening, he had brought over the rum bottle and methodically emptied it, swallow by swallow.
        He struggled to the washstand and drank half of the ewer's water, then tried to flush the scabbed gore and sorrow from his face. He did what he could, then carefully set his cap on his pounding head and shuffled up the street, hung over and heartbroken, to the docks.
        "Ye're late!" the yardmaster yelled, when Loe reported for work. "I'm dockin' ye two hour's pay!"
        "I'm only th' half late. How can ya charge me fer two?"
        "Mebbe this'll teach ye t' mind th' clock, Loe. Ye're treadin' water, as it is. Next time ye'll be discharged!"
        Loe's head ached down to his teeth, which pained him as well, knocked askew in his jaw, and the overseer's hollering was becoming an agonizing annoyance. "Shut y'r hawser hole about it," Loe snarled. "I'm here aren't I?"
        The yardmaster continued deriding his rigger, and his rigger's temper flared. Loe, finally, cocked back his right fist and hooked it into his boss's face. The man staggered back, and Loe crossed with his left, and laid the yardmaster out. Ned completed his assault with a kick to the prone man's stomach.
        Loe looked around, and saw a cadre of dry-dock workers converging on him. He didn't feel up to fighting them all, so he walked away from the docks, and his past.

*****

        The sloop was hauling south-southeast, skirting the Bahamas Islands, the warm foam of the Gulf Stream splashing her bow. The hot wind had her pennants snapping and her backstays humming with tension. Her canvas was bellied, pregnant from the wind, and she was proud of her condition.
        The Dolphin rose on the crest of a wave, then down the back slope and, like her namesake, dipped the long nose of her bowsprit into the melange of salt and seaweed, and gave a delicate, savoring quiver. Behind her trailed the flowing hem of her wake, a snowy, lacy cleft in the water--the temporary mark of her passage through time and space. She sailed haughtily and smoothly, one with the currents and the tides and the sea.
        Keil Hermann, the Dolphin's carpenter, walked the length of the sloop, checking the bulwarks, belaying pin racks and tie-off rings for signs of undo strain. He leaned over the port, then starboard rails, and eyed the channels and chain plates. He leaned an ear to each mast to listen for the whisper of a crack beginning, and then kicked at the wedges at their bases and found them secure. He went aft to the helm and studied the barrel and play of the line through the blocks and sheaves, as the helmsman turned the spoked wheel. Seeing no wear on the steering gear, he looked over the stern to check the rudder. The thick, iron-strapped timbers were sound, and the pintles rode freely, so Keil toted his canvas tool bag over to a section of broken railing.
        He pulled out his saw and cut back the damaged portion to sound wood. Then he cut a series of fingers in each end and into the replacement piece, smeared the joints with boiled-hide glue, and forced them together. He smoothed the patch with a pumice stone, and wiped it all down with a linseed-oil-soaked rag.
        Keil was stirring the paint pot, when Thomas Kewes, the ship's quartermaster, remarked, "Green."
        Keil jumped, startled at the man's unnoticed approach, and blurted, "Mister Kewes, ya near scared th' crap outta me!"
        "Sorry," the quartermaster replied, chuckling.
        "Aye, green," Keil finally answered, when his galloping heart slowed. "Green an' black are th' cheapest colors."
        Kewes looked around the sloop. "I see what you mean," he said, then added, "Ya do nice work, carpenter."
        "Thanks. Mebbe my skills will have me a shore billet soon."
        "Tired o' th' sea, are ya?"
        "I've been on ships for sixteen years, Mister Kewes, and, aye, I'm ready to find my land-legs."
        Thomas Kewes regarded the man before him. Keil was of average height and girth, and his face, though long-jawed, was average in appearance. He was clean-shaven which bared his ruddy complexion, and his sand-hued hair was streaked with gray. He had vivid blue eyes that seemed reflections of the sky, and were sheltered by squinty, wrinkled corners that attested to his years in the wind and sun.
        "Well, after this trip ya can go back home," Kewes said. "We should all have nice shares."
        "I was thinkin' more of settlin' on some warm island in th' Caribbean."
        "No one waitin' fer ya?"
        "I tried, once, but she found another interest, if ya know what I mean. That's when I went t' sea."
        "Ah. P'rhap y'll leave us when we anchor in th' Bay."
        "Honduras? That'd be my last choice."
        "Why's that?"
        "This y'r first cruise to Limon?"
        "Aye."
        "There's nothin' there but pirates an' Miskito Indians."
        "Pirates!"
        "Aye, th' pirates cut th' dyewood. But pirates weary of goin' on th' account , an' wary of gettin' hanged.
        "We do a peaceful trade with 'em. Though we do go in armed, in case th' Spaniards come to punish us fer stealin' their lumber."
        "Spaniards?"
        "Aye, 'tis their land, an' th' cutters are sort of... poachin' I guess y'd say."
        " 'Pears risky fer a buncha logs. What'dya do with this lumber, anyway?"
        "Haul it back to England or th' Colonies, where they chip an' ferment 'em to make dyes. We make a han'some profit, we do."
        "Pirates 'n Spaniards," the quartermaster sighed.
        "Nothin' to worry about, Mister Kewes, I've made several cruises there, an' never had any trouble," Keil assured.
        He spread paint on his work, while the quartermaster watched, then dropped the brush into the paint can, wiped his hands with the rag, and said, "Let's go below for lunch. My stomach's growlin' like an old walrus in rut with that cracker hash bakin'. I can smell th' boiled onions up here."
        "Aye, th' cook must be down t' hard tack an' salt pork, again."
        "Too bad we didn't sail inta a school of albacore on th' way."
        "We have nets?"
        "Don't need 'em. The fish swarm aroun' in a blur of black-striped blue, so many ya think ya can go over th' side an' walk on 'em. All ya hafta do, is crawl out on th' bowsprit, grab hold with y'r knees, an' start haulin' 'em in. They bite at anythin', when they're feedin', even a piece of white cloth on a hook.
        "Ya pull 'em up 'till y'r arms go numb, an' y'r fingers bleed from yankin' on the line an' tossin' 'em back t' th' catcher. Then th' cook fries up th' steaks in bacon grease, an' we eat 'till we bust."
        "Aye, too bad, as ya say," Kewes agreed, wiping at his salivating mouth. "Let's go get us some boiled biscuits."

