Free Patriot (A Jack Sigler Continuum Novella) by Jeremy Robinson, J. Kent Holloway

keel drifting directly above him.
    Good , he thought, while continuing his ascent. Now it’s time to find out what all this is about .

 
     
    11
     
    “No sign of ’im, Cap’n!” Leighfield cried, leaning over the port bow. He jumped as a clap of thunder cracked overhead, followed by a near-blinding streak of lightning. He whirled around to face Reardon and Finkle. “Yikes! Cap’n, how long you supposin’ we need to keep lookin’ for ’im? Surely those sharks got ’im, and the storm is nearly on top of us!”
    Reardon glanced over at the old scientist. Finkle was uncertain how to answer the unspoken question from the captain. The one thing the Irishman had in common with his English quartermaster was that he hadn’t liked the plan to seek out Lanme Wa from the very beginning. He’d thought it a complete waste of time. But Washington’s, as well as his own influence had convinced Josiah Reardon’s patron to accept the expedition’s terms. The rewards had been just too good for the privateer’s commander to pass up.
    However, Finkle had seen the look in the captain’s eyes when he had gazed upon the shriveled remains of the dead pirate. Rationally speaking, there was no reason to believe the man had actually been sleeping for nearly a century. The very idea was preposterous to any learned man.
    But Finkle was convinced. He’d studied the legends. Scoured dozens of old documents spanning centuries. The pirate known as Lanme Wa had been around far longer than anyone guessed. The miracles that were attributed to him were beyond anyone’s imagination to concoct, and Finkle knew without doubt that if the man was still alive, he was the only one who could lead this expedition to its prize.
    “Just a while longer,” Finkle said to the captain. “Give him a few moments more.”
    Reardon glanced over at the witch, who merely shrugged indifferently before saying, “Da man is truly as immortal as anyone can be, mon capitaine . I doubt a few toothy fish in da sea could do much to—”
    “Witch!” Someone shouted from the stern of the ship. The voice was deep and guttural, as if each syllable had been sifted through a pile of wet, marble rubble. “I’ll have words with you, witch!”
    Everyone turned toward the quarterdeck to see the most ghastly of apparitions. Lanme Wa leaned against the rail, his back hunched down in fury…and possibly pain. His left leg was gone below the knee. Or was it? Finkle pushed his spectacles up onto his beak-like nose for a better look. There appeared to be the beginnings of a fetal foot growing from the already-healing tissue. Bone seemed to lengthen before their very eyes.
    Winfield, the wheelman, leapt back with a cry at the sight. Now without hands to guide it, the wheel spun wildly to port, turning the ship back in the direction of the storm.
    “Winfield!” Reardon shouted. The captain’s eyes hadn’t left the sight of the once-dead man crouching angrily on the deck of his ship. The wheelman, still keeping carefully out of reach of the newcomer, obediently took control of the wheel once more, and steered the ship back on course.
    Finkle continued to stare at the man. His skin was still as black and leathery as when he’d first been dropped into the ocean, but now it glistened with moisture. It seemed to breathe on its own, as if it were taking on nutrients from the salty sea air to mend itself. Flesh, blood and bone mended together quickly, reforming the man as though God Himself were sculpting a new Adam from clay. The pirate’s eyes were no longer cloudy, but instead were bright. Sharp. The irises as orange-brown as tanned leather. Long clumps of tangled hair hung down far past his shoulders, half-covering his face. But despite the obstruction, there could be no doubting the rage building within the man. Rage directed solely on the Creole mambo bokor.
    For her part, the witch doctor took a single step back, then held her ground. She stared back at him defiantly,