A Pirate's Life For Me

“Sail ho! Sail ho!” shouted Johns from the crow’s nest. 

“What do ye see, Johns?” the ship’s second in command shouted up toward the top of the mast. It was in the middle of the second dog watch, sixth bell struck a bit ago, but not quite seventh bell. It was not quite 1930 hours yet; dusk at this time of season and at this latitude; not wholly dark, but well into dusk. If Johns spotted another ship in this light, that meant the ship was closer than any of them would like. This was not good; especially since it was common knowledge that the old seadog’s sight wasn’t quite what it once was. “Do you see a cog or a Man-O-War?”

“She ain’t no Man-O-War, but she’s no cog either! What e’er she is, she’s a clipper!”

“If yer runnin’ a rig, Johns, so help me I’ll make ya’ kiss the Gunner’s daughter before makin’ ya’ dance the hempen jig! I’ll hand ya’ over to Jack Ketch myself! Ya’ blimey bilge rat, tar boy, picaroon!” First Mate Skerns kept up his verbal assault, but mostly to himself. He was always verbally blasting his cannons at the crew. It was not just a leadership style; it was more of a relationship style that “Skeleterns” had with the crew of the Styx Bounty. It is a difficult position, being the second in command. You are not the lead seadog, but you damn well better get some respect; and for your own reasons, not for being the Captain’s right hand. Or the Captain’s anything. You need to make your own mark, all while being the Captain in his stead…and be damn good at it. No good First Mate was ever the Captain’s lackey. “What colors, Johns?” Skerns asked, wondering who this ship was, since he did not get a good answer as to what the ship it was. 

“Can’t see good ‘nough ta tell!”

“’Course ya can’t, ya blind bastard of a –“ 

Just then Captain Marsters exited the cabin and entered the cooling evening air with the usual calm tone to his voice. Now, I would not let the adjective ‘calm’ persuade you to think anything peaceful or gentile about the man. The ability to remain calm does not soothe any of the burning that is in his head and in his chest, where his mind and his heart are. Not are. Were, past tense. “What’s the situation, Skerns?”

“Johns spotted a ship, Sir. In this light, with his eyes, she’s too close. He can’t make the class but says she’s a clipper what e’er she is. He can’t make ‘er colors either, Cap’n.” The colors being the ship’s flags, ensigns in nautical terms, that would tell other ships whose she is.  

“Sink me!” the captain said, mostly to himself. Then the Captain bellowed “Avast! All hand hoy! Show a leg and don yer togs, Mates! Stop swinging lead, we got company!”

Thus began the organized chaos. It started so swiftly that it was difficult to know exactly when it happened; it was so smooth a transition that it appeared to be the same as a moment ago, just in a sped-up motion. The training they received; the repetition of the motions was engrained in these men. Every motion had a reason, every step in a process should slide smoothly into the next. There was no wasted effort, no wasted time. Slow is smooth; smooth is fast. Perform at a speed that is as fast as you can go, but without any errors. Go as fast as you can without needing to correct an error, or worse, start from the beginning. Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast. The movements and the actions of the crew were both slow and smooth. It had a surreal quality to it, as if seeing something fast slowed down, yet at the same time giving the impression of speed. It was weird to watch, but it was fascinating as hell, too!

“Boats!” the Captain called for his Boatswain’s Mate. “Mac, make for that island on our southeast! Starboard to 110°! Best speed!” The Captain continued to give orders, loudly enough for all to hear, but without barking the orders. His voice naturally drowned out other sounds aboard the ship. There was more than just steel in the Captain; there was seawater cooler than the depths themselves. Men moved with speed and intent with every new order that rang out from their leader. The Boatswain’s Mate turned the ship’s wheel and headed for the vector he was given, still able to make out the shape of the rocky structure in the distance. Sailcloth was raised and lines were tied down. White triangles, rectangles, and other rhomboidal shapes contrasted with the darkening skies. Cargo was made fast, lamps were quenched, and “Mittens” secured the galley before manning his station on the gun deck. Every tar had a secondary duty during battle; nobody was ever ‘just a cook’ or ‘just a swabbie.’ The Styx Bounty transitioned from a sleek wooden, brass, and cloth beauty cutting through peaceful water to a Man-O-War carrying hardened, fighting sailors not just ready for battle, but eager for it. Each man knew his duty. Each man knew the duty of the men around him, just in case. 

