Chapter 1: Blood and Wine

A note from the author:

Cry for Tortuga is a working trilogy about the Golden Age of Piracy. In our current age of fictional, zombie-fighting Pirates of the Caribbean, I thought it would be refreshing to write about real pirates. Pirates who were not the romantic visions of swashbuckling Robin Hoods, so much as the drunken thieves, beggars, murderers and rapists that they truly were.
Flail of the Coast, the first of the Tortuga trilogy, is loosely based upon the life of Francois L'Ollonnais. It is unfortunate for history buffs, such as myself, that the rate of literacy was so low during his lifetime. Most of the legends surrounding L'Ollonnais were spread simply by word of mouth, effectively crucifying any hope of historical validity toward his younger years. Fortunately, enough is known about his days as one of the most ruthless, vengeful and blood-thirsty pirates of the period that the rest can be filled in with a bit of imagination and some educated guesswork.
The two books that complete the Cry for Tortuga trilogy will be about Sir Henry Morgan and Blackbeard.

So grab a bottle of rum, perch yourself on a dead man's chest  and enjoy a few chapters as we set sail with the real pirates of the Caribbean!

Damian Alan Gray

 

 

Chapter 1: Blood and Wine

 

Not all stories have happy endings. This was the bleak reality that Jean had been facing all day, and now that he was actually standing in the parlor overlooking his uncle’s corpse the final seal seemed to be placed neatly in the day’s ledger. All he had been looking headed for, all that he and his Uncle Francis had planned and schemed, had now come to nothing more than grey pallor, wrapped in a death shroud.

Youth does not mandate naivete, and this had never been so true as it was with young Jean Nau. Even at the tender age of sixteen he knew the difference between right and wrong, although his recently departed uncle had tried desperately to askew that knowledge over the years. He’d taught Jean virtue via the point of his sword, and by the time he had reached the ripe old age of ten he’d already known how to parry with the best in the village. Jejune notwithstanding, the townsfolk learned quickly that Jean’s age belied his talent with a rapier.

Jean was thirteen when he first killed a man. It was an accident, of course, and the town elders had proclaimed his innocence before day’s end. But his uncle knew better about that so-called innocence, and upon their return home from the town council, he had the servants cook Jean a congratulatory dinner. It had been a duel, one in which the opponents had agreed upon the stakes prior to the match: to the death, with risk of estate. Yet, now, what had become of the blood gold was anyone’s guess and Jean supposed it no longer mattered. The amount was a pittance compared to his newly acquired inheritance, but at the time of the man’s death it had somehow seemed like more.

The important thing hadn’t been the money, anyway. The duel was for honor, and a matter of standing in their small society. The man had insulted, and Jean was more than eager to take his words into accountability. The smile that Jean cut into the man’s throat had been completely incidental to the situation. Innocence was a mere term of endearment to Jean and his uncle, and meant as little to either of them.

Death, it seemed to Jean, was forever equating itself with pecuniary gain.

As he was pondering the memory, Jean was suddenly brought to reality by a large hand that had been gently placed on his shoulder. He had been completely lost in his thoughts, as he gazed down at the body in the casket. “Your uncle was a good man, Jean” said the bear of a man attached to the hand. “A good man who carried a heavy burden, yes?”

Pierre Duchamps was the only other man in the village that Jean trusted enough to call family. He had been a friend of the Nau family since before Jean was born, and the continuance of this friendship now seemed assured even though Jean was now the sole survivor of the coterie.

“Yes,” said Jean, “he was.”

He stared at his uncle’s corpse for another moment with Pierre standing faithfully beside him. ‘They’ll cover his face, won’t they Pierre?”

“Of course they will, Jean. Just before closing the coffin the pallbearers will cover his face so he’ll not bear witness to his own burial. To do otherwise would be macabre, yes?”

Jean placed two gold coins over his uncle’s eyes and stepped away from the casket, turning toward the doorway of the spacious parlor. “Firewood,” he said under his breath, but loud enough to catch the ears of nearby Pierre.

“Jean,” Pierre said, “come with me. I want to show you something.”

