Art:AADM/Second round/Forlorn Hope
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The Short
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I took a deep breath and offered up prayers to Poseidon as I heard the captain shout, "Haul away!" and the rope jerked taut around my ankles, plunging me into the briney deep, bumping me along the bottom of the ship. | 
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Mutiny! (Bulwer-Lyttony) | ||
The Entry
A note from PTG
This entry was recieved with the line breaks more or less fixed in place. As there is no way easy way to remove them without spending several hours of my life incessantly going up-backspace-down-end-backspace, I have left them in this story. I apologize for the inconvenience.
Forlorn Hope
I took a deep breath and offered up prayers to Poseidon as I heard the captain shout, "Haul away!" and the rope jerked taut around my ankles, plunging me into the briny deep, bumping me along the bottom of the ship.
The barnacles tore at my flesh, stripping away the
soft skin of my past. Lace top, satin doublet, and the
ribbon rosettes handed to me by a lover I would not
return to, gripped by nature’s teeth and offered to the
depths. They killed me that day, and in that watery
coffin I was reborn.
“You go down a boy, you come up a pirate.”
I was naked when I heard these words. Nature had
sketched her brutal art upon my body. Where there was
skin there was wounds, where there was no wound there was
blood. He placed a tankard before me and bade me to
drink.
“You think I’m cruel,” he spoke. Stated. Knew. “You
think it unnecessary.”
In my eyes there was only a shape of a man, a shadow.
In these eyes of mine I was still down there, being
ripped asunder, murky shapes my only company.
“You think me a common bilge rat. You can’t wait to
see the day when I waltz with old Jack Ketch, when I
hang.”
His shape swam from view, and heavy warmth wrapped my
shoulders. Hands clasped at my neck, pinning my
shuddering body to a heavy chair.
“Do you know why you didn’t get away? Do you know why
your friends are dead?”
I tried, but the answers eluded me. Ropes were twisted
till palms bled, we juried the mast and tossed out the
bilge till our knuckles split.
“This is why, lad.”
Pain has a focusing nature. The sea water in my eyes
shrank inside my skill, and the world was clear. In his
hand he holds the answer, offering it to me. A thick grey
tooth worn by the sea, a barnacle which had feasted on my
torn flesh. Now it was filled to the brim and overflowing
with my meat. He scattered it carelessly over the thick
table of his cabin and whispered to me.
“You’ll never do a sloppy job of careening my vessel
now, will ya lad?”
This is how life begins. I scrape at the wood with a
coarse stone, I wear away at the hull, because I know
that tomorrow I could be beneath it once more.
It is on this beach that I first glimpse the man who
made me. My now late father used to tell me that behind
every pirate was a weak man. To one degree, he may have
been correct. Without the billowing smoke chasing their
heels, and the torn sails flailing in my face they were
malnutritioned, ill treated, and unintelligent men.
Captain Roche was slight of build and hollow of cheek.
On the day I was captured he wasn’t in the centre of the
deck bellowing orders, nor was he over seeing and
scheming and planning … He was just there. He was in
front of you, or behind you, but not in any noticeable
way. You thought he was too far, you thought you were
safe, then it was a blade at your throat and a gun in
your side.
He stands now, watching, silhouetted by the dying sun,
dull grey smudges painted between his eyes, sand gritting
into a delicate moustache. He ignored the men shoulder
rocks and wood to be ballast in the hull, he listens only
casually to the sizeable first mate. He’s watching me,
watching me scrape savagely at the keel that tasted my
blood. It must have taken at least fourteen hours to
careen her hull that first time.
She was The Forlorn Hope. A forty foot long flat brig;
my father’s merchant vessel dwarfed it in comparison, but
somehow we ended up here on this beach, and I was
cleaning the enemy’s hull.
Captain Roche took his time preparing his vessel. They
left the Hope boldly on its side, baking belly up in the
sun. They smoothed out every inch with sand paper, they
replaced torn sail, and organised my father’s goods.
They didn’t speak my name. I was ‘Bilge Rat’.
Sometimes just rat, sometimes just bilge. Bilge, the
water that gathered in the depths of the ship, the extra
weight that snuck aboard proud and dank vessel alike.
That was me.
There was no escape aboard a ship like the Hope. It
needed four sailors to tack the sails and capture the
wind. Not even Captain Roche was truly in charge in such
a place. Majority was the true leader of the vessel: that
mischievous character. He slipped in between the crew,
and danced on the deck unseen. Captain Roche was always
one step ahead. Things always seemed to dance his way.
