No Place for Cautious Men

         Balmy, scorching, calm, raging; her mood shifted by the hour, and the salt tinged air induced sickness in the hardiest bellies. Any unfortunate soul caught in her embrace was pulled into a crushing, dark abyss. Hostile cannonade and cutlass stalked from horizon to horizon, eager to stain the azure froth-capped surface deep crimson. Thirst, hunger, and madness had, in some manner, marked those who dared venture far, and their dreams turned dark even sheltered on dry land. Men of cautious nature had no place upon the open sea.
         Lt. Wilkes brushed sweat soaked hair from his eyes and shouted at the helmsman. The Falchion issued a wooden groan from the sharp turn, scarcely avoiding a jutting reef, and drew up, ready to broadside. At his signal, twenty batteries roared in near unison, belching fire and iron into the stolen merchant vessel. A retort of similar ferocity was offered, and remorseless metal screamed into the Falchion, sundering wood, flesh, and bone. Gunnery crews labored to prime the guns, undeterred by the shrill howling of dying men. Litter teams and medics scrambled to haul the wounded below deck, but many were beyond their aid.
         A jarring scrape from the port side caused a heavy listing to starboard. Sailors braced upon railings or masts, and Wilkes stumbled and swore. Eager for blood, their fool captain sailed them into waters too shallow for the Falchion. Dodging razor sharp coral while maintaining line of fire strained Wilkes abilities, yet somehow, he managed. However, this fight needed to end before they kissed another reef. One by one, cries of readiness arose from the firing line, and satisfied no obstacles sat ahead, Wilkes ordered the volley. Dissuaded from further battle, their adversaries took the leeward in retreat. Wind filled their sails and drove them deeper into the shallows.
         "Halt pursuit, trim sail and stow cannons!" Wilkes shouted.
A mad rush erupted upon deck, and Warrant Officer Harriot, Master-At-Arms, approached Wilkes, brow furrowed.
"Sir, we're letting em go?"
"Aye. We'll resume the chase in open waters."
Harriot saluted and darted back to bark orders. Wilkes motioned at the Boatswain, Master Leonard, who approached with an ear to ear, gaped-tooth grin.
         "Twas a proper raking, sir."
"Indeed, but the job is yet done. I want a full inspection completed by morning."
"Aye aye, sir!"
         Wilkes guided the helmsman towards open sea, grateful to put treacherous waters far astern as twilight splashed the sky. Commotion topside settled once weapons sat stowed and rig lines secured. Lanterns sprung to life, casting eerie shadows, and swabbers hurried to complete their cleaning before nightfall. In plotting an intercept course, Wilkes ensured ampule distance between the Falchion and any further reefs. A sharp "ahem" interrupted his thoughts, and the sailor snapped a salute when Wilkes glanced up from various charts.
         "Yer asked fer below, sir,"
Wilkes nodded in dismissal and departed the quarterdeck. Filth, blood, and gunpowder clogged the air within the gun-deck. Wide open portholes failed to vent the foul stench, and pained groans and whimpers rose from writhing masses upon cots. Too many were motionless and silent. The few that survived would be unfit to sail, crippled for life. Further aft sat a private cabin reserved for the ship surgeon but was converted for a particular patient. Wrapped in scarlet soaked bandages, Captain Bailey lay sprawled, pale face drenched in sweat. Each labored breath required more life than it provided, and returning Wilkes' salute drained him.
         "Report, Lieutenant,"
"Pursuit broken, we have navigated into open wat-"
Captain Bailey spat blood and curses at Wilkes. The effort required an extended pause to recover.
"How the devil did you make lieutenant? Why did you let them escape?"
"Sir, we've taken too many scrapes as is, and nightfall was upon us. Dead reckoning through reefs and shallows is certain death."
A wet, ragged cough rattled the captain.
"You are a timid man, lieutenant. Ensure those curs do not escape. Or have you forgotten from whom our orders come?"
"No, sir. They shan't escape."
"Find your bollocks or they will."
A limp wave of a shaky hand signaled Wilkes' dismissal.
         In a decade of sailing no reprimand held the sting Captain Bailey managed to inflict. Many colorful insults had been used to describe Wilkes but timid... timid!? Hang that fool for labeling prudent and reasonable actions as such. Running aground or capsizing guaranteed their quarry's escape, and it didn't matter where they sailed, the Falchion could chase down any vessel in these waters. Wilkes leaned over the navigation table, careful to keep his sour gaze hidden.
         Nightfall brought frigid, howling gusts, and the air held more salt than usual. Exhaustion weighed heavily on Wilkes eyes. A measure of grog and linen sheets invited well-earned slumber. Five rapid bell clangs pierced the gloom, followed by ill-tidings. In the spectral glow of flickering lanterns, sailors removed caps and bowed their heads, uttering muted prayers for the departed. Trepidation crawled down Wilkes' spine as a last cry rose in the night.
"Lieutenant Wilkes takes the con!"

