Chad and the Cobra

Copyright 2013 Vicki Rutherford

Smashwords Edition

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ISBN: 978-0-9918397-1-1 [epub format]

Cover design by S. Rutherford

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Cast Adrift

Chapter 2: Lost in the Sargasso Sea

Chapter 3: The Last Day of the Derelict

Chapter 4: The Medal

Chapter 5: Capture Of The Brig Delicia

Chapter 6: Shore Leave in Jamaica

Chapter 7: Search for the Galleon

Chapter 8: Diving for Treasure

Chapter 9: The Intruder

Chapter 10: The Pirates Arrive

Chapter 11: On Board the Red Rose

Chapter 12: Challenging a Hurricane

Chapter 13: Arrival in Santo Domingo

Chapter 14: Searching for Antoine Beaumont

Chapter 15: Monsieur Beaumont

Chapter 16: Samuels Gets His Reward

Chapter 17: Treasure Shares for All Hands

Chapter 18: A Brief Encounter

Chapter 19: Ma-Kwa

Chapter 20: Home at Last

Chapter 21: Surprises

Chapter 22: Revelations

Chapter 1: Cast Adrift

Bones, sk—skeletons! They’re scattered everywhere! What goes on here? Ahoy! Anybody alive on board?

At that moment, a low roar made me look seaward. A huge wave broke over the reef and surging water slammed against the derelict ship. I pitched backward, crashing to the deck. Everything turned black.

A groan coming from deep inside me brought back my senses. What happened? I squeezed my eyes shut, afraid to open them.

Oh, I’m spinning, spinning. Sparks are flying around in front of my eyes. My mind is playing tricks on me! Our white limestone house is floating among the cedar trees on the hill. Father’s wharf is turning, turning. Partly built ships hang in black clouds.

I squeezed my eyes tighter, trying to make sense of these strange images. Slowly, my memories returned. Ah, yes. I had spotted a wrecked ship on the reefs and sailed out to it. Then...

Something whimpered softly in my ear. Cracking open my eyelids, I looked into a pair of bright black eyes. Monk! My ringtail monkey and best mate—who began screeching and jumping like the devil himself was after us. He leaped on to the ship’s rail.

Struggling to my feet, I staggered after him. My fingers gingerly explored a large bump on the back of my head. Then I realized an aching noggin was the least of my worries.

Where’s the rope to the dinghy? It’s gone! I watched a breeze fill my dinghy’s spritsail, carrying the boat away. I made ready to swim after it, but then looked at Monk perched on the rail next to me. He was my best friend.

Can’t leave you here alone, can I?

So instead of diving into the sea, I stumbled over to the shattered mainmast and climbed onto its stump. Help! Land ahoy! HELP! I yelled, frantically waving my arms. For all the chance that anyone ashore would hear or see me.

I should have heeded my father’s words. He was a sea captain as well as a successful shipbuilder. Captain Chadsworth Dillingham’s shipyard and our home were on Ely’s Harbor at the western end of Bermuda. He had brought my mother from England to live in Bermuda in the year of our Lord 1783. Two years later, I was born.

Named after my father, I was probably a great disappointment to him, being a sickly babe and weak in the chest. During the past couple of years, however, I began to grow out of my ailments. Having a head for numbers and a love for sailing seemed to be my only good points.

It is too dangerous for a boy your age to sail outside Ely’s Harbor, my father had told me. It doesn’t matter how good a sailor you think you are. He told me that early sailors called Bermuda the Isle of the Devils. Jagged reefs surrounding the islands claimed many unwary ships. Only the lucky lived to tell about it.

I remembered getting up that morning shortly after dawn. Packing some food into a kerchief, I left a note saying Monk and I had gone for a sail. Monk scurried to his usual place at the bow as I launched my dinghy.

My mother dearly loved scallops. I planned to sail to a cove where I could collect enough for her to make a meal. She had been awake most of the night with me. Her cedar-berry syrup hadn’t stopped my constant coughing. Now, in the fresh air this Easter morning of 1799, I felt strong and well for a change.

