H.M.S Valor: Treachery And Triumph: A war time adventure on the high seas by Cal Clement (best way to read an ebook TXT) 📗

under main and topsail. He was endeared to Pike, watching him command the ship, even though he had made the half step, his final command was exactly what Grimes himself would have ordered. Other Captains would be threatened by proficiency such as this in a first lieutenant billet, Grimes loved it. He smiled as he looked out into the gathering swells and weather in the course ahead.

“Mr. Pike, about those gun drills…” Grimes yelled over to the Lieutenant through the foul weather.

“Aye Sir.” Lieutenant Pike responded, both bewildered and intrigued by the Captain’s choice of timing. Then he turned to the crew of the Valor and cried out, “BEAT TO QUARTERS!”

Chapter 2

“Gazelle”

12 Aug 1808

N 2 Degree 4’ E 8 Degrees 13’

Omibwe awoke in a feverish sweat, his head spinning and his eyes unable to focus. He was in a dimly lit room and seemed to either be sick or everything was moving, or both. Omibwe rolled on his side, as he did his eyes started to focus. He was startled by a tall, thin man sitting close to him. Omibwe started to vomit and the man held a pail for him. While he wretched, Omibwe became aware of a terrible pain in his right leg, like it was burning. He rolled back and tried to sit up, but his strength failed him. The thin man leaned forward, pail still in one hand and spoke some words, nothing Omibwe could understand, then he tried again putting a hand out onto Omibwe’s shoulder.

“Your wound was bad. I had to take your leg.” The man said to him, this time in a language he knew. He then wet a cloth from a wash basin and put it on Omibwe’s forehead. In the candlelight Omibwe looked around, where was his sister? His parents? Where was he? He felt awful and weak, hot and cold at the same time, his head awash with questions and waves of nausea beating him down onto the hard-wooden slab he lay on.

“Your sister and parents are here. They are on the ship with us.” The man said, opening up a bottle and pouring some of its contents into a small cup. The mention of a ship snapped at Omibwe, the men chasing him, who had shot him, they had taken his family on their ships.

“Drink this,” The man said holding out the small cup,” you need to rest, or you won’t make it my friend.”

Omibwe drank the contents of the small cup. It was horrid, he coughed and gagged a little but held the liquid down. His spinning head felt heavier. After a few minutes, his pain subsided and soon Omibwe drifted off unable to remain conscious.

The tall man stood next to Omibwe as he fell back asleep. His shoulders and back ached, his mind was exhausted. He took the pail Omibwe had been sick into and left the small room, in a passageway on his way topside he looked and saw the little girl he knew to be Omibwe’s sister. He tried to make eye contact with her, but she buried her face into her mother’s arms. He then continued to the ladder well and went topside to the deck of the ship.

“Hey Frenchman, did you save that little shit, or do we need to dump him over?” the large man with a scarred face asked him.

“I would say he will be fine. But all I can say is he will recover.” He replied, “And my name is LeMeux.”

“I don’t give a damn Frenchman, if it were up to me you would be hangin’ by yer neck with the rest of your crew and we would’ve left that running welp to bleed out on the beach!” the man sneered, drawing nearer to LeMeux as if to strike.

“Enough!” The Captain of the ship approached the two, “Go about your business doctor and be thankful you are still breathing.” Turning toward the scarred man, “I’m not sure how many times I have to tell you, dead men collect no price. Now, you have filled the holds yet again and you will collect fair wages, but do not antagonize my prisoners or you will be in irons among them Mr. Sprague. Do I make myself clear?”

“Aye, Sir,” Sprague replied, his countenance toward the Captain just as ragged.

LeMeux emptied his pail over the side and immediately headed back down for his patient. He paused momentarily near the cell where the young man’s sister and parents were. He considered trying to get their attention but the sentry roaming the passageway was too close. He continued on to see to the young man instead.

This was the second voyage to Africa LeMeux had made since being pressed into the service of this slaver ship. A year ago, he had been sailing to Martinique aboard a French merchantman. LeMeux’s medical education had saved him from the grim fate of the rest of the crew and passengers aboard the small French trade vessel, but he was nonetheless a prisoner on the ship. The doctor obtained a rudimentary grasp on the native language of the region the slavers were targeting on his first voyage to Africa and it was useful on that trip as he was kept quite busy treating the abducted. Omibwe had been brought to him in what would have likely been the young man’s final hours. Unconscious and bleeding profusely, with a shattered tibia the strong young African’s condition improved somewhat after LeMeux stopped his blood loss. But infection had set in rapidly and LeMeux made the perilous gamble of amputating Omibwe’s lower right leg. It had worked and the young man was recovering. To what end the doctor was unsure of. This crew of brigand men were delivering Africans to market, to be sold off as slaves in the Americas. LeMeux spent the first few days just keeping Omibwe off of death’s doorstep, over the course of the next few days he would tend to the young man as best he could.