Twas a black, black day to be a member of the crew of the Wasted Prayer.
On the upper decks and aloft in the rigging the crew glanced at each other in fear, voices were hushed to whispers when they had to speak but otherwise no man of the crew wished to draw attention to himself.
The ship was small as far as ships went, but fast and nimble. A single row of guns below the main deck which mounted another half dozen cannon and chase guns. But she was none the less feared by all who saw her black and white sail on the horizon.
For she could catch anything afloat and she could dance across the waves with shot splashing down around her. She would close and then her crew would board and take an almost undamaged prize.
It was for this reason than her crew were handpicked from the most savage swordsmen that sailed the seven seas. Many a man had seen her on the horizon and wasted his last prayer by calling on god to save him.
The crew were from the dregs of the European navies, escaped slaves from the islands and colonies of the Carib and even the strange yellow warriors from the mystic east.
In fact the captain himself carried one of the highly crafted single edged swords worn by the elite warriors of the land known as Japan. Taken from the body of the captain of a warship that had tried to stop the Wasted Prayer from taking prize after prize loaded with rich silk.
That eastern warrior with his top knot flying had cut down five of the most ferocious blades among the pirates before the captain faced him and cut him down like a dog. Taking his head and his sword while the rest of the crew cheered.
Now not a man among them was cheering.
The officers huddled on the mid deck, silent and pensive. They knew that death was at hand and not even the officers would be spared if death came this day.
On the upper deck the helmsman stood his post like a statue, terrified that his slightest movement would attract attention and a swift end to his life.
Every eye was turned to a single figure. Every man watched but every man pretended they did not look for none wished to be found staring.
The focus of all that attention stood at the very front of the upper deck, in clear sight of the whole ship.
There he stood. His tri cornered hat worn and softened with age but still with the look of quality, taken from the head of a French captain. His jacket was Dutch, fine quality but now a little old and worn along the seams. Taken from a rich Dutch merchant along with his life and his wife when the ransom failed to arrive.
His boots fine leather and almost new, the blood of the Yankee officer barely dry from the day when the Americans had tried to fight back against the pirates. His undershirt and Trous both of fine make, looted from some forgotten ship over the years.
The strange sword that could slash a man in half was held like a walking stick in the captains right hand.
But it was not any of this that the crew stared at, it was the captains face, the captains right cheek in fact. The dark scar, a memento from a fight with some enemy skilled enough to have cut him. It moved, up and down, in time with the twitches of the captains face. Twitch, twitch.
Every movement watched carefully, would the twitch get faster, would it stop.
The captain ignored all of this. He held his left hand high and stared as if by will alone he could change his fate, shape destiny and reverse time. He stared hard at his mug, clay fired in a Tortugan oven. The words carved in it, a joke from the crew. ‘Worlds Best Captain’, something English to appeal to the Captains English born sense of humour.
But it was not the words or the mug itself that cased the twitch. It was far, far worse than that. Death was afoot, no man dared to move or make noise for fear of the fate that would surely be his if the captain noticed him.
The captain stood and stared, twitch, twitch, stare. He stared at the mug but nothing changed, he turned it upside down but nothing changed. He stared, nothing changed. Death stood at his shoulder, his sword thirsted for blood. The entire crew could be slain this day and it would not slake the captains thirst.
HE WAS OUT OF COFFEE.........................................
On the upper decks and aloft in the rigging the crew glanced at each other in fear, voices were hushed to whispers when they had to speak but otherwise no man of the crew wished to draw attention to himself.
The ship was small as far as ships went, but fast and nimble. A single row of guns below the main deck which mounted another half dozen cannon and chase guns. But she was none the less feared by all who saw her black and white sail on the horizon.
For she could catch anything afloat and she could dance across the waves with shot splashing down around her. She would close and then her crew would board and take an almost undamaged prize.
It was for this reason than her crew were handpicked from the most savage swordsmen that sailed the seven seas. Many a man had seen her on the horizon and wasted his last prayer by calling on god to save him.
The crew were from the dregs of the European navies, escaped slaves from the islands and colonies of the Carib and even the strange yellow warriors from the mystic east.
In fact the captain himself carried one of the highly crafted single edged swords worn by the elite warriors of the land known as Japan. Taken from the body of the captain of a warship that had tried to stop the Wasted Prayer from taking prize after prize loaded with rich silk.
That eastern warrior with his top knot flying had cut down five of the most ferocious blades among the pirates before the captain faced him and cut him down like a dog. Taking his head and his sword while the rest of the crew cheered.
Now not a man among them was cheering.
The officers huddled on the mid deck, silent and pensive. They knew that death was at hand and not even the officers would be spared if death came this day.
On the upper deck the helmsman stood his post like a statue, terrified that his slightest movement would attract attention and a swift end to his life.
Every eye was turned to a single figure. Every man watched but every man pretended they did not look for none wished to be found staring.
The focus of all that attention stood at the very front of the upper deck, in clear sight of the whole ship.
There he stood. His tri cornered hat worn and softened with age but still with the look of quality, taken from the head of a French captain. His jacket was Dutch, fine quality but now a little old and worn along the seams. Taken from a rich Dutch merchant along with his life and his wife when the ransom failed to arrive.
His boots fine leather and almost new, the blood of the Yankee officer barely dry from the day when the Americans had tried to fight back against the pirates. His undershirt and Trous both of fine make, looted from some forgotten ship over the years.
The strange sword that could slash a man in half was held like a walking stick in the captains right hand.
But it was not any of this that the crew stared at, it was the captains face, the captains right cheek in fact. The dark scar, a memento from a fight with some enemy skilled enough to have cut him. It moved, up and down, in time with the twitches of the captains face. Twitch, twitch.
Every movement watched carefully, would the twitch get faster, would it stop.
The captain ignored all of this. He held his left hand high and stared as if by will alone he could change his fate, shape destiny and reverse time. He stared hard at his mug, clay fired in a Tortugan oven. The words carved in it, a joke from the crew. ‘Worlds Best Captain’, something English to appeal to the Captains English born sense of humour.
But it was not the words or the mug itself that cased the twitch. It was far, far worse than that. Death was afoot, no man dared to move or make noise for fear of the fate that would surely be his if the captain noticed him.
The captain stood and stared, twitch, twitch, stare. He stared at the mug but nothing changed, he turned it upside down but nothing changed. He stared, nothing changed. Death stood at his shoulder, his sword thirsted for blood. The entire crew could be slain this day and it would not slake the captains thirst.
HE WAS OUT OF COFFEE.........................................