Posts Tagged With: Pirate ship

Log 31: Seeking Grace

Log

My ship is gone! Gods damn them, did they sell her? Sink her? Was she turned merchant, or guardship? No – surely not, not in these waters, not these people, with their bloody ugly iron ships and their thunderous flatulence, that deafening growling cough like an ox with consumption –

Christ and St Patrick, Lugh and Goibniu, Manannan Mac Lir and aye, Morrigan, ye hag, I beg you all: bring me back my Grace. Bring me back my Lady, my – mother.

Captain’s Log

Date: 20 July I forget the cursed year

Location: Treasure Harbor, but no bloody treasure here, is there?

Condition: Somewhat endrunkened, but fires blaze within undamped. We are on the course!

We know where she is. The Grace, I mean, the last piece of home, she that carried us here and will protect us now if only we can find our way back to her. Oh, alas that she has gone! Damn them all – curse the sailormen of Florida and their Coast Guard, damn the storm for its wind. And blast those black-souled, bloody-eyed shite-mouthed bastards who took my ship from me at the first: a curse and a pox and all the furies of Hell descend on those God-rotted, devil-fucking mutinee

Damn, I broke my pen. Perhaps a curse on the drink, too – it be strong rum they have here. Well: just the necessecerariess – just the facks. The facts.

Yesterday when the sun rose we broke our fast, and went to Master McNally’s offices. When he arrived, we gave him the money-paper, and he thanked us and excused himself to get to his task. He gave me a small card with a telephone number on it (and the proper writing of the word, too, hah). We left and took the boat back to Islamorada, to Treasure Harbor again. Then I walked to the fortress of the Coast Guard, because I wanted to look at my Grace, my beloved, beautiful, perfect, wondrous –

She was gone. I tried to ask the guard, but he would not tell me, the damned imbecile. I looked for Lieutenant – whose name I misrememember – but no, he’s gone, I can’t see him, I can leave him a message with my telephone number but I don’t bloody have one, do I, ye sodding lump, and where’s my blessed ship?! Couldn’t find out. Got physically thrown out of the fortress, banned from returning, as if I want to. Wanted to draw and fire right then, challenge them to a duel, they don’t even wear swords I could cut them down with an eye shut and a hand tied to a foot, like I saw that man, that one man – a Gypsy, that’s who it was, aye! Gypsy did that to all comers back home, when Uncle Seamus took me to town. Home. Gods, will I truly never see it again? Never? But Mam – she’s alive, back then, alive. I can’t lose her. She’s all – she’s all I have, all my family, only one.

Can’t lose her again here. Can’t lose her now.

Right: they threw me out, I did not kill them. I came back here and talked to my men. We made a plan, a good one. These are sailors, yes? Then there must be taverns nearby where they drink, and mollyhouses for the whores. So we found a tavern, already had a sailor in it while the sun was high and hot – Christ, it’s hot here. Already drinking at noon – he must be Irish, ha-haaaa! – and we waited.

That night, this night, some bloody night, the sailors came in, we sat with them and bought them drinks, said we were sailors, too, from Ireland, o’ course. Got them drunk – took a while, and I barely had my wits left for matching them, and Lynch, he passed out, poor little puppy. Though we had to buy his whiskey for him and give it on the sly, for the barkeep said he was too young to drink – what in the name of Lucifer and St. Patrick is that? If he can hold the mug, he can drink the drink, ye bastards! And Balthazar Lynch may be young, but he be twice the man as that tub of guts behind his bar, with his smug stupid face of his. But we got them to talk, MacTeigue and me, about the ship, about my Grace – said we heard gossip about sailing ship, and that she had sunk, broke my heart to say it, aye, but they shook their heads No and all was well again.

Three – two? days ago, there was a storm. Bloody cack-fisted baboons could not handle the Grace’s lines and sails proper, and the wind broke the mast, he said, but we think only a spar. Probably the one Shluxer made, that daft cur, all he touches turns to shite, why not my ship, too? So they gave her away – no borrowed, they borrowed – no, lent her to a man, a man who cares for ships, a scholar of the seas, can’t think of his name, but they told me where to find him, where to find my Grace.

