The Kiss of the Dead (Revised)

Chapter 1

My fist swelled like the bloated belly of the hungry-poor and my lips pulled tight across my teeth. Part pain, part pleasure. Sadistic satisfaction gurgled in my gut, and two broken knuckles grinned back at me - dripping a thick trail of blood across the boards.

His rotten teeth would never close quite the same; the ones that hadn't scattered across the mess. But that was good enough for me. The sea was a harsh place. This fight, just one of a long string of reminders.

Where fists often flew, bastard's blood the whip drew, 'til it ran free and cold, and fighters' regrets grew.

That was the well known saying. A creed of sorts - to keep us in check. The harsh breed that sailors are, we often needed reminding of our place. Brought up by hand, and kept in line by its strength alone.

The drunken fool on the floor, jaw lolling, and dribbling a mixture of phlegm, blood, and spit, looked so pathetic. The stink of shit grew around the man, and I almost felt bad. Almost.

I turned away, a small clump of skin tearing free from my lip, gouged by my briefly remorseful teeth. I hadn't needed to hit him. But the sea was a harsh place, and his snapped jaw had given the crew some entertainment for the evening. So it could have been worse.

One of the younger boys dragged the limp man to the side of the cabin, allowing my eyes to finally lock onto the sole, lasting love of my life.

The golden-brown fluid at a proof that made ears bleed, it was the only thing that silenced the pains of the sea. Rum and ale, an unhealthy mix of mind-rot. Once my nose swam in the strong, peppered scent of the grain-juice, and my throat burned that familiar burn, I found peace. Peace was a rarity at sea, and in that crew, a luxury. The chaos there bled into every crack of the ship, pouring into the guts of the men, and swelling them into putrid buboes of hatred.

The screech of whistles screamed across the ship.

Once.

Twice.

Then, a third sharp blast.

A sure warning.

The crew rushed to the deck to see what was coming. A black, hulking, Spanish ship approached from the starboard bow. Our hearts sank in unison with its salt-stained, Bourbonic standard; it's replacement reeked of death. A black flag emblazoned with a single white skull above - crossed swords?

'Damn. It's Vane.' The words, barely a whisper, caught in my throat. But I didn't say them to be heard. A communal sigh rippled quietly over the deck. Merchant sailors rarely trained with a sword and hundreds of men died every day. If only I could have hidden. I wasn't the only one with such wish.

The pirates fired their chase guns, rounds striking the water some distance in front of our bow. The clap of the cannons echoed persistently. Their thunder, a deliberate overuse of powder - extra intimidation.

There were many rumours about Vane, but knowing how to win a battle without fighting it, that was a skill that most pirates acquired quickly.

Warning shots unsettled most seamen, let alone merchant-sailors. We weren't fighters. We didn't even have our own swords. And anyone who had seen battle before would do anything they could to avoid it. The brutality of cannon fire. Wooden ships erupting into shrapnel, tarred shards tearing limbs and skewering fully grown men. Bloodshed was never pleasant, and even a small battle would cost a great deal of it. Most of my crew had never seen the screaming faces and mangled bodies, while the water on deck ran red and slicked the boards until walking became impossible. Terror. There was no other word for it.

It was all I could do not to run. I didn't sign up to die - I signed up to sail. What kind of apprenticeship costs you your life? It wasn't worth dying for.

Elders preached surrender, while searching for unclaimed weapons. But the younger ones wanted to fight. They often felt a need to prove themselves, although saying that, I'd never been any different. That bloodied drunkard on the surgeon's table would testify, I'm sure.

I may have only been an ordinary, but I had been a ship's boy first, whilst they had joined only in their manhood. They thought they were bold and brave, but they were really just brash and stupid.

The captain stood away from the group. He had no authority, no presence. Even had he barked orders, no one would listen. His feeble utterances drifted out to sea, lost to all but the wind.

With battle decided, the guns were loaded. Despite being leaderless, each man did his duty. I rushed to the rigging, grabbing a trio of guns to keep me company whilst the first commands erupted along the deck. The chaos that had once filled the mess dispersed, changing into a new kind.

Eight-pound balls fell loose as shaking men struggled to load them. They rolled and low-bounced across the open deck. With too little time to chase them, they were forgotten. Ratlines whipped across the ship while men below reached frantically for them, pulling each rope taut; sails readied; guns loaded.

Musketoons, packed full of anything we could get our hands on, from stones to lead shot, and every available weapon from pistol to poleaxe gripped firmly by its finder.

I looked to the captain; shouting and pointing, frustrated by his inexperience. A burden not only to himself, but to all. We needed a leader in these moments. My hands trembled as I loaded the three musketoons with nails and packed them neat.

The men below me pulled out cheap saint Nicholas and Christopher medallions. While they kissed their guardians dearly, I held my saint Matthias tight. Clasping my hands, I mimed words to a God I barely believed in.

Then came the doldrums.

It seemed neither captain wanted to make the first move. In itself, that made sense. Cannons take a while to load, and the bigger the gun, the more men needed to fire it. The stalemate wouldn't last long though. But the fleeting moment dragged its heels. Everyone watched. Waited. Frozen in thought and prayer.

Sitting atop the sails, I tracked the streaks of piss-rolling across the deck, to their creators. The trails betrayed the battle-green sailors who now hid so fearful between the cannons. Many had been so intent on bloodshed, but now they had the chance, the reality of battle sank in hard. Both ships seemed locked in that moment. It drew out longer, long enough that the rising sun should have sunk, by my reckoning.

And yet, it hung there... motionless.

My eyes grasped the sight of the strangers that I'd entrusted my life to. A crew that, for the most part, I hated. Knowing so few that were worth their weight in sand, let alone silver.

I'd spent more than a decade under the mast, and lived through so much death in those years. So many men I'd once called friend or mentor, now, just a memory. The heart grows heavy fast at sea. Watching so many men die, crying and in pain. I'd learnt not to get attached. The countless faces below me - scared, pale, excited, but all ready. They meant so little to me.

But for two years too long I'd squeezed myself into the tightest of spaces, and being a boy for long enough, I learnt how to sail. Years of being beaten into the shape of, and by a crewman. I felt their suffering. Boys went through so much. They deserved to become sailors in their own right. To live, and to love, like every person should. If there was a reason to fight, it was for those poor children that hid beneath the hatches. I didn't have a choice. I had to fight.

I watched as the horizon glistened, so calmly. But that was not the shine that caught my eye. A landsman drew his pistol, and then, it came. The moment that we all knew we couldn't just sail away.

But whether the shot left through bravery, or fear - I couldn't tell.