Captain Blood
Nathaniel Alphonsus Spencer opened
one eye, then the other before pushing himself up slowly. His two hands came
out of the wet sand with a great sucking noise. He brushed sand off his black
velvet coat, tugged at the over-sized cuffs, smoothed out his black velvet
breeches, settled the tricorne hat, which miraculously still sat on his head,
albeit a little soggy, before turning towards the sea and glaring at it.
A low growl rattled in the back of
his throat as he eyed the great blue ocean that had dared to spit him onto this
deserted strand. The great expanse of calm water ignored him, defying the black
glare that many a man had not lived long enough to regret seeing. A look that
could silence a brawling mob, could freeze the blood of a battalion of the
King’s finest, a stare that could frighten God Almighty’s own heavenly angels.
For Nathaniel Alphonsus Spenser, was none other than, Captain Blood, the most
feared pirate ever to set sail in search of booty and adventure. The meanest,
nastiest, most coldblooded, evil cutthroat ever to defy Davy Jones and spit in
the eye of Beelzebub. To the Spanish he was El Diablo, to the French he was, Diable
De Mer, to the English he was a nightmare, no ship was safe, no cargo sacred.
Captain Blood the Sea Devil.
Blood, twisted the great leather
belt strapped around his waist, until the large silver buckle was front and
centre, settling the cutlass that hung from it, until it sat comfortably at his
side. He pulled out his two pistols, streams of water poured from both barrels.
Another dissatisfied rumble rattled in his throat.
The great expanse of blue, for so
long his playground, mocked him. The calm peaceful water, glittering in the
sunshine, mirroring the cloudless sky, belied the violent drama that had
resulted in him stranded and alone on an uncharted, island paradise.
He thought of his ship, the vessel
that had made him King of the waves, now a wreck, destroyed and sunk. He hawked
and spat, his head ached, his parched throat burned. Not from his ordeal, not
from a great sea battle with the Royal Navy, not from his miraculous flight
from certain death. No, nothing quite so heroic, the feared Sea Devil was
hungover. Rum, the very thought made him feel queasy. It had saved his life
though.
He scratched at the coarse red
bristles that covered his jaw. His crew were all gone, either lost in Davy
Jones Locker or in chains aboard a Royal Navy frigate. He wouldn’t miss a
single one of ‘em, rogues and rapscallions every last one. Slit your throat or
cut out your eye while you slept for the price of a mug of ale. What hurt,
though, what hurt more than Long John’s peg leg, in the towns, was the sight of
his chests being manhandled over the side into launches and off to fill the
coffers of his Royal Bloody Majesty of Great Britain and Ireland
He thought back to his escape, not
his most gallant hour. He had missed the fight, too drunk, he’d past out under
the table in his cabin. He woke to the smell of burning wood, the sound of
screaming men. Somehow he had managed to slip over the side unnoticed, not
before he saw what was left of the crew being lined up one by one, by
red-coated marines and his beloved Jolly Roger being hauled down.
He turned then, away from the sea.
White sand and then a wall of green. What waited beyond the trees? Wild animals?
Cannibals?
A good captain would have gone down
with his ship. If he hadn’t been so drunk all night, he might even know where
he was. He certainly would not have sailed his ship into the arms of the Royal
Navy.
A curse on that bilge-sucking, first
mate.
The trees parted and a line of black
skinned natives strolled onto the beach. Some carried spears, others clubs that
looked suspiciously like human leg bones.
Blood, straightened his coat, fixed
his hat, loosened his cutlass. “So, ye land-lubbers, is it me hide yer after?
Come on then… is it me ye’ll be havin’ for supper, or have you scallywags got a
new king?” With a roar he charged.
One hundred and fifty to one. They
didn’t stand a chance.
