The Kiss of the Dead (First Draft)

Chapter 7

Waiting for the first watch of my pirate career I slowly made my way to the bowsprit. It seemed obvious to take great care and avoid the working men, so I did. There was always a smattering of the crew near the forward-most beam of the ship, being the safest place to smoke. I was not brave enough to make my presence on deck obvious, nor was I stupid enough to hamper a sailor on shift. But I headed quietly to the bowsprit. The slightest bump as I passed somebody could have drastic repercussions. Even if it did not affect the sailing of the ship, it could still see me punished by the cat - the cruelest whip to grace a man's flesh.

The ship's population was sparse, contrary to the crushes of the big-ships. Vane's Ranger was a frigate, and yet there was such a small crew for its size. I knew that there had been more but at least two dozen had been murdered by Vane aboard the trader I was filched from. That said, this ship could have housed at least fifty more sailors and be on the empty side. The naval versions that I had once worked aboard had carried twice this number of men. Often, they had so many aboard that each bunk was shared between three.

With so few sailors in the Ranger, the rations not only went further but were given in greater quantities. The crown had never painted a precise picture of a pirate, it seemed. Where the royal reports described them as giants of men, however - that was no lie. But compared to what? - the starving-poor of the Caribbean? The hardworking men who built up an abundance of muscle on the plentiful meat and fish clearly benefitted Vane with their strength and loyalty. How could a half-starved and exhausted navyman compare in stature or strength to that of a well-fed pirate?

Men of fortune were painted many ways by the crown, none of which were good. Vane himself had done nothing to disperse the derogatory descriptions of foul and cruel men. But many of the crew that I passed on my way had not fitted so finely into the portrait of piracy. There were men who could read, and some who could write. The men-at-work sang, whilst one of the off-duty crew sat noting in a book. 

'All I've seen for forty nights.' Cried one of the masters to break the quiet on deck. Quickly followed by a tuneful shout from the crew 'Ebb and flow. Ebb and Follow.' 

The sitting man's quill sped across the page in unfathomable skill and speed, I assumed him to be writing down the song.

'Waves' reflection of our lights.'

'Ebb and flow. Ebb and flow.'

Writing the indistinguishable marks the man seemed to be content. The shanty was one I had never heard, but singing had been forbidden on almost all my previous contracts. Another man who crouched between two barrels read quietly to the nearby, smoking crewmen. It felt so very different to the navy.

'How small I am in this wide world.'

'Ebb and flow. Ebb and follow.'

I set myself on the rail near the bowsprit, wrapped my legs into a tight hold around two of its short balustrades, and smiled gingerly at the sailor who passed me a lamp from the beam. The gesture remained one sided, and instead my arrival received little more than barely hidden contempt. 

These men were brutes in stature towering over me as I sat, but their height did not intimidate me as much as their width. The size of each man was at least twice that of my own starved physique. Through their badly patched shirts were solid, bulky torsos. These weren't those perfect, finely-toned muscles that the strong-men of the circuses had. These were real muscles, made of stone and crafted into great unsightly mounds. I lit my pipe from the purposefully bent wick of the lamp, trying hard to hide my intimidation as I passed it back. 

These men were not welcoming. I started to think that they would never be. I was an outsider. An outcast. I Would never make an officer on this ship, that much was obvious. But with the size of these men it could take years to earn even the slightest social acceptance. To make even a single friendship. I considered again deserting the ship. 

'How a mind can come unfurled.'

'Ebb and flow. Ebb, and, flow.' 

The shanty ended, and the men continued their tasks in silence for the moment.

'You're one of the new ones, ain't you?' Asked a man beside me, cutting sharply through my thoughts of cowardice. His gruff accent of the sea, one that would only begin to emanate after a decade atop the waves, would have been difficult for many to understand. Words rolled into each other, and accents from many towns across countless countries intermingled between his lips. But his aged voice and leathery, well-weathered skin betrayed a pair of young, sharp eyes.

'I am, yes' I replied in a timid manner, cursing myself for not as much as trying to appear self-assured. The man looked me in the eyes briefly before he laughed along with his surrounding friends - eventually turning back to the horizon.

'Definitely not worth the extra share' he said as the group was silenced by one of the masters nearby. The annoyance of the man became evermore apparent without a single word muttered. His inward breaths, his intimidating looks... I decided it best to leave. I tipped the bowl of my pipe upside down over the edge, giving the dirty wood a sharp slap from my palm. The ash and shag-tobacco fell gracefully into the ocean as I set out to find someone more pleasant - an agonisingly unfruitful search.