Art:AADM/Second round/The Hardest Lesson

The Short
= The Entry = Of all the lessons I've learned in life, the hardest had to be, "Never paint a ship yellow." I was a young captain with a brand new ship, the Upright Hake, and I was so proud to see her sleek lines and her fine sails. She fair flew over the waves, sleek and fast enough to catch brigands and those barbarous hordes that had recently invaded the local waters, and she overtook the occasional lost merchant ship with ease. I'm not above a bit of pre-emptive salvage, if the opportunity presents itself, and those fat merchants often have much-needed supplies and no intent to sell their wares at a price those who need them can afford.

But she was raw wood, and the sea would chew away at her, unless I had her painted to help keep the salt brine from her planks. The local apothecary only had three colors in stock, the common blue that seemed to grace the hulls of most of the ships in the harbor, the inky black that was more than a new captain could afford, and a bright yellow that promised to make my beauty stand out among the uniform dullness of the ships crowding the docks without emptying my purse.

I admired my ship while the paint dried, biding until I could chase over the waves once more, wheel in hand and my boatswain chivvying the sailors to their duties. The trouble started when she was ready and the sailors started to arrive. Such a witty crew I had, and they missed no opportunity to poke fun at my lovely ship in her yellow coat. "Ahoy, Captain! Permission to come aboard the banana boat?  Harrrrr!"

One day, they all showed up with old musketeer hats, the crowns cut out of them and pulled down to their insignificant noses to wear them upside-down, with the brims just under their eyes. My beleaguered boatswain demanded to know their purpose, to which the cheeky lot replied that since the sun had taken to shining up from below them, they had determined to be just as contrary until it returned to its proper place. My glower was lost on the crew, but the boatswain did not miss it - fearing the ache in his shoulder should I put the whole crew to the lash, he talked me into ignoring it as the sailors just blowing off a bit of steam and meaning no real harm.

Another time, they made up a tall tale about some odd creatures called "Vogons" who went about the sky in yellow ships and churning out truly awful poetry, but I said nothing, because they were rum-soaked enough to tell stories, but not so drunk that they dared insult ~my~ poetry. There was also the entire week we spent in port so they could scrub off the pitch and touch up the paint where they'd drawn wings and a beak and a feathered tail on the Hake, and hung signs over her gunwales that said "Canary Islands or Bust!"

The last straw with the crew, though, was the day the greenest hand left his station in the middle of the sea and proceeded to bellow that he didn't much appreciate being forced to ride the short yellow bus. In hindsight, I suppose it would have served as well to make him kiss the gunner's daughter, but I'd had enough of the jibes at my sleek ship's expense, and now to add in childish insults...it was the proverbial final straw. I bellowed, "BOSUN! Ready the plank!" Stunned silence from the crew and the creak of wood and the soft clink of this and that around the ship met my ears, as the boatswain went grimly to his task. Addressing the wretch of a sailor, I growled, "May Poseidon have mercy on your soul," and nodded to the boatswain, whose cutlass prodded the man into taking his final step. I turned wordlessly back to the helm, and the boatswain yelled for the lubbers to man their stations.

It was the last jest made in my hearing about my wonderful yellow ship. It was not the last time I would suffer for my choice of paint.

As it happened, a foul brigand king stole into our waters one night when an eerie mist threatened to lure the unwary sailor aground. Panic and mayhem set in as the few survivors' tales showed this creature to have no scruples or anything of mercy about him. His cursed crew was said to glow like St. Elmo's fire, and to look like the dead walking. Being then a brash young pirate and three sheets to the wind, I declared that I would hunt down this "Barnabas," as he called himself, and nail his pale hide to my mast for a flag.

Morning found both my words and the rum haunting me as my crew boarded, their every footfall resounding in my head like the beating of some great drum. Bleary-eyed, I set sail in my fine yellow ship, to hunt the slime-green ship of the brigand king. Three times that day, we saw her topsails, and three times she ran before us as though she'd had warning of our approach. My ship was fast, but Barnabas' was faster, and it would take cunning to hunt her down.

A week we ran, stopping only to replenish the rum and food, and the crew was beginning to think me mad for chasing ghosts on the sea and making nothing of profit on our runs. Each day we sighted the ship on the horizon, and each day, she disappeared before we could catch her. Cursing my prey, I thought that surely some ill magic was at work, for he could always begin his run before I had him in my glass. I began taking my meals in the crow's nest, thinking that my lookout had gone blind from the shine of the sun off the waves, and I trusted no one else to keep watch for the ship I pursued.

The brigand king was not idle, sinking enough ships that we found burnt planks and all manner of flotsam in the water as we sailed, and we found some unspeakable things, though we did try to say a few words over what was left of them. He was leading us on a grueling chase, and we grew grimmer by the day.

On the eighth day, I caught her topsails again, and they grew larger in my glass instead of fading away into nothing. A shout drew a sailor to the nest, where I shoved the glass into his hands and told him that he would keep those sails in the glass until he had the whole ship, or it would be a month of nothing but hardtack for him. Climbing down, I took the helm and set about closing the distance. Rage tunneled my vision and clouded my judgment, and the crew caught it like some swift plague, all eyes afore, and the crew's looks grew hard and feral as our prey came into sight without a glass.

I realized my error too late, too late! What had appeared to be the brigand king at anchor had turned out to be his latest victim, chased upon a shoal and all hands killed. Their corpses propped and tied up in a mockery of lively mates at work had aided in the deception, and Barnabas the Pale had caused his crew to nail his own colors to the top of her mast, the better to bait me.

With a curse, I bellowed to come about, but time had run out - the fiend had closed on us in our single-minded pursuit, and there was nowhere to run. We managed to turn our broadside to him, and I gave the order to fire at will. Cannons belched smoke and shot as fast as they were loaded, but the larger ship was skillfully crewed, and she veered a bit to slide astern of us with all her gunports open. The forsaken crew grinned skeletally as her cannons started to thunder.

"Abandon ship! Swim for the wreck! ABANDON SHIP!"

Men splashed into the water. I had thought to stay, but my boatswain was not having it and threw me bodily overboard, whereupon I decided that I might as well swim. Reaching the shoal, we were able to stand with our faces above the water, and I watched as my beloved ship was broken to splinters and sank beneath the waves.

I can only surmise that our survival was to ensure that the tale of the ambush would serve to strike more fear into the port towns, for if there are no survivors, there are none to tell the tales. I cannot think that there was anything of mercy in it, but only the cold and evil intent of a captain much more clever than I, who painted my ship yellow and made her stand out like a beacon on dangerous waters and by my foolishness lost her to the deep.

I can see in your eyes that you do not believe me, lad, but I speak no word untrue. I've loved other ships and no few women, but none have held the place in my heart that my poor Hake did. My throat is a bit dry, though, so more of my memoirs will have to wait until another night - unless...perhaps...ye'd buy an old salt a drink?