Mark Edwards
PIRATES ON DINOSAUR ISLAND
Mark Edwards, playwright and author of short stories, teaches writing and media studies at Sacred Heart University in Fairfield, Connecticut. His play “Ladies in Hats” was a Kennedy Center semi-finalist and appeared in The Boston Theatre Marathon. His story “Last Call” was published in The Last Man Anthology, and “The Man Who Shot Bigfoot” can be found in Space and Time Magazine.
First published by GemmaMedia in 2012.
GemmaMedia
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Boston, MA 02109 USA
© 2012 by Mark Edwards
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles of reviews.
Printed in the United States of America
16 15 14 13 12 1 2 3 4 5
978-1-936846-09-2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Edwards, Mark, 1966-
Pirates on Dinosaur Island Mark Edwards.
p. cm. -- (Gemma Open Door)
ISBN 978-1-936846-09-2
I. Title.
PS3605.D8897P57 2012
813 .6--dc23
2011049172
Cover by Night & Day Design
Inspired by the Irish series of books designed for adult literacy, Gemma Open Door Foundation provides fresh stories, new ideas, and essential resources for young people and adults as they embrace the power of reading and the written word.
Brian Bouldrey
North American Series Editor
Open Door
I know not what to call this, nor will I urge that it is a secret overruling decree, that hurries us on to be the instruments of our own destruction, even though it be before us, and that we rush upon it with our eyes open.
—Daniel Defoe,
Robinson Crusoe (1719)
1
The Author finds himself at the mercy of dire and bloody circumstance.
I awoke to the slaughterhouse smell of blood and the sulfur stink of gunpowder. There were muffled cries and a cold internal voice told me, “Your hearing is nearly gone from standing too close to a twelve-pound cannon, and those are cries of the wounded, and when you open your eyes you will wish you hadn't.”
I did open my eyes. The deck of the brig was carnage. Fiercely armed men rushed about, blood flowed from the scuppers, spars were shattered and splintered, a mast and sail had crashed onto the foredeck, and a score of wounded and dead were scattered about.
I could not see out of my left eye, and I reached up expecting the worst to find that I merely needed to wipe a clot of blood from the lid. There was a painful cut above my ear, most likely caused by a flying splinter. My last memory before fainting was of a ball smashing the frame of a nearby gunport.
Any relief I felt at finding my skull intact immediately vanished as a large fellow in a patchwork coat loomed over me, aiming a pistol between my eyes. He wore a grin that would have been rakish if he hadn't cocked the pistol.
“Hold ye,” said a voice from behind me. “They say this one's the surgeon.”
A tall man limped into view, long of leg and pigtails, gripping a cutlass. There was grey in his beard and blood on his black coat. He pushed aside the other's weapon and leaned over me, speaking in a loud fashion, as if he kenned my fuddled state. “You can live, if ye'll stitch and dose our wounded.”
I don't know where my courage came from, since I thought I'd left my honor back in England. “I'll physic your men if I can physic my own,” was my response.
“You can.” The tall man glanced about the deck. “What's left of —’em.”
That is how, reluctantly, I came into the service of Captain Baltizar.
2
A duel with an unexpected outcome, flight, and a voyage.
I came to be on a floating slaughterhouse amidst the Caribbees due to a lack of five hundred pounds a year and a misplaced pistol shot.
I had faced William Brucknell on the Downs; two gentlemen of honor, two pistols, two seconds, two rivals, two fools. The Brucknells owned the Downs and most of the land nearby, and William was the first son and heir of Lord Brucknell; magistrate, horse breeder, and drunkard. I was the son of nobody, but had been to University and learned natural history, the mathematics of medicine, and the arts of surgery. William had five hundred pounds a year, and would inherit more soon, considering the gross state of his father's liver. I had a practice worth forty a year, a small cottage, a bay horse, and my own wits. William was less bright than his horses, and also nearsighted, which was why, in that moment of malice when he challenged me, I had chosen pistols.
It was over a woman. Penny had chosen to affiance wealth over wits, and I had said so in front of witnesses. And so misty dawn on the Downs, dew on our boots, pistols loaded, and each of us awaiting the order to fire. Grass before breakfast.
I had not slept the night before, knowing what the outcome must be. I was a fair marksman—well practiced in collecting animals for study—and by dawn I decided that I did not wish to kill William. As we turned towards each other, pistols raised, I decided to shoot him in the right shoulder after he had missed, to cause minimal harm and yet satisfy honor.
William panicked and immediately upon the command to fire, shot off my right earlobe. I pulled the trigger in shock.
I saw the blood gout from above the bridge of his nose. He was dead before his second reached him, and I was on my bay riding towards Portsmouth before they had his corpse home. It does not do to kill the son of a magistrate and peer.
It would be a poor physician who took long to find a craft willing to take him on. Ships often have surgeons who began their careers as barbers, apothecaries, or butchers. In Portsmouth I had offers of positions and berths within two hours of my arrival. I chose the privateer Worcester—a trim eighteen-gun brig—not because of the obvious ship-shapeness of the vessel and the cheerful authority of the captain,
