10 Death Before the Mast

by Rick Dean

Rated: 13+ · Chapter · Action/Adventure · #2361127

Can the crew of Defiance finally snap The Curse of Captain Morgan?

Death Before the Mast

Defiance weighed anchor around midmorning. As she left St. Cruz, ahead lay Puerto Rico and the dreaded port of San Juan. Captain Scarlet intended to steer her around to the south of the island. This course would also keep her away from the dangerous Spanish stronghold of Havana.

This left Santo Domingo, on Hispaniola, as the only real concern. It lay on the southern bank, unavoidable. Santo Domingo had a small military presence despite being the capital of New Spain. The wealth of the new world – and thus the Spanish Navy – lay to the south, along the Spanish Main. Smaller vessels ferried government officials and dispatches to and from Santo Domingo, but the great frigates and galleons guarded larger concerns.

Captain Scarlet still fretted. One of those smaller vessels almost sunk us last time.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.” The Quartermaster interrupted his thoughts.

“Yes, Mr. English?”

“Good news and bad news, sir. The good news is we’re holding steady on course. Fair winds and following seas.”

“Very well, and the bad?”

“Pestilence, sir.”

“Good heavens!”

“One of the Scots boys, sir. Ronnie, I think. Overnight, the bloody flux got its grips on him tight, sir. He’s burning with fever. I sent him below for surgeon to bleed him.”

“Anyone else?”

“Not yet, sir, but you know as well as I that once the fever has her grips on a ship, she’ll not let go easily.”

“God’s balls, it’s always something. Thank you, Mr. English.”

Having finished his report, the quartermaster returned to the foredeck. If the weather held, they could make landfall in Mexico in nine days, plus a tenth day to take on fresh water in one of the many unpopulated bays of Jamaica. Even with foul weather they could reach the coast in twelve days or less. The sick man, however, presented a major concern. With luck, they isolated him in time.

The ship had no formal “sick list.” That reeked of The Navy, and the men wouldn’t stand for it. Far too many of them had turned to life on the account in the first place due to their maltreatment in His Majesty’s service. They would not tolerate any heavy-handed authority.

If a man genuinely fell ill, his mates would understand and perform his duties until he recovered. If they suspected him of malingering, however, they’d take it upon themselves to punish him. Once he’d witnessed a crew tie a lazy man to a beach-apple tree. They freed the lad before he died, but he never recovered. When punishment failed, the crew would refuse to give a malingerer his share when it came time to divide the loot. He hadn’t earned it. The captain did not expect that here, however. The three Scots lads might be new but this far they’d always put their backs into their work.

Scarlet made his way belowdecks and toward the stern to the surgeon’s area to see the sick man for himself. Ronnie lay in a hammock in an awkward attempt at sleep. The captain remembered, just yesterday, an energetic young man with ice blue eyes and skin bronzed by life on the water. Now both had turned yellow. Each breath fouled the air with the putrid smell of death. Sweat drenched him, yet he shivered and huddled tight in a blanket.

The captain shook his head and returned topside. He’d seen this enough times before. Death would either take the lad or it wouldn’t, and death didn’t refuse many. Only time would tell.

The next morning, the ship continued westward. The crew set about their tasks before first light reflected off the sea astern. While they didn’t waste their time with the make-work of the navy – no one bothered to swab the decks, for example – they would still have no shortage of tasks. This promised to be a hard day like any other; a hard day in a hard life. Sails required constant attention to keep them full with the wind. Those not attending to the sails maintained weapons in a unending fight against salt and corrosion. Still other men made themselves useful darning the inevitably torn canvas. It may be a hard life, but there wasn’t a man aboard who would return to the navy.

“Sail!” came a cry from above. One of the top men pointed off the port side, slightly forward. There, out of the southwest, emerged a ship.

The captain spoke a few words to the quartermaster, who announced “rig the ship for battle!”

Once again, Defiance sprang to life. Scarlett had no idea yet if they should fight or flee. For all he knew they looked upon another crew sailing out of St. Cruz; or maybe a target. Or worst of all, Navy. Whose navy mattered little. Any of the four – Spanish, English, French, or Dutch – could mean battle. The men prepared the ship as if their lives depended on it. For all they knew it might.

Slowly the details emerged as the ships grew closer. She had two masts. Square topsails.