In silence, the two of them walked slowly from the room, through the great house and then outdoors. A fresh bay breeze slammed into Jean’s lungs and filled him with what seemed to be life itself. The salted moist air made Jean think of more pleasant time at Chateau Nau, and of course, of his uncle. How long had it been since he’d left the house that day? Now, near early afternoon, the morning had been filled with preparations for his uncle’s funeral. Of course the servants had managed the food for the townspeople, who were to come in droves for the viewing. But, Pierre hadn’t come to help until the late morning, and so it had been left to Jean to arrange everything and set the viewing table for his Uncle Francis’ body.

They made their way to the small barnyard at the back of the house. The fresh air was tainted here with the foul odor of pig manure and chickens. Jean pinched his nose and looked up at Pierre with disgust.

“Jean,” Pierre frowned, “do not act that way. This is your home, and this was your uncle’s home before you. Just because you have been protected from the life of a farmer, does not mean that you do not have the blood of a farmer. You are who you are because of this farm, and you would do well to thank God for the pig s**t that has nurtured you.”

Jean looked down, ashamed.

Pierre motioned to the side of the barn. “Do you see that bale near the back of the barn?”

“Yes.”

“That is where your I taught your uncle the fine art of fencing.” He looked down to see the unimpressed look on Jean’s face. Smug little b*****d, he thought, if he only knew.

Pierre’s meaty hand, the same hand that had been offering sympathy not ten minutes before, now flashed up and rattled Jean’s skull. “Your Uncle Francis and I made a blood pact years ago that sealed my servitude to this family. You’ll not render that, my young friend. Whether or not the honor of your uncle’s memory means anything to the likes of you holds no interest to me.” He stared down at Jean with drunken repugnance for his insolent youth; his utter disrespect for anything and anyone that had gone before him.

Jean stared at the ground, rubbing the back of his throbbing head. Pierre had been drinking since he arrived for the funeral, and he knew better than to tangle with him once the spirits had begun to take hold of Pierre’s senses.

“Moving on, yes?” Pierre grabbed Jean by the back of the neck and ushered him toward the stables.

With one large hand, Pierre grabbed old of a saddle and threw it at Jean’s feet. “Mount,” he said.

“Where are we going?” Pierre ignored him and proceeded to bridle his own horse. “Pierre, the house is still filled with guests. I cannot simply leave them to their own devices. They are liable to burn the - ”

“Where we are going, mon petite, is none of your concern,” he paused for a moment and then added, “yet.”

“But, Pierre!” Jean motioned exasperatedly wildly toward the house.

“Since when were you ever so concerned over the goings-on with those people? The servants will take care of their needs in our absence, and trust me, they won’t even notice that you’re missing for at least two or three days.”

This statement shook Jean like jolt of thunder that had abruptly crossed over his head. Exactly what were Pierre’s plans for him, he wondered? Missing? Two or three days? He’d always trusted Pierre, but now he felt a sudden trepidation around the man that bordered upon terror. He thought it best not to pursue the matter just yet; best to go along with what the man wanted. Pierre was a gentle giant for the most part, but Jean had seen his anger rise against those who crossed him. Without another word, he did what he had been told and bridled his mare.

“To the docks,” Pierre said, and once again that large hand of his came down hard, but this time it found it’s mark on the mare’s hindquarters jolting horse and rider forward.

By the time Jean and Pierre had reached the town hub, the day had become hot and the air was thick with a humidity that can only be found in small fishing towns. Jean’s horse was exhausted from the hard ride in the heat, but as Jean had been lost in his own thoughts about his uncle, he didn’t notice that his mare was nearing exhaustion until she began to pull and rear in protest at furthering their little ride without water.

“Pierre!” It had been the first word spoken by either of them since they’d left the stables. “Pierre! I must insist that we stop!” he yelled. “Cinder cannot take much more!”

“We’re here,” Pierre said, and guided his horse toward the only pub the village had to offer. Tying their horses to a water trough, they went in.

Jean had assumed that the entire village had been at the house for his uncle’s funeral. Now he realized that nothing could be further from the truth. The tavern was cool in the way that a large tree might offer relief in its shade, but with little ventilation and so many men inside the heat made its way into the tavern anyway.

“Vin!” Pierre yelled at the barkeep, “Deux bouteilles!” They made their way through the crowd of fishermen and dock workers, all smelling of dead fish, and eventually found an unoccupied table.

They had no more than sat down, when the bartender slammed two bottles of wine in front of them. “Deux francs, monsieur,” he growled.

