Captain England (Post 1)

The first thing I was aware of was my throbbing head. It ached in several places, but one spot in particular took the cake. Illogically, I wondered if there was a hole in my skull. The second thing I was aware of was the sunlight. It lit up the inside of my eyelids and warmed my face, which was pressed against the bright orange nylon of my life jacket. The third thing that struck me was that from the neck down, I was still submerged in cool water,  and the waves tugged at my body rhythmically.

I tried opening my eyes, but it felt as though my eyelids were welded together. I wanted to rub them, but wasn’t even sure I knew how to move my hands. Shit, for all I knew, I didn’t have hands anymore. I thought idly about sharks as I bobbed about, wondering if anyone would find me, and if not, how long it would take to die. Slowly, I was able to crack open my eyes. From between the strands of hair that wrapped across my face and stuck to my parched lips, I could see blurry blue sky with scattered clouds above, and nothing but sea stretching before me. Water sloshed around in my ears, and I could barely hear anything over the roar in my head.

God, why wasn’t I already dead? Was my death to be prolonged? Would I die slowly at sea, with various sea creatures nibbling at me like an open buffet? I tried to moan, but no sound came out of my mouth.

Then I heard it. Gurgling water, and a distinct creaking.  I saw the shadow it cast on the waves before I saw the dark hull, painted with a stripe of black. The ship was approaching, and while every cell in my body wanted to call out for help, I could do nothing but wince at the pain I felt as I tried to move. I heard voices, and knew that I’d been found. Funny, how one’s brain works when water-logged and beaten to a pulp: I remember thinking it was remotely odd that a wooden sailing ship had found me, but not exceptionally odd. My eyes tried to focus on the ship as it came dangerously close, creaking and groaning balefully, the sails shuddering as the ship turned into the wind.

I saw men’s faces peering down at me from the sides, speaking in what I thought was English. I couldn’t be sure, because my ears were partially submerged in water, but I thought I heard someone say “Avast ye!” The ship was within arm’s reach when I managed to focus my eyes enough to see a flag flapping urgently into the wind: Black, with a skull and two crossed bones beneath it. I tried to clear my head, blinking.

Huh. I was being rescued by pirate re-enactors. How droll.

Two men, clambering down monkey-like along the side of the ship, grabbed me by my vest and pulled.  I was jerked from the water, my legs slapping against the wood of the boat. “Steady, clods, or I’ll cut ye  in sunder!” a gruff male voice yelled.

I was then on my back again, looking into the curious faces of my rescuers. And holy shit did they stink. I’m not sure I managed to keep the look of disgust off my face. My stomach began to do somersaults again as I felt the ship rock beneath my body.

“Damn me, if it isn’t a bit o’ girl!” One fellow cried, blowing sour breath into my face.

“Close that yawp, dog!” Another one growled. “Back to your post, and be quick about it!”

Ugh. I turned my head to the side, groaning. I found my voice – along with my healthy dose of sarcasm – and croaked, “Seriously, guys. Enough with the pirate chatter. Get me to a hospital.”

The men exchanged looks, and a man who hadn’t spoken yet examined me, touching the vest, eyeing  my terry cloth pants and t-shirt. The others hovered around, their eyes as big as saucers, muttering oaths to each other. What was with these people? I tried to push myself up on my elbows, and the men instantly stepped back. All but the silent man, who, my addled brain assessed, was in a position of authority. Unlike the others, he maintained a calm look on his face, speaking gently to me. “There, now. Whatever ails you, cailin? Have ye need for the surgeon?”

Surgeon? And what did he call me? “Uh… No. I was… I fell off a boat… I don’t know how long ago… during a storm. I was staying on Paradise Island with my friends. They probably think I’m dead.”

I swallowed down the foul taste in my mouth, disoriented by what I saw: These guys weren’t kidding around. They clearly took this re-enactment business seriously, right down to the stench of putrid ass that emanated from every crevice of the ship. The deck was littered with coils of tarred rope and dirty sails. The ship seemed small, a lot smaller than Jack Sparrow’s galleon, in any case. It had two masts, an immense amount of sail, and a long bowsprit. I didn’t remember much about sailboats, despite the instruction I’d gotten in Haiti as a kid, but it was clear the ship was built for speed. Speed, and battle, apparently – I spotted several big cannons and swivel guns fixed to the railing. The men, about a hundred of them, were ethnically varied – there were a few black and Indian dudes – but they were strikingly similar in their appearances. They were all weathered, scarred, and filthy, and they all wore variations of  a loose shirt and baggy trousers. All of them wore something on their heads, either a knitted or felt cap. Most of them had on simple leather shoes, while others went barefoot. Some had dirty neckerchiefs, some sported short jackets. And every single blessed one carried a weapon, mainly knives and pistols that were hung around their necks or tucked in their belts.