Then MacTeigue and me, we beat them to a bloody damned pulp. Ha.

Came back here, made MacTeigue carry Lynch. He wanted to shave Lynch’s belly and, y’know, farther down, to pay the boy for falling to drink and needing to be carried, but I wouldn’t let him. Lynch’s a good man, good lad, shouldn’t be manhandled by drunk Irishmen. So MacTeigue asleep and snoring, with Lynch in his arms, after he apologized to the sleeping boy, and embraced him, and fell asleep thus. He be a maudlin drunk, aye.

Done with this log now. Going to sleep.

Captain’s Log

Date: 21st of July, 2011

Location: Treasure Harbor, Islamorada.

Conditions: At least my head is done aching.

When morning came, this day, none of the three of us were capable of greeting her. The sun was well overhead before MacTeigue and I could stir our bruised bodies and pounding heads, and though Lynch had risen earlier, he was still green and vomitous, sitting in the shade with his back to the ocean, for the motion of the water made him sick to watch it.

Though I did not recall it, I had apparently waked Vaughn when we returned from the tavern last night, and despite larding my report with many furious drunken ramblings, still I managed to relay to him what we had learned of the fate of the Grace. And good Llewellyn, my true friend, he left this morning, ventured forth to find her, trusting to the luck of the Irish to keep we three drink-addled sots safe, e’en in our stupor.

And he did. As I wrote last night in this log – though much of my script is illegible, and the rest is as maudlin and pathetic as I accused MacTeigue of – the storm that passed four days ago, now, did some damage to the ship, for she was never properly battened down after her capture, and the men of this Coast Guard know not the handling of a proper masted ship, as they ken only their great grumbling iron monsters. So the Grace was buffeted about, and Lieutenant Danziger brought in a man he knew, an expert in ships of the Grace’s form, what men here and now call tall ships for the height of the masts, to look her over. This man, whose name we got as Napier, though in truth it is Navarre, Claude Navarre, is the master of a house of ship’s lore called a museum, Vaughn says. Vaughn seems much enamored of the place, and of the man; I think my educated friend has grown tired of the poor conversation we simple sailors can offer him.

We knew the location from the sailors in the tavern, and Vaughn was able to sort our description – addled twice, I am sure, in the hearing and the retelling by the drink that soaked both our ears and our tongues – and he found it, this museum, and Navarre, and my beloved Grace. He made his way to Navarre’s presence, professing great interest in the ship which he could see anchored in a small but well-guarded harbor beside the museum, which held several other ships – some passing strange, Vaughn told me on his return – but I had ears only for news of the one. Vaughn, with an educated man’s tongue and manners, even if three centuries out of date, was able to inquire of Navarre about the Grace and how she came to reside there. Navarre had convinced Danziger that no one could, or would wish to, steal this tall ship, not in this age of single-masted pleasure boats, and yachts and guardships without a foot of canvas anywhere about them. Therefore the best place for the ship was somewhere she could be cared for properly, and also studied, with security being but a minor concern: at this museum place, where the scholars learn the lore of the sea and the vessels and men who sail it. Danziger agreed, and while we were on the mainland engaging Master McNally and collecting his retainer, the Coast Guard towed my ship to this museum and anchored her there, with locked chains attaching her to the dock and stopping access from the land, with two Coast Guard sailors standing watch on shore.

Vaughn has convinced me that Navarre is correct. For the nonce, until I have a crew once more that can sail her, the Grace is truly best left where she is. The museum’s harbor is better protected than that of the fortress, as there are trees to act as windbreaks against any future storm, and Navarre and his fellow sea scholars know how to rig her properly; Vaughn reports that she has now been battened down as well as we could have done it ourselves.