I don’t know what day it is. The sun peers over the
horizon and splashes into the surface of the water. This
is what life on the ocean is like. On the open ocean
everyone is equal, everyone is Jack. Roche says Jack Tar
to the crows nest, it means whoever’s closest. We’re all
Jack. Jack of trades, Jack Tar, Jack all … That is until
a ship strays near.
I know I only have a few days to save my life. They’ll
never just let me walk without blood on my hands. This is
common sense. This is what I expect, but when captain
Roche calls me out with blade in hand, I thought it was
over. Perhaps he had grown sick of me, perhaps he wanted
to taunt me on a childish whim, whatever it was he stood
there sword in hand and waited on my approach.
“Pick up the stick Bilge Rat,” he spoke whilst looking
out to sea.
I expected a circle to form, some kind of viewing
audience. Something to tell me that this wasn’t normal,
that my death might mean something. There was none, and I
chose my weapon. A two and a half foot long pole.
“There’s a ship out there, see it?”
I did. It was about the same size as my father’s,
flying a flag of parley. They would want the recent news
from port, assuming we had sailed out from the Spanish
Main, and not a tiny patch of sand.
“In a few hours, we’re going to be on that ship.
They’re going to kill you. Do you understand?” He turned
to face me on heel. His hands, and sword, behind his
straight back, “you might be thinking to warn them, you
might be thinking to join them, but you’re going to be
first Jack on that deck. You’re going to be the first to
die. Do you understand?”
His blade hovered around his sides, waiting. It’s hard
to concentrate when a man may lunch at you at any moment.
“Ever had a sword lesson, Bilge Rat?”
I had, many an hour I spent sparring aboard my
father’s sunken vessel. I thought it may fill me with
confidence when the time came. Surely, any well trained
sailor could defeat a common pirate?
Roche watched how I prepared for his attack. My
footing was perfect, my wrist motions taught to me by the
most exquisite fencer in my home town, and my pants were
close to wetting. His blade circled my stick,
precariously deciding what part of my scarred body to
skewer.
“Do you know how many lessons I have had, Bilge Rat?”
It was obvious. His feet moved in make shift pattern,
he lacked balance and finesse. His wrist cocked at an
awkward angle, certainly not a fencer’s wrist. His eyes
watched my weapon, not my shoulders. This should’ve been
easy. I should have parried away his blade and dazzled
the crew with my fancy foot work. Instead he slashed at
my pants and turned them down around my land lubber
ankles.
“Fear, Bilge Rat. Forget the lessons, forget the foot
work, forget it all. Fear!”
I tripped away from my fallen breeches. His blade
caught the light and swung in imperfect circles at my
upper body. There was no aim, no skill, just the threat
of my heart falling from my chest unceremoniously. My
stick waved and swam about with a life of its own; it
didn’t want to touch that metal. My thighs stiffened
awkwardly, as Roche advanced boldly.
“Do not fear me, Bilge Rat. Fear me, you die.”
I tried to find me feet, as they scrambled across the
deck; going anywhere but in time with my upper body.
Roche threw a careless lunge above my head and into the
rigging. He had over extended, this was it! This was my
time to prove myself. I hesitated for the briefest moment
and threw myself right onto … a heavy crane hook. It
poked into my skin and knocked me off balance. I
refocused and he was there again, here and there,
swinging his blade then vanishing among rope and wood.
“If you do not fear a man, you can kill him. Even if
he kills you first, even if he strikes first blood, you
can take him with you. Do not fear me, Rat.”
I spoke to my pounding heart and shaking limbs, I
begged them to stop their twisted motion. I wanted to
live, I didn’t want to die here. Revenge or flight be
damned, I wanted to live. I stuck out clumsy blow after
clumsy blow; I stuck the cabin boy in the face, and made
the rigging dance with my anger. I would not die here!
“That’s it, Bilge Rat, do not fear me!”
Roche’s chest was my target, brazen exposed to the
deep rising sun. Sweat spilling down his chest and
darkened his top, his delicate features glistened and
shone, the smudges beneath his eyes were now filled with
youthful glee. He lived for these moments; unfortunately
this moment was my last.
His blade snapped into my chest with one fluent
motion. I looked up at him in shock. He wouldn’t would
he? No, such a death would be an insult. I look down, and
there it is: A bloody red welt in a perfect line across
my scarred chest. The bastard had assaulted me with a
blunt weapon all along!
Rage builds inside me, with thin wooden supports
carved of insult and forgotten fear, but then there is
something else. Something that fills my body and pushes
my muscles to act, he’s retreating now that I know the
truth, now that I’m in charge. Wood shall break his
vicious bones, and I will be the victor this day.
