Young Writers Society

A Short Drop and a Sudden Stop

A short story by Jacob Swartz

5/13

The night was dark. Not a dark brought on by the mere absence of the sun’s comforting light, nor a dark where the blackness could be lessened by the simple, natural glow of the moon. This darkness was not peaceful in the least, but was incapable of eliciting emotion of any kind whatsoever. It was almost as if the darkness itself possessed the ability to consume all emotions in the unusual void of nothingness that it was. There was no word to describe the sensation. It was nothing but nothingness itself.

Yet amidst the darkness of the pale vale of shadow, a covert glimmer existed somewhere beneath the stars, on a small island surrounded by an infinite and seemingly endless sea, which some viewed as paradise and other as the Vestibule of Hell.

On this island, near the coast, lay a lonely public house that welcomed all, but silently condemned all who came. It was only there for the sake of necessity and convenience, and the man who owned the place, “Don” Deloro, was consistently and perpetually haunted by the roaring and crashing of the evil and ruthless waves that constantly beleaguered the coast in a never-ending siege.

Inside the establishment, known simply as La Cantina, at a table in the corner, sat five men stooped over their mugs of ale and despair; a motley group of men who seemed to come from all corners of the earth.

“Is it true?” the first man asked. “Is he really in the hands of the enemy?”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” said the second, clearly the youngest, before the third man, a Negro from the golden land of ivory that bordered an endless sea of green and an endless sea of blue, spoke.

“And what was this damnable crime?” he said. “What rumours exist surrounding the details?”

“I heard that he was caught making off with the gold from the king’s vault in Cartagena,” said the next, making a sour face as he reluctantly took a sip of his ale. The others knew not where this poor fellow came from. He had jet-black hair, a pale-yellow face, and slanted eyes that one could erroneously mistake to be inhuman. He looked very much like a man who came from the land where the sun rose first.

“No, no,” the second man said again, “he cut down the fifty men with little effort. Apparently his punishment is for his murderous ways.”

The first man shook his head. “You are young and foolish to believe such lies. You might as well be saying that he traversed to the dark side of the moon and back.”

The young man smiled. “There’s no dark side of the moon, really. As a matter of fact it’s all dark.”

The first man grimaced. “Will you please shut up?” he said with a sneer. “He isn’t, or wasn’t, a cold-blooded killer as you imply. “He took a sip of ale and enjoyed it with ecstasy. “Besides, unlike most others in his profession, he had both honour and integrity.”

The oriental man was the next to speak. “How can you do what he did with integrity? He stole. He killed!”

“Apparently he had a cause. An ulterior motive,” said the African.

“Aye, you are correct,” the fifth man, who had stayed quiet until now, finally said. “And I only know a little. Unlike the lot of you, I actually know the man.” As he said this, the old man scratched his baldhead and let out a weary sigh.

“You do?” asked the young man eagerly. “Is it true? Can he really clear an entire Spaniard and her crew with nothing but a single rapier and flintlock?”

The old man nodded. The first person was next to speak. “What be this motive that you’ve confirmed to exist?”

The old man replied: “It stems from a desire to seek revenge: a revenge that is highly justified. It is a revenge that Jesus Christ himself would see to full-fledged fruition.”

“Was he a good leader?’ the Negro asked.

“A good leader?” If you want my honest opinion, he’s one of the best. I’ve always respected him. I’ve known him ever since he was a lad. If he weren’t in his sorry state, and all four of you happened to be eager to live a life of adventure and intrigue, Riley would be your man. Of all gentlemen of fortune in these parts, he ranks as perhaps the most clever and cunning. More than Kennway, Vane, Harnigold, Roberts and Bonnet.”

“But not clever enough to evade the authorities in the end,” said the fourth man.

“I don’t think even he’ll get out of this one,” the fifth man said with a sigh.

The young man was on the edge of his seat by this time. “Tell me more of this alleged revenge.”