After the initial blur of men performing their well-organized, much practiced tasks there was silence. Silence is not the right word. Stillness. Everything was still, but somehow even sound seemed still. Yes, the wind rushed past the ears of the crew in that constant roar. Yes, they could hear the futtock shrouds flap and pop now and then in the wind, and the sound of the water continually breaking upon the bow as the hull sliced through the sea could be heard. Yes, these sounds were present; present, yet far away. The crew added to the stillness, each having completed their individual and collective tasks but only moving in reaction to the motion of the ship, keeping their balance with each pitch and roll. Everything was ready.  All the pieces were set. The Styx Bounty and her crew were ready for battle, but first they had to endure the most difficult part, the waiting. The enemy was still well out of cannon range.

As the enemy ship slowly closed the distance between the two points, the skies continued to darken, and the last remnants of the day passed beyond the horizon. The Sun’s duty may be over, but the Moon was ready to faithfully stand her watch. She was almost full in the purple sky, and her light would be full across the sea’s surface by the time the enemy ship presented herself. The wait may be excruciating, but when battle started there would at least be some light to see by.

Then, almost as if Neptune himself bestowed a blessing upon her, the wind picked up a few knots and the Styx Bounty began to fly across the surface of the water. This would normally have caused a sense of relief; however, the enemy was still closing in, and doing so more rapidly. Even if they caught the same wind, they should have kept the same relative pace. Maybe it was the vectors; could they have converging paths that would eventually intersect? It was possible. The Styx had a fixed destination, the island. The enemy was just headed for them. 

“Aye. She’s a smooth one, she is,” Captain Marsters mumbled to himself. “Smooth, aye. Fast, aye. Smart? We’ll see.” He stood there a moment in thought, then yelled, “Mac!”

“Aye, Cap’n?” questioned the Boatswain’s Mate in reply. 

“Head for the southern tip of the island. I know these waters; I know that rock. We’re gonna use their ship’s speed against ‘erself.”

“Aye, Cap’n!” Boats replied again, this time in the affirmative. “Any maneuvers, Cap’n, or just straight fer ‘er?”

“Just a straight line, Mac. Straight and fast.” 

The Boatswain’s Mate acknowledged again and made slight adjustments, changing course by mere degrees on the compass. The men stirred more than before but remained at station and ready. As the time passed, the enemy decreased the distance between the two bodies at a quickening pace. These vectors were definitely converging. 

It seemed like the time was drawn out, but also seemed like it happened too quickly. Either way, the time was nigh. The enemy was close to being within firing range. The enemy was close, but the island was still too far away for the Captain’s plan. The other ship was a three-decker with ninety-eight guns easy. The Styx carried only seventy-four. It is not always about numbers, but they do matter. How many can be manned? What is their angle? How far can the ball be shot at that angle, with the speed and inertia of two moving bodies, all while the ships are rising and falling and rolling from side to side: everything changing the trajectory, and thus the accuracy of each shot. This was why ships closed on each other during battle, broadside to each other; it was the trajectory and the minute of arc: the vector. And gunpowder: force. And the weight of the lead balls: add gravity to the mix. And luck. No, not luck; mathematics. 

Captain Marsters saw how this chase was transpiring. The enemy ship was not trailing the Styx directly behind her, along the same vector. The ship was coming from about 230°; from behind and left. If drawing on a map, drawing a triangle, their path would be the slope, and therefore, the longer distance; however, the enemy was clipping along at a much faster speed, closing the gap with ease. He knew the Styx could neither outrun the enemy, nor make it to the island before their paths crossed. It was time to start thinking a bit differently. “Speed and time. Speed or time. We can’t go any faster; time it is, then”, he said to nobody.

“Skerns!”

“Aye, Cap’n” came the First Mate’s reply. 

“Tell Gunny to hit ‘er bow. Not ‘cross her bow, no warning shots. Put a hole or three in ‘er hull. Slow ‘er down a bit. We ain’t gonna last long against ‘er guns. We need that island. We need to slow ‘er down so we can get to the rocks.”

Skerns hesitated, not knowing the inner workings of the Captain’s mind, not knowing what he had planned. He obediently replied anyway. “Aye, Cap’n.”

