A Pirate's Life for Mei

Book 2: Rum & Gold - This Means War

The sky was the deepest blue, except in the west where it was still black. A star winked out. Then another. And another. In the east, the shade of the sky grew paler. Dawn was coming.

In the still of the night, the Dutch ship had drifted, moving little without wind to propel it. A single lookout in the crow's nest high atop the mainmast blinked, barely able to keep his eyes open after four hours of being on watch with nothing to see.

Another crew member on duty at this early hour and just as eager to find his hammock, sat in the stern of the deck. He had a mass of white canvas at his feet, passing large, curved, canvas needle and thick thread through the jagged edges of a tear, closing it up.

In the galley, the cook was already up and about, though still groggy. He yawned wide and dumped another mass of salted beef into a huge pot. It would boil for thirty or forty minutes to kill all the germs that accumulated after being housed in barrels of brine. One could say that the meat was, technically, edible, but it was not something anyone would otherwise eat if given the choice. Sadly, at sea, where you were days and weeks or even months from shore, choices were something that only came to you in your dreams.

The chef opened a crate of hardtack and made the ultra-dry crackers ready to distribute. Then he stuck a spigot into a fresh cask of ale. Well, it would be sour beer by now. The taste was unpleasant but it would soften the hardtack and wash some of the old beef taste away.

The first of the sailors on day duty rose from his bunk and stomped up the stairs. He travelled the length of the deck until he reached the prow. Climbing down into the triangular area under the mast that stuck forwards at the front of the ship, the bowsprit, he reached the head. Four boxes with holes in the seat were nailed to the grate floor, two on each side of the area, with the bowsprit between them. Pulling his pants down, he sat on one of the boxes. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the ocean was still calm.

Only moments later, a second sailor joined him on the toilet only a half meter from his. The two chatted in low tones as they noisily voided their bowels. On a ship at sea, only the captain was accorded any privacy, the only one with his own berth and his own toilet.

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Captain Beestje Konijn, the man in charge of this 12-gun barque, groaned and rose from his bunk within that private berth. He made use of his private facilities, then went so far as to shave in his own mirror. By the time he was finished, he was starting to feel awake.

A smile grew. It was his favourite time of day.

He reached under his bed and pulled out a black, leather case. Opening it, he gazed down in reverence at the beautiful brass instrument inside. Taking up a felt cloth, he lovingly polished the metal free of dust that was only in his imagination.

This world was forever set in the year 1675. To Beestje's dismay, it was only after taking an administrative job in this virtual prison, that he realized that the tuba, his passion, had not been invented until 1835. Thus, it did not exist in this place.

Unable to bear only being able to play on his time off in the real world, Beestje set upon a plan. First, the real world, he made extensive study into how tubas were manufactured. Travelling to Amsterdam in the prison, he hired elite metalworkers and craftspeople and, slowly over a two-year period, he secretly had them build him a tuba. The very one before him now. It was unique, the only one of its kind here. And it was magnificent, his pride and joy.

How dearly he loved to start each day with its sombre yet triumphant tones.

From on deck, he could see the sun about to break through the horizon. Easing into his deck chair near the wheel in the quarterdeck, he put the big, brass instrument in his lap.