The Scourge - Pirates & Privateers

Chapter 2 - Exploring the wreck

Martin wandered the deck dodging between the legs of the crew as they blustered and thumped across his path. He staggered back, narrowly avoided being squashed like an ant under a boot, as a heavy-set deckhand lunged for the gunwale. That encouraged him to keep moving. Finding a comfortable place to stand on the ship had proven more difficult than he had initially believed. This wasn't like the streets where there were a thousand unused corners of town to crouch in and be alone. Not an inch of this ship was wasted, and there was never a good time where Martin could slip away to count his thoughts.

Lost in his own head, Martin hadn't noticed that he had ambled in the direction of the quarterdeck, where all except the officers were forbidden to tread. The Quartermaster stepped in front of Martin, snapping him out of his daze. 'You, boy!'

'Y-yes?' Martin stared at the Quartermaster. His face glowed pink with sunburn, wrinkled like a blanched tomato.

'Captain's called for all able hands.' The Quartermaster puffed out his chest. 'You're to go ashore with the rest.'

'Oh, um, is that... really necessary?' Martin stammered. He was secretly looking forward to not having so many people around. The eyes that weighed him against their expectations and found him wanting were something that constantly twigged at his mind as he walked the deck. He relished the opportunity to wander the ship alone for a time. 'I think I'd be more use here helping Doctor Cotral tend the woun-.'

'Did I ask you a question?'

'I'm sorry?' Martin blinked in confusion.

'Mister Hamish,' the Quartermaster, still holding his hands behind his back, loomed over Martin. 'You are addressing a superior officer. You may be equal among the men aboard this ship, which is better than you'd have sailing with Her Majesty's Navy, but when addressing me or the Captain you will address us by our rank, or "sir". Do I make myself clear?'

'Y-yes,' Martin said. The Quartermaster ground his teeth behind his lips. 'Uh, I mean, y-yes, sir,' he corrected.

'Better. I did not ask you a question, Mister Hamish; I was giving you an order. You are to go ashore with the salvage party and fish out what you can from the wreck. You've been at sea for long enough to know your place, and I do not expect to have to speak to you in this regard again. Am I clear?'

'Yes, sir,' Martin tried to spit the words as spitefully as he could.

'Good,' The Quartermaster either ignored his tone or didn't care. 'If you miss the launch, I'll have you up in front of the Captain to explain why in person. By God, I hope you come up with a bloody good excuse.'

Martin knew that if the Quartermaster had been sincere, it would have been futile to even try thinking of an excuse. To a man as stubborn, malicious, and possessing of a Devilish temper as Captain Percival - known to the West Indies and most of Europe by the name Black Hal - there was no excuse on Earth, nor on any Ethereal plain, that would appease him for violating a direct order. Even if you died mid-command, Martin was sure Black Hal had a way of reaching down to Hell to grab your ear and finish his order.

Martin sheepishly took his place alongside the emptiest of the skiffs, which still boasted four men. All of them bar one did their best to fill the space.

Hansel Schleckt, a broad-shouldered boar of a topman with a close crop of oily brown hair breaking through a thick, scaly scalp, picked at his hand. He sat in the middle of Masters Jennes and Jacobi, who resembled each other like brothers, save for the fact that they had three blue eyes and a brown eye between them. At the head of the boat, controlling the descent of the skiff by rope and pulley, was the carpenter's mate, Nathan Young, who was more alike Martin than any other sailor aboard the Scourge, though his calloused palms and toothless grin had made it clear that his years had long outgrown the youth of his face.