First Mate

First Mate

The wheel half his own height spun left, no man holding it down. Harper lunged for the abandoned wheel, desperately trying to hold it still. The wood slipped in his hands, rain pouring over the deck of the Broadwater. He tried not to step on the corpse at his feet.

The captain was dead, and it was up to him to try and save the vessel and its men.

Explosions boomed out around and on the ship, the cannons rocking back after every shot. He didn’t know which was more deafening: the rain or the cannon fire. Shoving the thought to the side, he focused on a sharp left turn towards one of the three ships surrounding his own. If they damaged or sunk one, he hoped the enemy would flee. It was their last chance.

“Harper! Where’s the captain?!” shouted a voice he didn’t recognize.

“He’s dead!” He shouted back, voice hoarse. The original captain of the Broadwater was entirely unrecognizable, seeing as he took a cannonball directly to the chest.

Harper pushed his fresh grief to the side, focusing on closing in with the damaged ship they chased. One of the enemy’s sails was leaning, and Harper’s were little better. A lucky shot could take down one of the three masts, and if it were chain-shot, they stood no chance.

“Raise sail, and prepare to throw hooks!” he shouted.

As first mate, he had seen enough combat in his thirty years of life for three lifetimes. He knew the procedure, as did everyone on the ship. His grip on the wheel slipped in the thundering rain, and he focused back on his task. This part was crucial.

As they approached the smaller ship, his men scrambled around the deck to raise sails and grab hooks with long, thick ropes attaching them back to the Broadwater. The ship slipped into position, and hooks flew. Harper locked the wheel with a piece of debris, shoving it through one of the gaps in the giant spokes. All hands would be needed for this fight.

“Prepare to board!” he roared, hoping he was heard over the rain. Enemy cannons stopped firing, and all the last two ships could do was either watch or board the larger ship. Cannons were too dangerous with their target so close to allies.

Harper rushed to the port railing, a dozen or so foot drop to the enemy ship, and thrice as far to the freezing water of the south sea. Pulling his cutlass from its place at his hip, he grabbed a boarding rope, and leapt.

He soared through the air, barely keeping himself on the rope with his other hand. With a thump, he landed on the deck.

He immediately swung his blade to the right, catching a man in the midriff. He yanked his cutlass free to block another blow, reversing the strike and plunging the weapon into the man’s gut. The two fell to the ground, one a breath after the other, dead.

He jumped up from his crouch, cutlass bloody. A half dozen men surrounded him, but he felt no fear. His heart iced over in determination. These men murdered his captain, his greatest friend, and the man who saved him so many years ago. Harper straightened his back, a defiant look in his eyes. He would live or die on this deck.

A man rushed him, blade ready. Harper parried the attack, slashing his gut. Another man caught Harper’s blade in the throat, and yet another dropped dead with a slash to the chest. Three men fell dead within seconds.

The last half of the group looked wearily at him, but eventually all came at him at once. They each held a blade very similar to his own, making combat all the easier for the newly made captain. A manic grin grew on his face.

“Come and die like men!” he roared, his blade a whipping fury of death and steel.

One clutched a bloody slit throat, stumbling back. Another took a gash to the stomach, and stumbled over the edge of the deck. Distracted, Harper felt a sharp pain in his back as the last man kicked him. He stumbled, turning around to find a line of steel soaring at his face.

He threw his own blade up in a desperate attempt at protecting himself, but was far too slow. Harper lost his right eye.

He screamed in pain, left hand shooting for his eye. It was gone. He scowled, the pain unlike anything he’d ever experienced. The last man gave a short cheer as he backed off, reveling in his small victory. Harper resorted to his last option, and prayed to the unknown gods that the powder was dry.

From a pocket in his coat lined in hardened wax, he pulled a small pistol. The rain had dampened the powder of the other two pistols at his hip, as well as every other man in this bloody battle, but Harper had planned for this.

He shot out his hand, only a breath to steady his aim for a shot. His hand shook with the pain, but he pulled the trigger as his eye settled on the frightened face of the man in front of him.

A shot rang out in the storm, and the soldier fell dead, a hole shot clean through his right eye. Harper stumbled back, dropping the now wet pistol. His back hit the railing roughly, and he almost pitched over the side. With his hand still over his eye, Harper stared at the now empty deck of the enemy ship, panting heavily. He had to make it back to the Broadwater. He was debating with himself whether it was wise to try and climb the rope ladder of his ship one handed or not when a cheer rose up from the Broadwater.

“They’re retreating! We won!” came a lilted voice from the Broadwater.

The newly minted Captain Harper gave a small smile, and blacked out.