Maybe that’s why I ignored my father’s warning. After all, I was a good sailor! Before reaching the cove, I spotted a ship stranded on the Southwest Breaker, a reef about two miles outside the harbor. So with foolhardy curiosity, I sailed out to investigate.

Tacking the dinghy towards the derelict, my head filled with dreams of finding a rich salvage. The law of the sea rewarded well those who risked themselves to salvage goods from a wrecked ship. Cautiously avoiding the reefs, we approached the stranded ship. She was battered and in a sad state. The main and foremasts were broken off, leaving only their stumps.

Bah! She doesn’t look too promising, does she, Monk? The monkey chattered his reply.

We came alongside and I tossed a line over the rail. Monk scampered aboard the derelict and disappeared from my sight. I followed, sitting astride the rail to catch my breath. Then, sliding to the deck, my bare foot touched a smooth round object. I looked down and my heart stopped.

Wha...? A sk...sk...skull!

Monk chattered wildly and scampered towards me, holding a bleached bone in his little hand. I recoiled in horror, dropping the kerchief holding my lunch onto the deck. That’s when the wave had struck the sad ship and I fell and was knocked out.

As I continued to sort through my memories, the derelict seemed to come alive with creaks and groans. I jumped down from the mast stump and rushed back to the rail. Tarnation! We’re drifting out to sea!

I scanned Bermuda’s southwest shore lying hazy in the distance. Surely, someone will see us. They must! I spotted the spire of St. James’ Church in Sandys Parish. Then I remembered and my heart sank—it was Easter Sunday, everybody would be in church.

Coughing, I slumped to the deck, forcing myself to breathe slowly, trying to calm my thinking. I rubbed the throbbing bump under my overlong blond hair. My head felt like a thousand demons were inside, pounding away.

The ship’s bony crew stared at me from their stations scattered across the deck. Somehow, Monk, we’ve got to get off this wreck. If I can’t find a way, we’ll end up like them! Monk climbed onto my shoulder and curled a chocolate-brown tail around my neck.

Maybe I could rig a sail and bring this derelict close enough to swim to shore with you on my back. I paused. A sail. Hmm, what can I use for a sail? There must be canvas stored below.

Carefully avoiding the bones and splintered deck planks, I made my way aft to a companionway and peered down. Sunlight lit a ladder and the deck below. Monk chattered excitedly and scampered down the ladder. When I descended, dank air made my breathing difficult. I looked around. A black stove squatted on a brick hearth. Tattered curtains partially hid two bunks. A long table and bench sat in the middle of the cabin.

The ship rolled and I jumped when a door swung ajar. Ever curious, Monk slipped through the opening. I pushed the door wide and peered into another cabin, lit by a small skylight. A desk with open drawers sat against a bulkhead. An overturned chair lay near it.

This must be the captain’s cabin, I thought, sidling through the door. My bare feet stuck to wet papers scattered about the floor. Almost hidden in shadow, something on the bulkhead above the desk caught my eye. Reaching out, my hand touched a candleholder, a stickin’ tommy with a candle stump in it. Now, I can have light in this dark hole.

One lesson I had learned well from my father was to always have my knife on my belt and my tinderbox and flint in my pocket, in case I got separated from my boat. I unsheathed my knife and pared wood from the table into thin shavings. Opening my tinderbox, I pulled out the flint, and piled some tinder on a pewter plate on the desk. Then I struck the flint against the back of my knife. Sparks showered the tinder. Again and again, I struck the two together. At last, a wisp of smoke curled up from the piled tinder.

I blew on the tinder until it caught fire, then added some shavings. When the wood flamed up, I lit the candle, and put it back into the stickin’ tommy. I doused the flaming wood and put the flint and tinder back in the box, along with the rest of the wood shavings. I made sure to stuff the tinderbox deep and safe into my pants pocket.

The candle’s light shone on a sea chest sitting in a corner. Something lay on the floor next to it. I walked over and picked up a faded black book. Could this be the ship’s logbook? I set the book on the desk and worked to separate the damp pages. Most of the ink was smeared. I couldn’t make out anything.