What is more, Vaughn has told me that he wishes to leave our company, and remain in proximity to the ship, and perhaps eventually in the employ of this place of learning and this Navarre, who has apparently become Vaughn’s friend already. Well, there is sense there: Master Navarre studies men who sailed the seas in the past, and Vaughn is one such, as well as being erudite himself. I am sure they will get on famously. And as MacTeigue and Lynch and I have work to do to find the cost of Master McNally’s services, and it is such work as Vaughn should prefer to avoid and I prefer to separate from him both for his sake and the work’s, I have agreed that Vaughn will split from us and find lodging on Marathon Key, where this museum is, and my beloved Grace. Vaughn’s eyes verily sparkled when he mentioned the library he found within those walls; I believe he will do little but read, eat, sleep, and converse with Master Navarre, for as long as he may. I wish him well of it.

As for we three, we will seek other lodging as well. As the Grace be not here on Islamorada, there is little reason for us to remain. There is also reason for us to go: I do not wish to encounter our two informants, since this log has confirmed my drink-addled and fog-bound memory which says that we and they raised a proper donnybrook in the tavern once we had that knowledge we sought. And withal a tavern brawl is but a tavern brawl, no matter what land or age you be in, still I know that the light of day and the pain of bruised faces can change willing participants into aggrieved victims. Too, in any conflict or fractious negotiation, I know well that we, the outsiders, would soon find that all the rest had closed ranks against us, and we would bear the full brunt of whatever censure might result.

And I shudder to think what would occur if they found our highwaymen guises. I have no wish to see that gaol from the inside.

But first I must see my Grace. On the morrow, Vaughn will take us to the museum, and no guard shall stop me from walking her decks once more. Then we will depart, for calmer waters and broader horizons, for a place more familiar, and therefore both safer and more to our advantage in the search for and capture of funds. We return to the Redoubt.

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Log 17: Coming Up to Speed

Captain’s Log

Date: 29 June 1678 2011

Location: Glass Palace Beach House, 10 mi. South of Miami, Florida, United States of America

Conditions: Improving Ship repairs near completion

 

I don’t know how to tell the men.

They have been busy, working steadily – after first celebrating Shluxer’s bounty. They emptied a crate of rum that first night, not realizing that Shluxer’s rum is more potent than the rum we knew. They were near paralyzed with remorse the following morning. In the afternoon, though, O’Flaherty and Burke got them up and back to work on the Grace. They also sent Shluxer for more rum, which he retrieved without difficulty. The which made him, once more, the hero in the hearts of my crew.

I will not kill him. I was in my cups myself when I wrote that last entry, having commandeered the whiskey and made a most strenuous and valiant attempt to consume every drop; without mixing it with water, I might add. I spent all of yesterday thus engaged in my cabin, which necessitated this day be spent recovering. At last, I have been able to eat some food, and now I drink but clean water from the Palace’s taps. Ah – it is a beach house, not a Palace, avers Shluxer.

I will not kill Shluxer, no. It would not change our situation, I know. He was but the messenger. Too, he has proved most helpful. Not only has he taken up the mantle of ship’s carpenter, helping the men to repair the hole in the Grace’s hull to anyone’s satisfaction, and then retrieving for us a great quantity of a white paste he calls caulk, though it bears little resemblance to the tarred rope fibers we have always used to fill the cracks between the planks of the hull – he has also shown us much about this Beach House we have inhabited, and made our daily lives far easier.

