Free Owned by the Ocean by Christine Steendam

shouldn’t
have been lost if Jacob had just let his pride go and allowed men
with more experience advise him. There were another two in the
infirmary. One had lost a leg, the other had a stab wound.
    There had been
no celebration tonight.
    Jacob had
tried to bring out the rum and start festivities, but the men had
only somberly taken a swig, said a few words for their fallen
mates, and passed the bottle off. Once it had made its rounds the
remainder was poured into the ocean, a kind of peace offering.
    Maybe it was
then that Jacob realized that he had made a mistake. One of his
mates had pulled him aside and since then Brant hadn’t seen him.
The glow of the oil lamp had shone from the captain’s cabin window
until well past midnight, but now in the wee hours of the morning
it was dark and silent. Brant hoped his dreams were haunted by the
blood on his hands, by the screams he had caused.
    Brant hadn’t
had a chance to talk to Karl yet, but the fact that the raid had
gone so badly meant they were short on time, and it was unlikely
they’d make it to the island before things blew up. They had shared
a look earlier, when the men had been paying their respects to
their fallen comrades. Brant had seen the tired look in the old
man’s eyes, the look that said he was losing hope for the crew and
ship.
    “ Hey, Foxton, yer off for the night, go get some shut eye,”
said Curly, a red headed Scotsman that had found himself on the
crew just last season.
    “ Thanks, Curly. Not sure I’ll be able to sleep
though.”
    The Scotsman
clucked his tongue but nodded. “Aye, I been tossing and turning
myself. Yesterday don’t sit well.”
    Brant nodded,
but didn’t encourage the conversation.
    “ Cap’n… he made some bad calls and a lot of the men are
beginning to talk.”
    “ Maybe the men should be content with who they put in charge,”
spat out Brant. It still didn’t sit well with him how they had
turned on LaFleur.
    “ Aye, you were close with LaFleur. I can’t help but think we
were better off with him, even if he was gettin’ soft.”
    “ You aren’t the only one with that sentiment,” muttered Brant,
but he’d had enough of the conversation and he walked away, taking
the ladder below deck where his bunk was waiting for
him.
    If men like
Curly were beginning to come forward and speak openly of their
unhappiness with Jacob, then they had less time than Brant had
hoped. They were looking to recruit men to their cause, make sure
sympathies lay in the right place. It wouldn’t be long now. A ship
was a small place and people knew where your allegiance lay pretty
quickly. The question was; who was heading it all up, and when were
they going to make their move?
    Brant tossed
and turned, true to his prediction, and drifted in and out of
sleep. Any sleep he managed to get was full of nightmares, dreams
of LaFleur bleeding out on the deck, dreams of him begging Brant to
step forward and speak up on his behalf, to fight for him, to show
his loyalty.
    Brant hadn’t
slept well since the night of the mutiny. He’d been haunted by
dreams and guilt. He knew LaFleur wasn’t speaking to him from
beyond the grave, blaming him for not speaking up, but he still
felt the guilt weighing down on him.
    He’d been
voluntarily taking the second watch every night, usually tired
enough by the end to catch a few hours of sleep before the day
began. Today was different though. Perhaps it was the rising
discontent among the crew that had the air electrified and
dangerous—keeping Brant’s mind too busy to consider sleep.
    He rolled out
of his bunk a half hour early and pulled on his boots, walking up
on deck. Curly was seated by the mast smoking, giving Brant a nod
but not bothering to approach. Brant gave a nod back, and took the
stairs to the upper deck where he found Karl, standing and staring
at their wake.
    Without a word
Brant started lowering the rope to measure how many knots they were
traveling at. He did this three times a