Pierre pulled five francs from his pouch and told the keep to send over two more bottles. With that, Pierre pulled the corks from the bottles and slid one in front of Jean. Pierre downed half of his bottle in what seemed to be two gulps.

He sat there and stared at Jean for what felt like an eternity. The tavern was filled with the din of laughter and of men yelling at one another. It was so loud that Jean didn’t hear Pierre when he first began speaking to him.

“I said listen, boy!” He slapped the table in front of Jean, rattling the bottles and focusing him back to his abductor. “You want to know what’s what, yes? Well, I’m telling you and you are more concerned over your wishful lovers than you are with your own fate, enfant.” The thought of laying with any of these foul-smelling men appalled Jean, and it infuriated him that Pierre would make such a suggestion. Pierre, however, upon noticing Jean’s anger, thought it quite amusing. “Yes, they like little boys such as yourself,” he chortled.

“What do you mean by fate, Pierre?” the anger grew in his voice. He was no longer afraid of Pierre, so much as the growing fact that this day may end with Pierre’s death as well. He felt his sword at his side. “What would you have of me?”

“You may rescind and repeal any thoughts you have of running me through, enfant. Your sword will not remove you from my keep today.” Somehow, Jean knew this to be the truth. Though Jean had proven his worth with a sword time after time, he still knew better than to attempt to teach his own master’s master. Pierre swallowed the last of his bottle. “Barkeep!” he yelled over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off Jean. If Pierre had learned anything over the years it was that a baby snake can be even more venomous than it’s elders. “Where the f**k is my wine?” he yelled again.

“Pierre,” Jean reached for his bottle, but then thought better of it. He should stay as sober as possible for what he presumed was to come. He placed his hand discretely under the table, and back on the hilt of his cutlass.

Pierre ignored him, seeming to care more about where his fresh bottle was than the fact that he and Jean were engaged in conversation at all. Jean began to wonder if this whole escapade was just a drunken farce because Pierre had imbibed too much at the funeral. Then, just as he was beginning to forgive him for the drink, Pierre pointed at Jean’s face and said, “I haven’t nearly drunk enough, you b*****d!”

It dawned on Jean that Pierre had somehow reading his thoughts. “How did you…” Pierre just stared at him.

“There’s much you do not know, mon petite. I can read you like a map, and all the more for the ease of it all,” he said. “But, I suppose you’ll learn that in time as well. Just as I’ve taught you and your uncle the deadliest of arts, I’ll teach you to read people as I can. In time, “he trailed off, “.… In time.”

“Barkeep!” he yelled again over his shoulder, and found himself staring at the bartender’s belly. Jean took this moment’s relief from Pierre’s constant gaze to more firmly establish a hold on the hilt of his sword. The bartender slammed two more bottles down on the table, spilling some of the wine in the process.

“Deux francs, monsieur.” He said, holding out one fat hand.

“What? Are you daft? I’ve already paid you,” Pierre said, waving his hand in dismissal, “fetch me a leg of lamb, you cheating b*****d!”

“I am a cheat, monsieur? I believe you are the cheat! My money or no wine,” he reached for the bottles again.

Like a flash of lightening, the same sword that had been meant for Pierre’s throat now pointed directly in front of the bartender’s heart, stopping the barkeep in his tracks.

“Monsieur,” said Jean without getting up from his seat, “I believe you are mistaken. My friend has already paid you well in advance for the wine, yes? You would do well to quickly realize your mistake and tend to your other customers, else you find your blood spilled along with the wine.” Jean’s threat had been meant to be discreet as possible. His sword was positioned as to not draw the attention of the locals, thereby inevitably causing one of them to act like a hero. Pierre eyed both Jean and the barkeep, and slowly a smile spread across his face. It was the first smile Jean had seen from him, or anyone else that day.

“Yes, now that I think about it,” started the frightened bartender, “I believe you are right. Pardonnez moi, monsieur.”

The front door banged open to allow not only a few more fishermen inside the dark tavern, but also the sunlight which flashed off Jean’s blade. The beam of reflected light landed directly in the eyes of a nearby patron, and that was all it took for the man to shoot up from his chair with sword drawn, knocking over his own table in the process.

Pierre was on his feet in a flash with the point of his own sword waving in front of this man, who meant to run Jean through. The result of this crashing ruckus was the sudden, deafening silence throughout the tavern. All eyes were now upon the situation at hand.