Christ’s soiled breeks, Scarlett thought to himself, another bloody brigantine.

That also meant she sailed for Spain again. He could find no good reason any other nation would sail up from the Spanish Main in a brigantine. Even if some Dutchman had visited Bonaire for a load of salt, they’d use a sloop for the job.

Scarlett seemingly waited an eternity before he could make out the enemy ship’s flag in his glass. While the men now had an entire list of urgent tasks to keep them occupied, Scarlett had merely to watch and plan, and had ample time alone with his thoughts. Too much time, perhaps. He looked through the glass again. Sure enough, the brigantine flew Phillip’s banner.

How many of those bloody things does Phillip have in his lake? Scarlett wondered. It can’t be the same ship. Can it?

Minutes became hours as the Spaniard inched closer. Scarlett cursed himself. Once again, he’d steered his ship into harm’s way. The time to try to lay low had passed. The brigantine could outrun him. He could not hide in weather or escape to shallows. He had to find a way to get lucky again.

Perhaps the curse of Captain Morgan sent the Spanish ship to intercept? Perhaps he wasn’t destined to break the curse? Perhaps when they spoke of getting rich or dying, it was the latter which would win out?

All these and a million other thoughts flooded Scarlet’s brain as he desperately searched for a clever escape.

Then the wind shifted. The same breeze which had pushed them west across the Caribbean slacked, then subsided. The two ships both idled, too far for cannon fire, but not by much. Then it picked up, now out of the north, driving Defiance south into the waiting brigantine. Through the looking-glass, Captain Scarlet could now see individuals hard at work upon the enemy deck. The enemy captain had his own glass trained upon Scarlet. The Spaniard saw Scarlett observing him, doffed his cap, and gave a shallow bow of acknowledgment to his enemy.

It seemed like days and yet it seemed like mere moments. In truth, hours had passed and the ships inched closer. The brigantines gun ports opened and the black cast-iron tubes emerged. After an eternity of wait, the clouds of gray smoke now belched from their gaping maws. A full second passed in awkward silence. Then… splash. The entire broadside had fallen short. Only then did the powerful bellowing of the guns become audible across the sea.

“Fire!” Scarlet bellowed and his own cannons returned the exchange. They had no choice but to unleash hell. Yet they too had cold guns which undershot their targets.

It took close to two minutes before the brigantine fired again. Not great gunnery by naval standards, yet more than a match for Defiance and her volunteer crew. This time the ships had closed a bit, the Spanish cannons had heated up somewhat, and the shrieking iron wrought death on the deck.

The two ships continued to fire, and continued to close upon each other. Defiance took the far worse damage. Her cannon-fire bounced off the thick Spanish hull. Defiance had not been built to withstand broadsides. The brigantines canons weren’t much larger, but when they fired round-shot and it hit home it left gaping holes in the Defiance’s thinner hull. Scarlet watched as poor Jack Bristol took a shot full-force in the shoulder. One moment he held a rifle, the next a jet of blood squirted from his shoulder where he used to have an arm. He’d receive an extra four hundred pieces of eight if he lived.

Riflemen joined in the battle now. Scarlett had no idea how they could see through all the smoke. Still, they shot, and sometimes men fell. The captain could hear the familiar terror of fires burning on deck and cannons pounding the ships. Poor young Konrad fell to the deck clutching his stomach, his screaming audible over the chaos.

This time, the brigantine threw the grappling hooks and tugging the ships together. This time, the Spanish soldiers boarded his ship. On my bloody ship! They swarmed, cutlasses swinging, pistols firing. Anger welled up inside Scarlett. He swore and drew his own cutlass, hoping to find the Spanish captain. He could win the battle with one sword stroke.

Through the smoke he saw Mr. English, grim faced, cajoling men and swinging his own sword. Big and Moat, the new men, stood back-to-back. Moat impaled a marlin spike into a Spaniard’s head, which erupted in a volcano of gore. In an instant, another Spaniard took the dead man's place and Moat attempted to fend him off by bashing him with his pistol. Scarlett tried to run to their aid. He took one step and almost fell as Defiance lurched sharply.

There must be major trouble below. He’d have to trust the ship’s carpenter to keep them afloat. At least with the Spanish aboard they’d fire no more broadsides.