After looking at several more pages, I held one closer to the light and could finally read something. It looked like the last log entry, saying something about sickness. And a date—1796, maybe. Why, that would be three years ago.

Tucking the log in my belt, I yanked the stickin’ tommy from the bulkhead. Holding the light above my head, I turned towards a bunk and felt my eyes bug out. A skull wearing a stained black tricorne rested on a soiled pillow! Wisps of light hair straggled from beneath the hat. Hollow eyes stared and yellow teeth grinned at me.

Must be the captain, I gasped.

Monk squealed at the sound of my voice and scrambled up my leg. Grasping the stickin’ tommy, I fled from the cabin with Monk clinging to my back, pausing only to blow out the candle. As I dashed up the ladder, I felt the logbook slip from my belt.

Up on deck, I slumped against the mainmast stump. Minutes passed before my labored breathing and pounding heart calmed down. Then I thought about our predicament. What would my father do if he were here? What did he tell me about surviving a shipwreck? Because we were marooned, that was for certain.

Of course, Chad, you dumb wit! First we find water and food, maybe in the fo’c’s’le or the hold. And look for canvas for a sail, too!

The deck was hot beneath my bare feet, warmed by the tropical sun. I gingerly tiptoed to the bow. The open hatch to the fo’c’s’le caught my eye and I went below.

Sunlight streamed through a hole in the deck made by the fallen topmast. I tried the only door, but the latch broke off in my hand. A swift kick collapsed the door into a small storeroom. Inside, the smell of rotting canvas almost made me retch. What a stink! That canvas wouldn’t be any good.

A fit of coughing seized me and I backed out. I decided to look next in the hold aft of the foremast. Crouching next to the hatch coaming, I peered down into the semidarkness. I could hear Monk’s chatter in the hold below. Still gripping the stickin’ tommy, I put a foot on the first rung of the ladder. It held. The second supported my weight, too. So did the third. Bolder now, I stepped on the last rung. Ah-h! I yelled as the rung broke sending me crashing to the floor of the hold. Shaken, I stood up, looked around the hold, and then grimaced. Everything was rotten down here, too.

Sounds came from somewhere in the dark. I hoped it was Monk. Looking about in the dim light, I recognized barrels used for salted meat and fish. My eyes became accustomed to the dim light, making the search easier. In a corner of the hold, I found an open wooden box of candles and a few small kegs. Ho, water at last! Kneeling down for a better look, I had to squint at the letters burned into a keg. I spelled out the letters as my fingers traced them.

B - R - A - N - D - Y. Brandy! I checked the other kegs. They’re all the same! No good at all—I need a keg of water.

Well, at least I could ensure I always had light. With my knife, I dug out the candle stump in the stickin’ tommy. Then I pushed in a new candle and lit it. I crammed more candles into my pocket. Even with the better light, I found no water kegs.

Rustling noises from the dark recesses of the hold caught my ears. Holding the stickin’ tommy high, I peered into the darkness. Monk perched on a mound covered with rotting burlap. Ripping off the burlap, I found coiled rope. Just the thing to hoist a keg of brandy up on deck.

If brandy is all we have, then brandy we will have to drink, Monk.

I looked at the keg and then up at the hatch six feet above my head. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pictured my father’s brig alongside a dock in Boston. The crew was unloading the cargo. That’s right, the bos’un used a bale sling to unload barrels of molasses. How did he make it? I thought hard for a while, and it finally came to me.

Pulling some rope from the coil, I judged the length, made a cut and tied the ends together—my bale sling. I cut off another twenty feet or so to use to haul the keg up. Rolling a keg on to the sling, I put one end through the other and pulled it tight around the keg. Then I tied the long rope to the loose end of the sling and the other end to my belt.

I tipped another keg on its side and rolled it to the foot of the ladder. Then I righted it—a perfect replacement for the broken bottom rung. The gurgling sounds made my dry throat tighten.

I blew out the candle and stuck the stickin’ tommy in my