Sun, Sea and Survival

Sun, Sea and Survival

A Story by LiteraryLout
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One man's struggle meets one nation's goal. What could possibly go wrong? It also has boats and stuff :)

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      Charles Godfrey couldn’t sleep. In fact, he hadn’t been able to sleep for some time. Ever since they had set sail for England, every fibre of his being had shivered with anticipation, leading to many a night spent prowling below decks. The Tímido wasn’t a large vessel, but it was packed to the brim with cannons, gunpowder and soldiers. Ever since the Pope had approved of King Philip’s voyage to reclaim the territory lost to reformers, his force had grown large and unwieldy. Ships like the Tímido were swiftly commandeered in order to support the dizzying amount of zealots who sought nothing more than to live and die for their faith. On his nightly sojourns around the ship, Charles had met people of all nations, from Venetians to Bulgars. On this particular night he was stuck in his bunk, surrounded by snoring soldiers and sailors alike. He rolled around and closed his eyes, counting down the days until he’d see the sight of home again.

He awoke in a field, surrounded by golden corn. One hand lay on his chest, while the other was sprawled to the right. Sunlight beat ceaselessly against his face, as he lay pondering this sudden change in locale. After a few moments of this, he felt a hand slip into his own, and hold it tight. Shocked, he turned to his right and saw a sight that chilled and elated him simultaneously. Lying next to him on the field was his wife, his dear Elise. Shock left him speechless for a few moments as they looked into one another’s eyes. She shuffled to her feet and let go of his hand, running along the field as she had so often done in their youth. Driven by both longing and fear, Charles followed suit, chasing her across the field. He didn’t notice his surroundings alter slightly to resemble the rolling countryside of his native England. Elise kept on running, reaching a tree stump atop a small hill, upon which she sat. Panting slightly, Charles caught up with her, leaning down to give her a playful kiss on the cheek. When she didn’t respond, he turned to see exactly what she was looking at. What he saw shook him to his very core.

Gone were the trees, gone was the little house at the foot of the hill. A burnt out husk of a building took it place, and the fields around were in ashes. A single banner stood next to the building, bearing the standard of a white cross on a black backdrop. Elise cried out to his right, and he looked down to see a rapier blade protruding from her stomach. Horrified he rushed to attend to her, only to realise that it was him clutching the sword in his hand, blood gushing over the hilt and onto his uniform. He withdrew the blade to a cry of pain from her, casting it aside as he knelt. She whispered something, and Charles leaned closer in order to hear her dying words.

“Why did you do it, Charlie? You knew this would happen, and yet you still came back.”

Charles continued to kneel next to her, weeping into blood-stained hands. He fell into a pit of despair and promptly awoke aboard the Tímido once more, his hands shaking and covered with sweat.

Thankfully, Charles was on the morning patrol that next day, as the very notion of further sleep terrified him. He stood at the prow of the vessel, inhaling the sea air in a vain attempt to soothe his nerves. Clutching his musket to his chest, he peered out over the vast expanse of the English Channel, both savouring and dreading the first glimpse of the enemy fleet. Such was the focus of his thoughts, he didn’t even notice the strong scent of incense, nor hear the footsteps approach him. A voice rang out, hailing him, and he turned to bear witness to the figure that had so successfully crept upon him. While Charles was a tall man, this fellow made him feel like a child, so vast was he in both height and stature. He wore a simple black and white tunic with an ornately decorated sabre in a scabbard affixed to his belt. On his head was perched a wide brimmed hat, which hid his face in shadow. He bore a small golden cross on a chain around his neck, which seemed to glow in the early morning light. One hand rested atop the hilt of his blade, while the other clutched a bible close to his chest.

“Y-yes, my lord?” Charles responded, bowing his head in deference.

“I am concerned, my child. Your shipmates say that you seem somewhat troubled. That you do not pray with them, nor attend the ship-wide mass on Sundays”.  Said the man, his harsh Northern Italian accent framing the Spanish words in an odd fashion, making him sound rather confrontational.

