08 Captain Morgan’s Revenge

by Rick Dean

Rated: 13+ · Chapter · Action/Adventure · #2361310

The Curse of Captain Morgan is finally revealed and The Defiance is determined to break it

Captain Morgan’s Revenge

“The Cap’n ain’t tellin’ us everything,” growled a man after Captain Scarlett left the fire. Jack Bristol spoke; a grizzled man with a scar on his cheek, and the oldest man in the crew.

“I can’t believe he would lie to us,” replied a voice from around the fire.

“I ain’t sayin’ he lied. Just that he didn’t tell everything.”

Jack spat into the sand.

The voice emerged from the shadows along the edge of the fire, revealing himself as Silent Bill, a fine man with a cannon and a terror with a pistol and cutlass.

“So, what did he not tell us?” Bill asked.

“Mutiny.”

“Mutiny?” several voices exclaimed.

“Ay, mutiny,” he continued as his crewmates murmured. “An’ they mutinied against none other than ‘Enry Morgan ‘imself!”

Several voices erupted around the fire.

“No!”

“Henry Morgan?!”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Ain’t ever hear o’ no mutiny on a Morgan ship.”

The chorus continued their skepticism.

“Twas mutiny for certain,” croaked a voice from beyond the fire.

The men turned to see the silhouette of a man emerging from the dunes. He wore little more than rags, and had an unsteady walk. The firelight cast a metallic reflection off him, for where he once had a hand was now a simple iron hook.

Red Kelly turned and squared up to the man. “Just who in bloody hell are you?” he demanded.

“Back off, Red,” interjected Jack, “seriously.”

Red continued to glare at the interloper.

“Don’t you recognize this man?” continued Jack, “lads, we have a legend in our midst. Lads, this is the man they call Storm!”

The men grumbled their acknowledgments. Even if they’d not met him, nearly all knew his name.

“Alas, it’s Storm, no more,” he said in greeting. “More like Alestorm now. Now as I said as I walked up, twas mutiny for certain.”

“I believe ye,” replied Jack, “but tell us how ye know.”

Storm continued. “Anyone who ever paid call at the old Port Royal and lived to tell of it has heard the tale. I was but a wee guttersnipe back then an’ I ain’t ashamed to admit it. Me dear beloved Ma worked in the taverns of Port Royal. I got lucky when the town fell. My first trip as a cabin boy was the fateful day when God reached down, smited Port Royal ▶︎ , and sent the town down into the sea. We lost many of our own that day.”

Alestorm looked around. Heads nodded. That day was before their time, but they'd all heard the stories. By now the crew had settled in again, hanging upon his words.

“What of Morgan?” asked Silent Bill.

“Why Bill,” interrupted Bristol, “that’s the most I’ve heard you speak in months.”

“Ye don’t bandy words like mutiny around lightly” added Red.

“Nay, friend. I don’t. Yet he’s a right mystery, that ‘Enry Morgan.”

“Allow me to continue,” said Alestorm. “Back before God destroyed Port Royal, “Enry Morgan showed up in town. No ship had sailed into the bay and yet there’s ‘Enry – walkin’ the streets plain as day. Not long after, dear ‘Enry chose a life on land. He got his fat estates and left the sea behind. Became ‘Tenant Gov’nor of the whole bloody island of Jamaica. Let me tell you the night ‘Enry Morgan left the sea, Ol’ King Carlos ▶︎ slept easy for the first time in an age.”

“He did give ol Carlos bloody hell, didn’t he,” added Jack

“Ay.”

“So, what of the mutiny?”

“Remember lads, his crew was a mite different then ours. England had spent decades at war with herself ▶︎ . Every time the Roses got ahead a bunch of Catholics fled. And when the Yorkies starting winning, life got hard for the Prods.”

“Other way ‘round.”

“Close enough. I’m not here to take sides. The point is, Morgan had an entire fleet wi’ thousands o’ men, all of them battle-hard from the fighting in England. An’ when that bastard Cromwell came along, it got harder yet for the Catholics. Got even worse for the Irish.”

“I spit on that mans grave!” interrupted Red with pride, “and his son, too. Right bastards, both of ‘em.”

“Anyway, Morgan’s men were more soldiers than sailors. He didn’t go after ships. He sailed the Spanish Main and attacked the ports themselves. Same as Drake back in Queen ‘Bess’s day. He sailed right into Maracaibo itself and plundered it down to the dirt floors. You all know what happened in Panama. ‘Came out ‘o there loaded to the gunnels. Did the same to Porto Bello three years later. Things went sideways on the way back from there.”

Morgan had a whole fleet with him. He picked his most incompetent captain and made that ship his flagship. In hindsight I figure he wanted to keep an eye on the bloody fool. Cap’n Michael George, he was, and he couldn’t sail his way out of a jakes pot ▶︎ even if you drew him a map. He’d crash into the solids, that one. I don’t know what Morgan saw in that bloody fool.

