Art:AADM/Second round/Worse Things Happen At Sea

The Short
= The Entry =

Warning!
This entry includes graphic but realistic descriptions of a sea battle, as well as less graphic descriptions of what might be seen as cruelty to animals. Read at your own risk. (This warning will not be included in the story for wordcount purposes.)

The Story
"I've never seen anyone do that with an octopus," said the First Mate. “An octopus? What are you talking about?” I replied. “Take a look for yourself, lad.” Handing me the spyglass, his expression was unreadable. With a sense of trepidation, I zeroed in on the other ship. “God almighty! What… what in blazes is that?” High above the other ship, entangled in the rigging, a gigantic creature had been strung up by its tentacles. The monstrous being looked to be completely intact, but as the wind changed direction it flapped like canvas, revealing that it had been skinned. Four of its appendages were used to anchor it into place, in order to use the body as a kind of macabre sail. The other legs flapped uselessly in the wind, the tattered remains trailing down the ship. “Thar be a fearsome sight, lad. I reckon that there is a giant octopus, a monster from the depths of the ocean,” he explained. A tremor in his voice revealed he was as uneasy, which terrified me. I’d never seen the man even slightly fazed when we attacked ships that were twice as large as ours, but now this smaller ship had him scared. “What’s going on? What kind of ship uses a skinned creature as a sail?” I asked. “Trophy hunters” he whispered, his obvious fear causing me to shiver involuntarily.

Scrambling down the rigging, the First Mate rushed across the main deck and into the Captain’s cabin, obviously seeking someone to take charge. Fearless in battle though he was, his ability to command men was poor. After a time, he reappeared with the Captain and Quartermaster and demonstrated the other ship. The Quartermaster, being in charge of the plundered goods and currency, kept things orderly during quieter times. In this situation however, Captain Thomas Lowe was relied upon to make the critical decisions. As far as I was concerned, the man was a legend. Hushed tales over a game of cards made the man even more mysterious; apparently he had never been defeated in a duel, and always chose to take his opponent’s life over a ransom. As I watched him studying our new aggressors, I took the opportunity to have another look myself. The ship had appeared a couple of hours ago, and after remaining parallel to us on the open waters had obviously decided to come in for a closer look. It looked to me to be a former Navy Snow, but this one had long since been liberated from Imperial hands. Smaller than our Brigantine, this ship was also faster in the water and more agile too. Holding fewer guns, the craft was a true pirate vessel: dismissing traditional ranged warfare in favour of boarding and overwhelming the enemy. The ship had been closing steadily on us for the past hour, and now it appeared that someone had made up their mind: the hunters had decided that we were suitable prey.

“Get ready to fight, you lazy bastards!” roared Lowe. Looking around the ship, men preparing themselves for the imminent battle brought back a host of memories. I had joined the crew a couple of ports ago, when the ship had made an unscheduled stop at the squalid shanty town I called home. I’d been living on the streets for as long as I could remember, and when I saw the ship at the dock I saw a way out of the poverty I had grown accustomed to. The toothless recruiter tried to sell piracy as a glamorous life of riches and notoriety, with adventure at every turn. Of course he was lying through his gums. Life as a pirate is tough. We sleep in rat infested cabins, the only warmth provided by bits of flea-ridden old sack. Hard tack is virtually the only food out here, and you have to tap the bloody biscuit to get rid of the weevils before eating it. If only the discomforts of life at sea were the worst part of life as a pirate. Unfortunately, they are eclipsed by the horrors of battle. The atrocities that are committed at sea should never be spoken of. Blood splashing all around, the innards of the attacked and attackers alike spilled on the deck. Blades clashing, pistols discharging and the constant sound of hacking flesh, as though each man were a butcher carving up a fresh joint. Every time we would close on a target, I prayed they had the sense to surrender. As a lookout I could escape the fighting by using my pistol from the rigging. By remaining at my station, it would appear as though I were aiding the battle when in reality I was hiding, too scared to face the blades. The scene of carnage after each battle is forever etched into my memories, and my mind constantly seeks to remind me of the horrors I have been witness to.