“Well, I have a great deal of things to do on-board this vessel, my lord. I cannot be in many places at once.”

“Aren’t you a Christian man? Surely your duties as such take precedence?” was the response, in the same harsh tone.

“I am, m’lord, and it does. I find the notion of invading my own nation and killing my countrymen difficult to stomach. If God is with us on this, then he has yet to make my part in his plans known^” Charles retorted.

“You are English, then?” was the next question from the figure.

“Y-yes, sir. I’m not sure what difference that makes.” Charles responded, irked slightly.

“I am an Inquisitor, representing the Conselho Geral do Santo Ofício on this voyage, my son. Choose your next words wisely.” was his response, icy this time.

“The Inquisition?  M’Lord, I-I was unaware! I may be English, sir, but I swear that I support the true church in all of its endeavours. 

“We shall see, my child. When the fighting begins, we shall see.” he replied, before inclining his head slightly and walking away.

Shuddering, Charles returned to his post. For many hours he patrolled the boat from prow to stern, every moment spent in torment as he awaited his fellow sailors to appear and drag him away, inquisitor in tow. By the time he’d completed a second circuit of the ship, his anxiety was swiftly replaced with outright panic. The bells were ringing below deck, there was an enemy ship approaching!

Along with the sense of impending doom, a small flutter of hope allowed itself to escape the bowels of Charles cynical mind. Would this be his chance? Could he jump ship, ditch his armour in the channel and make it home? Memories of his dear wife, his Elise, flashed before his eyes as he elbowed his way below deck. By the time he’d reached his bunk, elation had overtaken him completely. Taking one last look at his bunk, Charles quickly evaluated the worth of his remaining possessions. He opted to take his compass, sabre and gold, pausing only over his latest correspondence with Elise. He smiled wryly at the thick, blocked lettering �" she could barely write �" before scrunching it up under his breastplate. Picking up his musket, he returned topside to get a better look at the enemy vessel.

By the time he’d gone topside, all the important individuals were on the deck. The Inquisitor, who he’d been told was called Viscanti, stood there with his head inclined, hands clasped in prayer. The Captain �" a portly man by the name of Vasquez- was clasping his hands too, but not out of a sense of piety. Worry was etched into the man’s face, and he was anxiously fondling the many rings on his fat fingers. This encounter was either with an unfamiliar vessel, or entirely unexpected in its own right. The former notion was reinforced when it began to turn broadside, as though preparing to fire its cannons from so great a distance. Captain Vasquez almost managed to laugh before the first barrage began, with a round hitting him square in the chest and ending his life instantly.

To their credit, the crew responded admirably. Even as the cannonballs rained around them, they managed to drag the captain’s body off to one side, regain control of the vessel and begin turning it around. The Spanish were renowned for their boarding actions, so they had to get closer to the enemy vessel without being shredded apart by the enemy long guns. In order for the English ship to have the best chance of hitting anything with its cannons, it had to remain still. Therefore it was facing the wind, a fact which played right into the hands of the Tímido. By turning right they were able to get a strong wind and propel themselves towards their foe that was, by all accounts, powerless to stop them. Charles readied his musket as his fellow soldiers got ready to board. Knowing that they’d never get close enough to this vessel for a boarding action, they had opted instead to use small rowing boats, or gigs in order to row over and climb aboard. Charles took the first gig available, eager to get aboard and cast aside his life in exile. It was fortunate that he had done so, as another cannonball had torn apart the Tímido’s sails, leaving it almost dead in the water. Further shots took out other soldiers as they prepared to lower their gigs into the water. Charles, who had never seen another man die before, was left oddly desolate inside. ‘For what?’  He pondered. ‘What can make a man willing to do such things’? As though in answer to his question, he heard a low, sonorous chant begin from the next gig along. Who else was leading its occupants in prayer, other than Inquisitor Viscanti?