I found today that he released our hostages. All but the woman, Flora, the Palace maid. Apparently, at some time on the night of revelry, he struck up a conversation with Ian – and I must note that my dear friend and great ally took responsibility for the ship and crew whilst I was out of my mind with Shluxer’s revelations; it was Ian who stayed sober and ensured that watches were kept; we had moved our landward watch post to the gate Shluxer found for us, the which we have reinforced with blockades on the road, and locked in place with hammered wedges and chains. The men stationed there have begun to grow accustomed to the beast-wagons – Shluxer names them “cars” – for they pass by the gate with mind-numbing regularity. But to the point, to the point – too many wonders, too many distractions. Shluxer spoke with Ian, Ian told me later, and mentioned that the owner of the car, the wagon named Kia which we used to retrieve O’Flaherty, would be irate when he saw the damage done to his beast. Ian, laughing, said they could ask the man, as he was locked and under guard along with the other hostages inside the Beach House. Shluxer was most put out by this intelligence, though Ian said he grew calmer when he heard they had been held for no more than a single day, at that point. He asked to be taken to the hostages, which he was; he then told Ian that they must be released immediately, or else the militia assault we have feared would become imminent and inevitable – he called the militia the “police,” which seems to be the word that the Lopez siblings had used more than once in conversation with me, and also, inexplicably, the Five Oh and the Po-Po. Shluxer has the strangest tongue I have yet known. I despair of mastering it.

Any road, Shluxer and Ian came to my rooms and were repulsed without entry by myself and my fermented companion; they went to O’Flaherty instead, who was nearly as drunk but far more companionable. He granted Shluxer and Ian the authority to handle the situation. Shluxer, in subsequent conversation with the Brothers Lopez, was relieved to hear that they were themselves illegal, and thus unlikely, he claimed, to summon the police, or have said police summoned on their behalf, which seemed his greater worry, since he said we had confiscated their “sellfones.” Ian knew not to what Shluxer then referred. Shluxer determined that we should keep their sister as assurance of their continued silence, and then he returned their belongings, saw them into their Kia-wagon, and sent them away.

I want to believe that Shluxer has done us a great service. But I fear that he is gaining a taste for power, power granted him by his knowledge of this world – this time – that is so strange to us. I surmise that he has seldom if ever had authority over others, and like most such men, he revels in his elevation. But as England’s Shakespeare put it, “‘Tis the bright day that brings forth the adder, and that craves wary walking. Crown him that, and then I grant we put a sting in him, that at his will he may do danger with.”

The Bard refers to the crowning of Julius Caesar. I fear I may be cast in the role of Brutus.

For the nonce, though, we need Shluxer and his knowledge, his power. Using the maid’s beast-wagon, he has procured all manner of supplies: fresh tar for the ropes and the hull, spices for O’Grady and a remarkable quantity of salt, the which O’Grady has used to preserve the remaining meat from Ian’s trading mission; Shluxer has brought us new provisions, as well, nearly as fine as the goods Ian brought. Though I have not enjoyed all that he brought – those Doritos are vile things, like burnt, flattened goat turds dipped in gunpowder and salt – I must speak well of these Twinkie cakes. Delicious.

When Shluxer learned that we had been drinking the water from the pool on the terrace despite its bitter taste – which he called “cloreen,” or some such – he showed us that the fixtures in this dwelling provide limitless fresh water. But to speak truth, as my mother taught me I ever should, to a tongue raised on new rain caught in clay jugs and copper pots, and to the crisp cool drink of mountain springs, the water from within tastes little better than that from the pool. Of course, life on board ship nearly always entails the drinking of stale and sour water; the moment it is stored in casks, it begins to turn, but we needs must drink it anyway. ‘Tis at least part of the reason the men prefer grog – though now they are grown mighty fond of the beer Shluxer brought us in metal barrels, this Coors that he insists on referring to as the silver bullet.

What matters most to me is that Shluxer has indeed managed to repair my lovely ship. The hull appears to be even more watertight than when she was new. We will let his caulk dry another day, and then cover it with tar and float the ship once the tide is high. If she doesn’t take on water then, we will sail, in three days’ time.

Though I do not know where we will go then.

 

 

Captain’s Log

Date: 1 July 2011

Location: Beach House Cove

Conditions: Improved, at last.

