By the Light of the Dutchman

I stand atop the highest mast, in a crow’s nest towering above the galleon. I’ve always liked it up here, the salty winds whipping through my hair. From this point, the sounds of the bustling crew are nothing but a faint whisper to me.

We’ve only been at sea for a few days, strafing the coast of the colonies before crossing into the Caribbean. We’ve only encountered a few vessels on this excursion, only one of them carried anything of value. A shipment of taxes headed back toward the British Isles. From the other’s, all we only got were a few barrels of fresh water and some food stuffs.

I gaze down to the deck where Captain Oram is charting out our course south. Our captain is a good man. If what I’ve heard can be trusted, he was once an officer in the Royal Navy. That is, until he defied an unjust order from his captain. Several others joined him in this and were court-marshalled for their efforts. So, naturally, they turned to piracy.

Captain Oram abhors killing, even if it is those Imperial dogs. They destroy everything they touch. They took my home from me. My parents… Even worse, they’re constantly trading in the slave market. I’ve lost count of how many slaving ships we’ve taken down. The captain takes great pleasure freeing his people from the slave traders. For every ship we’ve liberated, a few opt to join our crew. We ferry the rest to Nassau, where the captain has a few friends set them up with work and a place to live.

What I don’t understand though, is why the captain lets the Imperials go. Even lets them keep their ships and enough supplies to make it to shore. Many of our peers would just set the ship ablaze and let it burn while making their escape. But that’s never been Captain Oram’s style.

The official name of our ship, the one inscribed on our hull, is Arcángel, a holdover from when it was a Spanish warship. However, some of the Nassau locals have taken to calling it Slaver’s Bane. At any rate, she’s a good ship with a great crew.

I feel the winds suddenly change direction. I look up to the sky expecting to see a storm on the horizon. Lo and behold, dense, dark clouds are forming right over the top of us. I try to shout to the crew down below, warning of the impending weather. No one can hear me over the work happening below.

A bolt of lightning arcs across the sky, close enough for the thunder to knock me back. The waves buck and thrash against our hull, tossing me about in the nest. The wind rocks the ship side to side. I hold on for dear life, grasping at the rigging just to keep myself steady. With a last, massive gust, I feel myself flying through the air, plummeting toward the dark waters below.

I do my best to straighten, but I hit the surface with such force, it knocks the air from my lungs. I feel my body sinking farther and farther into the waves, the currents thrashing against me. All around me, pieces of cargo, nets, and gear from the Arcángel pepper the sea.

I push to the surface, barely able to get a breath before discarded rigging wraps itself around my ankle. The weight of the ropes pulls me back below the waves. I struggle against the tangle, tearing at the knots. In a burst of desperation, I pull my dagger from its sheath, cutting into the ropes.

I fight for every second, my lungs burning as I’m dragged into the deep. I can feel my body losing strength, my arms weakening as my mind becomes fuzzy. I look up toward the surface, hoping beyond hope that I can survive this.

A flash of lightning strikes the surface of the water illuminating much under the waves. In the flash, I see…the impossible. My mind must be playing tricks on me. I see a second ship. Beneath the waves. Sails torn asunder, a faint red glow casting a silhouette in the darkness. Another flash shows the masthead. A shark, warped and twisted around Neptune’s trident.

It’s then, seeing that spectral ship, that I make the decision: I will not die here today.

I tighten the grip on my blade, slashing what’s left of my bindings. I raise my head to the sky, kicking against the dark waters. With my body exhausted and my lungs burning in my chest, I push hard as I can against the currents. The moment my head breaches the surface, I gasp for air, sea water entering my throat. I cough and sputter against the waves. With the little strength I have left, I can barely tread water.

As swiftly as it hit, the storm dissipates. The waters calm. The clouds open to the blue sky. Still, I can barely keep my head above water. Nearby, I spot a wooden crate bobbing at the surface. I force myself to swim the distance, latching onto the crate, a piece of cargo from the Arcángel.

Now that I am able to relax my body, I scan the seas. In most directions, there is nothing but empty seas as far as I can see. When I turn around, my heart leaps. It’s the Arcángel, no more than a few hundred yards from me. I climb on top of the crate. Grabbing a passing piece of driftwood, I begin rowing toward my ship.

Hours pass as I continue to row, the trauma of my experience never leaving my mind. More so, however, I can’t get that haunting image out. The ethereal brig. The daunting masthead. The ripped sails responding to the waves as though they were wind.

As night begins to fall, I finally reach the Arcángel. The ship is a little worse for wear. We’ve lost at least one of our sails. Parts of the mast cracked and broken in the storm. Luckily the hull seems intact. I shout to the crew on deck, hoping they’ll hear me so far down below. I can hear the hoarseness in my voice, the salty sea having done a number on my throat.

My crewmate, Julian, an old friend finally hears my cries for help. With great effort, the crew pulls me back aboard, Captain Oram leading the charge. Soon as I’m secure, Julian run off to get me fresh water. I gulp it down, feeling the cool liquid poor down my sore throat.

As soon as I’m recovered enough I join the rest of the crew in retrieving lost cargo. On occasion, we find the bodies of fallen brothers-in-arms floating on the waves.

That could have been me, I think to myself. That should have been me.

As I look out to the horizon, I catch a glimpse. A faint red glow illuminating the blackened sails. Though there’s no wind, the brig moves swiftly over the waters. In an instant, it dips below the waves, disappearing, I suspect back to an underworld from whence it came.

The second the ghost ship is out of sight, the winds pick up. Captain Oram gives the order to hoist anchor and sails, making haste to the mainland.

I ponder for a moment, frozen in my own thoughts. Maybe that ship wasn’t the omen I first thought. I force myself to turn back to my duties, though my mind still races with the image. The next few days will make for a long and difficult journey, but I will never forget my experience: the ship that, though it cannot make port itself, sees that others will.