The continued stream of prayer must’ve worked, Charles thought, as the cannon fire missed their small boats yet again. They were nearly there now, and the boarders had been roused to action. Surrounded by such animal bloodlust, Charles found it difficult to hide his distaste. As though his mind had been read, the inquisitor’s voice rang out:

“Sing your praises, Englishman! For you never know when you will next get the chance!”

Opting for a psalm, he sang it in English. The others nodded in approval, recognising some of the words, but not his meaning. While he sang of love undying, it wasn’t for God, nor any of his kingdoms on earth. Instead, he thought only of his wife, and their little house at the foot of the hill. By the time he had finished, an eerie quiet had descended upon the boarders. They were there. The enemy ship beckoned. Throwing up their grapples, they began to climb. Charles had opted to linger behind and secure the vessel, in order to ascertain the outcome of the action. Screaming, oaths and curses came from the deck above, blending seamlessly with the cannon fire into a sick symphony of conflict .Opting to begin his own climb, Charles removed the letter from his pocket and read it one last time, each word bringing forth joy and pain in equal measure.

Charlie,

                             Not sure if you’ll get this in Spain, courier was very drunk. I am well as is our daughter. She can’t talk yet but it will not be long as she learned to walk very quickly. I‘ve taken to calling her Mary, hope you don’t mind but it’s been so long. Things are strange here, Charlie. People aren’t talking to me, even Father O’Hara. I’m frightened. While I won’t be alone, what with Mary and all, I don’t want to raise with this.

 Please come home

          Elise

Casting aside the heavy musket, Charles began his slow, agonizing climb up the rope. Each shuffling motion tested him, but he was too determined to stop. Upon reaching the edge of the deck and hoisting himself over, Charles could swear he’d fallen into damnation. The dead littered the deck, and the air was split with the spluttering of those soon to follow. Sabre in hand, he hadn’t taken two steps forward before he heard the loud crack of a musket being fired, and felt the ball of lead shot burrow towards his heart via his armpit. His sabre fell to the ground shortly before he did, coughing and struggling to remove his breastplate, to do anything, to live. He heard heavy bootfalls echoing towards him, as though through a tunnel, then voices.

“That’s the last of ‘em.”

“Bloody mess, this. Here, he don’t look very Spanish, eh?”

“These blighters are from all over Europe, mate. Check him out anyway, might have some good loot on ‘im”

“Just some shoddy armour and a rusty old sabre. Hang about, what’s this? Some kind of writing. Know anyone that can read, Derek?”

“Only a bit mate, their foreign lingo is hell on the old eyes. Hang about, give it ‘ere…This guy was English.”

“Ye’re havin’ a laugh, mate.”

“Shut it, you, this one has a family back home. here mate, what’s your name?”

Charles spat it out, along with some blood for good measure.

“Stay with me mate. Tell us where you’re from and we’ll make sure Elise is taken care of.”

He told them, then saw and heard no more.

He was surrounded by darkness, with only a pinprick of light in the distance. With no other option, Charles began to walk resolutely towards it. Behind him, he heard pleading and begging in another language, before it was drowned out by what sounded like a roaring flame. Oddly enough, this didn’t frighten Charles, who was now so close to the light that it encompassed his view entirely. He blinked, and found himself standing on a hilltop looking down upon his home. Feeling a hand in his he turned and saw his Elise, smiling at him and holding a small child to her chest. She beckoned him to follow her and he did so.

Charles Godfrey had finally gone home.

© 2014 LiteraryLout


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LiteraryLout
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Added on January 27, 2014
Last Updated on January 27, 2014
Tags: Crusades, Spanish Armada, A love story for the ages

Author

LiteraryLout
LiteraryLout

Mogadishu, Somalia



About
I love to boogie. 21 year old aspiring author from the greater Glasgow area. I'd put more down, but I'm afraid you'd actually read it. more..

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