V. Birds of a Feather

During my time on the Neptune, I learned the various personalities of the officers. I realized each personality was so different, the names of birds—even legendary or hybrid, were used to describe them.

Sicklemore, was often called the "Raven," for being somewhat charming, clever, and perhaps gluttonous in his pursuit of riches. He had a high opinion of himself, often pushing us to the limit, to make him look good. On the positive side, he had an uncanny ability to motivate everyone to accomplish what he wanted, with rather long-winded speeches; although he would often take credit for our hard work. He often talked and acted as if he were captain, although that charge really fell on Newport.

Sicklemore assigned me to move the front sail. The "boom," or the beam that maneuvered the sail's direction seem a bit tough to move at first.

"Faster Smith!" He was impatient. "We have to turn this vessel west."

I thought I could climb on the sail to make it move faster, but as I swung, the sail moved too far in one direction, bringing me right over the water. The other shipmates cackled with laughter. How was I going to move the sail back and keep from falling in?

"Hold fast!" Someone called. As I held as tightly as I could to the sail, someone repositioned it. "Slide down." I made my way down, getting splinters along the way, until I reached the bottom, clumsily, with a thud. I was met by Gosnold, Sicklemore, and other faces.

"I do apologize, Sir," I replied to Sicklemore.

He merely shook his head in disappointment, and did a face palm. "You should have let the ass fall overboard, Gosnold." More laughter ensued from the other shipmates.

Gosnold didn't join them."Come now, men—as you were." Everyone took their places as if the matter was forgotten.

"I'm much obliged," I told him, as I resumed my place. He nodded slightly in acknowledgement.

Gosnold was the "Gryphon," for being the guardian of the treasure we earned, and looking out for everyone, despite being only a few years older than Archer, and a couple years younger than Kendall. His style was decidedly more laid-back, and tactful. We all traded positions, as he felt all crew-members shouldn't consider any position "beneath them." While he was personable, he had no issue laying down the law if need be. In spite of this, they weren't resentful with his correction. I sensed that he took no real pleasure out of the punishment; that he was "one of us," merely doing his job. Despite his position, he commanded respect even while fitting in with the rest of us.

"Alright men," the "Raven" addressed towards the end. "You know your duties, and know them well. We must be well prepared lest any foreign vessels come our way. Think of the gold, jewels and other precious metals those vessels will be laden with... .We'll come after them in full force and show Spain who the true rulers of the sea are, won't we?!" Cheers abounded.

Kendall feigned happiness. "The ol' bastard has a new bloody speech every day," he muttered, as he later came on deck to relieve Sicklemore.

Kendall was often called the "Phoenix," for his vigor and and willingness to take risks. Oftentimes, he'd have us choose our own positions. You could imagine, we'd often argue about positions. He would say "I don't care who does what so long as it gets accomplished; and it had better be." "Raven" would consider his approach reckless, and while he was, we still respected him enough to do our work, knowing very well, he wasn't a force to be reckoned with. If we did well, he would bargain with us for more ale. He seemed the least intimidated by "Raven" and even Martin, but respected Newport and "Gryphon."

"Phoenix" looked out through the crow's nest, scanning the horizon, noting we were likely nearing the Azores. He slid down the lookout tower from a rope in a matter of moments. I had to climb down slowly, as I wasn't as skilled.

It was hot by midday. "Phoenix," finishing his morning watch, took his tunic off, revealing his hairy chest. He tied a rope to his waist. "'Tis much too hot mates, I need to cool off." And with that, he flipped over the deck rail into the water.

Fascinated as I was, I hastily took off my tunic, and jumped in to show off, as if I were diving, which surprised him. Unfortunately, I was quickly sinking, not able to stay above the surface, despite adamantly flailing my arms in the water. I could feel him grab a hold of me, and pull me back up. "Smith—what are you doing?! You need a rope to tie you back in, you ass!" Someone on deck lowered one down, so he could tie it for me. As we eventually pulled to be let up, I was embarrassed by my stupidity. He chuckled as he ruffled my hair and slapped me on the back. "You're good for a laugh."

"Alright men, enough malarky and get back to work!" Reminded Martin. "Kendall and Smith, do make yourselves presentable," noticing our tunics were off.

While I buttoned my tunic, "Phoenix" left his open. "Pardon me, Master Martin, I need to dry off first." He climbed back up to the crows nest while Martin scoffed.

