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| >> Static Item >> Short Story >> Romance/Love >> ID #847337 |   |
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SLAM prompt: Write a story about the Spanish Armada, facing their enemies at sea. Keep the rating 13+ and lower.
My Seymour You probably wouldn't understand this. I’m sure you’re a prude, but you see I wanted Seymour, and when I wanted something, I tried to make sure I got it. So, when Seymour set off to war because King Philip was picking on the British again, I hid in the trunk, like I always did whenever Seymour went off playing with his navy buddies. The trunk was down in the captain’s storage room, but the captain never went near it. I was pretty sure he didn't even know it was there. Anyway, the trunk was empty, so why should the captain care if it became my home away from home? I lay there that first day, listening to the men singing and carousing. My ears were not virginal, even then. I accepted that things were the way they were. I could hear Seymour telling everyone what he was going to do to one of those British girls after they stole the queen from her palace and took over London. It didn't surprise me. I knew what men do when their womenfolk aren't around. It wasn't fair, but life never is. What I couldn't understand is what Seymour wanted with a faded city girl when I had blooms in my cheeks and a figure to hold him good and steady. It soured my attitude, it did, but what could a girl do in that day and age? Sign up to live in a nunnery? I figured it was too late for that -- for me, anyway. When we'd sailed for a couple of hours, I figured I could slip out of the trunk. I was dressed like a boy, so no one would notice me -- no one except Seymour, I hoped. I knew he'd be angry again. He had been angry the last four times I'd done the same thing, but that had never stopped me from coming along when he played his war games. Nor did the man Seymour paid to keep me from following him hold me in Portugal; I knew plenty of sweet sleeping powders that put even a strong man under. Just as I'd figured, when he discovered my presence, Seymour wouldn’t talk to me. He sulked like a schoolboy, saying I didn't trust him. He was right, but I didn’t tell him that. I just smiled and told him I loved him. Sighing, but red-faced with anger, Seymour led me into the cook's room and got me a job peeling potatoes. I didn’t mind. It was a good place to be. I knew I'd get plenty to eat. Seymour didn't stick around. He glared at me, told me to behave, and left, his mouth all twisted ugly. He was pulling at his beard, too, a thing he only does when he's really, really irked. In the week that followed, I was lonely.The cook hardly said two words in a sentence. I was pretty sure he didn't like me, though I did all the work just fine. The cook had told Seymour that women were bad luck on a ship. Then he'd made Seymour pay to take me on. That’s another reason Seymour wasn't speaking to me. I wondered how long before Seymour would let me make it up to him. The first of the British ships came in sight before Seymour and I patched up things. Our ship fired on it, and the ship ran. “The British are cowards,” Seymour said, coming up behind me. I threw my arms around him and cried because I was so glad he'd finally decided to forgive me. I thought later about what he'd said about the British. I didn't believe that just because a ship didn't stick around to be sunk, it was sign of cowardice. I’d run too if someone were shooting cannons at me. Those big peas were almost the size of a man’s head. My opinion about the British later proved to be right. The British weren’t running away, “tail tucked in their rear” like Seymour had said. They stabbed at us, teased us, played the old game of “it.” One ship shot a cannon at our vessel. That shook everyone up a bit. The good part about it is that Seymour got worried about me. When that little bit of fighting was done, he came panting in to find me, and he hugged me quite nicely. It is always good to find out that a man cares. Sometimes it was hard to tell, I was getting sick of scraping off the mold from the meat. It nearly took my breath away, the stench was so bad. I’d stopped eating any of it weeks ago, deciding I’d rather go without than to eat maggoty and rotten meat. But I was also tired of potatoes. There were days I'd have given anything to have one of our Portuguese blood-red oranges. Seymour told me they couldn't grow that kind of thing in Britain. Why would anyone want to go there then, I asked? I asked Seymour a lot of things like that, but he never answered them. “Politics is for kings, Tina,” he used to tell me. “Not for people like us.” We'd sailed away from Portugal in the last of May, and the days of June slipped by like butterflies -- beautiful yet voraciously chewing on the green of promise. July was a constant bombardment -- no rest, no silence. Battle zones were all night long and throughout the days, forever darting about with pricks and pokes that sank several careless captains. Seymour said Francis Drake and Lord Howard were behind the attacks. He cursed their names, and said that Duke Parma would have their heads. Seymour said we were supposed to meet the Duke in Calais, and then the endless war would end. What did I care for such politics? Seymour was right. As long as the nights were ours, I didn't care which king ruled the seas. The Great Armada was nothing to me but the reason for Seymour’s constant desertions. All wars were but the games of great men. If only men could see life through a woman’s eyes, I was sure they'd stop their constant battles. We sailed into Calais and then we waited. The British attacked us with fire ships that burned and caught our Spanish ships afire. One almost took ours out. A friend of Seymour’s died in that action. They cast him out to sea. My poor Seymour. I comforted him in the only way I knew. Then he cried in my arms. The Duke of Parma never showed up, and the fire ships continued their fiery mischief. In the Battle of Gravelines, our Armada stood against the British. For eight hours we fought their cursed cannons. Many more of our good men sank with their ships into the Channel. To this day, I curse this game of kings. It uses pawns of blood and youth to score its wins. Seymour, my Seymour, died in my arms during those long hours. Too late, the Duke of Medina Sedonia ordered us to retreat. We sailed up north to Scotland and around the Irish coast, but the British were thick as fleas, and they followed from behind -- until the storms came, and then the British wisely sailed away, leaving us to pitch and toss in misery, while all around us, we watched our ships go down. We were once the brave Armada. We sailed on the open seas. Invincible is what Seymour called us, but my Seymour is no more. Sick at heart, we limped like old horses, hobbling back to our shores. I didn’t care if we ever reached it for when my Seymour slipped into the sea, I wanted nothing more than to join him. His brother sailors held me back. It was good to see my Portugal again. My eyes watered, for once not shedding tears for Seymour. We landed, and again I walked on the green of grass and the firmness of land. I vowed that I’d never sail again. Then I took myself to the Nunnery and banged upon their door. They took me in to cook their meals. When I am not in their kitchen peeling potatoes, I spend my time in the chapel. Each day I light a candle, and on my knees I pray for the soul of my one true love, my sweet amour, my Seymour. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
© Copyright 2004 Shaara (UN: shaara at Writing.Com).
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