Spirit of Portland

"Captain," the first mate shouted above the raging seas. He pointed and screamed, "Look to the port!" His words were heard over the crashing waves and rumbles of thunder.

"My God," Captain Fuller whispered, shocked that the legend was true.

The men on deck looked at the New Englander, an experienced sailor. "What do we do sure?" Pierre the carpenter's assistant asked as he manned the wheel. "Which way, captain?"

Fuller stood as rigid as the Maine pine mast, unsure of what he should do. Prayer was an option, but he had lost his faith years ago. No God should allow a man to lose his wife and children. “To port, to port,” he shouted. A wave crashed over the deck, unsuccessfully in its attempt to drag crewmen down.

“That will take us right to it,” Williams said. The first mate rushed to the captain’s side and asked, “Why?”

Lightning illuminated the skies, casting Fuller in an angelic aura for a moment. “If there is a God, he wants me! And I will give him the pleasure! Turn this ship to port!”

“Belay that,” Williams ordered. He wiped the rain and salt spray from his eyes. “Sir, we need to get away. I’m not like you to meet the Almighty, and I’m damned sure neither are the men.”

“This is MY ship,” the captain yelled. He pushed the Frenchman aside and took the wheel. He turned to the left, to the ship.

The ghost ship was bearing down on the Spirit of Portland, the two heading to a collision, one which neither could survive. The men, scared and wet, looked to the first mate, a strong-willed veteran of many seasons on the ocean. He looked at the captain with unblinking, determined eyes. Silently he stepped forward. Gently he removed the older man’s hands and pushed him to the shocked woodworker.

“Take him to his cabin, Pierre,” Williams commanded as he turned away. “Let’s hope this works,” he half-prayed as he spun the wheel to the right.

“We’re going to hit,” the lookout yelled as he came down from his perch.

“Stay yourselves,” Williams called out. The men grabbed hold of the mast, the railings and fittings, anything close.
Some of the men prayed. Others readied themselves for impact. A few thought it was folly: the ship bearing down was a ghost. The first mate kept the wheel turning, hoping to steer away.

“It’s going to ram us,” Devers, the lookout called as he descended. He increased his descent; fear fed the speed.

“Mr. Williams,” a forward lookout screamed.

“My God,” another sailor yelled from the port. “They’re readying to board us.”

“What do we do?” the second mate asked.

Williams stood straight, his expression that of fear and shock. He was defeated. He knew it was useless. Williams released the wheel and stepped back. He heard the cries of the superstitious, calling out for the Lord’s help.

The ship shook mightily as the two vessels collided, the ghost quartering the merchant schooner. The sound of wood breaking, of brass fixtures falling on deck echoed.

“Make ready,” Williams called out, unsure if his voice carried over the sickening sounds of destruction.

From below decks, the armed men rushed out, holding pistols and swords. Seasoned men with nothing to lose, pirates in need of bounty, this was the reason for their hire.

“Come on men, let’s send them back to Davy Jones,” the leader hollered. His true name known only to himself and God ran to port, his cutlass raised high. His men, a collection of Irish, Scottish lowlanders, and free blacks, followed.

Williams turned and witnessed another man join the rovers. “Vengeance will be mine,” Fuller screamed. He had a sword in his left hand, a pistol in his right.

“Captain,” Pierre shouted as he followed.

“Here they come,” the forward lookout said, retreating to the wheel deck. He was unsuccessful: someone or something had grabbed of him, brought him to the other ship. His shrieks were Hell rising.

The pirate leader yelled, “Have at it men.”

From the other ship came a ghostly moan, a familiar voice to most of the crew of the Spirit of Portland. “Come into my arms, men. Come and join us.”

“Ignore the pleas,” the leader shouted. He raced to the collision point and stopped. “Follow me and we’ll live. Follow men, men, and we’ll spit in the eye of Lucifer himself.”

Fuller ran past the men he hired, the men paid to fight. He leaped towards the other vessel, and disappeared into a sudden swell of salt and spray.

“Captain,” the leader called out.

A ghostly voice called from nowhere and everywhere. It resonated off the tattered sails of the New England schooner and in the ears of the men. “Attack.”

A multitude of men, some former merchants, some pirates and rovers, even a whaling captain, jumped onto the Spirit. The hired men and crew alike readied for the fight.

“Mr. Williams look out,” the carpenter’s assistant screamed as several ghastly-white faced men came upon him. His cries were too late: swords met flesh and bone.

He looked out and witnessed the carnage: the ghostly pirates had attacked and laid waste to his friends and others. The young man tried to return to the crew’s cabin, to hide. Three apparitions, former merchants, blocked his way. He recognized them, former crewmates. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Pierre looked back to the deck and called out in horror. “No.” All his mates were gone, nothing left on deck: it was empty.

He felt icy fingers touch his back. He turned to look. There was nothing.

He was all alone. There was no other ship. The storm had ended. He was dry. Pierre was alone with his thoughts, his guilt, sailing alone, the “Scourge of the Sargasso,” the man that single-handedly took over the Spirit of Portland, damning himself to an eternal voyage.