“Pierre,” said Jean, “I don’t think this is what I had intended.”

Within a blink of an eye, the entire pub was on it’s feet and in a stand-off; one man pointing his own sword at another, who’s own sword was pointing at another, and yet another sword pointing at another. All of them either defending the life of another, or in it for the joy. No one moved, or so much as took a breath. And, for all the weaponry drawn, the one unarmed man – the barkeep – was the first to move.

He grabbed the neck of one of the bottles of wine on the table before him and smashed it against Pierre’s skull. Like every other duel in which he’d fought, Jean’s mind began to slow to afford him an almost preternatural concentration. Wine and blood seemed to float through the air and travel at incredibly sluggish speeds. He glanced up to see the expression on Pierre's face turn from pain to one of raw fury. Before even one drop of blood or wine hit the floor, the bartender found Jean’s sword buried to its hilt in his chest. It was a relatively quick death, but to Jean’s slow-motion mind it had seemed like an eternity before the man fell.

Meanwhile, this proved to be the single starting point that everyone in the pub had been awaiting. As if on command, the uneasy cacophony of silence that had been permeating throughout the tavern was immediately broken by clashes of steel and the dying screams of sudden death.

Like dominoes line-up for the sole purpose of being felled, man after man had his heart or gullet pierced by each man’s cold steel. One after the other, the men fell to their knees or suffered slices across their throats. Jean and Pierre, having practiced for this kind of experience, jumped onto their table in unison. Fending off the onslaught of so many blades at the same time, it seemed to Jean that they were standing amongst a wheat field, the razor sharp stalks surrounding them, waving in the wind and threatening the two of them with their every move.

“Jean!” Pierre called out.

Jean glanced over at Pierre's face just long enough to see that he was using his eyes to indicate a small opening in the crowd in front of them. Almost as if it were by telepathic command, the two of them sprang into the air and curled into a tight ball. As Jean went upside-down and into a somersault over the crowd of blades, his own sword crashed against at least five others in his defense.

Lighting finally in the middle of the open area, he jumped to his feet to see that Pierre had missed his mark, and had landed directly in the center of the fray. Jean parried against an onslaught of foes, but there were relatively few considering that most of the attention was upon Pierre and his miscalculated landing.

Finally nearing Pierre, Jean stood back against back and fought as much to protect himself as to protect the man who was to be his victim no less than two minutes earlier. He cursed himself for his loyalty to this man, and the loyalty that his Uncle Francis had had for him in life.

The duo cautiously spun in circles, back to back, and this dance allowed them safe crossing to the tavern’s front door. On their way through the brawl they passed their own table, which had somehow remained upright throughout the carnage, Jean noticed that the bottles of wine were missing. Ironic, he thought, that it was because of Pierre’s drunken insistence they were in this mess in the first place. Now, the treasured bottles were no more than a memory. Again, Jean cursed himself.

Round and round they spun in this perfectly choreographed, yet inverted dance. They parried against blade after blade, until the dance became nothing more than a steel blur to Pierre. To Jean, however, the cutlasses were easily rolling in the wind. Every detail of every face, every gesture and threatening stance was predicted by Jean before his opponent so much as gave birth to the notion. Then he noticed that the blades were becoming fewer as he and Pierre made their way through the crowd, swords clanging together and piercing flesh as they went. But it wasn’t until they were almost at the door that Jean began to realize that their opponent’s numbers were not falling because the men, themselves, were falling. They were simply stopping the fight altogether; lowering their swords and retreating to the rear of the tavern. Jean attempted to continue the defensive spinning dance, but he was met by resistance from Pierre’s back, which was now pushing back on Jean and pressing him to the waiting and grinning mob.

“S’right, lad, come to papa and take yer medicine!” one of the men taunted, but he only raised his cutlass enough to defend himself should Jean begin to wield his own.

“Pierre!” he screamed, “What are you doing?”

He took a chance and glanced around Pierre's back to see yet another throng of people pushing into the tavern. Several troops of soldiers – and quite possibly the entirety of what was considered as law force in the small French town of L’Olonnais – were attempting to end the ruckus by way of plowing through Pierre and Jean.

“Only two ways out from here, my friend,” Pierre said in Portuguese, his sword parrying to defend his very life and not bothering any attempt to run any of the soldiers through, “death or the window. I’m choosing the latter, and I suggest you do the same.”

