Sam stepped up on deck after a hard day's work in the galley of the Blue
Dolphin, having spent hours earlier peeling potatoes for the next day's
breakfast and washing what seemed like an infinitely large pile of dishes
and cookware. He looked up into the rigging and saw black outline of his
crow Plato against the quickly darkening sky. He slowly walked over to the
railing and leaned over to look at the choppy water beneath the ship. He
wondered what it was like to be an ocean, what it was like to be so vast
and so empty and yet so full of life just underneath the surface.
He was broken out of her reverie by the cawing of the churlish crow followed by the yells of the lookout up in the crow's nest. A ship had been sighted. Sam leaned forward and squinted, and could just barely make out the outline of a small merchant vessel near the horizon. It was entirely too dark to see what colors the ship flew, not that it made much difference to his captain. John Watkins would gladly rob his own mother blind, after all. As Sam turned around, the red-faced corpulent man stomped out of his quarters and started yelling down at the men sleeping below. Sam listened as the men on the decks below his feet milled about, sounding much like overgrown rats, preparing the guns for battle while others grabbed weapons and scrambled up on deck, still bleary-eyed from being roused out of their liquor-induced slumber.
Sam, not being one for battle (and the captain generally expressly ordered him to keep his "worthless ass out of the way" anyhow, as he was pathetic with a pistol and not much better with a cutlass), scrambled up the rigging and sat just as Plato flew down to him and perched on his shoulder. As the Blue Dolphin neared the hapless merchant ship, the pirates yelled across the water at the sailors, jeering at them and entreating them to surrender immediately while a couple other pirates raised the Jolly Roger. Now that the vessel was closer, he could make out a British flag and the title "HMS Mockingbird" painted on its hull.
The merchant vessel gave no reply, but rather unfurled its sails fully and turned into the wind in an attempt to flee. Sam shook his head and felt a pang of pity for them. There's no way they'd outrun the Dolphin in that pathetic fat-bellied ship. If they had any sense at all, they'd surrender immediately and pray that Watkins was in a good enough mood to let them keep their lives. As it stood, Sam knew precisely how this little drama would end, and he knew well that it would end badly for the merchants.
The Blue Dolphin repeated the maneuvers of its prey and drew up alongside it in bare minutes while the gunners below let go a volley of chain shot, bringing down its mainmast. The tall beam crashed over the railing of the other ship, and the resulting cracking sound reminded Sam morbidly of someone's neck being snapped, before splashing into the depths of the Caribbean Sea. The rest of its crew was suddenly on deck and Sam counted a total of 14. There was no way they would survive this, 14 merchant sailors against Watkins' 28 pirates, not including herself, of course.
Both ships slowed to a slow drift and the pirates began boarding the disabled vessel. Sam felt like a voyeur watching the morbid pageant play out beneath him. Shots from flint-lock pistols rang occasionally, though this particular pirate crew seemed to find hacking off limbs much more entertaining.
During his first experience of battle, Sam had merely been scared out of his wits, despite being behind the glass of the windows of Watkins' quarters (where he had been thrown after a few pirates got tired of tripping over him as he tried pathetically to fight among them), and he had also found the entire operation to be disgusting. The sight of men killing men over a few trifles was perverse to him, and he'd had nightmares nearly every night for the first few months of being aboard the Blue Dolphin.
Now, however, after becoming used to the sight of it, it seemed more and more alike to a ballet of the damned as he watched men ducking and weaving as they fought. Thrust, parry, and then the final blow, and a sailor falling to the deck of his ship as warm red blood flowed over the planks, tracing wet patterns on the boards. It was like finding pictures in the clouds, a flower here, a tree there, an octopus, an old bent man.
About a quarter of the merchant sailors lay dead, but the rest fought back fiercely. Sam was tempted to cheer them on, if he weren't afraid of being whipped for it. It was rare to see the Dolphin's prey fight back with such vigor, as though they had some hope of victory. They had pushed most of the pirate crew back onto the Dolphin and Sam hung half upside-down as he watched the pandemonium going on almost directly under him.
