The
Immaculate Conception
A sample story from the collection
DARKEST HOUR
Matt Hults
-Red Storm Press-
Copyright © 2014
The Immaculate Conception
Red Storm Press, LLC
Copyright © 2014
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of reprinted excerpts for the purpose of reviews. For more information, write to Red Storm Press:
[email protected] Cover art by Matt Hults
Copyright © 2014 Matt Hults
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog, and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.
FIRST EDITION
“The Immaculate Conception,” first appeared in The Beast Within, copyright © Matt Hults 2008
CONTENTS
The Immaculate Conception
Darkest Hour
About the Author
Husk Sample
The Immaculate Conception
The Middle Passage
1673
The ocean waters lay still as a corpse, the setting sun half submerged in a pool of its own blood on the horizon.
Onboard the Immaculate, the crew’s mood mirrored the stoic silence of the Atlantic. The scheduled revelry for the evening had passed without a single toast to reaching the halfway mark in their journey, and the freshly tapped keg sat forgotten at the base of the mid-mast. Rattled by the shock of what had just happened, the men remained mute while they stared at the naked blackamoor lying splayed near the foredeck, gazing soberly at the way her eviscerated body glinted in the twilight.
Eric knelt beside her, equally stunned. When he ascended above deck he’d been in high spirits, dressed smartly for the occasion. He never expected to find himself helping deliver a baby.
Captain Forester’s shouts for assistance still echoed in his mind, along with the girl’s screams of pain when the Captain ran his dagger across the skin of her abdomen. Eric grimaced at the memory. The smell of spilled blood had mixed with the sun-baked scent of the deck wood, and it took all of his might to hold down his gorge when he’d widened the wound with both hands so the Captain could extract the child. Now, with his crimson-stained shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and one suspender hanging askew, he failed to recall the reason for celebrating in the first place.
He looked to the girl.
Like the other one hundred Ashanti aboard, she’d left Africa the way she’d been born, nude and unsure of her destiny. Though no older than his fourteen-year-old daughter back in England, the scars on her body testified to a lifetime of hardship and pain. The mere sight of them caused his stomach to roil with guilt.
Eric glanced to the crew. Their pale, sober faces gazed back, waiting for a direction.
Before standing, he took the dead girl’s hands in his own, finding warmth still lingered in her skin. He laid them over her breasts, keenly aware of the eyes on his back when he did. The gesture seemed woefully inadequate when compared to the sight of her belly, however, and after a brief search, he retrieved his topcoat from where he’d cast it aside and carefully laid it over her midsection. The material drooped inward over the gaping hole in her flesh, but at least it concealed her privates. He knew she never would’ve been afforded such decencies in life, but after holding her child his perception of social hierarchies, of himself, of the entire world, had changed.
He stood, facing the men.
“Back to shifts,” he said. “Everyone without a duty below deck until the Captain says otherwise.”
He expected at least one of them to object, but if anyone did, they didn’t voice it.
“Stooky! Lorris!” Eric called as the group dispersed. “You two stay here.”
The two deckhands had made a strategic withdrawal to the rear of the group while the situation unfolded, and now both froze in mid-step, heads low.
Slowly, they came forward.
“You two had watch last night, correct?” Eric asked.
The men glanced at each other, Stooky scratching a beard that looked like an unruly crop of wheat withered by drought.
Eric slapped the man’s hand away. “When the First Officer asks a question, you answer him!”
“Aye, sir, we did,” Stooky yelped. “You appointed us yourself.”
Eric nodded, hefting a length of bloody rope from the deck. “Then you must’ve seen what Hollis and his men did to her,” he replied. “You must’ve heard her cry out?”
Another glance. Lorris shrugged like a befuddled schoolboy. “But them darkies, sir … They always cry out during the night. We … we just ignored it.”
Eric’s grip tightened on the rope. He advanced on the men, causing them to take two steps in retreat, and before he knew it he had one hand on his cutlass.
He froze, stunned at the level of his emotions.
A breeze passed over the ship, creating ghostly murmurs in the sails overhead. Eric took in a long breath and exhaled. The odor of brine helped clear the stink of death from his nostrils and cool his temper.
“No one touches her,” he said. “And fetch some water to clean this up before I send you over the rail to get it.”
Eric left the two seamen without waiting for an answer, confident that his slip in composure would guarantee they fulfilled their duties.
He crossed the deck as the last of the daylight fled from sight, chased over the horizon by an armada of stars. He reached the Captain’s quarters and rapped on the door.
No answer.
After a heartbeat of consideration, Eric broke protocol and let himself inside. His palm slid over the blood coating the doorknob.
“Captain?”
Inside, a single candle flickered on the far side of the cabin. Captain Forester sat at his cot, the girl’s drying blood still splattered across his forearms and chest. The only noises came from the moaning timbers of the ship.
Eric moved closer. Rather than acknowledge his presence, the Captain stared into the depths of a half-empty rum bottle. Combined with the shadows thrown off by the candle, his black whirlwind of a beard made his expression unreadable.
“The baby survived,” Eric said after a moment. “You saved her life, sir. If you hadn’t—”
“Forego the commiserations, Mister Townsend,” the man interjected. “I’d be far more appreciative if you’d simply join me for a drink.”
Forester sucked down a swig of liquor then held out the bottle.
Eric took it and set it aside. “The girl’s death wasn’t your fault, sir. That was Hollis’s doing. If you hadn’t cut her open the baby would’ve perished along with her.”
“Perhaps so,” Forester replied. “But when you consider the life that awaits her, what good have I done?”
Eric glanced at the floorboards, his heart heavy with guilt. He recalled the eyes of the three blackamoor women who first brought the pregnant girl up from the slave hold. He’d handed them the newborn, wrapped in the Captain’s coat, but remained silent while they carried it away, wondering if one of them had been the dead girl’s mother.
Forester reached over and reclaimed the bottle. “I’ve fathered five children in my time,” he said. “My wife delivered each of them directly into my hands. They look so fragile at that moment, so innocent … That young woman’s child was no different, Eric. And yet her future is already decided because she’s not … not one of us. How is it I’ve never seen the absurdity in that notion? How could anyone not see it?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Eric answered. “Whatever happened out there … It opened my ey
es, as well.”
Forester nodded. “Yes … Yes, I believe it did, mate. Which is why you’ll understand I’ve decided to free them.”
Eric snapped out of the contemplation of his newfound perspective on life and gaped at the Captain’s spartan expression.
“We’ll do it tonight,” Forester continued. “With this weather Hollis and his men will sleep like a trio of drunkards. We can contain them in their cabin for the remainder of the voyage.”
Eric glanced at the door, relieved to find he’d closed it behind him. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be too hasty,” he said. “After all, we’re merchant sailors, not pirates. Besides, this is only the first trip of our contract. We could deliver the shipment and resign our commission first thing in Jamestown.”
“Shipment,” the Captain said. “Would you tolerate someone talking that way about your wife or child?”
“No,” Eric conceded. “I suppose not. With all due respect, sir, you’re talking about treason. We’ll be condemned.”
Forester straightened up. “The slave trade has been going on for over fifty years. Until today I never saw it as anything other than another business. How many thousands think the same? How many ships sail even now with cargos twice the size of our own? Mark my words, Eric; history will judge us on these deeds. If I’m to be condemned for anything then, by God, let it be for doing what I know in my heart is right.”
The man’s words