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Solomon's Knot
by John Grabski Winter 1812. You lay shackled, imprisoned in the belly of an English Man O’ War. You hear and feel the thunderous pounding of temporal waves explode against the wooden bow as the ship holds true, bound for Dartmoor, a prison made famous by the Hounds of Baskervilles. And now, dark and adrift through a timeless place where faceless men fought shapeless wars, each man must bear to hear his story told. Solomon. Four months shy of twenty-two. Distinguished by sheathes of flaxen hair, likely owing to your Scottish descent. You tower a half head taller standing chained to others of the same misfortunate lot. Soldiers all, captured at sea. Around you the sounds of celebration as your rivals hoist tankards of grog to honor their king. In jest, your fellow seamen rattle their chains like feral hominid dogs, snap their teeth, pump passionate fists in the air. Shots are fired. A volley of acid banter ensues. Above the chaos, the English captain roars. “Heathens! A disgrace to the king!” He unsheathes his sword, levels the blade to your chin. “We’ll settle this with a duel. Pick your best man and I’ll do the same. They’ll scrap bare-knuckled, a proper Englishmen’s fight! When my soldier puts yours to the ground, and he will, the scab will be dropped in the brig. We’ll proceed until every last heathen lay piled in a stinking heap! And should your man win, then by God he’ll muster to fight again!” You look to your fellow seamen and they in turn to you. A bedraggled crew, days without food or sleep. You turn to face your captors. “I’ll fight your man!” you say, “With one condition.” “Condition?” The Englishmen howl and jeer. “What pray tell, is this, condition?” “We fight to the death!” The captain retracts his jaw, arches his brow and grins. The soldiers, desperately silent. “And after you’re dead?” “The duel will end.” “And your weapon?” “We’re both to be shackled to the deck. Our only weapon, a four-foot length of rope.” The captain and crew raise their grog to chant and cheer as a hulking brut with enormous silver teeth lumbers forth. The captain acknowledges the ruffian with a wink and a nod and returns his gaze to you. “Perhaps you’ll reconsider?” Mid-laugh, an Englishman belches the invisible stench of sour grog. The brut stands glowering, shackles are clasped and snapped to the deck. Ropes are cut and tossed to the floor. The captain points his pistol skyward. “On my command, you’ll begin.” A deafening blast. With motion severe, you fashion a knot and swing it with savage intensity. A circular thumping hammer that fells the giant brut as if lighting had surged from the heart of the very knot itself. You air your jaw and turn to the quivering Englishmen, their gazes affixed to the disembodied eyes of the brut. You raise the bloodied knot high in the air. “Dreadnaught, the Man O’ War.” you say. “Dread we men born free!” |
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