*********************************

         Dour in face and spirit, able-bodied members of ship's company stood mustered topside with thirty linen wrapped bodies opposite their formation. Chilled, grey fog waned, yielding to mid-morning rays providing a measure of warmth, but failing to lift any spirits. Last rites were administered to each corpse, and one by one, were offered to the sea. A bell tolled in paired successions three times for each burial. At last, Captain Bailey joined his fallen crew, and all aboard rendered a final salute. Counting the wounded below deck, they were down one third their full strength since setting sail.
         Wilkes stood atop the quarterdeck in a fresh uniform, words failing. All eyes turned to face him, staring at him, through him. The speech was kept short, fond farewells to the departed, followed by gratitude for those who remained. Never one for speeches, his closing remarks reminded all present of the task ahead, and he dismissed the formation to avert a rambling tirade from taking hold. It was easier to bark orders when they came from a superior, but out here, Wilkes' authority was second only to the sea herself. His newfound role fit him like a corset and bonnet. Master Leonard approached, snapping a salute.
         "Gonna want ta see this, sir."
Wilkes reached the hold, and his boots flopped into seawater. Two sailors worked the bilge pump with a half dozen waiting to replace them.
"Can't patch her," Leonard said, "the crack be near the keel, but 'tis easy to keep down with a few lads."
"How high when you found it?"
"No more than now, cap'n."
Leonard did not notice Wilkes flinch at his new title. Salt water sat just below the top of his boot heel.
"Keep a detail around the clock and do not let it go above one standard foot."
"Aye, Aye, cap'n."
         Captain. The title was something every naval officer aspired to, yet one few attained. Some deserved their station, Captain Bailey was one of them, while others did not. Wilkes was unsure if he was the former or the latter. Despite the manner in which he attained it, he felt equal parts excited and terrified. Success guaranteed favorable reviews during promotions, but failure meant career stagnation. No reason to ponder the unknown, and catching those vagabonds remained a top priority. He expected an intercept in two days with their present heading, assuming the wind holds, and this time they won't be able to skulk off into the shallows.
         A muted dinge enveloped the world, and dark clouds assembled in the distance. An ominous, yet seductive scent would have delighted landlubbers, but unease fluttered in Wilkes' chest. Over the horizon, a dark purple rage gathered, and a low rumble accompanied rapid flashes from bulging cotton bellies. If the storm held its course, they would avoid the worst of it. The Falchion maintained its heading, but Wilkes recorded a heading for an island eastward. Frothing seas induced a considerable swaying on the ship.
         "All hands, secure for rough seas."
Sailors scurried to secure every loose object in sight while tying their lifelines, and Wilkes inspected their efforts, offering corrections where needed. Satisfied topside was secure, the inspection moved below deck. The swaying intensified. Men stumbled like drunkards, and any misstep resulted in a face full of splinters or a smack into another body. Yet the pump detail labored without pause, earning hearty praise from Wilkes before returning topside. A fierce gale tore over the ship, bulging the sails, and distressed moans sounded from taunt rig lines.
         "Trim main sail to half! Haul home all topsails!"
The turbulence intensified, and the heavens burst, unleashing a torrential downpour. Sea spray leapt over the railings, but their listing softened with the sails secured. Wilkes gazed upwards and his blood froze. Cruel fate guided the squall line as it shifted course towards the Falchion. Rumbling thunder roared behind an ink-black wall of darkness, and a sterile scent mixed with salt mist. Lord knows what awaited ship and crew beyond that veil, but Wilkes had no intention of finding out. He turned to the helmsman.
         "Bring about, east by southeast!"
The Falchion plowed through roiling waves, listing hard to port then returned upright.
         "Midship! Steady on and nothing off."
A haunting gloom dimmed what light was offered by the mid-day sun. Towering waves slammed the Falchion, each impact echoed throughout the ship, and a creaking groan erupted in response. Foam coated brine rushed over topside. Men were knocked prone, but lifelines denied the sea's effort to claim them. Forked tendrils flashed above head, thunder cracked in deafening booms, and Wilkes considered putting the mainsail to one-quarter, but speed was necessary. Cries of 'land ahead' relayed across the deck. Numb fingers fumbled with a spyglass, and Wilkes felt relief wash over him. Safe harbor sat in the distance, a welcome sight. Jagged spires dotted the bay's opening, lapped by the roiling tide, and the wind shifted aback. Sails bulged in an undesirable direction, their speed slowing.
         "First officer takes the helm," Wilkes shouted, grasping the wheel.
To his credit, the helmsman understood the order despite Wilkes' mistake.
"Haul home main sail, prepare to weigh anchor!"
His chest fluttered with pride. Sopping wet and frozen to the bone, the crew performed their tasks without slowing. The wheel turned begrudgingly, shuttering against the rudder beam and operator. Wilkes kept his gaze fixed ahead, mindful of each obstacle, while making final adjustments. With sails doused, the current carried the Falchion into harbor.
         "Clear cable lines! Let go all anchors!"
The anchors plunged into the surface. Cable lines leapt from their coils, snapped taut when anchors found purchase, and the Falchion lurched at the sudden deceleration. It reached full stop at the bay's center and bobbed in a gentle rhythm. A heavy sigh and mumble prayer of thanks escaped Wilkes. What relief he had scattered into the storm when Master Leonard appeared, brow furrowed and a worried look in his eyes.