I expect him to race back, run across the deck and
yell for help, but to no avail. He stands proudly,
motionless save for the snapping motion of his neck when
I strike him. The cracks in his lip trace out a treasure
map in blood, and he displays teeth, wooden teeth stabbed
into his gums.
“Well done,” he smiles.
My heart relaxes, my breath returns, I remember where
I am now. I remember where I am, and I’m still the
victor. I grin and feel brimming with confidence,
confidence I have never felt before, confidence that can
only be described as being a pirate. Confidence that can
only be ended by … a slender boot between my legs.
When I open my eyes Roche is walking away, and I am
clutching my children never to be.
“Good Bilge Rat, now just do that when we board, and
we’ll all be happy.”
The ship is almost upon us when my swollen gonads take
rest inside my body. They let me be for the time that may
be my last. I sat as far away from Captain Roche as was
possible on an open decked ship. I would have been
vomiting, I may have been clutching my stomach in tense
fear, but Captain Roche did me a favour by kicking me
square; with pain comes a certain sobriety and
realisation.
Every Jack was quiet as we closed. The pirate’s
attempts at going about their innocent duties seemed
obvious now to my eyes. It is different being the hunter
than the hunted. The hunted assumes the best, the hunter
knows the worst.
Eyes cast towards the innocent vessel, they trail
across its deck, they pick their targets. We’re crossing
into the safe distance, the distance for acceptable
parley. Their row boat drops a party to meet us and the
well rehearsed play begins. Roque, the first mate,
struggles with the sails, his lithe form taut against the
heavy ropes to pull the sail around. I remember the words
of my father as he peered at the advancing Forlorn Hope.
“They’re under crewed, send a boat, offer them a tow
back to harbour … Green merchants.”
It was I that went in that first boat floating out
towards my new destiny. All the while The Hope kept
drifting, trailing towards my father’s vessel. Beneath
deck our downfall huddled together in the bilge, peering
through cracks in the upper deck. Blade, pistol, and
knife stuffed in every part of their tattered clothes.
They waited, where I wait now.
Roque greets the three sailors on the deck with a wide grin. He shakes their hand and discusses’ the port’s news. He tells them of his lack of sailing experience, his failed attempted to become a trader, his over estimation of his skills, and now his inability to shift the sails. The captain is starting to notice, we’re trailing into a perfect broad side. He’s peering below deck at the closed cannon ports. He’s starting to become suspicious. He calls for eyes on our deck, he demands the crew begin to load cannon and shot as the trusting away party begin to turn the sail around.
That’s when it happens. The sails collapse in on
themselves, the cannon ports open wide, and the hull of a merchant vessel spills open to the sound of exploding gunpowder. The away party reaches for their weapons, but Roque is no where to be seen. The hold is locked, their boat raised from the water, and the sails collapsed. They’re trapped.
The return fire is anticipated, demanded, but
ultimately futile. The Forlorn Hope has drifted too
close, the cannons can only pepper the deck with shot,
the guns are too high to smite the hull and too low to
pepper the sails. They gun down their own party in a hail
of fire except one who was lucky enough to be tacking the
mast …
And in that hold of theirs is no man save a startled
cabin boy. He stares blankly at the line of muskets now
facing him, his face slightly blackened from shot and
wood. The boarding planks slam into the gaping hull,
heavy nails and metal hooks gripping their vessel. Ropes
latch to the sides. They expect men, they expect a
boarding action, they don’t expect to be drawn closer.
And Roche is there all the time, watching his well
worn crew working with rehearsed unison. No orders, no
yelling, just draw it closer, pull the hooks and get it
that last few feet. They know their sinking, they know
that water is filling their hold, what they didn’t
anticipate are the crew of the Forlorn Hope, and there is
me racing over first. The blue eye cabin boy finds a
pistol and fires into the mob; to his eyes it does
nothing. Gun, blade, and eye face him.
I will not kill a young boy, I cannot. This is not my
fight. I’ll wait on the next, I tell myself, I’ll skewer
the first merchant into this hold, but not the boy. This
was till his hands find a rigging knife and his heart the
courage to thrust at mine face. He would have been the
next great adventurer, he was bound to discover new lands
and strike rich, but now he explores the depths of the
ocean, floating with my blade in a fresh pouting wound.
A man pauses when he tastes his own evil. He pauses
because he wants to believe that he has changed, that
something has driven him to this evil end. The truth,
however, is before I stepped aboard that hold, I wanted
it. I craved my blade to taste flesh to save my own hide
and become a part of this. Roche had the talent to
inspire these feelings of people. It sickens me to say,
but I felt a glow in my cheek and energy in my bones when
he pressed the hilt of his sword into my hand.
