There were so many updates in my naval historical fiction novel Sic Parvis Magna that I decided to rewrite this page altogether. As a result, I am splitting this older page into the prologue (below) and a separate Chapter 1 page (to be posted shortly).
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Now, without further ado… here is an opening scene from the historical fiction novel Sic Parvis Magna.
Prologue
17 November, 1555
Off the coast of Boulogne-sur-Mer, France
Deep in the Tiger’s cargo hold, 15-year-old Francis Drake lifted his aching, shackled hands. The short chain allowed only a small amount of movement before it became taut, issuing a dull, metallic clink.
Around him, he could see the faces of six others, their eyes hollow, dark pits in the dim light. They — the two mates, the barber-surgeon, three sailors, and Francis — were all that was left of the Tiger’s crew.
Being captured was hardly why he had apprenticed himself just two years ago.
In fact, when Francis set sail on the Tiger two years ago, he had been full of hope — certain that he was following God’s plan.
Now… with most of the crew dead, the Tiger damaged and being towed as a prize, and his future… he swallowed hard.
How had it come to this?
Sola fide, he remembered his father’s voice.
Bitterness welled up in his throat — Francis knew he was on the path God had set before him. He had applied himself, done everything right. He had learned the ways of a merchantman. From the menial tasks of cleaning the buckets, he had grown to handle the sail and assist in navigation.
By the grace of God, he had survived countless storms, being denounced as a heretic, and even an attempt on his life.
And, it wasn’t that the Tiger had been unprepared for battle. The skill and judgement of Captain Trelawney had always prevailed.
They should not have been captured.
If the Lord tests the righteous, he thought, recalling many a lecture from his father, what is the purpose of this trial?
The only answer he heard was the hollow clank of iron.
His anger choked him, and he slammed his fists against the deck.
Did I… misread the signs? Is this what you planned for me, Lord? How can this chain glorify You? Will you reveal your plan?
With a guttural sound, he braced his feet and ripped against the chain with all his might. The chain snapped tight, driving the shackles into his wrists. A sharp burst of agony lanced through his arms and shoulders.
But, the chain did not give.
Instead, a drunk voice slurred from the forward part of the hold. “Does the iron chafe you, galley slave?”
Aubin materialized from the dusk of the hold as if he were a ghost, glaring at Francis. His mouth slid into a sinister grin. His hand let the whip uncoil, its leather tail silently vanishing into the darkness behind him.
A new sound shattered the stillness of the hold — the whistling hiss of the whip. Unable to move or deflect the blow, Francis tensed, bracing himself.
Stifling a scream, he bit on his lip as searing pain exploded across his bare back. The taste of blood filled his mouth.
Aubin leaned over Francis, his grin widening.
“It won’t bother you much longer… you just have to live long enough to get to France.” The stench of alcohol hung heavy on his breath.
Francis looked up at his tormentor.
With every ounce of strength he could muster, he spat directly into Aubin’s face.
For a heartbeat, Aubin froze. Once the realization sank in, his face contorted in rage.
“You insolent little bastard!” he roared, backhanding Francis across the face and sending stars across his eyes.
His boot sank into Francis’s stomach again and again.
After a while, panting from fury and exertion, Aubin stumbled back.
“The galley will teach you some respect,” he smirked. “Remember my kindness here…”
He staggered back to the forward part of the hold.
Gasping to regain his breath, Francis lifted his head. The taste of blood was much stronger. He quietly fought back the tears and closed his eyes. His lips moved silently in sync with his thoughts.
Almighty God, our Heavenly Father, I come before You in my hour of need.
He gasped again.
If it be Your will, deliver me from this evil. But if I must endure this trial, grant me the strength to bear it. Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.
He lowered his head towards his clasped hands.
Guide me, O Lord. Open my eyes to Your purpose, so that I might understand. Show me the path You laid before me.
With a shuddering breath, Francis whispered, “Not my will, but Thine be done. In the name of Your Son, Jesus Christ, I pray. Amen.”