****************************************

          The Storm remained vicious into the evening, furious at the Falchion for escaping its thrashing grip. A metallic squeak filled the hold with each rise and fall of the bilge pump arm. Sailors queued for the pump, water lapping their shins while throwing wary glances at the current operator. Wilkes felt a heaviness spread throughout his arms. He ignored their complaints and forced adherence to the established rhythm, and a blank glare tore into the bulkhead.
          No chance in hell could they resume pursuit. Half the crew was needed to keep the waterline below knee-level while moored, but once they set sail, the other half would be needed topside. A heavy mass formed in Wilkes' stomach. Returning to port empty handed guaranteed a less than welcome reception. Governor Lee was not the accommodating sort, and Wilkes expected to endure the brunt of his ire, the extent of which was unclear. His thoughts turned to the exhausted crew, forcing all speculation about his fate to cease.
          A tap on the shoulder signaled the pump operator to yield, and the next man, rested as they were, took control. The queue rotated in silence, save for sloshing as men shuffled in the hold. Every face held a downcast yet stern mask to conceal their fatigue. All abroad knew salvation rested with each other. To slow or break meant a watery mass burial, and a rush of pride tore through Wilkes' chest. Nowhere else could a finer crew be found, and they were owed a trip home. Damn whatever torment the Governor unleashed, Wilkes did not care. Master Leonard appeared atop the stairs, requesting Wilkes' topside. Warrant Officer Harriot greeted their arrival on the quarterdeck with a salute.
          "Report gentlemen," Wilkes said.
Leonard and Harriot exchanged nervous glances, and Wilkes sensed hesitation.
"Speak freely. What is on your mind?"
"Well... its uh..." Master Leonard said, "ya see cap'n, it not be proper fer ya to be doing lubber work 'n the like."
Wilkes went to respond, but Harriot snorted at Leonard.
"Coward. Captain, with all due respect, quit acting like a cunt."
Warmth spread across Wilkes' face, and he glanced around to ensure they were alone.
"Care to repeat yourself, Warrant Officer?"
"Is than an order Captain?"
          Wilkes' narrow-eyed glare washed over Harriot, but he returned it with a grin. Leonard threw panicked glances between the two men.
         "Captain, every man on this ship has their place," Harriot said. "Can I assume I am out of mine for such remarks?"
"No need to assume."
"Precisely. What makes you assume your place is working a pump?"
         Leonard's head bobbed in agreement. Wilkes failed to stop a deep sigh from escaping his throat. Harriot was far out of line, but Wilkes saw the point. A troubled mind manifested improper actions, and much depended on him remaining sound in both, no matter the situation or personal feelings.
"I understand Warrant Officer. But I will not tolerate such outbursts again."
"Aye, Captain."
          Salutes were exchanged, and Wilkes remained topside, leering into darkness. A few lanterns flickered, then failed, their wicks depleted, and he opened the nearest one but stopped. Lubber work, not captain's work. The lantern latched closed, and a chuckle fluttered into the void. Descending to the gun deck, Wilkes charged a sailor with refreshing topside lights and turned towards the galley to address the crew.