One of the sailors in particular caught his attention, as he yelled and barked like an animal as he fought, his jaw open and eyes wild in the light of the rising moon. He had a short cutlass which he wielded with little skill but much spirit; he buried it in the gut of one of the pirates (the one with the missing fingers who always called Sam "carrot top" for his brilliant red hair and whom he quietly despised), and quickly twisted around to block the blow of another. Sam decided he was the most marvelous thing he'd ever seen. He moved like the ocean, fluid and feral.
By this time, the rest of the sailor's crew had been slain and the pirates turned to him, leering like demons, mouths slack and open, and eyes burning. Four of them leapt at him at once from behind; he turned and sliced through the neck of one, but the weight of the other three brought him down to his knees. He cried out in no particular language as his arms were pulled harshly behind his back (Sam swore he heard one shoulder pop out of joint) and his weapon taken from him. Sam cried out as well as he moved down the rigging to be closer to her wild man. Tears sprang to his eyes as he was subdued; to Sam, it seemed such a waste to kill him.
Watkins walked up within a half a foot at him, and smiled menacingly down at him, laughing at the sailor on his knees who bared his teeth and said nothing. He bent down and grabbed his hair, wrenching his head up to look in his eyes.
"Ye got spunk, kid, I'll give ye tha' much credit. What's yer name, son?"
The sailor narrowed his eyes at the captain, but said nothing.
"Ye'll answer me when I speak to ye, son, if ye wish te live. And ye'll serve under me if ye wish ter live. I could use a man like you, ye know. So what do ye say to that? Join me crew and live, or else feed the fish t'night?"
Sam watched as the man stared into his captain's eyes for what seemed like an age, before tilting his head back, and spitting in Watkins' eye. Watkins let out a bellow like an angry ox and backhanded the sailor before ordering him tied hand and foot. After binding him, the pirates moved back, allowing the captain to drag him forward by the collar, hauling him up and pushing him down, chest against the railing, head hanging over.
Sam moved in the rigging again, seeking a better vantage point as Watkins drew forth a small dagger, hooking it under the sailor's chin, guiding his head up. Sam could now see the sailor's eyes. Afraid now, but still wild. He looked back at Sam, as if begging him to intervene, as though it were in his power to stop the tragic end to this play. Sam shook his head impotently as he broke from his gaze and watched Watkins lean forward, speaking directly into the man's ear.
"Ye shoulda done what I told ye to, boy. Ye understand now what it means ter defy Captain John Watkins, but ye see, tha' lesson comes too late fer the likes o' ye."
At that, he drew the knife across the man's neck, spilling his blood into the dark water below. Sam cried out as he dropped the now-lifeless body to the deck. Watkins turned to him and glared at him, clearly annoyed.
"Come down 'ere an' clean this shit up, whelp."
He ordered the pirates to go collect whatever goods were on the merchant vessel and marched into his quarters, slamming the door behind him. The pirates quickly did what they were told, bringing on a few cases of furs and silks; a disappointing catch, especially considering the two pirates killed during the fighting.
Sam was still in the rigging, not yet able to respond to his orders, much less move a muscle as he stared at the lump of flesh cooling in the night air below her. After the crew had finished looting the merchant vessel, they slowly moved back to their previous resting places, drugging themselves back into slumber on rum as though nothing had occurred that night.
Sam moved lethargically down the rigging, settling his feet on the deck before collapsing to his knees and vomiting what was left of his dinner onto the wood. For the moment, he ignored the mess, though in the back of his mind he knew he would have to clean it up before the captain noticed it, or catch hell. He didn't trust his legs to hold him, so he crawled over to the body of the sailor. He grabbed his arm (he had been correct: it was dislocated) and flipped him onto his back. Leaning forward, he gently touched his face. Sun and salt-roughed skin, lank brown hair, sharp cheekbones, a slightly crooked nose. He wondered what his name was, did he have a wife, did he have children somewhere waiting for his return. He wondered what his future would have held had he not died a meaningless death under a pirate's dagger in the middle of an ocean. He fell forward again, landing on his still chest as violent convulsive sobs unexpectedly rose from him. He felt like an ass crying over a stranger, but he couldn't help it, he felt as if something precious had been lost that night.
