Black Arrow Lord Ch. 01

He was having a last drink when the doors burst open and a lot of men in uniforms walked in. He'd seen those uniforms before, and not knowing English terribly well at the time, Valdemar had just assumed that they were English sailors out for a bit of fun and a brawl. He tried to reason with them.

It was almost a year later when someone had told him what it had all been about. The men were a press gang, sent out to take men against their will to work for the navy.

He woke up on a Royal Navy ship already at sea. His protests got him nothing but abuse, though he gave as good as he got for a little while. While he tried to figure it out, he spoke very seldom to almost nobody, trying to learn what he could of the language and brooding. At least they fed him fairly well before the food began to rot.

But he was broke; his money stolen from him while he'd been unconscious. All that he had were the clothes on his back. Perhaps the worst blow to him had been that someone had taken his pistol. He regretted only one thing most of all, other than he didn't seem to be a free man anymore. If he'd known then what he knew later, ...

He'd have shot at least one of the pox-ridden bullies in the face.

His luck swung a little the other way one day when he saw everyone running around a little frantically like a lot of ants. Somebody bellowed a phrase at him and he climbed the rigging to help unfurl a sail. From there, he saw the trouble.

There was an American man-of-war out there, trying to do its best - just as they were - to bring itself into the most advantageous position. When he asked another man up there in the rigging with him, he was told that the English were at war with the Americans.

"And they're bloody angry over the way that us blokes always stop their ships to press anyone who even looks like he might be an Englishman or a Scot into service."

Valdemar remembered that this man's story was that he had just gone to town to buy some grain and stopped at an inn when a navy press gang walked in. He hadn't seen his family since. Three years, and he'd never been ashore again. The Royal Navy was very careful to keep out to sea while what travel to and from shore they required was done in the small boats manned by small crews who were kept under the guns of a few uniformed men.

"Goot," Valdemar nodded in his abysmal English, "I hope zey vin zen."

The other man looked at him for a moment and then he laughed, understanding what was meant a second later. "I do too, mate," he smiled, "Fuck this for a lark. I've had enough."

The battle was long and frightening, but the British ship was outgunned and out-manoeuvred for most of the fight. Valdemar also played a small part. He was below deck, running bags of powder to one section of the ship's guns. He hated the bastard junior gunnery officer who commanded here. Valdemar carried scars on his back only because he hadn't understood a command and had asked for it to be repeated.

For that, the little cock had him whipped.

In the heat of battle, a lot of little things could easily be overlooked and during his trips, he noticed that there was one man with a musket kneeling where and when he could to take careful shots through the open gun ports at the crew of the other ship.

Valdemar saw it several times. When the man was ready to shoot, he'd wait for one of the guns to fire, and as it slid back in recoil, the man would step up to the port and kneel for a few moments to aim and then fire well before the gun had been reloaded. He looked to be trying to hit the sailors below deck on the other ship.

The next trip, Valdemar saw what he thought was his chance. The peacock officer clearly had his hands full, trying to deal with the mess that a volley of canister shot had made in the more forward part of the battery. The rifleman knelt right then, almost directly in front of Valdemar and best of all, no one was watching.

He set down the bag of powder, strained to lift a cannonball, and then he dropped it on the head of the shooter, stepping well back so that the ball didn't land on his feet. No one saw it.

Valdemar drew a long rag from his pocket and quickly wrapped his right hand with it in order to protect his knuckles from the sharp edges of the teeth that he intended to break in a moment.

Before anyone could notice, he stepped up to the little cock of the walk officer, spun him around and began to beat the shit out of him.

In spite of it all, in the stinging smoke from the guns and the flying splinters of wood from the grape and chain shot which were tearing against and into the side of the battery, no one noticed him doing it. Some of the men were dead and others were screaming in agony that they'd been hit.

But Valdemar didn't care. He was smiling.

He saw the man crying there before him with blood and snot pouring out of what the big blonde had left him for a nose, trying desperately to get to his pistol. But the quiet Dane hit the man hard enough in the solar plexus to knock him to his knees and he relieved the officer of his firearm. He considered a moment while the man threw up.

He was in this deep over something that he hadn't done to anyone. What more was there to lose now?

As the officer looked up at him, Valdemar threw the pistol out through the gaping hole in the side of the ship and lifted the officer up. He hit him three times after that, but after the first time it grew more difficult since the man was unconscious. Valdemar put a lot into the third time before he let the officer crumple to the deck of the battery.

He knelt then and a few moments later, he unwrapped the cloth and inspected his hand before he dragged the beaten corpse to one of the ruined gun stations and threw him out into the water after the pistol. When he looked up, he was looking at an American gunner looking back at him across maybe thirty yards of smoky air and dirty water. Valdemar shrugged and smiled, the two of them exchanging little waves to each other before he turned away. One of the more comical moments of war.

When he looked around, he was at least a little certain that they'd lose and it made him feel a little better. The forward port battery was in shambles with maybe three guns left which could be brought to bear and to his amazement, some of the men, others like himself, were organising themselves to get those guns back into action. He couldn't understand it.

