Something had called him up to the deck, a silent supplication with a forewarning secret held in a waiting breath. A shiver ran down his spine when finding the ship had been encapsulated in a dense fog making the surface just as dark as below. Even the ship's hull seemed to groan in trepidation as it parted the surf, treading ever deeper towards unseen antagonism.
The hair on his neck stood on end, chilled by the phantom hand that beseeched his presence, directing him to the source of his building dread: the Governor's lamb, at the bow, singing to the night before her. Though the words came in delicate harmony, they roused a panic that made his blood run cold.
A woman on board was bad luck enough on its own, even a miniature one, then sailing blindly through this brume canopy lead by song of pirates, he prayed he was not too late.
"Quiet, missy! Cursed pirates sail these waters."
She jumped when he spun her around and broke her away from the deceptive tune.
"You want to call them down on us?" He continued in a rasp, hoping to scare her into realizing the evils lurking in the lyrics, but found the opposite. The child's callow eyes showed no fear, only naive wonder. She was fascinated at the thought.
Though being educated and precocious, she was young with far too few sea voyages to understand that her acapella could bring death. Any further attempt at setting her straight was abruptly quashed when the lieutenant called his attention with umbrage, no doubt finding error in his speaking to the privileged girl.
"She was singing about pirates," he explained, surprised to hear his own voice break with desperate strain.
By the way the lieutenant rolled his eyes it seemed quite obvious that the verdant officer was just as ignorant regarding pirates as the child. But he knew he had to try to make them see, nay, he was determined to make them believe that the tales of a crew of deathless souls was far from fiction.
"Bad luck to sing about pirates; with us mired in this unnatural fog... mark my words!"
The lieutenant would hear no more and he was curtly dismissed.
Defeated, he returned to his work, his knuckles white as they took the mop, choking the handle till a bead of sweat crossed his brow. His frustration was disorienting, as he knew wholeheartedly that they were fools for not heeding his warning and he crooked the mop aimlessly.
The cry of "Man Overboard" pulled him back to reality, abruptly sobering him from his brooding.
He raced to the rail with the crowd and peered into the water along with the collective gaze. His last ounce of hope dissipated when he saw the alarmingly stiff body of a young boy adrift.
Once the crew had hauled him aboard, relieved to find him breathing, all eyes followed the trail of foreboding flotsam. Then, as if by some vicarious specter, the curtain of fog was parted revealing a sight that stunned them all.
"Mary, mother of God!" escaped from his lips, yet he was not surprised.
A once proud British merchant ship was reduced to fiery ruin and littered the surrounded waters. A debate swiftly rose among them of what happened to the vessel, including an explosion of the powder magazine. He knew different. All the canons of the British Fleet could not have spared the vessel.
"Everyone's thinking it. I'm just saying it. Pirates."
Finally, reluctant acceptance reflected on their faces.
The order was given and long boats departed in search of other survivors. He joined the lead boat yet knowing in the depths of his heart that any other soul that had been aboard the merchant ship had already crossed the Locker's threshold. As he rowed, prostrated and forlorn, movement from the deck again summoned his attentions.
He saw young girl shrink back from the rails, her body shake a gasp from her lips and delicate fingers worry before her chest, at a sight terrifying beyond the smoldering dross.
And he saw it too.
Black sails.
He knew the damage had been done. It was too late. With her song sung, the young lamb had cursed them all.