He was broken out of her reverie by the cawing of the churlish crow followed by the yells of the lookout up in the crow's nest. A ship had been sighted. Sam leaned forward and squinted, and could just barely make out the outline of a small merchant vessel near the horizon. It was entirely too dark to see what colors the ship flew, not that it made much difference to his captain. John Watkins would gladly rob his own mother blind, after all. As Sam turned around, the red-faced corpulent man stomped out of his quarters and started yelling down at the men sleeping below. Sam listened as the men on the decks below his feet milled about, sounding much like overgrown rats, preparing the guns for battle while others grabbed weapons and scrambled up on deck, still bleary-eyed from being roused out of their liquor-induced slumber.
Sam, not being one for battle (and the captain generally expressly ordered him to keep his "worthless ass out of the way" anyhow, as he was pathetic with a pistol and not much better with a cutlass), scrambled up the rigging and sat just as Plato flew down to him and perched on his shoulder. As the Blue Dolphin neared the hapless merchant ship, the pirates yelled across the water at the sailors, jeering at them and entreating them to surrender immediately while a couple other pirates raised the Jolly Roger. Now that the vessel was closer, he could make out a British flag and the title "HMS Mockingbird" painted on its hull.
The merchant vessel gave no reply, but rather unfurled its sails fully and turned into the wind in an attempt to flee. Sam shook his head and felt a pang of pity for them. There's no way they'd outrun the Dolphin in that pathetic fat-bellied ship. If they had any sense at all, they'd surrender immediately and pray that Watkins was in a good enough mood to let them keep their lives. As it stood, Sam knew precisely how this little drama would end, and he knew well that it would end badly for the merchants.
The Blue Dolphin repeated the maneuvers of its prey and drew up alongside it in bare minutes while the gunners below let go a volley of chain shot, bringing down its mainmast. The tall beam crashed over the railing of the other ship, and the resulting cracking sound reminded Sam morbidly of someone's neck being snapped, before splashing into the depths of the Caribbean Sea. The rest of its crew was suddenly on deck and Sam counted a total of 14. There was no way they would survive this, 14 merchant sailors against Watkins' 28 pirates, not including herself, of course.
Both ships slowed to a slow drift and the pirates began boarding the disabled vessel. Sam felt like a voyeur watching the morbid pageant play out beneath him. Shots from flint-lock pistols rang occasionally, though this particular pirate crew seemed to find hacking off limbs much more entertaining.
During his first experience of battle, Sam had merely been scared out of his wits, despite being behind the glass of the windows of Watkins' quarters (where he had been thrown after a few pirates got tired of tripping over him as he tried pathetically to fight among them), and he had also found the entire operation to be disgusting. The sight of men killing men over a few trifles was perverse to him, and he'd had nightmares nearly every night for the first few months of being aboard the Blue Dolphin.
Now, however, after becoming used to the sight of it, it seemed more and more alike to a ballet of the damned as he watched men ducking and weaving as they fought. Thrust, parry, and then the final blow, and a sailor falling to the deck of his ship as warm red blood flowed over the planks, tracing wet patterns on the boards. It was like finding pictures in the clouds, a flower here, a tree there, an octopus, an old bent man.
About a quarter of the merchant sailors lay dead, but the rest fought back fiercely. Sam was tempted to cheer them on, if he weren't afraid of being whipped for it. It was rare to see the Dolphin's prey fight back with such vigor, as though they had some hope of victory. They had pushed most of the pirate crew back onto the Dolphin and Sam hung half upside-down as he watched the pandemonium going on almost directly under him.