Again, as if in telepathic communication, the two leapt for the stained glass window to their left. Side by side, Jean atop Pierre, they crashed through the hardened glass. Jean’s mind seemed to go dark upon impact, and he couldn’t remember actually hitting the glass as much as he recalled how beautiful the bits and pieces of colored glass looked as they sparkled in the afternoon sunlight. His concentration, having slowed the world to an almost dead halt, made the shards of glass twinkle slowly as they turned and flew through the daylight brilliance before landing on the dirt outside the tavern.

They were both immediately on their feet and running, and before Jean knew what was happening, he and Pierre were riding at top speed toward the docks. He could hear the soldiers running after them, down the town’s main road. But at the pace in which the horses were running, the sound was fading fast. Apparently, Jean’s assumption that the entire force had been upon them was correct, as he saw no sign of troops ahead of them.

They came upon the docks, and Pierre motioned to his right. It was only then that Jean saw a large and heavily armed brigantine moored by a pier. Men aboard the ship began yelling at Pierre.

“Ahoy!” one man yelled. “Right behind you!” warned another. “Get aboard, Cap’n! We’re off to Davey Jones with or without ye!” cried another of the sailors, who had already flung himself dockside to untie the ship from the pier.

Pierre quickly jumped from his horse and ran for the ship. Jean quickly followed and they both ran up the ship’s cargo ramp. By the time the soldiers had arrived at the pier the ship was already pulling away from the dock, and Pierre and Jean stood at the ship’s aft laughing in their trail. A bullet from one of the soldiers guns sped between Jean and Pierre, and they continued to laugh even as they threw themselves to the deck of the ship to protect themselves from the sudden barrage of gunfire that came from the pier. They rolled on the deck as though they were in the heat of agony, but in reality only their stomach muscles were in pain from laughing as hard as they were.

“A pirate!” Jean somehow managed to spit out, “You’re a bloody pirate!”

“Welcome to it, mon petite!” laughed Pierre, “Welcome to it!”
 

Reviews

[alternative_be]

I like books based on history or life in former times. Now, like you point out in your introduction, much of the books and films we are presented with, are romanticized and do not give a straightforward recollection of the actual facts. Now most people seem to like the romance over the historical value of a book or a film. We often tend to forget that good old times were not as good as we think them to be.
We often mistakenly think that books or stories based on facts are bound to be boring.
We often forget that only few people could read and write in those times and that therefore facts come to us by generations of story telling in order to preserve the history of ancient times.
Even if you do not like pirats, this is a captivating recollection of the raw pirate life, where the law of the strongest prevailed and things not always were what they seemed.
After writing this, I come to the conclusion that much of today's life and successes still are based on bonds between friends and families and who you know and who you do not know, who trust can be gained or broken, how things turn out in very odd ways... Only today we call it... networking!
Oh yes, I will keep on reading this book!
This was my first impression after a very quick read and I'll re-read this again for sure!
Realistic accounts of historical facts are anything but boring!

[Dan Bullock]

I have a real problem reading stories on the screen still.....can I ask permission to copy and print off...and then I'll review properly :) Dan

[cyanskye]

I must quote J. Buffett here: "the cannons don't thunder, there's nothin to plunder, I'm an over 40 (and female) victim of fate..." Love the idea of a historical novel about the pirate kings. Your dialoge was great, I got the feel for the characters and their language without it feeling forced. Don't forget the historical detail in further installments.
I'm going to try to add some notes - just a few typos here and there. Hope it helps.
Looking forward to chapter two.

This is going to be a very promising story. There are a few items I want to impart to bring realism in the story (and greater interest).

I once watched in Discovery Channel that these pirates (in the coast near South Africa) were assigned to be there by the English Royalty. They were covert in a sense that they were stealing from other European ships on behalf of the English Royal family, but without the knowledge of the enemies. There was an official contract between the parties that in the event they revealed who their true bosses were, the English Royalty had the right to deny and cancel the deal.

It was also part of the deal that the English get a very large share of the loot, and that in the event the English did find out that they were being cheated, they will demand a very large penalty (equivalent to what the pirates would have earned for the year).

It does make us think on how these guys were able to survive without being caught. They had government protection, in secret (quite like how brothels can exist considering it was supposed to be illegal).