The caulking and tarring is done. The mast is repaired, and the men have begun digging out the sand around the Grace to the level of the tide; when the water flows in, it will, with the blessings of fortune, float our ship, and we will once more be men of the sea. I find I am tired of standing on this land. I have been considering a return to Ireland, though I know not what we will find there in this time. I have not consulted with Shluxer on the matter, though if past conversation be any guide, his knowledge of the great nations of Europe is spotty at best. He claims there are no more kings in the world, at least not in any but the darkest and most savage nations; this gave me a cold chill, as it brought to mind Devil Cromwell and his Parliamentarians, and my father. But Shluxer knew nothing at all of Cromwell, or the wars for Charles’s throne, or the devastation of Ireland under the New Model Army. It is most odd, what he knows and what he does not.

But however odd the man is, I had best become accustomed to him: he has signed the Articles, and joined the crew of the Grace of Ireland as our carpenter. He was sponsored by O’Flaherty and Carter, with whom he has grown most amicable, but his great benefit to our ship and crew would have been enough regardless.

I confess I hold reservations about the man’s inclusion in our merry band. When I asked him about the home and family he would leave behind to become a rover – he has mentioned his mother and father before – he shrugged and said, “Fuck them – I want to be a pirate. Yo ho!” He is most fond of that phrase. But it was the first part of that utterance that stuck with me. What loyalty can a man have, if he have none to his own blood?

But perhaps I should ask my father that question.

 

 

Captain’s Log

Date: 2 July 2011

Location: Beach House Cove

Conditions: The ship is once more on water. Situation on land, alas, has sunk to the depths.

I was right not to trust Shluxer.

This past night, while the men slept on the beach, I came off the Grace, where I had been sleeping in my cabin; I find it far more comfortable for its familiarity than even the softest bed in this house. I went inside in search of a cool drink of water. When I entered the kitchen, I heard some noise of struggle; investigating I found the guard outside the prisoner’s chamber had been dismissed, and inside, I found Shluxer attempting to defile the maid, Flora. I prevented him, and struck him down; this morning, at dawn, I had him tied to the mast and given twenty lashes. I twice had to order Burke to put his back into it. Burke – the man who wears a devil’s grin at the mere thought of applying stripes to a man’s back – now he grows reluctant? In truth, I have never heard caterwauling and pleas like those uttered by Shluxer once his pale, scarless skin felt the bite of the lash; he has lived a soft life till now. No more.

O’Flaherty came to me with objection, for my assault on the foul rapist. The stripes he earned, according to our Articles, which prescribe this penalty for any man who attempts to force his attentions on any unwilling woman, and death or marooning for any man who is successful in his vile designs; but those same Articles expressly forbid any member of the crew, and any officer, from striking another. And I had struck Shluxer many times, in my rage. I argued that the defense of our own honor required my actions in order to stop Shluxer, and though O’Flaherty grumbled, he went away.

But he was succeeded by Ian. Who repeated the complaint. Though his reasoning was more pragmatic: in our dire straits, he said we need Shluxer more than we need justice. He felt I should have simply warned the bastard away and doubled the woman’s guard, so as to avoid dissension and resentment among the crew, for whom Shluxer has gained a most favorable hue of approval – and whose crime, generally speaking, is frequently shrugged at indifferently. I am afraid Ian and I both became intemperate in our discussion of this matter, until at last I ejected him from my cabin and locked myself in, to keep this log and to brood on our circumstance. And aye, to keep from laying eyes on that slug Shluxer, lest I open his belly for the gulls.

I cannot face the crew. I cannot lie to them, and I cannot speak to them without addressing our situation; I know the talk amongst them is of little else but where we are, and where we must go. I hope once we put out to sea, I will gain the courage and the strength to tell them the truth; I know if I do not, then Shluxer will, and he will say it – poorly. Until then, I have given my orders, and I will stay in my cabin while they are carried out. I have entrusted the maid’s safety to Lynch and MacTeigue until we depart, as they see the situation my way, I know – indeed, Lynch was so enraged he demanded Shluxer’s throat be cut for his crime, but I ordered him to let the blood spilled by the lash suffice. After all, I did prevent Shluxer from achieving his intent. Lynch was not satisfied, but he agreed and swore to abide by my wishes.

