The waves crashed in the moonlight on the Northern beach of Gran Roque. The summer night wind carried the sound into the palms, and from there through the tropical forest. The rolling roar moved its way up to the peak of the long-dormant volcano, then down the other side where it met another sound: singing.
It's all for me grog, me jolly, jolly grog,
All gone for beer and tobacco.
Spent all me tin on the lassies drinking gin,
And across the Caribbean I must wander.
The coarse male voices echoed over the clear water of the small inlet, growing louder and wilder as more rum was poured. The man leading the singing was tall and lean, fiery red hair exploding from his head in every direction, playing his concertina ferociously and leaping and dancing across the white sandy beach around the raging bonfire.
“C’mon, Roger!” shouted another sailor, this one playing a fiddle. “Your turn for a verse, ya scab!” Roger Maddix, the red-headed musician, grinned wildly at the others and sang.
Where is me shirt? Me bloody, wenchin’ shirt…
All gone for beer and tobacco
I hung it on her arse, the furniture was sparse,
So across the Caribbean I must wander!
The others erupted in laughter and applause, and the game continued. Into the wee hours of the morning, the sailors drank and sang. They tapped the barrels of rum, and the sweet amber spirit flowed. The crew of The Relentless celebrated until they passed out on the cool beach, the toils and hardship of the day not forgotten, but softened by the rewards.
Aboard the sleek sloop, two figures stood on the deck. Small waves lapped against the hull of the ship. The night was warm and clear, and the light breeze carried the sounds of the revelry from the shore to the men at the rail. The shorter one, a rotund, bald bear of a man, puffed on a cigar and took a long draught from a bottle. He glanced up at his companion and cleared his throat.
“Somethin’ wrong, Cap’n? Why’re we sittin’ up here and not down celebratin’ with the men? Maddix says it be some mighty fine rum we gots today…” he trailed off, watching the Captain’s face in the full moon and flickering firelight.
“Go ahead, Rec. Join them.” Captain Alistair MacRorie’s firm, even brogue betrayed his Highland birth. He spoke well, especially for a sailor and pirate, almost like a gentleman. It was something he had always prided himself in. “Go and drink and revel with the men. You all have earned it.”
Rec shook his head. “Naw. I’m too old fer such foolishness. All that dancin’ and singin’… why I might get hurt!” The two men laughed, then stood in silence for a while.
“Those damn Spaniards were much heartier than they looked, aye?” MacRorie mused.
“Aye, Cap’n,” Rec nodded fiercely. “Especially that bloody captain o’ theirs… pity about ol’ Tej, eh? Never saw the blade what got ‘im.”
“Tej got what he deserved, Rec. He always was a coward. If that captain hadn’t run him through, I would have done it myself. I never should have brought him aboard at Tortuga.” He took the bottle from his companion and drank deeply, then turned and raised an eyebrow.
“Rec?”
Sheepishly, the portly man answered, “Yes, Cap’n?”
“This is awfully good rum.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
“Almost as good as my private stock.”
“Is it now? Well, I’ve been stowin’ some away now over the past few trips…”
“Indeed.”
Rec grinned at his captain, who returned the smile. MacRorie clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a scurvy knave and a scoundrel if there ever was one, Rec ByJam. I’m proud to call you a friend.”
“Aye, thank you, Alistair. Yer a pretty decent villain yerself. And a fine Captain, I might add.”
“Someday, Rec… someday soon.” He leaned on the rail and gazed into the distance to the west.
“Aye, Captain. Someday soon…”
Daniel Warrington was sure that this time, he was going to die. It had been two days already, and still no sign of land or a ship. The longboat he had been rowing was starting to leak, and his arms were numb from the exertion. While not an inexperienced sailor, Daniel’s true vocation was writing. The Williamsburg Gazette paid him a decent wage for his articles about life in the Caribbean colonies, and he was sure that his next piece would garner him enough of a reputation to ask for a much higher – and full-time – salary. Then, he could finally ask Jessica to marry him.
Of course, the point seemed moot now in the middle of the Caribbean Sea. Or maybe he was in the Atlantic now. He really had no idea. Navigation was not one of his strong suits, although he was pretty sure he had been rowing continually west since the merchant ship had been sunk.
Only fifteen days at sea, the captain of The White Stag had known they were in trouble. An unfortunate sailor had fallen from the rigging of the brigantine and broken his neck on the rail. Bad enough luck, but accidents happen on a ship. Then, two lines securing the mainsail snapped, just as they spotted the storm coming. Within twelve hours, the entire crew of the Stag was gone, save one. The writer, Daniel Warrington.
“This would make a great article,” he shouted to the afternoon sun that baked his already red flesh. “Don’t think the irony is lost on me, ya bastard!” He was not sure who he was yelling at, but it made him laugh, despite himself. His laughter stopped suddenly when something appeared on the horizon. Not wanting to get his hopes up, he contained his enthusiasm. But sure enough, as he picked up the oars to begin rowing furiously again, he saw them: ship’s sails. And they were coming towards him.
Ignoring the ache in his back and arms, Daniel rowed hard. If he could just get close enough for them to see him now. A small longboat could easily be passed by and go unnoticed by the crew of a larger ship. But luck seemed to be with him. Their course was making a line right for him. He stood and waved his coat, the only thing besides his journal and canteen he had managed to salvage. Hopefully, the dark red would attract the eye of one of the merchant sailors on the ship.
His heart rose as the sails got larger. Not a huge ship, but a sloop by the looks of it. “Now that’s odd,” he mumbled to himself. “No flag. Wonder where they’re…” And as quickly as it had risen, his heart sank as he watched the black material run up the mast. A white skull, a patch over one eye, and a cutlass in its teeth, whipping in the wind. Mocking him. The ship bore down on him, and he sat, resigned to his seemingly never-ending stream of bad luck. The sailors aboard jeered and shouted at him as they took in the sails and slowed, dropping grapples into his boat and making ready to bring him aboard. He was being rescued, all right. Rescued by pirates.
Obsesssed already
Portete! Here thar be pirates ☠️ Cheers!