I looked at the nice fellow, the one who appeared to be the captain. It wasn’t the way he was dressed that tipped me off – he was dressed like the others, except he wore knee breeches and knitted stockings – it was his presence. He was short but broad in the chest, with copper colored hair that was tied back into a tail under a small tricorn hat. His face was creased and spotted from the sun, his cheeks ruddy from the wind, and he had a large, aquiline nose. He looked to be in his late thirties. His eyes, though bloodshot, were a bright blue as he surveyed me apprehensively. He had both a cutlass and pistol tied into a makeshift belt at his side, but he showed no sign of wanting to use them, thank God. “I need to use a phone,” I said, my voice sounding slightly choked.

The captain raised an eyebrow. The crew rumbled with… disapproval? Confusion? Fear? Oh, Jesus. Don’t tell me they’ve taken this so far as to not bring a damn cell phone. The throbbing in my head got worse, as did my nausea, and I felt my patience run out. “God, please, guys! I need to get back to Paradise Island. I need to use a phone. Don’t you get it? I fell overboard… This isn’t fun and games for me!”

One of the other men, a pale, rawboned man with a grand total of four teeth that I could see, leaned to speak in the captain’s ear. “The woman’s mad, cap’n! What say you that we leave her ashore at Nassau – ”

“Nassau!” I cried, jerking upright and immediately wishing I hadn’t moved. My stomach heaved and every muscle in my body ached. “Yes, take me to Nassau. That’ll work.” Anywhere, really, so long I was away from these wackos. The captain sat still for a moment, seemingly surprised by my ardent desire to go to Nassau. His hesitation, however, lasted less than a second. He nodded but, before he could speak, I gagged and threw up on the deck. Nothing much to throw up except sea water, and the captain ordered that I be brought some ale.

“God no! Water, please,” I begged, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

The captain smiled, but was clearly perplexed. He said, “We’ve no sweet water, lass, just ale or rum. Here, Jameson, let’s get under way. I’ll take her to the cabin, where she’ll stay until we reach New Providence.”

There was a malicious cackle, and one of the men growled, “Aye, ye will… She’s a fair piece, that one!” The captain apparently chose not to hear the jeers as he lifted me easily into his arms and walked with a swift, rolling gait down the hatch and into his cabin. He smelled strongly of sweat and alcohol, and I held my breath, turning my head away from him. I heard the disgruntled Jameson cry, “All hands make sail!”

I cursed the fact that I was so nauseous and weak that I couldn’t think straight. Why wouldn’t these guys stop with the play-acting? They were obviously not American; the captain sounded Irish and the others… Well, shit, I don’t know. Mostly British, I guess. Which sort of explained the lack of personal hygiene. But their English was definitely of a different century. Was I in danger? Clearly they weren’t mentally all there. A few fries short of a Happy Meal, if you get my drift. I concluded that I wasn’t in any more danger here than I was bobbing out in the middle of the sea.

If I’d expected some sort of luxury in the captain’s cabin, I was sorely disappointed. I guess in the back of my mind I’d hoped the Irishman would quit the pirate shit and offer me a bottle of Evian. The cabin was below the poop deck at the stern. It was cramped, hot and smelled like rotting fish, human sweat, and raw sewage. I retched again, but the captain seemed relatively unfazed. He set me down on a low bunk that was covered with dirty bedding. I ripped the life jacket off, panicking.

“I can’t stay down here,” I said, my stomach in my throat, sweat beading my upper lip. The rocking felt more pronounced away from the fresh air, from the view of the horizon.

The captain sat on a low stool beside me, his eyes hard. “Ye can’t stay on the decks either, lass. Ye saw the way the men looked at ye, surely. It’s here or back in sea with ye.”

I flinched, struck by the fierceness in his voice. He was serious. What was going on? Why couldn’t I stop the insanity? “Then drop me back in!” I moaned, clutching my scalp between my fingers. “For God’s sake, let someone else find me. Someone sane, who doesn’t think he’s a pirate!”

This made the Irishman laugh – a deep, slightly hostile rumble. His teeth were crowded and discolored, but he seemed to have most of them. A young boy, skinny and sunburnt, his bare feet black and callused, came in carrying a pewter mug and a bundle of cloth. I retched, nothing but spit coming out at this point. The captain said something about salt pork and hardtack, but “that with the fewest weevils.”

I moaned, shuddering in my sodden clothes. The Irishman produced a linen shirt and wide, knee-length trousers that were worn and sun-bleached to a faded blue. He said, “They’re the boy’s, they’ll likely fit ye. We haven’t got ladies’ silks and satins, to be sure, but it’ll do fine for now.” He raised a thick, unruly eyebrow at me. He seemed to think about something for a moment, and then disappeared up the hatch with a speed that should not have been possible on a rocking ship.

After struggling out of my wet clothes and slipping on those the captain had left for me, not knowing – or caring – whether to pat myself dry with something beforehand, I curled onto my side on the squalid bedding, away from the bleak cabin, with its wooden chest and dirty hammock. I watched as a large, speckled spider crawled its way in between the cedar planks in front of my face. I shut my eyes. Maybe I really was dead, and this was Hell. Maybe this was all a nightmare, and I would awaken in my bed soon, Sophie bouncing me awake. What I wouldn’t give for it all to just go away…