Treasure
“Move.”
Matchstick’s sword pushed Isabella forward. Tiny pinpricks scattered up her spine as the metal cut through to the skin. She winced, following Wendy as she trekked them through the forest to treasure.
It was so stupid. She should have known to keep an ear out for them. Her tracks were obvious, her direction clear. It was like she was asking to be followed. Even without the pirates, Wendy had the redcoats to worry about.
They were both guilty, she supposed.
Yet not really. They had been escaping. Escaping from men intent on harming them. To say it was their fault would shift the blame. They were as guilty as prey is for being pursued by its predator.
She couldn’t focus on that. She couldn’t. With the weapons in their backs and their end soon to come, it was no good to fall into self-doubt and pity. She’d been here before. She could escape.
With each passing step, it became harder to imagine how.
Wendy led them to the tall rock in the middle of the island. She pointed a way to the right, by one of the beaches neither ships landed at. They trekked along, boot steps muffled in dirt and sand.
Gusts of wind blew from a cave entrance. The four squeezed through, cool air blasting them in synchronous bursts. Isabella scrunched her face tight with each blow, the salty taste reminding her of the seas. Though only a few hours had passed, she already missed the sway of the ship. The lofting water. The men’s camaraderie.
She’d do anything to feel that again.
The dark cave walls gave way to reflected light. Wendy turned to them all.
“Not far now.”
“It better not be,” Spec complained. “How did you even find this spot in the first place? Trying to hide from us?”
“I arrived many hours ago with the British,” she spat. “They forced me to find this spot. They may still be down here, though I doubt they’ll notice our arrival. Too engaged in loot and plunder.”
Though she didn’t say it, Isabella heard Wendy’s ‘Much like yourself’ just fine. She grinned, her old friend coming back in small steps. With the metal tip of a sword to her back, that joy was short lived.
Around one more corner, they found the gold. Though it did little to describe how much there was. Mountains of coins, chests, goblets, chalices, chandeliers, chains, necklaces, bracelets, helmets, crowns, and more burst from the grounds. Glittery reflections highlighted the rocky cave, a small hole in the ceiling filling the space with bright light. Delicate clinks and shimmers resonated their ears, music of metal which called all dirty sailor.
If there were an El Dorado, the Erfprinses van Oranje had found it, cut it all away, and holed it up here.
Down by the end, two British soldiers lay, heads covered in coins. Small glints of red oozed from where their faces would have been. Isabella heard Wendy wretch.
“Oh God,” she muttered.
“A pity,” Matchstick said, unsympathetic. “I was hoping for a fight.”
“I can satisfy that,” Spec smiled.
He pushed his dagger through Wendy’s torso. She cried in pain, grasping the knife to keep it in. Spec was only to happy to let her hold it, relieving himself of the weapon.
Isabella hurried to her side, Matchstick too distracted to react. She tore Wendy’s shirt off an inspected the wound. A twinge of relief flowed through her as she realised it wasn’t immediately fatal, but that would last only so long. Blood was steadily pouring from the cut, hardly held back with Isabella’s hastily applied bandaged.
She glared at Spec, snarling.
“You bastard.”
“She doesn’t look too good,” he grinned, ignoring her threat. “Perhaps you should look after her while we look after the gold.”
“So that’s it?” she accused. “You stab her, mortally wound her, because you were worried she’d take your gold?”
“I don’t like unnecessary risks,” he shrugged. “And besides, what do you care about more: riches, or your friend?”
She stared deep into his eyes, hoping to find some semblance of a caring soul. All she found were dark and morbid dreams, only greed and torture. She grunted and pulled her friend away. For all he was, he was right. She would take her friend back, she will bring her to life, and:
“She’ll kill you for this,” Matchstick said, mirroring her thoughts as they walked down.
“I highly doubt that,” Spec smiled, following. “She could hardly fight a rat in her condition. Besides: a woman has never defeated a man.”
He laughed, horrible echos bounding off the rocky walls in discordant cuts. Isabella cursed his name as she pulled Wendy up on her shoulder and out the cave. Years of tugging ropes, piloted ships, and reloaded cannons gave her strength to carry both of them. It wasn’t the hard part though.
The hard part was her friends slow dying breath.
“Come on, Wendy,” she begged. “Just a little bit longer. We’ll get you out to a ship and find you a doctor. Hey? You can make it. We’re nearly at a row boat.”
“Isabella,” she whimpered. “Look.”
She stopped, and stared out over the beach. Body after body after body lined it’s shores. A mix of red coats and brown shirts hugged each other in the afterlife, having killed for someone else’s gold to be someone else’s gold.
This was different to any other aftermath she’d seen before. Sure, she’d killed her fair share, but they were quickly disposed of. Falling off a ship, a boat, a dock. All cleaned in the sea. Quickly engulfed by the waters for shark food. These… were still here. Stinking up the island in rotted mutations.
Isabella coughed, forcing the smell from her lungs. She set Wendy down in one of the rowboats. A pile of guns created a pillow, and men’s coats a blanket.
She tore off a clean part of her shirt as a new bandage. As she reapplied pressure, a shot whizzed over her head.
“Oh Mrs Yates!”
Again? Isabella shot her head up. Spec had fired his gun. No surprise it missed, but it didn’t make it feel any better.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“What do you think you’re doing?” Isabella returned, slowly inching toward him. “Don’t you have gold to plunder?”
“I have wenches to kill,” he shrugged, standing his ground. “Traitors. People who don’t know mercy when they see it.”
“Mercy? You call this” – she gestured to Wendy – “Mercy?”
“I call it dealing with a problem by relieving it. It’s a simple fact of life, Mrs Yates. Though I can see how you don’t understand it. You were always the dumbest of the crew. Shortsighted. Not like myself.”