Martin, or the "Hawk," as he was called, was very militant and precise on how he wanted things to function. Most of us sailors were capable of most of the basic positions: helmsman, riggers, or watch-keepers, lookout, etc. However, he always had us work the same positions. Many sailors had their own choice terms to describe his rigidity, but for the most part, he was somewhat respected, if not feared. On the positive side, he was organized, and explicit in what was expected of us, and was typically fair and honest with his criticisms, often suggesting to me constructive improvement.

"Line up men! Stand tall—no slouching! Take your places...and march, one, two, three... ." He would order.

"Hawk" had a few of us practice firing our guns. He demonstrated, putting a hole in his target several feet away. My aim, on the other hand was admittedly terrible.

"Smith can't aim his way out of the end of a barrel," I heard Percy whisper to Archer.

I dreadfully wanted to prove him wrong, but each time was worse than the next. I gave up and decided to observe. After the session was over and others went about their work, "Gryphon" called me over to him and gave me some advice. "You can't succeed simply by shooting aimlessly." He demonstrated step-by-step, and I followed along. "Select your target...aim...fire." He fired an excellent shot. "Go on, try it."

I took his advice to heart and attempted to shoot, nearly hitting Archer, who was coming toward us. Taking all three of us by surprise, I couldn't hold back my laughter. His comrade cleared his throat, covering his own mouth perhaps to stifle any chuckle. Archer wasn't amused.

"Smith, the men are practicing swordsmanship on the other end. Bart, a word, please." I left them but hid behind a barrel to hear the rest of their conversation.

"What are you doing? He either knows the craft of he doesn't."

"Well if I hadn't taught you, neither would you." I could hear them coming. But before I could get up, they caught me.

"Smith!" Exclaimed Archer.

"You should loosen up a bit." While walking past me, his comrade gave him a few pats on the shoulder while looking back towards me with a chuckle. Then he motioned with his head to get moving. I smirked as I went.

Archer was often called the "Falcon," due to his intelligence, keen perception and seriousness. He was very thorough in his explanations, perhaps even long-winded. He could be pompous and pushy at times; one would hate to argue as he acted as if he was always right; but he made certain we all had ample work. As he was a petty officer, it wasn't often he'd stand watch unless he would fill in for someone. As tough as he tried to act, the others likely respected him simply due to his association with Gosnold.

We practiced dueling. During my session, "Falcon" paired me against "Georgie Porgie," who appeared to be evenly matched with me. I could hear Ben and Lon encouraging me, while others jeered. We started out simple enough, clashing our swords together; him, trying to knock mine out of my hand. While I was good at keeping contact, I could not knock the sword away from him, as he eventually knocked me down.

"Come now, 'Goldilocks,'" he jested. "This is far too simple."

"How would you like a fourpenny one?" I got up to punch his side trying to grab his sword, but grabbed mine instead.

"You're a cunning lad, but not early enough." He pinned my sword to my neck. "A mighty handsome sword you have. 'Tis a shame you aren't man enough to use it forcefully." He threw it down as if it were trash, while others cheered.

"Pipe down you ninnies!" Newport spoke up. "You call that a sword fight?! 'Twas merely slappin' sticks togeth'r. If you e'er want to be a part o' this crew, you best learn to mast'r yer swords. Shape up or ship out!" He demonstrated pointed his thumb upwards, and raised it behind his head.

Newport was the "Eagle," as clearly, he was the leader of us all—and a great one for the most part, as few could claim his level of experience, nor question his enthusiasm for adventure. He often looked out for his crew and made certain we enjoyed ourselves. Despite a sense of cockiness, he was still well respected for his reputation, as well as challenging us to the best of our abilities. However, "Eagle's" mannerisms weren't for the faint of heart, as his assertiveness at times could be abrasive. I also discovered between bouts of sobriety and drunkenness, his mood would change as quickly as the tide.

I knew my time was short. I had barely mastered my gun, and still was powerless with my sword. With nowhere else to go, I had to make this work for me, but how?

Later on, I was practicing slashing my sword around in the air, when someone called me.

"Smith." I looked over, and "Gryphon" drew his sword. "Mind if I cut in?"

"What—"

"I seek a rematch. Surely you're not backing down, are you?" I knew he was teasing, but his deep brown eyes stared me down as if he dared me to.

I was up for the challenge, though I started off tense. I tried knocking out his sword, but he was ahead of me, knocking my sword out several times after a few clanks. Each time had frustrated me more, until he said, "follow along." As we clanked swords, our movements remained competitive, but became more rhythmic and chivalrous. After a while I could gauge him, and could tell he was reading me, until finally I was able to catch him off guard and knock away his sword. "Not bad," he mused. But with a quick gesture he knocked me off guard and managed to grab my sword. "...but I'm still the master," he smirked. We continued sword fighting, albeit becoming more casual.