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Sunlight streamed through the circular manhole, leaving an oval of light on the floor, revealing carved notches; a recurrent marking of midday, or at least his only known equivalent. This daily illumination the only time keeper of an indeterminable solitary confinement. The ship rolled gently with the waves as he etched a single line, diagonally crossing the 361st, 362nd, 363rd and 364th tallies completing a quintet, bringing the scratched count to an entire long year locked inside the holding cell of his own ship.
He wasn’t the only item of value commandeered along with his shipping vessel. Although the coffee, cloth and gold stored in cargo hold may have only been a consolation prize to the capture of Colin J. Price. A young captain, son of a wealthy English merchant, of minor nobility, a fortunate find for his captors; likely the only reason Colin was not floating in the British Indies with a cut throat.
Piracy along the waters of the Caribbean was a real and deadly threat. How the timing and location of his ship's departure became known to the local pirates were unknown to the captain. Perhaps an informative dock worker, or a loose-tongued member of his crew, drunk after a few rounds in local inn. The means mattered little to the foolhardy Captain, who had elected to depart without an escort, expecting to be on the vast and open ocean quickly, none the wiser and well on route.
“Three sails!” Yelled Johhny Bellows from atop the main mast, “On the horizon, South West, moving fast.”
That was their first warning, spotted by the young skip who had joined the crew three seasons prior. While not fully convinced of his age, Colin decided to take him aboard. The young man was of quick wit, a strong and fast lad, possessing a keen eye, invaluable on the high seas.
Any early warnings mattered little however. They came fast, surrounding the cumbersome merchant vessel on both sides and trialing its rear faster than anticipated. Once finished their pursuit, the crossing pirates found a waiting flag of parley, a strip of a white bedsheet tied to a rowing oar, fluttering defeat to the wind.
“My name is Captain Colin Price, son of Sir Harold Price, owner of the west Wind Trading Company.” He stated to the pirates and mercenaries crossing decks with raised swords and drawn pistols. “The wealthiest company in the Caribbean. Leave my men and I unharmed, and a ransom will be rewarded.”
Out of habit he recounted the small ticks on the floor, an unnecessary calculation completed for the three hundredth and sixty-fifth time, the slow rising increment was more than predicable. This slow, mundane and methodical task was one of the lone anchors of his mental stability. He frayed at all edges, like a moth-eaten shirt; his mind split like seams of old thread. His hair and beard were now longer than ever before; his nails a half inch past the end of his fingertips. The single set of clothing he wore soiled and unkept, letting off a pungent odor of grime and sweat, hanging baggily on his diminished body, a product of small rations.
Colins mind drifted on its own course—haphazardly, a survivor in a wreckage, drifting through open waters on unknown currents. Flashing through his thoughts were various memories of captivity: three times he’d seen land; twice heard gunshots; spent several nights awake through a storm; and hadn't spoken to the commandeering Captain in thirty-six days.
His inner mind jumped about in reckless abandon.
On day 12 the commandeering Captain descended to the hull, the first time since the initial takeover. Colin heard the limping footsteps and jangle of keys belonging to the ship lacky, Garth the caretaker, and another set of feet belonging to the captain.
“Right here Capt’n.” Came Garth’s voice through the cracks in the cell door, “Just ahead here, right in front of us.”
A knock sounded, followed by the commanding voice of the captor-in-charge. “Just a word with you’ Captain Price. We have a few matters to discuss.”
Colin didn’t answer his approval, but the lock clicked and the door creaked open. Captain Clint Dartmoore entered, a tall and well-built man, of a strong physique, product of a lifetime of sailing. The lamp he carried illuminated his features; bright blue eyes, cunning, yet reflective of his not unkind nature; dark hair of medium length, curled with sweat and sea water condensation; a single gold hoop punctured and gleamed on his left earlobe.
“Garth,” said Captain Dartmoore, “Fetch a char will ya’.”
“Aye Capt’n,” said Garth, and scooted away obediently.
Once a stool was brought into the small room, Captain Dartmoore sat with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palms, staring silently with a patient and inquisitive demeanor, directly into the eyes of the younger Captain Price.