Upon hearing the orders Gunny said, “Huh…I can see that. Tough shot. I think I know what the Cap’n wants. Aye, we’ll get ‘er done.” The plan would require at least twelve guns, partly to have a big enough effect and partly to play the odds against misses versus hits. They would coordinate fire in four quadrants with three guns to each section of the bow. This would be a difficult task; the attitude and angles of the cannons would be the key to success. “Aye, that’ll do.” With that the Gunner’s Mate set out moving down the firing line giving direction to each of the twelve gun teams. 

It was not long before the Captain rang out his orders. “Loosen the sheets a tad, Lads. Let ‘er come in a bit more. Mac, wait for me word, no sooner!”

“Aye aye!” was all that was needed at that point. Every sailor knew what was coming next. The Styx started to decelerate by a few knots, nothing noticeable from the deck, but noticeable when in relation to the oncoming enemy. “Just say the word, Cap’n!” 

“Wait for the bell, Mac. We need to coordinate with Gunny!”

Another minute or two of silence, then the bell rang clear and sweet. The ringing had not even begun to dissipate when Mac sharply spun the ship’s wheel to port, causing the Styx to roll to starboard a bit. They were now almost broadside to the oncoming ship; not entirely perpendicular, but not at a good angle for the enemy to fire effectively. Besides, the Captain doubted they were ready for such a tactical move, and their cannons would not fire for at least a minute or so. It took only a moment for the Styx to settle enough to start firing cannons. The first group of cannons thundered, then a moment later the second. The third and fourth volleys happened a couple of seconds after that. 

As luck, or skill (or mathematics), would have it seven of the twelve balls hit the enemy’s hull, with five of those breaking through the hull sufficiently. The ship’s hull was strong. The damage was not extensive, but it was enough. The ship’s hull was no longer a smooth, sleek body gliding through the Seven Seas. The hull was now ragged, misshapen and causing more friction than was needed to sustain her speed. Immediately after the fourth volley roared, Captain Marsters barked more orders. Mac yanked the wheel again, this time to route the ship starboard as fast as she could go. The Styx picked up the wind again and headed back toward the island. The distance between the ships, two points on a map of blue, started to widen. He did it. Captain Marsters bought the Styx Bounty and her crew a little more time.

The plan was to beat the enemy to the island, to cut off their path from the only reasonable entrance into the bay. The waters off the southeast coast were rocky with only one good entrance from that direction. If he could cause the enemy to miss that entrance, they would be forced to continue along that vector for almost a quarter mile before turning northward. The distance would not be as great as the Styx’s path, being the rise and run of that triangle, but they would not be turning at a 90° corner either. No, they would need to sail –

“Sir? Sir? The cinema is closing.” The short, balding man blinked several times, remembering where he was, who he was. He casually pushed his metal wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose and turned his head away from the movie poster of The Pirates of the Caribbean to look at the young lady. She was pretty; she was a natural beauty, not like the movies or magazines or all those horrible commercials on TV. She did not need make up to be attractive. Then again, attractiveness is subjective. He thought almost everybody was more attractive than he must be to others.

She looked at him and he took a moment to speak. “Yes. I guess it is, isn’t it?” He gave her a meek smile, knowing that she is probably going home to somebody special once she leaves work; and he is not. “Well, I guess I must go, then. Thank you, Jessica.” ‘The only reason why I know your name is because of your name tag. Don’t worry, I’m not stalking you,’ he thought to himself, with his inside voice, never anything like that out loud.

The short, almost stocky man turned around toward his car and started walking across the asphalt parking lot. As he opened the door, he knew he would be re-entering the real world. He paused and looked up to see the stars in the dark sky and felt the chill in the damp air. “Grilled cheese. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. That sounds good.” This time he used his outside voice. He could talk out loud to himself; it was not like anybody was listening. “Grilled cheese with that good jalapeño-cheddar loaf from Annalore’s Bakery. Who would think a German bakery would have such a good jalapeño-cheddar loaf? And three slices of that thinly cut cheddar that melts so smoothly, and creamy tomato soup.” He sighed like a man who loves food too much. “Yes. Grilled cheese and tomato soup. And a big stack of geometry homework…because it’s not going to grade itself.”