It was therefore with a sense of dread that I watched our opponents moving steadily towards us. They were close enough for me to make out more details now, and what I saw almost had me emptying the contents of my stomach. A slight hint of putrid flesh on the wind obviously came from our opponents, but it was not just octopus meat that was rotting. At the bow of the ship, a huge figurehead was constructed from the front half of a colossal shark, stripped of its skin. Birds flocked in their hundreds to pick at it – this was a fresh kill. Blood stained the sides of the ship beneath it, obvious that this was not their first figurehead. Even the sea had difficulty in removing the grim crimson dye. In addition, dotted around the ship at various intervals were gruesome fenders; human heads in various stages of decay, strung up by their hair, tongues or spines to the sides of the ship. Occasionally a fin would break the surface of the water, indicating the presence of sharks inevitably lured by the scent of an easy meal. This floating abomination seemed utterly inhuman, and yet the deck was full, literally packed with men seething around in what appeared to be an unorganized frenzy. The men looked to be naked, clothed only in vibrant paints and dyes which adorned their faces and chests. Occasionally a blood-curdling shriek would emanate from within the crowd, and others would join it to crescendo into the most horrific war-cry I have ever heard.

Despite my observation that the occupants of the enemy ship were an unorganized gang, I noticed that when an order was given it was actually carried out quickly and efficiently. When no orders were available, the men resumed working themselves up. I had to assume that this was some sort of battle ritual, intended to grow their confidence and dent ours. It was certainly working out that way. A piercing whistle sounded, clearly an order, yet it appeared that none of the men obeyed. From the throng, a single man pushed through and climbed onto the quarter deck. After letting out another battle-cry, he raised his falchion and severed the ropes trailing over the stern of the ship. I had assumed that these ropes held more grizzly trophies, however now that I looked more closely it appeared that the ropes actually disappeared under the water – the ship had been trailing something. With a lurch the rival ship, now free of whatever burdens it was trailing, sped forward at a much greater speed.

Without warning, our opponents turned hard to port. Lowe had barely given the order for us to match the turn when the guns opened fire. I hadn’t noticed them being loaded in all the commotion, and hadn’t expected them to be used. However, the four small guns on the port side all fired at once. Because the ship was head on, we mercifully had a small profile to them, but this was not enough to prevent a direct hit to the hull slightly below the bowsprit. Men were still inside the forecastle, I couldn’t imagine that nobody had escaped injury down there. Splintered wood can cause horrific injuries, but before now I’d only seen it happen to our opponents. Sure enough, cries of pain could be heard amid the sound of men coughing in the dust. The ship only had one surgeon, I prayed to god he was not one of the injuries or many more would die this day.

Upon studying the position of the two ships again, I quickly noticed that the situation had changed since I last looked up. The ships were once again broadside, and this time they were almost close enough to board. The savages on board the other ship had begun to shout profanities at us, and many of our men decided to retaliate in kind. I couldn’t help but feel that it was a half-hearted effort, and that deep down every member of our crew was terrified.

Suddenly, the six cannons on our starboard side began to fire. The effect was immediate and terrifying. Using bundles of small metal bars, the guns had aimed for the packed deck of the opposing ship and inflicted horrific damage. The foresail had been torn to shreds, but this was not what held my attention. At this range, the shot had ripped men into pieces. At least five men had been killed, struck in the head or chest by a flailing piece of metal. More than twenty others had been wounded, many missing limbs. However, in their bloodlust they appeared to not even be aware that they had been hit. A man who had lost both arms now stood at the front of the crowd, grinning insanely and moving as though too excited to wait for the ship to be boarded, exactly as he had been doing before the cannon fire.