One of the sailors in particular caught his attention, as he yelled and barked like an animal as he fought, his jaw open and eyes wild in the light of the rising moon. He had a short cutlass which he wielded with little skill but much spirit; he buried it in the gut of one of the pirates (the one with the missing fingers who always called Sam "carrot top" for his brilliant red hair and whom he quietly despised), and quickly twisted around to block the blow of another. Sam decided he was the most marvelous thing he'd ever seen. He moved like the ocean, fluid and feral.
By this time, the rest of the sailor's crew had been slain and the pirates turned to him, leering like demons, mouths slack and open, and eyes burning. Four of them leapt at him at once from behind; he turned and sliced through the neck of one, but the weight of the other three brought him down to his knees. He cried out in no particular language as his arms were pulled harshly behind his back (Sam swore he heard one shoulder pop out of joint) and his weapon taken from him. Sam cried out as well as he moved down the rigging to be closer to her wild man. Tears sprang to his eyes as he was subdued; to Sam, it seemed such a waste to kill him.
Watkins walked up within a half a foot at him, and smiled menacingly down at him, laughing at the sailor on his knees who bared his teeth and said nothing. He bent down and grabbed his hair, wrenching his head up to look in his eyes.
"Ye got spunk, kid, I'll give ye tha' much credit. What's yer name, son?"
The sailor narrowed his eyes at the captain, but said nothing.
"Ye'll answer me when I speak to ye, son, if ye wish te live. And ye'll serve under me if ye wish ter live. I could use a man like you, ye know. So what do ye say to that? Join me crew and live, or else feed the fish t'night?"
Sam watched as the man stared into his captain's eyes for what seemed like an age, before tilting his head back, and spitting in Watkins' eye. Watkins let out a bellow like an angry ox and backhanded the sailor before ordering him tied hand and foot. After binding him, the pirates moved back, allowing the captain to drag him forward by the collar, hauling him up and pushing him down, chest against the railing, head hanging over.
Sam moved in the rigging again, seeking a better vantage point as Watkins drew forth a small dagger, hooking it under the sailor's chin, guiding his head up. Sam could now see the sailor's eyes. Afraid now, but still wild. He looked back at Sam, as if begging him to intervene, as though it were in his power to stop the tragic end to this play. Sam shook his head impotently as he broke from his gaze and watched Watkins lean forward, speaking directly into the man's ear.
"Ye shoulda done what I told ye to, boy. Ye understand now what it means ter defy Captain John Watkins, but ye see, tha' lesson comes too late fer the likes o' ye."
At that, he drew the knife across the man's neck, spilling his blood into the dark water below. Sam cried out as he dropped the now-lifeless body to the deck. Watkins turned to him and glared at him, clearly annoyed.
"Come down 'ere an' clean this shit up, whelp."
He ordered the pirates to go collect whatever goods were on the merchant vessel and marched into his quarters, slamming the door behind him. The pirates quickly did what they were told, bringing on a few cases of furs and silks; a disappointing catch, especially considering the two pirates killed during the fighting.
Sam was still in the rigging, not yet able to respond to his orders, much less move a muscle as he stared at the lump of flesh cooling in the night air below her. After the crew had finished looting the merchant vessel, they slowly moved back to their previous resting places, drugging themselves back into slumber on rum as though nothing had occurred that night.
Sam moved lethargically down the rigging, settling his feet on the deck before collapsing to his knees and vomiting what was left of his dinner onto the wood. For the moment, he ignored the mess, though in the back of his mind he knew he would have to clean it up before the captain noticed it, or catch hell. He didn't trust his legs to hold him, so he crawled over to the body of the sailor. He grabbed his arm (he had been correct: it was dislocated) and flipped him onto his back. Leaning forward, he gently touched his face. Sun and salt-roughed skin, lank brown hair, sharp cheekbones, a slightly crooked nose. He wondered what his name was, did he have a wife, did he have children somewhere waiting for his return. He wondered what his future would have held had he not died a meaningless death under a pirate's dagger in the middle of an ocean. He fell forward again, landing on his still chest as violent convulsive sobs unexpectedly rose from him. He felt like an ass crying over a stranger, but he couldn't help it, he felt as if something precious had been lost that night.