“So, here’s the one true holy heir to the famed fortune of the West Wind Company,” said the pirate.
“Not the sole heir, but I suppose.” Responded Colin.
“You’ve a brother then?”
“Yes, my older brother, Admiral Ronald Price of her Majesties Royal Navy. He would not be pleased to kno—”
“An older brother? So you aren't the heir then?”
“I suppose.” Said the youngest Price.
“Well here’s the plan young Captain.” Said Clint while waving his hand, changing the subject and straightening in his stool. “We sail to a cove off Port Alexander, and my men row ashore to talk with the good folk of the West Wind Company.” He stood up and began to exit, then continued. “We tell them our ransom; they give us the details. It will take time to reach your old man in England. We won’t tarry around a place like that. We’ll set sail to return. You’ll be here awhile Captain, make sure your settled.”
He closed the door and locked it behind him, Colin would not see him again for months.
A year alone. The ship was sailing west, Colin knew the cell he was confined in and could tell course by the sun shining directly through the manhole at mid-day. They moved quickly, the seas mostly calm, a strong tail wind and no cloud in sight, perfect weather for sailing.
Colin lifted the waste bucket and dumped it through the porthole. It was just small enough to pass through; he then set it aside and sat on his cot. Buzz—he jumped up, aware—beard bouncing. Buzzzz.
“So your back then!” A mad glee in his eyes. “Well, no matter Mr. Fly, truth be told, I missed ya’.” He finished his sentence, a blatant lie, then feinted indifference only to sprawl across the room, slapping wildly for the annoying pest.
“Gosh dammit.” He came up empty and the fly buzzed away, out the crack in the wall. He lay back on the bare wooden floor, writhing and staring at the ceiling. Alone and unhinged.
Day 89 was memorable, filtering through the manhole were sounds of gunshots, screams and the tremulant commotion of piracy. From his cell he could see the target of his captors; a large unarmed Galleon. The view from the bottom proved a poor vantage point, the ships contents a guess, maybe passengers, maybe cargo.
Soon after the small fleet of Dartmoore overwhelmed the insignificant resistance. A barrage of pistols, rifles and chain shot could be heard. The surrounded galleon lacked cannons and adequate defense, the pirates capitalized on their advantage with ease.
The invaders crossed decks swinging from ropes and climbing aboard from rowboats. Colin saw a man crossing between the ships, shot in midair tumbling past his manhole—dead, releasing his rope and plunging into the water below. A large wooden plank was soon dispatched, casting a shadow over the circular window, loud footsteps thumped overhead. The cries of women were amidst the clammer of men transferring the spoils, boasting of cruel triumphs and fortune. The entire ordeal was over quickly, the galleon was looted, and Dartmoore and his men sailed away.
Day 146 was the beginning of the storm. For three days the ship rose and fell heavily, battered by tremendous waves. Rain and sea spray poured through the manhole. Colin moved his cot and possessions to the far side of the small cell, avoiding most of the water. The crew worked throughout the nights. He once heard the cry of “man overboard!”, some poor soul lost to the depths. Day blurred into night, and Colin was unsure of the passing time. Not bothering to make his usual markings until he asked Gath for verification of the days spent in turmoil, unassured of his own bearings.
“Ahhhhyeeee Poppy! I’m a bird Pop! I’m a birdie!”
Colin spread out his arms like an eagle, standing in place and rotating in the center of the room. His long hair and upkeep beard following his spin, blurring into a whirl behind him.
On the 98th day, about a week after the encounter with the merchant galleon, the ship docked in a unknown port. He heard the crew rushing and clambering off the ship and down the dock, eager to spend their cut on rum and women.
“Two days gents’!” The voice of a yelling Captain Dartmoore came through the small window. “Two days and we set off, with or without you lousy scum!”
Late that evening he heard a man and woman on the dock. Out on a moonlit stroll, their voices sounding between the womans giggling and soft clapping steps on the boards. Then, another interrupted the midnight romance, a stumbling clamor and hoarse toned protest braking the silence.
