An excerpt from a longer story by Gregory Noonan, one of the stories from the collection of short stories ‘Brain Storms’ written by transition year students from CBC Monkstown, to be published in May 2015.
The coarse canvas sails were at full mast, eager to swallow as much wind as possible to move the heavy ship forward. HMS The Orient was a large Nao warship. It was clinker-built with thick overlapping planks of wood, slathered in dark pitch, to keep it watertight.
It had stark white lateen sails, triangular in shape, the design borrowed from the lithe and agile Mediterranean vessels. Lateen sails allowed for faster movement and better tacking. The Nao design was a bulkier, improved, war version of the caravel, the original hybrid of agile Mediterranean ships and the sturdy Atlantic-going ships.
The Orient was a beautiful ship, glossy white paint adorned the hull, bordered with an acrid blood red paint. It was the pride of His Majesty's fleet; the wooden deck was trimmed with gold leaves, leading to the ship's wheel. The wheel itself was extravagant, smoothed maple wood gilded with pure gold and adorned with fire opals and sapphires which cast a myriad of colours across the deck when the sunshine struck them like flint on stone.
Hanging from the bough of The Orient was its figurehead, an elegant carving of the winged goddess of victory, Nike, entirely made from ivory, apart from her eyes, bright red rubies, which looked like swirling pools of fire. Her piercing gaze would send shivers down the weak spines of The Orient's victims.
The Orient was elegantly brutal, it was equipped with 64 light cannons and 36 heavy cannons; on deck there were four mortars for distance firing. Beneath the carving of Nike were four chaser cannons to be used when pursuing a fleeing ship. Incidentally, that's why The Orient had the best chaser cannons in His Majesty's navy, as The Orient's enemies were inevitably always running.
The Orient had a well-trained crew of two hundred and seventy six men; two hundred men alone were used to man the cannons.
The ship was reaching the end of its long Atlantic voyage; it had departed from Dover five weeks ago and had soon reached the Caribbean where it would dock in Tortola.
As The Orient cut water, it left a rolling wake in its path, breaking the smooth glasslike water. The setting sun danced on the ripples of water, its fading golden glow setting the sea ablaze.
It was at this time her captain finally stumbled up to the deck, the sun stung his eyes, the stench of rum hung from him like a cheap cologne. Edward Creed was 39 years old, his best years were behind him but he was slim and tall, powerful and fierce; his fight had not left him.
But he had developed a bad drinking habit. He drank rum like water. The strain on his eyes began to ease, adjusting to the sunlight. Under his eyes were dark bags, and his pale ice blue eyes were strained and bloodshot.
Sweat dribbled down his head, his hair was slicked back in a dark black mop, the sweat made his hair mat to his scalp in patches. Even during sunset the heat in the Caribbean was formidable. Creed wore a light linen shirt, through which large sweat stains had emerged. His light woollen breeches weren’t helping in the heat, nor were his thick leather boots. His head was pounding, he needed water, instead he looked to the green rum bottle in his hand. He lifted it up and drained the last few dregs from it .
“There’s a bloody hole in the bottle,” groaned Creed. He swayed on his feet, stumbling backwards but grabbing on to a railing for support.
“That hole’s for your mouth, captain!” called Dwyer from the wheel.
Matthew Dwyer was Creed’s first mate. He was only 22, and young for the position but he had impressed Creed with his quick mind and ability, and so had been quickly promoted to first mate, much to the annoyance of many of the crew, but they soon grew fond of Dwyer as well.
Creed moaned and threw the bottle at a wall. The shattering glass send a spray of broken glass across the deck. He stumbled below deck looking for more rum and his bed, neither of which he found.
The next morning Creed awoke lying across barrels of fish. As he sat up a lance of pain shot down his back, making him wince. Surprisingly, barrels didn’t make good sleeping areas. Through the deck hatch Creed could see the sun high in the sky: he figured it was midday by now.
From the decks came a loud call “Land spotted”, followed by the pounding of hundreds of feet as the crew rushed to the deck.
Creed groaned once more and trudged up the stairs to the deck.
The islands of the Caribbean sprung up from the vast sea of blue like tufts of grass in a field. The crystal clear water allowed for a beautiful view of the sea life. At one point a large manta ray began to swim alongside the boat which made some very seasoned sailors quite terrified.
For all the beauty of the water it was just as dangerous: if a crew member dropped their guard they could drift on to one of the many coral reefs and tear the hull out of their boat. This was evident as many wrecks sat rotting upon the reefs now, like dishevelled rulers upon their broken thrones, masts snapped and hulls destroyed, a morbid warning to other ships.
“We make for Tortola, men, for rest and food, only God knows we need it,” called Creed, wiping the beads of sweat from his forehead.
“And two flagons of ale for each man before we reach port.”
This was met by roars of approval as dozens of kegs were carried up to the deck and opened. Creed retired to his quarters and toppled onto his bed, glad to feel the comfort of the pillow beneath his head. Unfortunately Creed could not sleep, the constant reminder of his task here was a constant burden on his mind.
