The wind howled; sharp hands ripping at the canvas sails. The sea turned her forces on the straining ship. Wave crashed against the hull, spray beating the men on deck as they ran frantically, trying to stay afloat and not be swept overboard, to certain death.
The Commodore fought hard at the wheel. He would not give up. He could not. The lives of his men depended on him.
Andrew Gillette slid on the sopping deck, body slamming hard against the railing. He grimaced and forced himself back up again. He looked around, eyes darting frantically, seeking desperately for a glimpse, anything. He shouted, but his voice was lost against the wind.
The wave came silently. The howling wind suddenly silenced. The horrid, slow cracking penetrated the air. The Dauntless, the pride of the Caribbean, broke into bits against the unhinged power of the storm. The shouts and cries of the drowning crew blurred into the wails of the hurricane.
The water stung and burned, the salt biting at his wind-whipped skin. Andrew coughed and choked, fighting to stay above water. He grabbed wildly, searching for a fragment of the once-proud ship.
He felt a blunt force come against him. He opened his eyes. His vision was blurred.
"Hold on."
He didn't need clear sight to see him. He held on tight. They would make it through. The swells tossed them up and down, bobbing like a child's bath toy. Clenched hands turned white against the strain.
He never saw the silent, rising wave. The water crashed down on top of him, plummeting him downward, breaking away chunks and loosely connected pieces of the splintered wood.
The wave quelled as he surfaced, gasping and shaking, eyes wide, blinded by the salty spray.
Theodore was gone.
"Teddy!"
Shards of wood dug deeply into his hands, penetrating the skin.
Goodbye.
Where
has the starlight gone?
Dark is the day
How can I find my way
home?
Home is an empty dream
Lost to the night
I feel so
alone