The man did not have to wait long. From somewhere within the thronging masses, boarding hooks were thrown and steadily pulled the ships side-by-side. Our deck was slightly higher than theirs, and so the frantic opposition had a difficult climb to make it across. Scrambling atop one another, the first wave arrived on our deck, only to meet a wall of musket fire. Ten men were cut down, and were immediately replaced by wave upon wave of berserk attackers. Meeting the charge, Captain Lowe took his finest fighters. He was the very best swordsman on the ship, and from what I’d seen possibly the best in the whole ocean. He had been elected Captain not for his strong leadership capabilities, but because he won battles leading by example. His blade seemed to be an extension of his arm, and zigzagged through the air at lightning speeds. Everywhere the steel moved it found the flesh of his enemies, leaving a trail of blood and severed limbs. The grisly dance of his saber was a delight to behold as he cut a swathe through the horde. Constantly ducking, weaving, dodging and parrying, none could stand in his way. Unfortunately the rest of the crew were not faring quite so well. All across the deck, men armed with swords were hacking at their adversaries, and finding that opponents that seemingly do not feel pain are very, very dangerous. At every opportunity the insane swarm surged forward, overwhelming men despite often being unarmed. I observed the group surrounding the First Mate being overrun by as many as three times their number. Upon breaking the line, the madmen would bite and scratch, kick and punch our crew members into submission. I watched in horror as the First Mate was slammed onto the deck in a pile of bodies. When the mob had been driven back, the poor man was nowhere to be seen. Searching the deck, I could only guess as to his fate.

Distracted by the scene I had just witnessed, I failed to notice the enemy crewman scaling the rigging toward me. His loud grunts of exertion finally caused him to become the focus of my attention. Studying my foe, I noticed something strange about his eyes. The bastard’s eyes were red. Not bloodshot, the iris itself was the colour of blood. What the hell were these people? Sniffing the air for a moment, my enemy steadied himself ten paces below me. With a rough jerk of his head, he faced me and started frenziedly racing up toward me. Terrified, I withdrew my flintlock pistol and with shaking hands aimed at his head. Miraculously, the lead shot didn’t miss its target. Entering his head through his nose, the small pellet disappeared into a sea of red tissue, exiting in a spray on the other side. As the man fell, seemingly blissfully unaware of his death, the moment had a surreal quality that caused it to move in slow motion for me. Tumbling over and over down the rigging, like an acrobat performing a daring leap, I noticed that he had never once stopped grinning. Even now as he made his final descent toward the fighting, his teeth were locked together in an eternal grimace.

Suddenly the battle was brought sharply back into focus as the man smashed into the deck, crushing one of his former crewmates. Despite an obvious broken nose, the man stood up and continued where he had left off, completely ignoring the blood gushing down his body. All along the deck men were dead or dying, groans filling the air. Both sides had taken devastating losses, but it still looked like we would be simply overwhelmed. Unexpectedly, the sounds of battle completely ceased. Only the sounds of dying men could be heard, a grim harmony to accompany what was to transpire. From the enemy rabble, a small man stepped forward. He held the complete attention of their entire crew – apparently this was their Captain. “You,” he spoke out of the blue, pointing toward Lowe. “You have proven yourself to be a worthy opponent. You may fight me. If you kill me, my men will die with me. If you lose I will take whatever trophies I see fit.” “Yer… yer men die with ye? What in god’s name are ye talkin’ about?” Lowe replied, obviously exhausted and frightened. “You heard me. Now, how about that duel?” “Aye, I’ll fight ye,” answered the only man who could prevent our slaughter.

The crew on both sides who could still stand cleared the bodies to make room for the duel. Injured crew members were taken into the Captain’s cabin; the dead were unceremoniously buried at sea. Sickeningly, I noticed several corpses without heads. They must have already been taken as trophies, ready to hang from the sides of their dreadful ship. Once the bodies had been moved, the arena was ready. I couldn’t stop thinking about what he had said: “If you kill me, my men will die with me.” Did that mean that if I killed him with my pistol, they would all drop dead? Or was it some kind of weird pact? Was it worth the risk? If I interfered now, I might be killed for breaking some gentleman’s code. I was no hero; let the Captain deal with it. Despite my cowardice, I reloaded my pistol.