About three months ago the admiral of the navy and the prime minister had approached Creed with a strange task. A wrecked merchant frigate had drifted into port in Tortola. Its mast had been blown off and all of the crew, save for one, was executed. When he was brought ashore and questioned all the man had said was “ship . . . terrible . . . darkness and rotten fish”. After that he began to choke on water. The doctors could not explain it as he was nowhere near the sea at the time of his death.
So now here he was, with the most powerful warship in His Majesty's fleet, hunting a mystery ship, as the constant attacks on the trade routes were costing huge amounts of money. However, only Creed and Dwyer knew of The Orient's true purpose in the Caribbean. The crew thought they were on a surveying mission. Fortunately not one man questioned why they were using a warship.
The Orient docked in Tortola and the crew were given leave to go in to the town. Creed, however, chose to stay with the ship and get some much-needed rest. He carried a lantern and a pillow up to the deck and laid them on the wooden planks which were cool under the setting sun. As he lay staring at the stars he pulled a small golden locket from his pocket. The light from the lantern danced on the golden case.
He clicked it open and inside was a small drawing of his wife Alison.
She was beautiful, truly beautiful, but she was intelligent as well, not a woman to be carried through life by the men around her. She was strong and independent, which is why Creed had adored her for many years till he finally asked for her hand in marriage. On the day of his marriage he felt like his life was complete: he had found his other half.
Creed smiled, clasped the picture to his chest, and drifted off to sleep.
Creed opened his eyes and he was standing in a field. It was the field in front of his manor house in Cornwall. He smiled; he was home. He began to walk up the field to his house. He moved his hands through the long blades of grass, the blades soft against his skin.
The sun lazed in the sky, shining over the house, the rays illuminating the white marble from which it was built. Creed saw Alison move in the upstairs rooms, and he smiled again.
Creed was soon to the end of the field, close to the open front door. Suddenly dark clouds rolled in, covering the shining sun. The sky turned blood red and lightning flashed on the horizon.
The blades of grass lashed around Creeds arms, and his feet began to sink in to the soil, till he was buried up to his knees. Creed roared and strained against his bonds, pulling with all of his might. The blades of grass tightened with each pull, cutting in to him like razors, his warm blood cascaded down his arm.
The stench of rotting fish hung in the air; the stench was so rank Creed doubled over and vomited. His head was pounding; he felt like passing out. From around Creed, spectres rose from the soil, dripping water.
They all wore different assortments of clothes: some wore short shirts, some had heavy bandoliers strapped across their chests and razor sharp sabres at their waists , but they all carried flaming torches in their hands, the flames swirling around the cloth tip. The flames shone on empty faces, swirling pits of black from which tendrils of shadow rolled. All around the house, these spectres rose, encircling the house.
Creed knew what was happening and screamed “Alison! Alison, RUN!”
But she did not hear him, and soon the spectres were at the house. “Don’t you dare!” roared Creed. He kept pulling at his bonds, but it was no use: they just kept tightening. The first torch crashed through a window, setting the curtains alight, many more followed and soon a roaring flame enveloped the house, the tongues of fire reaching in through the windows and setting everything on fire. Creed heard Alison scream in pain. The flames felt the same as they had two years ago, the hot tendrils reached out, tenderly bidding him inside.
“NO!, NO!” called Creed “Please! Please stop.”
The spectres did not listen, they just trudged away, silently, from the crumbling remains of the house, paying him no mind.
Creed slumped back, tears rolling down his face. The spectres sank back in to the soil, till one remained standing in front of Creed. It wore a long black coat, slashed with red, that billowed around its legs.
Its hands were rotting and grey, and long yellow nails protruded from each finger. Its face was black and its eyes were pools of blood swirling around the abysmal darkness of its pupils. Creed had to look away from its eyes as they made him sick.
It opened its mouth to speak showing its decaying teeth.
“Don’t strain against em’ boy, you’ll only tire yourself out. Now get some rest – you’ll need it.” With that it dissipated into a roiling black mist, leaving Creed to stare at the crumbling, smoking ruin of his home. He still heard her screams, emanating through the dark night.
“Sir, sir!” A strong hand shook his shoulder and Creed opened his eyes. Dwyer sat hunched over him. “Bloody hell sir, you had us worried. You were screaming, and you got some big cuts on your wrists,”
Creed sat up. He was soaked through with sweat , and bloody cuts wrapped around his wrists some still wept waves of red. Creed motioned for help, and Dwyer gave him a hand up. On the deck where Creed had been sleeping were deep scratch marks in the wood.
“Dwyer, send Cox to my quarters to bandage me.”
“Yes sir, but the eh, town mayor is here to see you,” Dwyer said hesitantly.
“Send him down then.”
Cox treated Creed’s wounds so they wouldn’t get infected and wrapped them in bandages, just as the mayor walked through the door.
“Thank you Cox. An extra flagon of ale for you,” said Creed gloomily.
