Cradling my swollen fist I felt a satisfied smile brush across my lips. The sea was a harsh place. It tickled me that a punch to the jaw had done less damage to his face than my hand. Admittedly, his rotten teeth would never close quite the same... well, the ones that hadn't landed in others' ales at least. My wrist though had begun to throb, and two knuckles made clear their disapproval of my folly. The sea was a harsh place. I told that to myself that often. I looked at the poor Captain in the corner of this mess. This mess; in his mess. He was so helpless, so hapless. He hadn't the slightest experience of captaincy, and was beginning to pay the anarchic price owed to his ignorance; theft and violence - to say the least. There had been more than a couple of men found murdered in cold blood.
Any time I had witnessed a hint of violence amidst a voyage, the men responsible would suffer a disproportionately hard ordeal. Brought up by hand, and kept in line by its strength also. And yet this poor landsman Captain, only one week into the first voyage of his new career, had lost all control of the ship. It was not his fault per se. Sailors are a harsh breed with respect for nought but the rod. Only an unfairly-firm hand could maintain the pack-animals that men became at sea. The Captain had not realised his own idiocy though. When a sailor joins aboard an inexperienced captain's crew there is usually a reason he is not in employment. A good sailor will never go long between ships... those who are not so good: the weak; the scoundrels; the work-shy cowards; they were the sickly remainder that filled the doss houses. I was one of the rare exceptions. Merely too old to work as a boy, and too young to be taken seriously by any respectable officer.
If truth be told, I had held the position of a boy for too long as it was. But having served only at that rank it was fair to assume I would not know any of the roles of a true sailor; I knew this was not the reality. Reputable Captains, however? They had such a bevy of good men to choose from; why should they risk someone with no experience?
I looked at the drunken fool on the floor. His snapped jaw had given the crew some entertainment for the evening, and as one of the ship's boys dragged the unconscious man to the side of the room, I continued the longing stare at the only lasting love of my life. The golden-brown fluid at a proof that made ears bleed - it was the only thing that deadened the pains of the sea. Rum and ale... an unhealthy mix of mind-rot. My throat began again to burn that familiar burn; as my nose became overwhelmed by the strong smell of the grain-juice I drank I finally found peace. Peace was a rarity, and in this crew - a luxury. The disorder was usually so all consuming aboard. And so it remained, until later that morning...
Whistles screeched across the ship.
Once. Twice. Then a third sharp blast. A sure warning. Danger!