        The next morning the dark camel's hump of Roatan Island appeared through the mist, a dim lump on the gray-blue sea. The sun was slowly burning away the tendrils of the evening dampness. Captain Roberts had the Dolphin worked near the shore, and dropped the port anchor. When the hook found its purchase, and the sloop swung on the cable, the crew unloaded casks to be filled with the cool, clear water that was so abundant on this island.
        When the water butts were topped off, Captain Roberts had the crew stand by to weigh anchor, and the sloop, with her jib and spanker sails straining, moved into the Bay. Once over the bar, he went to the bow and touched a match to the swivel gun, charged with powder for a salute. The crack echoed over the inlet and bounced off the rugged mountains of that portion of the bent knee of Central America.
        Captain Roberts, hearing the answering shot from the hills, wasted no time assembling his men on the main deck. "Mister Hermann," the sloop's master started, "you know the mien of wood, and I trust you to trade us unrotted logs. Take some men and row over. And let us have this bartering begun."

        " 'Ere we go, then," a massive logger bellowed, as he grabbed the tossed painter in his huge hands.
        Keil climbed from the boat to the rough-hewn pier. "Cap'n wants to start loadin' soon as possible," the carpenter said. "He doesn't want to linger any longer'n needed."
        "We'll 'ave ya gone by sunset, mate," the cutter replied. "Com'on, ya kin palaver wi' th' govner." He led Keil past random piles of dyewood to a booth made from spiky fronds, and lopped limbs.
        A bear of a man ducked out from the shadowed doorway and nodded to Keil. "John Reeve," he introduced, extending a hairy hand.
        "Keil Hermann, the Dolphin's carpenter. I'll be tallyin' up th' wood, if that be alright with you."
        "Kick 'em aroun' all ya like, carpenter. I'll get my crew together, an' they'll start loadin' th' ones ya pick."

        Keil was climbing the second stack when he noticed the bowsprit of a ship nosing around the spit of land at the entrance to the bay. John, standing nearby while the carpenter inspected the cords, saw it too. "Spaniards!" he yelled. "They'll go after y'r Englishman."
        "The Dolphin's a good sailer, she'll outrun 'em," Keil replied, reassuringly. He climbed down the slippery logs, and stood beside the cutter foreman watching the warship's approach. "But won't they return to vent on you?"
        "Nay, they'll not chance that. We've cannon enough up in th' hills t' make splinters of 'em. They'll make a show of blusterin' aroun' out there, fire a few shots in ar direction, to assuage some admiral, then they'll go lookin' fer easier fish t' net."
        Keil took the logger's mitt, and shook it. "Good t' know ya," he said. "Now I'd best be runnin' along."
        As he started toward the pier, he saw his two shipmates shove off. "Avast!" he hollered to the receding boat. "Avast th' wherry! Y'r not leavin' without me!"
        " 'Pears they are, mate," John said. "Gettin' back t' th' sloop seems a bigger priority t' them, than waitin' fer you. They can allas get another carpenter, but they can't replace their yellow hides."
        When the boat reached the sloop, the Dolphin hoisted all her sails and slipped her anchor cable. Keil watched her set a course to the open sea. He silently wished her luck as the man-of-war loosed a volley and hove-to in pursuit.
        "There they go," Keil sighed. "An' here I'm stuck."



This is a sample chapter from
Satan at the Helm by Karl Heffelfinger
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Author's Biography





        Karl W Heffelfinger is a published short-story author who began writing novels when he retired. His fondness for the Caribbean was engendered by his frequent cruises to that area with the U.S. Navy. He has returned to the islands several times since then. His curiosity about pirates was piqued during a trip to the North Carolina seacoast and his first book about corsairs, 10 December, a Novel of Piratical Adventure , was written soon after.
        Karl's books are based on historical fact and attempt to depict the violent, despondent lives of the men who prowled the seas.
        Karl is a grandfather living in Pennsylvania where he is writing his third novel.

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