I like how the introduction has started. It will be a very interesting story. The cinematographer could make the action scenes feel like the matrix, given the play with time, slowing down, blurring, and spinning.

A promising piece

[J. James Reider]

to be honest with you, I loathe pirates... I find nothing interesting about them... I feel the same way about vampires... as far as the content goes, it was well done... for a first draft... the fight scene may need some work because I found it a little confusing at times... I liked the way you handled the character development so far... and the little detail of Pierre speaking to Jean in Portugese is brilliant... I saw some similarities between Jake Chambers and Jean as well as Cort in Pierre, if you know what I am referring to... a very interesting match in my opinion...
There were some typos but that can be expected in a story of this length... I would gladly itemise them for you if you like... the story flowed well, I didn't find it difficult to read in any locations other than some points in the fight scene... I had to reread Jean's backflip, for instance... you may want to elaborate a little more on Jean's first duel as well, maybe later in the story as what is provided is enough for now... as always, your writing is solid and well crafted, and the idea seems to be quite original... it is a great idea and I wish you the best!

[Mysteral - Night Prowle..]

Having been impressed by other work of yours Damien, thought I would have a look , then after the first few paragraphs, realised the setting is France, probably 18th century. Living in France, and being a similar period to my current work, Princess of Wolves, and as you say, "I thought it would be refreshing to write about real pirates. Pirates who were not the romantic visions of swashbuckling Robin Hoods, so much as the drunken thieves, beggars, murderers and rapists that they truly were." I decided to be more critical than most. Please don't take offence at anything I say, and don't assume I am correct.

There are several typos, but I will leave those, and concentrate on the story. You say:

>>>"Where we are going, mon petite, is none�

Assuming Jean is male, it should be "mon petit" or if female "ma petite" note spelling. Gender of words is very important in French. Petit is the masculine form.

My personal opinion... I never write parts of conversation in French. It feels pretentious to me, as if the author is saying to the reader, "Look I can speak a bit of French." I refer to the order for "Deux bouteilles de vin" If you are writing for English speaking readers, I don't see anything wrong with keeping dialogue in English.

I don't think they used francs at the time this was set, I believe it was livres, but not absolutely certain.

Something more realistic than swashbuckling films? I feel the bar brawl is like something out of 1950's Errol Flynn movie. I laughed. I really couldn't take the story seriously after that.
The patrons being mainly fishermen I do not think would carry swords. Jean maybe if his uncle owned a large estate, but not a cutlass. Possibly an epee or a rapier. I don't know at this time who Pierre is, so no comment. I cannot see a barman with a sword point against his chest picking up a bottle to hit Pierre. Sorry, just not realistic.

>>>the small French town of L'Olonnais�

or maybe modern day les Sables-d'Ollonne or Ollonne sur Mer just north of La Rochelle on the Atlantic coast. Not sure if L'Ollonaise may mean something like "The man from Ollonne"

Reaching the end, I realise Pierre is a pirate so a cutlass maybe is OK for him.

Just a point to remember, the guns used by the soldiers at the time, I believe were muzzle loaded muskets or pistols firing a lead ball..

You ask for advice. Mine, for what it's worth, I would rewrite the fight scene, but just have soldiers entering the tavern to challenge the two heroes. If Pierre was suspected of being a pirate, that would be enough to initiate his arrest. Not sure about the French, but the English used pirates to raid the Spanish fleets, only provided they had no direct link with England.

I do look forward to reading more.

[luthien7]

Greatly enjoyed reading this. i was most impressed by the language and the way you are able to put the reader in that place, seeing all of these things and hearing these conversations. your dialogue is excellent.

I didn't see any issues with flow, I was able to understand what was going on and the story keeps you interested. Can't wait to read the next installment. Wish I had more helpful critique but the work is very good at this point

THanks

[Gravedigger]

Very impressive work! I saw no problems of any kind, except that the chapter eventually had to end...keep me posted, I want to hear the rest!

[Jeb]

Wow. Creative and interesting. There were some flow problems in one or two places, just work on transitions in some places, thats not my strongpoint I know. Still wonderful story I look forward to the next chapter.

[yinseriv]

A pirate story! I love pirate stories. A very fast begining as it should be. I trust the coming days at sea will flesh out the characters a bit more. I followed the story fine. The questions i would like answered are:

1) why the day of the funeral and not after burial?

2) Small town. How could he not know the family friend's line of work?