We must get to sea. All will be well when we are on the waves once more.

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Log #4: The Chase, Part II

Captain’s Log #4

Date: 24th of June, 1678. Evening, or so: twilight hidden by storm clouds.

Location: Unknown

Conditions: Thunder and Lightning. Very very frightening. Wind and waves high, but ebbing.

 

For two months, Hobbes’s ship never left us. We made what repairs we could, but our mainmast yard was damaged beyond repair by chainshot, and we had no way to replace it. Perhaps something could have been found, but McLoughlin, our carpenter, had been killed by a musket-ball, and no one else had any particular skill at woodcraft. We tried to hoist more sails, to lighten our load, to make better use of the wind – but all was for naught. We sailed dark in the night and took unexpected turns in the blackness; but somehow, whenever we tried such tactics, the sun would rise and show sails behind us, sometimes far away, but always visible. And they always gave chase, eventually closing what gap we had opened, never coming close enough to enter battle.

I do not believe I truly slept for those two months. I cannot even be sure it was two months; I missed days in this log, and no man aboard kept his own calendar. Even Vaughn, the surgeon and an educated man, stayed below with his books, as ever; the sailing of the ship means no more to him than the pulling of a plow concerns a field mouse: occasionally he is disturbed by it. The passing of time follows that same path for him, unnoticed and unmourned. Perhaps he has the right of it.

But for two months, the wind never slackened or changed and no storms came; there was enough rain and enough fishing to keep us alive, but we saw no other sails and never lost sight of the Sea-Cat. It was enough to drive us all mad, the months of waiting, imagining our fate yet hoping for a reprieve – a reprieve that did not need to be as miraculous as the one I had hoped for as a lad, awaiting my mother’s return: all we needed now was for Hobbes to give up the chase. Who were we? One Irish pirate vessel, perhaps with some small repute due our success in the English shipping lanes, but no Henry Morgan, no Francis Drake. Why did he not give up?

Someday I will have Hobbes at my mercy. I will ask him then.

It may have been madness that brought us so close to our doom, at the end. Certain if it was not madness, ’twas folly. I took ill, of course, for no man can stay upright under that strain for that long. When I did, ’twas left to my mate, Ian O’Gallows, to carry out my wishes. But he found himself pressed on two sides by the ship’s quartermaster, Sean O’Flaherty, and the bosun, Edmund Burke, a brute of an Englishman allowed aboard my ship only for the sake of O’Flaherty’s patronage, and the need to keep peace between myself and the man elected by my crew to be my equal in all things but battle. O’Flaherty chafed under the fact that we were on the eve of battle every hour of two months, and thus my word was law throughout; so when I lay insensate in my cabin, he seized his moment. With Burke at his side, they overruled Ian and commanded the men themselves. Perhaps Ian allowed it to happen, and if so, I cannot fault him; though their course was folly, it was a possibility that called to us all for those months, and may have become inevitable even had I stayed at the helm to the bitter end.

They slowed the ship and prepared for battle.

I regained myself in the night, and staggered out of my cabin to see what I had transpired during my incapacity. O’Flaherty had command, with Duffy at the helm; it was a cloudy night, and we were running silent and dark, so that I almost stumbled over them in the darkness as I moved blearily toward the dim light of the hooded lantern standing at O’Flaherty’s feet. They greeted me, somewhat warily, I think now, though I saw nothing amiss at the time. O’Flaherty told me how long I had been below – the better part of two days – and our approximate position, though we had sailed off the edge of our charts more than a month ago, and were navigating mostly by legend and hearsay about the length of a cruise from Ireland to the English colonies of the New World, where so many Irishmen suffered in chains after Devil Cromwell came to our shores. They assumed we were somewhere east of the Carolinas, but did not know how far away from the shore – perhaps as much as a thousand miles. They thought we might be close to the island called Baramundi, or perhaps it was Bermuda – they could not recall the name.