“Ship!” a voice screamed over the melee. “Port side! Coming hard!”

Scarlett freed himself and saw Big pointing over the rail. Sure enough, a sloop approached. She made an impossible speed. Then Scarlett noticed the sails. They hung limp. The current had pushed Defiance from astern, so this new sloop couldn’t ride the tide in that direction, yet it did. This was impossible. How can she even sail? How in God’s name does she leave no wake behind her?

The sloop sailed so fast that by this time Scarlett could already begin to see details. The limp canvas showed countless rips and tears. It wouldn’t catch much wind even it did happen to blow in their favor. The sloop bore all the marks of having endured a fierce battle. Its rail hung shattered and useless. It had numerous holes in its hull. Wreckage dotted the battered deck. He could see crewmen standing on deck, yet they seemed to hover in place, doing nothing. The seemed as tattered as the sloop. Oddly, it seemed to Scarlett as if he could see through them. He looked at the helm, hoping to catch the eye of the enemy captain. He sensed a powerful void emanating from the spot, yet no one steered.

The sounds of battle drew Scarlett’s attention back to his own ship. Stumbling, he pushed forward. So much for one last battle. He held his breath as a cloud of smoke enveloped him. He crossed swords with a Spaniard. They hacked and slashed at each other, neither drawing blood. Then somehow the Spaniard disappeared. He’d turned to fend off an attack from another man. Scarlett couldn’t kill either man, for he too had other attackers to fight. He would show neither mercy nor tact to any man at this point.

Scarlett knew as captain he needed to stay above the fray in order to direct his men. Yet the fray came to him. Before he could exercise command, he had to preserve his own life. He continued to stab and slice and bash anything which appeared before him. Finally, he created enough space that he had a moment to look.

“Slash those bloody ropes!” he shouted. “Get those hooks off my ship!”

Before he could see if any men responded to his orders, an apparition emerge through the smoke. A man-like figure arose from belowdecks. He glowed a pale yellow in the smoke, and seemed to not walk in a straight line. This was no ghost. The yellow specter was Ronnie. Fever or not, he’d found his way, unsteadily, onto the deck.

Ronnie produced a pistol and fired it, staggering from the effort. Then somehow, he produced a sword. Alas, a Spaniard saw him and engaged. He knocked Ronnie’s weapon aside and then the Spaniard struck Ronnie down.

“The devil take ye!” Captain Scarlett shouted. He could no longer save Ronnie but he could still send the Spaniard to hell right beside him. He dealt his vengeance with a wicked slash.

Scarlett looked back to port. The ghastly sloop hadn’t changed course. It lay only a few ship lengths away, bearing directly down onto Defiance. The translucent crewmen smiled rictus grins at him and none altered her collision course.

Defiance settled lower into the sea as the fight raged on. King Phillip’s men seemed to draw closer and closer about him. He could no longer see Mr. English in the fight. A small band of his men still fought around him, yet the Spanish pressed them hard. The new man, Porker, fell at the hands of two Spaniards.

Then, with a final flourish of his sword, the Spanish Captain ordered his men to retreat. They hurried back aboard the brigantine leaving Scarlett and a mere handful of men behind on the Defiance. It didn’t take long to see why. She rode low in the water now, almost to the gunnels. The Spanish had to climb up their ropes to regain their own ship.

At that moment, the other sloop rammed. Its bow plowed into Defiance and rose up. She seemed to sail straight over the top of Scarlett’s ship. He could hear the destruction. The other ship settled down upon her and poor Defiance couldn’t take the weight of two ships. Deep below, her keel snapped. None recognized the sound, yet all sensed a sensation of almost physical pain shuddering through the very timbers. Then, as quickly as she arrived, the sloop disappeared. One moment Scarlett could see its transom as it sailed, still wakeless, away from Defiance. The next moment he could only see empty ocean.

It has come to this at last, Scarlett thought. His men jumped overboard. Some could swim; others could not. The ones who could swim faced the horrifying fate in the hands of the Spanish. The ones who could not had it far easier. They would meet Davy Jones in the briny deep.

We were never meant to be the ones to break the curse – just its latest victims, Scarlett thought. He stood before the mast and clung to it, holding his final breath as he and Defiance sank to the bottom. The curse of Captain Morgan lives.

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