The men stepped into the arena surrounded on all sides by pirates, some nervously cheering, others virtually uncontrollable in their enthusiasm. A saber was the weapon of choice for our Captain; his opponent chose two long daggers. Apparently there wasn’t any kind of code being followed in this duel, as the diminutive figure of the enemy immediately flung himself toward his contender. Savagely ripping through the air, his daggers were expertly aimed at the neck and chest. Predictably, Lowe had anticipated this and skilfully blocked one dagger with his sword, and snapped his neck to the side to narrowly avoid having his throat slashed. Since the enemy Captain was in the air, he was committed entirely to this one killing move. As the weapon missed his neck, Lowe seized the opportunity and grabbed the man’s arm. Mercilessly he followed through with the move, slamming his foe to the deck shoulder first. A sickening crunch could be heard as bones ground against each other; surely this fight was already over? With an impossible speed, the enemy Captain regained his feet and planted a solid uppercut to Lowe’s chin. I couldn’t help but notice that he used his bad arm; did none of these monsters feel any kind of pain? Staggering back, Lowe adopted a defensive stance. In a flash, his opponent began another attack. Whipping in from the left, he wildly flung his arm toward the bulk of Lowe’s chest. Too dangerous to ignore, Lowe had to move his blade quickly to block this attack. Focusing on the problem in front of him, he nearly missed the efficient movement of his opponent’s other arm, sweeping up to stab him in the belly. A nimble leap backwards appeared to have saved him, but on closer inspection the knife must have scratched him, as a line of blood appeared, soaking the cloth around the slash. Continuing the incredible pace of the fight, daggers appeared once again in the centre of the arena. The man had obviously decided that surprise would not work on such an opponent, and now appeared to be fighting in a much more orthodox manner. Blades slicing through the air, he relied on speed to make contact, slowly wearing his opponent down. Lowe had hardly enough time to recover from the previous attempts on his life, and was now on the back foot, blade wildly sweeping to block the twin vipers on which his mind was concentrated on. The occasional parry was the only evidence that the master swordsman was still capable of the daring displays for which he was so renowned. After a minute or so of blocking, Lowe was obviously exhausted. This fight had to end soon, or the poor man would be unable to stand. In a gap between the strikes, the Captain made his move. Following on from a downward block, he focused all of his effort into the movement that would bring the sword back up in a vicious arc. Caught completely by surprise, the enemy Captain looked down at himself, stunned to find the blade embedded in the right hand side of his torso. Chuckling softly to himself, he carefully removed the sword from his mortal wound and let it drop to the deck. Moving at a ridiculous speed, he barrelled into a now unarmed Lowe, daggers first. With a splutter and a groan, Thomas Lowe slowly lay himself down on the deck, arms at his sides. High in the rigging, I was the last thing he ever saw.

The remaining figure in the centre of the deck cast an eerie shadow in the setting sun. I could swear that it was moving independently of his body, sometimes seeming bestial, sometimes human. I almost jumped when the little man let out an intense cry, a sound no human should be capable of. The noise was horrendous; I was forced to balance on the rigging with my feet, so that my freed hands could cover my ears. The sound resembled nothing I had ever heard, and I have not encountered anything similar in all my years since that massacre. After what seemed like an eternity, the noise stopped and two bodies lay motionless in the centre. Shocked voices from the crew told me something was not quite right, but upon studying the situation I could not discern anything different about the scene below me. With a jump that nearly dislodged me from my position, I was stunned to realise that the men of the enemy crew, including the dead, had completely disappeared along with their ship. The pistol in my hand had never seemed so insignificant.