I began to examine what I could discern of the distribution of our sails, and grew alarmed as I realized that sails had been reefed: my ship had been slowed. It was then that the most peculiar sight ever to light my eyes came to pass. I realized that the rigging was growing far easier to discern; that there was, in fact, light in the darkness. It was a blue light, unlike any illumination I had heretofore experienced, and as I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear away any lingering phantoms of sleep, I found that the hair on my arms, and on my neck, was standing erect. Then I knew what it was, this light, from many stories told by old sea-dogs around tavern tables: it was the fire of St. Elmo, seen by one mariner in a thousand but boasted of by every man jack who sails the sea.

Imagine my wonder as I observed my ship, every inch of her glowing like a falling star, growing bright enough to see, and then to read by. It was a sublime beauty, a moment out of time: a waking dream that brought joy to my heart, a heart which had felt no goodness for weeks, aa heart which was filled with nothing but a rising dread and falling hopes.

And then imagine my horror as I turned to look at O’Flaherty and Duffy behind me, and saw the same eldritch fire crawling over the sails and lines and rails of the Sea-Cat, the scourged lady at her bow almost near enough to spit on. “To arms!” I cried. “To arms, and ‘ware boarders! All men on deck!”

O’Flaherty attempted to forestall me, but it was too late. My awaking at the wrong moment, my awareness of the enemy ship at the same moment, thanks to a mysterious wonder of the sea – it had to have been fate, or the caprice of the gods, that saw fit to ruin the plans of O’Flaherty. I do not know if I should regret it.

For the moment my voice was raised, the hatch burst open and the men came boiling out, wide awake, armed to the teeth and ready to kill Englishmen. For indeed, O’Flaherty and Burke had intended to bring our pursuers to the fray, and, hoping surprise would balance their greater numbers, had hidden the men belowdecks until Hobbes’s men had grappled and boarded us, thinking our boys foolishly asleep, and thus boarding with false confidence instead of battle-ready wills. Perhaps it would have worked, if the timing had come together properly.

But now it was ruined. For the men rushed above yelling, and the English spotted us and veered off our stern just long enough to fire on us with grape shot and muskets. My men went down like mown hay before the scythe. I fell, as well, wounded in the arm and lightly across my scalp, a minor gash that bled more than it harmed, though it was enough to stun me for a moment as my blood and the blood of my men pooled on the deck of my ship.

Then the blue fire of St. Elmo flared like lightning, turning as white as moonlight and as brilliant as the sun on the waves. There was a clap of thunder, and the deck reeled beneath us. “Rogue wave!” rose the cry, and perhaps it was. The light turned a color I have never seen, a lurid brilliance tinged with darkness: as if a rainbow bled its life’s blood on our eyes. I heard the screaming of a ban-sidhe rise far off and then fly at us at great speed, arriving with a tumult and crash as of a cannonade. The deck bounced once more, the light flashed, and then all was still. All was silent.

The sun broke the horizon then, and we saw that the ship had turned, and the sun was rising before us, a line of dark storm clouds just above her bright face, like the angry brows of a goddess scorned. The seas were calmed, but for the three-foot chop; no sign of the rogue wave that had tossed us moments before.

And no sign of the Devil’s Lash. The cry went up as we realized, and we rushed from rail to rail, like children following a soldier’s parade through town. But there was nothing, no ship, no sails in sight. There was a brief cheer, quickly lost in confusion; and then I set men to tasks, seeing to the wounded and the dead, turning the ship about to sail due west and seek landfall and safety from the coming storm. It was not an hour before we spied land ahead, and a matter of half a day before we could make out the trees along the shore. So much for O’Flaherty’s navigation. Perhaps it was Duffy’s, but he fell in the fusillade, so I will not speak ill of the dead.

Thus came we here. The storm is upon us now, and my strength flags again, my eyes heavy, my hand numb and shaking on the quill. I must rest. Perhaps I will wake in Hell. Perhaps I am there now.

But if I am in Hell, where is the Devil’s Lash?

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