*****************************

          Sunlight glinted off glistening sapphire waves, and the gulls wailed their song for all to hear, shrill yet welcoming. The air held an invigorating after storm scent and the Falchion skimmed atop calm seas, sails full. Despite the gimp in her posture, a respectable speed was attainted. Sailors manned their stations with a renewed vigor at Wilkes' announcement. Port was four days sail, with the wind, but the plotted course kept the Falchion within rowing distance of several islands. God willing, they'd remain unused. In eight days, they'd reach the colonial harbor, and whatever consequences awaited them.
          Wilkes sealed a scroll with the captain's stamp. The purple-black wax hardened into a glossy sheen. He elected to hand the report to the Lord Admiral first, hoping to delay a meeting with Governor Lee and persuade someone with authority to his side. Wilkes' stomach twisted into a knot. If the Governor made an example of him, dismissal was the likeliest outcome. A seafaring career was still possible aboard a civilian sloop. Opportunities abound in these waters, but without a navy uniform, inconceivable.
          Cries of 'ship ahoy' relayed across the deck. In the distance a ship's profile came into view, and Wilkes aimed spyglass towards it. Trade vessel, sugars or textiles based on its bearing, but no colors flew and signs of recent... those curs had returned! Wilkes recognized the aftermath of a proper raking. Sending that ship to the locker would be deeply gratifying, but a fight in their condition was unwise. Besides, they remained oblivious to the Falchion for now.
          Wilkes ordered the crew to remain at their stations and maintained their heading while observing the enemy vessel. After an hour, the ship adjusted course towards the Falchion, and oars sprung from its lower decks. No listing was noted, and the battle damage was well above the waterline. Sea water belched from the bilge outflow on the Falchion's side, and vulgarities tumbled from Wilkes' lips. They tasted blood and saw an easy kill.
          He had manpower to fight or sail, not both. Any further damage assured increased water intake, straining the pump detail further, and even if victorious, monitoring prisoners presented the same problem. Eyes turned towards him, begging for orders. If they tossed unnecessary weight and altered course to follow the wind, outrunning them was possible. That thought burned through Wilkes as no captain worth their salt turned tail from a fight, and doing so constituted dereliction of duty, a capital offense for an officer. A sudden jolt shot up his spine. The solution to all their problems bore down upon the Falchion.
          "All hands; Battle stations!"
Clamor erupted topside, men scrambling to ready cannons and rifles. Wilkes motioned at Harriot, screaming new orders.
         "Abandon cannon deck guns. Top deck batteries load grapeshot, elevation ten up. Prepare to board and seize."
An approving smile that could frighten the devil splashed over Harriot's face, and he began mustering the marines with barks bursting with blood-lust. Leonard darted from below deck and approached.
         "Cap'n, what of the pump?"
"Hang the pump. Get all hands ready to change ships."
Leonard saluted and returned below.
          Ramrod fed powder satchels into cannon gullets and a metallic ticking accompanied barrels shifting into position. Wilkes took the helm, remembering his title this time, and turned towards the enemy, ordering all sails stowed. The merchant vessel retracted its oars, the distance between the two ships narrowed. A tense silence took hold as the Falchion rode the current. Buccaneers crowded the opposing rail line, brandishing weapons and hollering like rabid beasts. Both vessels sat opposite each other and Wilkes bellowed 'Fire all!"
          A swarm of black pellets sundered the railing, sending a cloud of splinters and crimson mist into the air, and frenzied insults turned into anguished cries. Those curs offered a muted reply into the Falchion's empty gun deck, but no fire erupted from their top deck cannons. Wilkes gave the order to board. Gangplanks crashed upon the rails, flintlocks cracked and sabers leapt from scabbards. Thunderous footfalls erupted as men charged across gangplanks and tethered hooks sailed into the air. Drawing saber, Wilkes joined the fray and felled his first opponent as he dropped onto the hostile ship.
          The fight reached a stalemate, neither side able to gain advantage. Blood stained tears adorned the coats of each man and fatigue slowed their tempo. Wilkes saw an opening, and with a roar and twist of his saber, sent the pirate's sword skittering across the quarterdeck, and he slashed upwards, rewarded with a gush of ruby from his adversary's neck. The lifeless body flopped onto the deck in a puddle of blood. Rapid footsteps approached and Wilkes spun, saber raised, but he froze. Harriot stepped onto the quarterdeck and rendered a salute with his blood-soaked rapier.
          "The ship is ours, captain."