His ears were ringing, but he couldn't really even hear that, though it was constant now. He decided to go back to hauling powder bags from the magazine before he was pressed into helping on the guns. He didn't want that to happen because the way that he felt then, he knew that he'd refuse and likely be shot on the spot.

He saw a boy there huddled in fear on the floor, one of the nippers. They were used to nip off stray strands of anchor cable. He'd always felt a little sorry for them. He'd heard that they were treated well on some ships, but he knew that they weren't on this one. The officer that he'd killed had seen to that.

He stepped over and looked down, "You need to get lower down," he tried to say, but in the noise and with the way that he spoke, the boy didn't get it for a moment. He did look over at the gunport where Valdemar had thrown the officer from and then he looked up and nodded. The boy pointed toward the open wreck of the gun station. "Thank you."

Then he was gone and Valdemar went back to the magazine for more powder.

They struck their colors less than a half an hour later.

Things were a little chaotic for a time after that, but eventually Valdemar had a chance to tell somebody that he was there against his will. To his surprise, he was offered a place on the American ship to replace a man who had been killed in the fighting. He accepted with a smile and as he walked to where the ship's boat waited to take him and a few others across, he saw the body of the boy floating in the water.

When the war ended, Valdemar was on the island of Saint Martin in the Caribbean, his ship undergoing a bit of a fast refit before trying to slip out past the British blockade. One day, the British just sailed off a month after the war was officially over. Valdemar was told that he could sail with them back to America or if he wanted, he'd be paid out and could find his own way to wherever he wanted to go. It wasn't that easy, though. His pay was enough to take him to maybe Jamaica and that would be about it.

But he was alive for the moment and he said that he needed at least a night with a few drinks in him to decide and the American officer grinned at him and said that he understood and to seek him out in the morning and let him know.

What he got from his night of careful and quiet drinking were three job offers. Valdemar had seen enough of warships for at least a time, he thought, and he didn't like the thought of going whaling in the Pacific. But he was a little intrigued to hear from a few Dutchmen who told him during their comical struggles to make themselves understood to each other that they were on a trader heading to Sumatra. Some of the Dutchmen would be working for a master there, sailing off later to trade in Japan.

Valdemar knew nothing about it, but it sounded like there was a bit of money to be made there, though he also learned that there was an element of danger as well, since trade was not officially allowed there and everything had to be done on the sly and quiet.

Valdemar agreed and the next morning he was talking a little quietly with the American officer, who told him what he knew of things there.

It wasn't until he was actually on the Dutch ship four days later that he actually learned just what it was that they'd be smuggling, and he didn't like it.

They were loaded with old army rifles and muskets.

Valdemar nodded then to the one Dutchmen who could speak fairly good English -- something which was coming to him at last, "But," he said, choosing his words a little carefully, "From what you say, it will happen far from the coast and we sell twenty rifles or so on a trip. A few men could kill us all and take the guns for nothing."

The man nodded with a shrug and a grin, "Yes, that is why we want you along, my large friend." And he handed Valdemar a pistol then and promised him a sword and a rifle as well. Valdemar stared at the pistol. It had seen a lot of use, by the look of it, he decided, but it was unloaded at the moment and he tried it in a safe direction. It was a side-by-side double barrelled thing and it felt good in his hand.

"Give me another like this and what else that you said and I will be able to do the job," he smiled.

"Can you ride a horse?" he was asked.

"Ja," he replied, "Only gif me a little time to learn."

He'd been joking, but his companions didn't know it. It brought a lot of laughter out of the rest and it bought Valdemar a few drinks for his frank boldness.

Valdemar quickly found his place among the crew and with his size and quiet willingness to always lend a hand -- and his long hair, he was a little popular for the first time in his life. As with any collection of people, there were a couple of men who sought to give him a bit of a hard time when they could, but Valdemar was now nineteen himself and he'd long ago learned that he didn't have to take much in the way of garbage from anyone.

Usually, all that it took was for him to lift a man by the collar and slam him against a wall painfully. A long quiet moment spent staring a man down went a long way toward getting him left alone after that.

He'd had offers from some of the other men on the American ship to cut his hair for him, but Valdemar always declined. His light blonde hair was now kept in a thick braid and whenever anyone said anything about it, Valdemar would just look over to grin very coldly as he suggested that the man try to cut it off for him.

They spent months working their way to the Dutch colonial possessions where the rest of the goods waited for them in storage. On the way, Valdemar slowly got to know about the main merchant, who was waiting on their arrival there.

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Valdemar had a thought in his mind that he was to accompany some others to act as their protection, but it turned out to be a little incorrect.

The main trading merchant made his presence known the evening after their arrival. Cornelius Van der Zee was a man of many talents and a great deal of resourcefulness. Valdemar wondered since he seemed at first to be something like a kindly uncle who sought to teach others to trade on his behalf.

That was the way that is seemed to go at first, but as the days went on, Valdemar could see that there was little softness about the man. He only looked that way, and underneath, he was as tough as an old oak tree. It came as a bit of a surprise to find that the older man tried to teach Valdemar a slightly different path than the one he set most of the others on.