He stripped my clothes, and now my spirit, and now he
asks, “How do you feel?”
What answer does a man give when a child dies upon his
efforts? A feeling of remorse perhaps? Not I. A feeling
of triumph? Here was no triumph to be had.
I answered with as much truth as I could muster, “I
feel like a pirate,” then we continued the killing.
The deck is saturated with the blood of the dying. The
slashed and stabbed try to race back to the upper deck
before their vision blurs and they collapse into the
rushing water. The desperate merchant sailors scramble to
patch the gaping mouth which greedily swallowing the sea
spray. The ship was going down, make no mistake, but if
they could hold for a few hours they could find an
island, they could stand a chance … They bottle neck down
into the hold onto the shot and blade of pirate and
friend a like. The ship begins to tilt, we can feel it in
our calves. Only a dead man dances on a sinking ship, and
I have no intention of waltzing tonight.
I feel the water churning beneath, my feet struggling
to find safety. The board blanks are splintering, each
hesitant step seems to take me further away. Almost
there, I’m reaching for that last step when the soaking
blank begins to bend. Is it rotten? It can’t be. No. It
can only be …
A hand grips arm, and the booty falls onto a water.
Ropes above me, ropes and running bodies. I look to the
stairs, but there’s something in the way.
“Please, take me with you!” He screams. “Please! I
want to live!”
I want to push him away, hurl him into the depths. I
can kill a cabin boy but not a begging man. I grit my
teeth and grab his hair, tossing him towards the opening
of our vessel. I can hear the rolling and scrapping of
barrels sloshing around in the doomed hull behind me. The
screams of the men that reach at my heels, but I am gone
back into the hull of the Hope.
“Why?” Roche asks. It’s for the third time, and he
still isn’t satisfied with the answer.
“I can’t kill a begging man,” I state.
“You could have just left him.”
The man in question waits for us outside. A father of
two, with a wife waiting back in a port somewhere. This
was his last trade run.
“Why don’t you kill him then?” I ask.
Captain Roche snorts a deep breath of sea air. I
notice the bloody hand print gracing his collar. “It’s
bad for morale,” he shrugs, “we’re pirates, not
executioners.”
“Let him join us.”
He strokes that delicate facial hair, contemplating
the future of a family. “We have to port.”
“You can’t hold him for later?”
“If he had blood on his hands, we might,” he smirks to
me, toying with a chart spread across his table. “We will
be in Tortuga within the hour, I can’t risk a whole crew;
a crew that likely won’t return to the vessel intact.
Tortuga is a … tempting place for a man with a share of
gold.”
“I’ll return,” I offer. “If you give him a chance.”
“A chance? … I’ll give him the same chance I gave you. If he survives …”
My mind casts back to the murky depths, to the icey
barnacles rending my flesh into bloody strips. A fate I
would wish upon no man. “An extra man is an extra man,
no?”
“Dying men belong in front of me Bilge Rat, not behind
my back crying for help. If he survives …”
“He’ll hate you … or you could be his saviour.”
Roche shows me his wooden teeth in a leer. “Do you
hate me, Bilge Rat?”
With blood still staining my tunic there’s not reason
to lie. “I’m not particularly fond of you.”
“I saved you, Bilge Rat.”
“From yourself.” I raise an eye brow towards him. I killed a boy for this man, and he is my saviour?
“Bilge Rat,” he whispers, “if it wasn’t me it would have been a rock, or a storm, or another pirate. I have put you on the path to be a good sailor.”
“You’ve put me on the path to Jack Ketch, that’s all you’ve done,” I spit. “Good sailors don’t send their crew the keel.”
Our defiant eyes meet in a lingering moment, a thin
sheet of air escapes from his throat and fenced teeth; he
is not the undead after all.
“Good sailors, great sailors, do what’s required.” He
reaches to his belt, for a moment I believe he has grown
tired of my thoughts … It’s a pistol or a blade, my time
aboard The Hope is over. Instead, however, he simply
opens his bloodied shirt. “What’s required.”
Scars similar to my own, a map to the past scratched
across his flesh, and then I’m left sitting to listen to
the passing waves that urge my thoughts. I listen to the
shuffling from out side, that delicate voice calling the
very same orders I once heard when I died.
“Stand him up.”
Perhaps there is something human in him after all.
“Do you know why your friends are dead?”
Perhaps he once went sailing with his father.
“Well, I’m going to show you.”
A life of piracy started being torn beneath the keel
of a ship.
“I’m going to show you the proper distance to keep
between you and a ship in parley.”
A life lost beneath the waves.
“HAUL AWAY!”
