Free A Sea Too Far by Hank Manley

lash it in place on top of the ventilated main hatch cover.
    Both sets of yardarms stretching from the forward mast swarmed with young sailors unlashing leather straps that held sails. Below, three stout sailors were revolving a large drum in the bow by circling it while pushing protruding handles. Heavy line was coiling around the wooden capstan, lifting the anchor from the bottom of the anchorage. Pirates worked feverishly around the deck cannons. Others staggered up ladders from the area below carrying massive cannonballs.
    Queen Anne’s Revenge was preparing to get under way. She would not be venturing forth in a friendly manner.
    * * *
    Warren inched away from the platform midway up the mast and regained the narrowing ladder. Looking only upward, he scrambled to a second height, similar in length to his initial climb, until he achieved the very top of the rope ladder. Cautiously, he crawled over to the diminutive platform at the zenith of the mast and clasped the thick wooden pole tightly with both arms.
    He felt the ship move. Warren peeked down and suddenly realized the ship was actually swaying. His stomach churned and for a moment he thought he might vomit. He concentrated on the men below. They appeared as tiny as ants scurrying around the deck. He searched for his dog. Conchshell was huddled at the base of the mast. Her paws covered her eyes.
    “Crawl out the yardarm and remove the straps,” Marty shouted as he poked his head above the last horizontal step on the starboard ladder. “There’s a rope running overhead from the tip of the mast to the end of the yardarm. Use it to steady yourself.”
    Warren looked up and saw the line. He fought the nausea roiling in his stomach. “What if I lose hold of the rope and fall?” he yelled to Marty.
    “Don’t worry,” Marty Read called back with an enormous grin on his face. “The fall won’t kill ye.”
    Warren turned to the young man with a questioning look.
    “It be the sudden stop ye need be worrying thyself about.”

~12~  
    Queen Anne’s Revenge eased from her narrow anchorage on the east side of the Wells and headed into the vast adjacent sound. A wall of large rocks, fifty yards offshore of the deep slough, screened the ship from the easterly trade breezes and shielded the hull from the sight of passing vessels. From the crow’s nest atop the center mast, Blackbeard’s vigilant look-out was able to see over the protective rocks and monitor ship traffic.
    The ship’s master, Christopher Oakes, stood behind the huge steering wheel on the third deck in the aft section. His sun burnt right hand rested easily on one of the spokes as he guided the wooden vessel around the last rock.
    “Make all sail, Master Oakes,” Captain Edward Teach said calmly. “Me thinks this trader might prove profitable. I be anxious to have a look.”
    “Aye, captain,” Master Oakes acknowledged.
    Christopher Oakes turned to the pirate who had ordered Warren and Marty aloft. “Launch the twin jibs, Boatswain Bostock,” he commanded. “We want all possible speed.”
    “Aye, sir,” the grizzled Bostock said as he stepped to the stout railing in front of the wheel and cupped his hands to his mouth.
    “Come, lads,” he shouted. “Set those bow jibs. Be smart about it. I want to hear the water hissing off the keel.”
    Two enormous black square sails billowed from each of the tall masts, one above the other. Each sinister canvas was suspended from its own yardarm. A fifth square sail hung below the bowsprit, stretched to catch the wind on a separate horizontal boom. The aft mast carried a sixth square sail above a triangular jib.
    A distinct pop announced the launch of the forward jibs as they caught the air and snapped taut against their controlling lines.
    “Now we’re sailing, lads,” the boatswain shouted to the crew through the pipe clenched tightly in his teeth. “There’s nary a ship afloat can match us for speed, me thinks.”
    Marty pulled Warren to the