“Hey you!” Cried an obviously drunk man. “Get your’ hands off me lady lad.”
Now noticing the intruder, the women spoke, “I’m not yours William." She said, “I haven't been in months, l’m with Sean now.”
“Sheam?! Shean she says.” Slurred the drunk man. “What sort of man is he? Sneaking in on a man's wife while her’ husband be out to sea eh!”
“A good man. He doesn't drink. He doesn't smell, and he certainly is no pirate.”
“Enough of this.” There was some shuffling and movement on the wharf, “Your coming with me lassie.”
“Remove your hands from the lady.” Came an assertive and polite voice.
“You’d best be runnin’ along boy’”
More scuffling and knocking steps; a gunshot blares. “Ahhhhh,” cries one of the men. A second shot, more cries, Colin hears the woman collapse on the dock and weep uncontrollably. Several minutes of sobbing pass before the clanking footsteps sound again, then fade into the night.
Tap-tap-tap a knock on the heavy wooden door disrupts Colins rambling day dream.
“Ehhh Capt’n.” Says Garth, “The other gents down the way. They told us it’s a special day Cap.” The door flap opened and a tray of food slides through.
“One year Cap, an extra ration today.” Garth said in a bright tone. “And I even managed a bit of rum to boot!” He passed in a small half empty bottle then added, “It won’t be long Capt’n, won’t be long now.”
Won't be long now. Colins consciousness floats further through the fogginess of his instability.
It was thirty-six days ago, the 318th mark on the cell floor. The ship was anchored somewhere close to shore. Waves lapped on a nearby beach and seagulls squawked and called; after long days at sea the sounds of land were soothing.
Garp knocked on the barred door. “Capt’n Clint would speak with you today Colin. He’ll be back round’ dusk, he as’ some matters ashore to attend.”
Colin waited out the day, becoming restless with anticipation. However, attempting to ignore the prospects of freedom proved challenging; the locked cabin provided little to distract his thoughts. After the months he’d spent inside the dark room, he wasn't entirely certain if he wanted out. The world beyond the manhole was an open expanse of unfamiliarity to the former Captain. Life outside was a vague dream; reality was the rolling walls of his small cell.
By the time he heard the familiar limping steps and attentive voice of Garth followed by Captain Dartmoore, darkness had arrived.
“So Cap, did they fanny up then?” Pondered Garth.
“Pfffftttttt.”
“They paid out then Cap?”
“Did they pay out?” Said Captain Dartmoore. “You wouldn’t believe it Garthie. We come for our money, the demands all set months ago. A fixed price Garth. You know what they tell us?”
“No Cap. What’d they say?”
“The cheap bastards Garth: ‘On behalf of Sir Price of the West Wind Company’ he says, ‘I’m obligated to inform you, that Mr. Price will not accept your terms’.”
“Won’t accept em’ Capt’n, what does it mean?”
“The cheap bastard Garth! Then you know what they do? They lowball us, like it's some cheap flea market. You wouldn't believe it Garthie.”
Lord Harold Price of the famed West Wind Trading Company was not the richest merchant of the Caribbean for no reason. Tap-tap-tap.
“This one here Cap.”
The door unlocks and opens. The entering Captain Dartmoore’s nose quenches from the bodily redolence lingering in the room.
“Colin lad,” said Dartmoore, “A quick word with ya’.” He seems reluctant to bear the already overheard news, genuinely looking at the dirty, foul smelling, matt-haired, long bearded and half crazy prisoner with sympathy. “We went ashore today. For some negotiations with your company. There was some small disagreements, I’m sure they’ll be settled soon.”
Dartmoore didn’t want to hang around, he’d already began exiting the cell.
“But for now, Colin. For now, you’d best stay settled. You’ll be with us awhile yet lad.”
Day 365, Captain Colin Price sits on his cot, staring at the wooden door barring his freedom. The ship continues its rhythmic swaying in the sea; he resumes his unending wait. Sitting and listening to the night, unmoving, waves lapping against the hull in the dark.
“Just awhile longer now, just awhile longer.”
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