Well, they started north along the Mosquito Coast away from Phillip’s gabechos ▶︎ . The weather turned bad and the captain managed to get separated from the rest of the fleet. I can only imagine what sort of foolishness led up to that mistake. I figure he cocked-up a bunch of sightings and had them sailing in circles. Then fed the crew a bunch of bollocks to cover his mistakes. You all know captains like that. Bloody ‘ell, I bet you’ve sailed with some.

Morgan was supposedly laid up in his cabin, struck by the bloody flux, in no condition to intervene. Well, this ain’t His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and the men would have none of it. Whatever the reasons, one night the men broke into the arms locker and slayed all the men of rank. Not Morgan, though. Yet now they were too deep in it to let ‘im live yet too much respect to put a cutlass in his belly.

Instead, they did the damnedest thing. I’d never heard of it again, before or after. They extended a board over the side, blindfolded ‘Enry, and made him walk it. “Walking the plank,” they called it. Bloody stupid idea, I must say. I guess someone thought it seemed dramatic? Or maybe they thought since ‘Enry were captain, he somehow deserved some trumped-up ceremony? God’s balls, I don’t know what the fools were thinking that night. It’s no wonder that the trick never caught on. If you want to feed a man to the sharks, just feed 'em to the sharks. Grab the bloody fool by the breeks and chuck him over the side. No use acting like an idiot about it. The only ceremony you need is to chum the water with some scraps to bring the sharks in close. Then, righto, over ye goes. Problem solved.

Well, anyway, ‘Enry’s sick as a bloody dog and too weak to resist. He does their stupid little dance. Yet as he falls to his death, he swears a bloody curse on the men. “As sure as hell’s my final fate, you’ll all die soon, or worse!” Those were ‘is final words. Only as ye know, it took more than that to kill ol’ ‘Enry Morgan. Somehow, he lived. Musta found a scrap of driftwood or something. How he gets from there back to Port Royal is a mystery, but what’s not is that he somehow turns up.

As for the men, well, the ship’s so laden down with loot that she handles like a drunken sow and they..."

“No, Angus,” interrupted Jack, “the drunken sow is not the lass from Nancy’s you’ve been poking these last few days. And speaking of, by God man, you bring new meaning to ‘any port in a storm!’ Hips like ale-barrels, that one! If your damn-fool cock had any sense at all it would reach up and slap you right in the face.”

“But back to Morgan’s men,” resumed Alestorm with a smile, “Morgan plunged into the sea with a curse on his breath, and even if he lived, so did that curse. The curse put a somber mood on his crew. Their hearts had already filled with sorrow and regret, before they even reached their next port. It seemed, no matter where they went, no matter what the quest, a black cloud hung over the ship and the crew. They’d cruise the Straits of Florida for weeks and find empty seas. They’d try the Windward Passage, the Leeward Passage, even the Lucayans ▶︎ , and nothing. Nary a ship to plunder. Only an alternating pattern of doldrums and storms.

Yet on and on they sailed. Some began to fear that they’d sail on even after death. Well, the ship got overtaken by a Spanish galleon, probably headed for Havana. Every man got taken prisoner, and you can only imagine the horrors they faced as guests of King Phillip. They spent many a grim year rotting in those black cells. They hadn’t yet gone to hell for their crimes, and yet this Spanish hell seemed even worse, if possible; the hell named San Filipe del Morro . You think it’s hot on this bloody island, try rotting in a Spanish prison cell in San Juan.

Yet the men never did have any animosity towards Captain Morgan. They remembered his curse, and in a way, admired him. It weren’t him they mutinied against. So, the eve before they met the gallows, they raised a toast to him. At sunrise they would dance the hempen jig, but on that night, they would raise their final cups of rum – which was far more likely to contain brandy than rum, at least in a Spanish gaol – and saluted Captain Morgan.

They recognized that his curse led them to this fate, and knew they had no choice but to stare hard at the afterlife, knowing they were on their way. The men toasted him one final time on that last morning, and then they danced for Spain. Rumor has it they made it a short drop, so the men died hard and slow. No broken necks to speed the process there.

“There, friends, is your curse.” Alestorm finished speaking and stared at the fire. A bright orange ember popped out of the fire, streaked towards him, and landed in the sand at his feet. Alestorm just watched as its glow faded.

Alestorm took one last look around the fire. “That’s what ye face when ye sail.”

The men sat silent, each pondering their choice.

“Make no mistake,” Jack concluded, “despite all this, I’ll still sail. It’s the only life I know. It’s a bold plan. If Scarlett pulls it off, we’ll be immortal. Not only will we get rich beyond imagination, but we’ll be the ones who break The Curse of Captain Morgan.”

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