“Thank you sir,” said Cox as he trotted past the mayor.
He wasn’t a normal mayor, in the British sense, where they wore powdered wigs and carefully stitched petticoats. He wore loose fitting shorts, a light cotton shirt and no shoes. He had dark ebony skin and piercing emerald eyes. His arms rippled with muscles.
As if he knew what Creed was thinking he said “Wearing your fashion in heat like this is pointless Capi-tan,”
“Yes, quite. And your name?” asked Creed.
“Adawale,” he replied coolly.
“Pleasure, I am . . .”
“Edward Creed. Even we know of your bravery during the battle of Trafalgar. You single handedly captured a French man of war? No?” interrupted Adawale.
“Yes. What do you need of me?” said Creed as he leant over a basin and splashed cool water on his face, wiping away the beads of sweat.
"I know why your magnificent ship of war and death is here. You seek the Rookara no?
"Rookara?"
“In our tongue it means ‘The Cursed Ones’, the ones who haunt your ships, and the sailors dare not speak of them for fear of calling their wrath upon them,” Adawale pointed at Creed’s bandaged wrists and said: “You know of whom I speak, no?”
Creed said nothing, just wiped his face dry and turned to face Adawale.
“They were men like you once, but they were cruel men, raiders who landed here and massacred our people for their treasures. They buried their bodies beneath the sacred Ashaka tree. They built their boat from its bark.
“It is said the blood of the dead grew within that tree; the dead souls cursed the raider to sail our seas for a thousand years protecting our people from anyone who might do us harm.”
Adawale walked over to the large window in Creed’s quarters before continuing.
“Your skill is legendary but you will be dead within the week Capi-tan; you and your crew will be slaughtered,”
Creed slumped into his chair and stared up at Adawale. "We will blow your . . ." Creed paused sitting up in the chair and rubbing his wrists, "Rookara out of the water and into oblivion. I will make sure they are erased from this plain of existence!"
"As you say vashano." Adawale nodded and headed for the door.
“What does that even mean?” called Creed.
Adawale turned in the door to face Creed.
“Dead man,” replied Adawale calmly as he closed the door.
The next morning was bright and the sky was clear with a strong breeze. The Orient set sail, her red sails flowing open to their full size, propelling her out of the harbour.
When they were only a few hundred metres from Tortola the wind died, the sail emptied and the heavy canvas flapped uselessly.
“We must have entered the doldrums sir,” called Dwyer.
“No, this is different,” said Creed.
The rank smell of rotten fish began to encroach on The Orient. Creed heard Alison's screams again. With a sudden realisation of what was happening Creed kicked in to action.
“Men, to arms!” he roared, clanging the heavy bell by the wheel.
Men poured on to the deck, lifting open the chests on deck and pulling out muskets, hatchets and steel swords.
Creed ran below decks and ordered the cannons to be primed and readied. He watched as hundreds of men across the three decks hammered gun powder down the gullets of the cannons, and the grating as men strained on the pulleys to roll the heavy cannons forward through the gun ports.
“Bring all the remaining gun powder up to the deck, and load it in to the cargo lift and raise it, now!”
He ran back up deck to see a hundred men armed and ready. Dwyer handed him his pistol belt and sword, which he fastened around his waist. He had seized the light Italian Schiavona from a French captain. Its edge was razor sharp and its hilt was inlaid with blood red rubies; a roaring lion with golden teeth adorned the pommel. The pistol was white gold with rivets of gold along the double barrels.
Creed stood by the wheel with Dwyer, looking at his men on the deck. HIS men, his brothers, his family.
Some of the younger cabin boys fidgeted anxiously; Cox strained to look through his dirty glasses to see Creed. Most of the crew held their weapons in sturdy hands; a few exchanged worried looks.
“Men, we are about to fight an enemy like we have not seen before; they are beasts that have crawled back from the black pits of hell. We will throw them back down to the darkness from which they came crawling. Kenway paused to draw his blade and thrust it into the air. The deck roared in approval.
“We will fight on this day: we will fight the darkness so that others do not have to. We are the shield that protects the weak!”
Another roar of approval washed over the deck.
“You should write that down before someone else uses it sir,” chuckled Dwyer
Creed couldn’t help it, he grinned. Even at a time like this, faced with possible death, Dwyer could make a joke.
Thomas, the quarter master ran up to Creed.
“The gunpowder is on deck, sir!” he said, breathing heavily.
“Excellent, Thomas. Be ready to fire the cannons on my command.”
“Yessir,” he replied.
The rank smell grew more potent; some men retched over the side.
“Ship spotted to Starboard!” called Tim from the crow’s nest.
Dwyer handed Creed his spyglass. When he raised it to his eye he saw a jet black ship. Its sails were a smoky grey spattered with red. Its sails were full and it was rushing forward at great speed even when there was no wind. On the front of the ship he saw it's figurehead: a screaming skeleton brandishing a black sword. Suddenly cannons came rushing out of its sides and it fired, raking the side of The Orient.