"What you see around you here really has little to do with where you are going, "Cor said, "Japan is a rather different place from this. But, like here or China, or any other land in this corner of the earth, there are always more layers to the onion, large shells piled on top of smaller ones which hide the shells underneath them - boxes within boxes, intrigues laid upon intrigues, and all of it hides the continual struggles for power. It can be exceedingly difficult to grasp and understand -- especially for someone such as you or I.

Here - or where you will go; a man's life means little. The struggles and the wars go on forever and the only constant that I have been able to determine," he smiled, "is the one color which is consistent and that is the color of blood. Sometimes the wars are out in the open for all to see, and most other times, they go on still under the guise of peace, and yet, the struggles are still there, simmering quietly as one man or group of men tries to outwit another.

What you will do for me and yourself, my Danish friend, is to go along on a trip to trade. You will be there to protect our goods and money, certainly. But really, I want you there to learn. You will learn by seeing the way that it is done and by doing."

Cor smiled then, "Of course, most of the doing will be on your second trip, so you must see to it that you survive the first, naturally.

The way that this is done is that you will be given money to use for your expenses the first time, so try to keep a tight grip on it. I have warehouses full of goods here for you and the others to trade and sell. For your particular journey, the focus will be on firearms, since it is what is most wanted where you will be going. For almost every type of merchandise which we offer, there are several different grades from best to worst.

I am your supplier and I will sell you the goods to sell once you reach your destination. My prices are at a wholesale level, of course. I think that with your pay from the Americans who saved and hired you as well as your pay from crewing on our ship, you will have more than sufficient starting capital.

That is your working capital, Valdemar," Cor said, "With it and your profits; you build your fortune, my friend. Other than the traveling and the occasional risk to life and limb, it can be very profitable for us both.

The way that Valdemar figured it, Cor would have already covered his risk by selling to him. The split of the money after his return would be pure profit, though he said nothing of his thoughts on it to the other man.

Cor looked at Valdemar and then he smiled as he considered the Dane's long braid for a moment. "That is really all your own hair, is it not?"

Valdemar nodded, "Why? Must I cut it for this?"

Cor shook his head, "No, but I imagine that it must be a little hot and uncomfortable for you."

He looked out across the large harbour for a moment, seeing all of the hundreds of ships or other watercraft right down to the perhaps thousands of smaller boats weaving their way through, and all of it driven by the want of monetary gain.

Turning back to Valdemar, he said, "Where you are going, the men tie their hair back in a couple of different fashions, depending on their station in life; what they do, who they serve -- things such as this.

You would likely never see one, but other than the emperor of the place, most of the real power lies in the hands of the lords. Think of it as the lords under a European king, for there are similarities. The lords are very powerful locally and yet they are subservient to the wishes of the emperor, ... "

He sighed, "Unless there is a strong ripple of war running through the land, of course. It happens, though a little rarely, thank Heaven. Something for you to consider is that while war on a large scale brings uncertainty and even danger, it also brings many opportunities for merchants. The world is a changing place, as you know, but to a lot of those people, they want things to remain as they have always been. I can see a major struggle over only that notion one day, but for now, that is why trade with outsiders is forbidden.

In truth, Europeans have been trading here for a few hundred years, though the distance and the isolation have kept the numbers down. It was going well -- especially for us and the Portuguese for a long while. We even sold them muskets in quantity. But then the isolationists began to come to the fore and things have been closed down to a great extent.

In the meantime, they fight with swords and bows in a time when your land and mine, along with many others have gone on to rifles and cannon to fight wars with. It's why I'm selling guns, after all."

Cor produced a couple of cigars and offered one to Valdemar, who accepted. After getting them both lit, he went on.

"The lords over there are called Daimyo and some of them wear their hair -- "he looked over for a moment, "which is the point of my little sermon to you - in the more or less traditional way. It's combed out and tied back, each side, and then the top is done the same way -- even if a man is balding. Indeed, some shave the tops of their heads, wanting to neaten things up and appear wise.

The more dangerous ones are the daimyo who are really warlords. They are a more, ... shall we say impetuous and hungry breed, who run the much smaller and isolated places usually with an iron hand. Those are the ones which I want you to concentrate on in your travels. Those are the ones which see the advantages of firearms. Make no mistake, though. Either type can have you skinned alive for farting a little too loudly in their presence.

But I have seen some of that kind who wear their hair a little differently. They leave it long and straight, but tie what would hang in their faces into a topknot.

I think that the style would suit someone like you, Valdemar. Wear your hair that way and you make a statement that you are formidable, shall we say. You might have noticed that many or even most of the people here are shorter than you are. I think that it might be wise to put yourself in plain sight rather than try to hide the obvious.

A lot of my people find themselves having to scurry around a little like rats, always trying to remain out of sight. A hungry dog has no fear of a rat.

Have you ever watched dogs fight when there are two opponents in contention?"

Valdemar shrugged and said that he'd probably seen it, but hadn't really given it any thought and Cor laughed then.

"There is really very little difference between us as animals and animals themselves. You might see a group of dogs snarling at each other over something to eat or a bitch in heat to mate with. They all put on a grand show for each other and little gets done -- since they know the threat which each one represents to the others. What do you suppose might happen if a large wolf were to wander into the middle of things?"