The old man shook his head once more. “No, it’s not just revenge. Something else drives his motives. There is more mystery to that man that even I dare ask.”

The youngest man sighed in disappointment. “Tis’ a real shame. I would have much liked to meet him.”

The easterner shook his head in utter and sincere disappointment. “And now he has what’s coming to him,” he said, in spite of the comment’s obvious nature.

The youngest spoke up again. “So, I guess he’ll be suffering from the usual?” He said this with anxious curiosity.

The first man hit his junior over the head for his friend’s stupid remark. “Of course, you damn ignoramus! How else would they go about doing it?” He then turned to face the old man, unsure of his hypothesis, himself. “They will be doing it that way, right?” The fifth man nodded.

“A real shame too,” the black one said after he took a swig of his ale. “I’ve always admired him and his exploits. I’ve heard quite a deal about him from Santos Miguel. Apparently they both sailed together aboard the Crazy Diamond.”

“Miguel was a good friend of his. He stuck with him till’ the end. Miguel got away during the heist, much to the urging of our dear friend.” The old timer said this gazing up at the wall in trance-like state. “And I believe that Miguel will be attending tomorrow as well. That’s one Spaniard that our friend respects unconditionally.”

“I’ll be attending tomorrow,” the young man said. Man number two spoke up. “Do you even know what they do? Clearly you’ve never seen one in person. Gruesome experience.”

Yet people treat it as an exciting performance. They make a mockery of someone’s despair and suffering,” the third man proclaimed.

“Technically, it is not a feeling of despair and suffering,” the old man said, “you usually do not feel a thing.”

“It happens ever so quickly, said the Negro.

“And how the hell would you know?” asked the Asian in a confused fashion. “The punishment that he’ll be suffering from is not used in the land from which you come.”

“You are correct,” the man replied. “But on the voyage, while aboard the devil-ship that carried me from my home to the West Indies, I saw it done to a sailor.”

“What happened?” the Asian exclaimed in a silent, but sincere fashion.

“Well, this sailor, Matthews was his name, was a repeat offender and was caught stealing an extra ration of cheese and grog.”

“But how did they go about doing it? Surely they didn’t have one of those infernal contraptions aboard.”

“It was from the yardarm. The captain didn’t bother to cut him down for three whole days. I was able to see the whole thing since I was chained up just below the barred hatch.”

The first man, whose tattooed forearm was now becoming visible due to the rising sun’s glow, said: “At least the authorities are handling him humanely. Unlike what the mobs do, I hear they tar and feather in some places. That’s extremely popular up in the British colonies. New England to be exact.”

“Humane?” the young man exclaimed, “How is it humane? It’s long and agonizing. I couldn’t stand being choked!”

The old man gave off a sarcastic and belittling laugh. “As I said earlier, that’s a common misconception. Most of the time, death is instantaneous. The drop happens so fast they break their neck. It just snaps. Sometimes, though, it is a long and agonizing choke.” He paused. “I only hope it’s fast. He deserves a quick death. I’d rather see him lose his head though; it’s more humane. Actually, he should have died in battle altogether.”

“I’ve seen many a public spectacle,” the first man boasted without any hint of pride in his voice. “It chills me as I stare into the faceless gaze of the hooded man as he pulls the lever and watches with pride as his victim falls into Satan’s warm grasp.”

The old man nodded one last time. “It’s like staring into the eyes of death itself. It’s much like this night, even.”

Even as the visual blueness of the encroaching dawn approached, the darkness remained with nihilism and silent malice. It would continue throughout the day, even as the sun made its way into the skies above the tropics. It would persist even as the stores and kiosks that lined the clean streets of Havana opened for the day. People would awake to what they would see as daylight, to what they would misconstrue as sunlight and its warm comfort. Soon, men, women, and children would be flocking to the square to witness the spectacle. Soon, a man whose only crime was trying to find his place in the world, would be delivered by his enemies into the hands of death, only to be swallowed by the hungry darkness.