“Short sighted?” she laughed. “Says the man with glasses?”
“Touché,” he conceded. “But even with my poor eyesight I can see you’re never getting away from here.”
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
She pulled one of the guns from a dead mans chest and shot. Too slow. He saw her movement and fell to the ground. She cursed and drew the mans cutlass, adjusted to its weight, and charged. He jumped up again and felt for his dagger.
Spec wasn’t a pirate. He was a scholar. And if there was one key difference between a scholar and a pirate, it was their ability to know where their weapon was and how to defend themselves.
So when he grabbed at his belt instead of dagger, his face flashed in fear as he realised he wouldn’t have time. He closed his eyes and felt his life flee as her cutlass slashed through his chest.
He fell to the ground in one dull thud.
“Traitor!”
Hardly relieved at taking down Spec, the voice of her captain cut through the air. She stared back to him, downcast and sagging as he still, still failed to see what he had done to him. She withdrew the cutlass from Spec’s chest and gripped it with both hands.
“You killed Spec,” Matchstick continued, marching forward.
“And you killed all of them!” she screamed, backing away. “Look around you, Matchstick. Look at how many people have died searching for this treasure. How many friends have you lost today? Does it make up for how many enemies?”
“You take those words back, wench.”
“I don’t think I will,” she continued. “The lies Spec told you led to this. You think you’re invincible? Because you heard some sirens wail? You’re still just a man. A man who is trying to do what he thinks will make him tough but really is just an act. Like your fire. You don’t even like it, I bet. You just do it to have other fear you. Well, Matchstick, I don’t fear you.”
Matchstick screamed and ran at her, cutlass raised high and came down hard on her. She only just held back the blow. Isabella was skilled, and could probably take on most men in a fight. But his sheer strength combined with his rage buckled her arms back. Her eyes widened, reassessing her chances of leaving this island.
He slashed again, this time to her side. She pushed past her growing dread and deflected it again. Her arms burned with each blow. His movements were sloppy. Predictable. But they were fast. She had no time to strike back.
“Give up, Isabella,” he yelled, stabbing at her in quick succession. “You can’t win.”
He was right. She knew it. Already she could feel her knees weaken with each blow, heels buckling into the sand. He towered over her, clashing metal sparking murderous light in his eyes. In just a moment it would be over for her. She would not be able to keep going like this.
Finally, the blow came. Not from above, but below. He kicked at her legs, sending Isabella tumbling to the ground in a pathetic and tired head. Her eyes burned as sand hit her eyes. She tried to lift her sword in defence. A boot crushed her hand. Through the smoke of sand, he stared down at her.
“This is how it ends, Isabella,” he said, pulling the swords tip to her throat. “Any last words?”
She spit her side. “The gold better be worth the trip home.”
“Then die-ah!”
His voice was cut off by a crack. His mouth gaped and eyes widened as if he’d discovered something that changed the way he saw the world. Glancing down, he noticed a hole had appeared in his chest. Red liquid trickled out and filled his white shirt with maroon. He stammered, no sound escaped.
Isabella glanced over and saw Wendy, holding a gun. It rested over the boats sides, supporting her aim. She fell back into the boat, exhausted.
Turning back to Matchstick, he could say nothing. His legs collapsed and he fell beside her. The sword chipped her skin, but it was otherwise cosmetic. She pulled herself up and looked down on him.
“Matchstick,” she started.
“Steve,” he wheezed. “My name is Steve George. I should go out with the name I came in with, don’t you think?”
He laughed, blood spurting from his mouth. Isabella nodded slowly through her frown.
“I messed it all up, didn’t I?” he sighed. “You were right. Damn you for being right.”
She stared at him, not saying a word. She knew there would be no reason to do so now. He was dying. Delirious. His own mortality finally catching up with him in ways he wasn’t happy with.
“You were a good man, Isabella,” he finished. “A damn good one. Better than I ever was.”
He reached up, hands shaking as he could hardly control himself anymore.
“Take it. My hat. The Harrington… is… yours…”
The murderous, suspicious, wild and brave man known as Captain Steve ‘Matchstick’ George, finally passed.
Isabella surprised herself with her lack of feelings. She wasn’t sad he was gone. She wasn’t angry at how he had treated her. She wasn’t happy for being forgiven or named captain. It was simply a fact that the man she knew and, in some way, cared for, had died.
“Come on!” Wendy called. “I can’t last much longer.”
She snapped herself out of her daze and grabbed onto her captains headdress. She pulled the hat off and set it on her head. Too big. At least right now. She ran back to the boat to check on Wendy.
“Took you long enough,” she smiled.
“Thanks for the shot,” Isabella said. “You saved my life there.”
“You were doing the same,” she sighed. “Maybe you can get a doctor for me.”
“Maybe I can,” she smiled in return.
She pushed the boat out into the water, climbed aboard, took the oars, and started pulling her way to the Harrington.
“Now what do we do?” Wendy asked. “The boys on board aren’t going to like you.”
“I’ll make this a temporary arrangement, don’t worry. Only those loyal to Matchstick were trusted to fight on the beach. I have enough connections to make it work.”
“Captain Yates does have a nice ring to it though, doesn’t it?”
Isabella smiled.
“It does.”
She rowed them to the ship. The daunting nature of the future lay before her. Would they accept her? Would they kill her? Would they do something worse?
That was the hard thing about thinking of the next day. It was bound to happen, so you might as well be prepared for it. Yet it had the curse of the past as well. All the dirt and filth of people who had gone after her would inevitably show their faces.
She’d do her best to be ready. It was all she could do.
Her sore arms pulled and pulled, pulling them both through the murky waters.
The End
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Cheesman Chronicles 
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