Piracy

Coming through the sunlight, weary and weak, stricken and salvaged, malicious and maleficent was Robert Blackwelle. The sea behind him, before him and below him was breathing its never-quenched qualms of anger, power and death, its always-present cackling of living secrets. It was a calm, genial-less evening, the rumbling white froth gone, temporarily, from the North Atlantic waters. The ship on which he planted his boots was a small, tattered representation of a vessel, sails once cream like clouds now gray and weathered, planks and beams once crisp from the forest now deformed, slightly, from the brine; the smooth helm of the cutter experienced from many a white-knuckled grip, the sharp keel striking the sea. As she chased the sun, vain to succeed in the race, into the west, the horizon broadened itself beyond its own capacity until the edges of the maps down in the ship’s hold bled black blood. She held a steady course, the ancient wind gods gracing the sails with strength enough to billow at a glamour-less, respectable fortitude. The wisp of land on the edge of the world faded from view behind them as the world began to fade itself from the golden rays of the sun. Apollo winked through the bowsprit, through the purple clouds and onto Robert Blackwelle’s black, beaten jacket, showing every wrinkle from being packed away in prisons, every tear from the slash of a Navy cutlass, every deeper black and gray shade from gun and powder, lock and barrel; the white lines around the armpits and neck where the salt of labour had mixed with the salt of sea, every faded brass button or lack thereof, and every wide, gold-threaded button-hole to match; every spec of crimson residue, shining dully, from the throbbing veins of lords, minions and figureheads corrupt, every black fiber smiling its way out of hell and pulling their way into the sea.1

Boots clunked on the planks as Blackwelle shifted his posture from the fading horizon and back towards the ship’s deck. Blending into the night chasing them fast from the rear, a thin, lank man held steady the helm with a gentle, experienced hand that was callous from the ropes, lethal from the sword and wretched from the gold; his eyes, always shifting, were dark and wide in his lean face. Rags clung to his bone-thin frame, his preferred method of clothing his body; a method that allowed his wealth to remain an unattainable thought from the minds of strangers. His eyes kept drifting lazily towards the easily visible red-haired woman that was gazing out over the rail into the abyss in an absent-minded fashion and then back to the easily visible sun that was now leaving way to the hard to spot stars.2

“Murdock!” The gentle bark passed between Blackwelle’s thirsty lips.3

The helmsman’s eyes shot straight to his captain. “Aye.” His thin voice, lost soon to the sea, answered.4

Blackwelle began to walk across the briny boards towards the stern. Clunk, clunk. In farewell, the sun cast its orange glory out upon the sea. “What be yer headin’?”5

The white froth resumed its salted kiss upon the ship’s running hull as the wind resumed, whistling forth from the eastern darkness. Sails billowed. The red-haired girl sprang into action. 6

“Somewhere near Tortuga.”7

The red-haired girl paused, slowly turning towards the captain, a devious yellow grin animating her otherwise innocent face. 8

Blackwelle returned the glance, and the captain’s laugh jovially rolled forth until it was lost out over the darkened sea.9