Clanker
I wasn't a religious fanatic 'afore I joined the Dutchman, and I ain't one now, but how can I not believe in the Almighty when I'm on a ship wit' the Devil 'imself? It's me punishment fer being a bad sinner 'afore I even got on this ship. I imagine that by not accepting me fate as a mortal man, I'm forever cursed ter be a monster, as is my due.
After all, even if we have the minimum sentence when we first are enrolled, which is one 'undred years, we'll still 'prolly merge into the ship, like Wyvern. It's what will 'appen to all of us, eventually. Except maybe Cap'n. But he don't live by no rules.
I tell Greenbeard that Wyvern's condition is our impendin', eternal fate. I think that it sounds fairly spiritual, meself, but the rest o' the crew laugh an' call it silly soundin'. They may be right, after all, but I'll jus' continue on saying it despite their opinions.
I dun think Greenbeard really understands me, but he's the only one that listens well, aside from Hadras.
Hadras is from the Guangdong province of China, and English ain't his natural language, but me an' him seem ter understand the other easily enough- not without some difficulty at times, but we dun let that barrier stop us.
On this ship, one is lucky to find friendship, and the bloke'll leap on the opportunity whenever it arises. While we won't support each other if we fall under the officers' ire, in the down time, it helps to have someone just to beat the misery away, an' fill it with something else, something almost joyful.
Either that, or you'd be down in your cups, wit' trouble breathing down your back. We all of us know the things that can happen if you let yerself sink too much into misery an' despair, an' it ain't just becomin' like Wyvern. No, something else entirely.
You draw attention to yerself, an' that's something that you never want. It's different when you get into a fight with Jimmylegs- it's his temper that usually drags you into that mess. That doesn't mean Cap'n will act any little bit more forgiving, though; that's one aspect that's constant about him. He'll never act that way.
But if ye bring yourself into the light, as it were, an' ye dun have a clear head to steady yerself, you'll soon be nursing more wounds than ye'd care to describe.
So, to keep our minds off absinthe or other things that will make us act out, we'll do whatever we can. Though of course, special occasions always call for a good bottle or two. But for most days, Hadras an' I often play Liar's Dice, an' he's rather talented at it. I haven't developed a strategy like he has, but I still get along well enough. But that ain't the only thing we do together.
Hadras has taught me a Chinese game as well, called Mahjongg. We found it below the waterline, hidden behind drenched, ruined silk cushions in the wreck of a partially submerged junk we came across in the Yellow Sea. Many of the tiles were missing, and many more now have been lost since the board came into our possession.
Still, we do what we can wit' what we 'ave.
Mahjongg is really only used by Hadras and meself. We keep to ourselves, huddled in a corner and peering closely at the pieces in the semi-darkness, pointing out possible moves that the other may not have seen.
Even when the others spot us playing it when off-duty, they keep their distance, finding no reason to get involved. On the Dutchman, too much curiosity is soon crushed and suppressed, hidden away in the dank depths of yer soul, buried right beside your humanity an' compassion.
There are forbidden subjects onboard- one of the foremost bein' love.
If he hears ye, Cap'n'll flog the bugger who mentions the word 'imself, and if you're watchin' the event, you can even see a glimpse of the pain in Cap'n's very own eyes. With every snap of the cat, with every cry from the victim, every grunt from the Cap'n, every creak of the ship, it forms a sickening beat, the rhythm of the Flying Dutchman.
Snap. Moan. Grunt. Creak. Snap. Moan. Grunt. Creak.
Normally we all gather 'round an' leer at the man on the wrong side of the whip, unless we feel Cap'n's acting cruel that day. But when he 'imself does it, even Jimmylegs will flinch on occasion. The mates are obligated ter stand on attention, but as for the rest of us, we'll scatter and flee to the darkest niches of the ship, even though the dreadful sound'll follow us anywhere we go.
There was one particularly awful occasion where that happened, an' it was long before me an' Hadras joined.
Only the oldest remember that. Greenbeard does.
There was a poor blighter who was relatively new on the ship, freshly scooped up from the briny deep, still full of hope an'…love. He had, unwittingly strayed onto the subject of his life as a mortal man, and began to talk 'bout his wife and four children that he left behind. It was -using me own expression- his impending, eternal fate that Cap'n's ears had overheard this conversation, and he was brought into an unequaled rage. He furiously tore the whip out of the grasp of the previous bo'sun and set himself upon the unsuspecting sailor.
The man was driven mad by the pain, and when he had enough strength to stand again, the first place he went to was the brig, according to Greenbeard, who's senile in his own right. It's hard to say if his words have any sense in them anymore, but I dun have any reason not to believe him.
After all, if you really want to prove his tale true, all ye'll need to do is go down below and see Ol' Wyvern for yourself.
And so here I am in me hammock, unable to read, but clutching the Holy Book to me chest all the same. Good moments or bad, there's only one thing ye can do on the Flying Dutchman.
Get on yer marrowbones an' pray.