SOLOMON'S BRIDGE {Part I}

STORMY SEAS *2*

Diary of Justice Hall, pg. 205

Some men would recall the way a woman's hair shone as she spun in their arms around the ball room. I vividly picture the hard glint in her ice emerald eyes as she batted them at me coquettishly, her thin pink lips moving like a well oiled machine in the work houses of London. I realize I ought to have at least tried to find pleasure in the mundane polish of her artful make up; the gentle swell of her lace terraced cleavage, the rose scented sway of her practiced movements. Graceful as a dove, with feet feather light, the duchess of Brunswick captivated the ton, and hardly sparked my interest. No, my iron clad heart had to be captured by a barefoot voluptuous Nigress in the wilds of the West African coast. What more would you have me say? I should have stayed the course that day, but two formidable adversaries stood in my way. The first, is fate. How to describe fate? Time's prison bars do not apply to his majesty, foolhardy of me to rant and rage for my time, my way; can I strangle a hurricane? Yes, fate is like a hurricane, you can't just wrap your fingers round it's neck and strangle it. My second adversary was my heart. How to describe the heart? The heart is malleable muscle, which at a young age, discipline can mold, but alas, my youth I spent in battle on the high seas. I was a man well drowned in his own conceit; impervious to romantic notions, unskilled in the treacheries of weak emotion, untried. Indeed; perhaps I should have stayed the course that day. Lesser men have faced a lifetime of challenges greater than the wilting company of a damsel elite such as she. What more would you have me say? There was something in the breeze ruffling the trees as we skirted past the sandy beaches. There was... something in the wind.

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THE YEAR, IS 1891.

J. B. HALL

Akanimo, the young black valet to the Commander, leaned over the railing on the forecastle of the HMS Gladiator, a battleship Man O War with a crew of about four hundred men, with a total of one hundred cannons; six on the bow, eight on the stern, forty four in each broadside; a top speed of 35.2 knots (65.2 km/h) powered by eight fuel oil boilers and four propellers, delivering 212,000 shaft horsepower. Each day on the high seas, he enjoyed inhaling the salty air, admiring the morning mist on the water. But today was different. They were crossing the Atlantic, heading north east towards the English Channel through the Isle of Man, yet, still mere hours away from Cape Verde on the West African coast, Portugal, to the south. Today was different because, there was talk of freaky weather. Akanimo had hoped it was just talk and nothing more, but suddenly, the wind picked up and the sun swiftly sank into the horizon. He barely blinked before a deep rumble of thunder echoed its arrival in the distance. A thick mantle of briquette, sooty clouds began to stretch across the sky, the gathering, rushing winds threatening to tip the Ship of the Line off it's already rocking balance. Within minutes, the ocean stirred, roiling into an angry foaming beast. He gripped the iron rail so hard it almost hurt, his boots tapping nervously against the deck as sailors around him vanished down the stairwell.

Someone grabbed his arm, "Get you down to the deck below, nigger!" he shook his arm free, his tiny, frightened brown eyes pleading with the harsh blue of the boatswain's, Captain Mosey. But he was claustrophobic, and shaking like a leaf, "That place be too crowded, Cap..." he protested, weakly. But Captain Mosey had already moved on, shouting protocol instructions to the officers. His quick glance around the jostling crewmen securing the deck and climbing the ratlines further confirmed the seriousness of the situation. He heard Captain Vane yelling at Doobly, the helmsman, that they were drifting to starboard, "Turn her to port!" he shouted, repeatedly. There was no way they could stay on course for the English Channel, Captain Vane argued with First Mate, Captain Guineas Fogg, "It's too late for that! We'll be thrown into Devil's Embrace, and then dashed upon the invisible rocks sure as my eyes are green! The Commander says we make for Port of Biafra!"