Duane Ramsey was a crew member of the Illusion of Hope, a pirate ship with minimal notoriety on the seas. His task on this vessel, among others, was to keep an eye on the horizon from the crow’s nest and he was indeed quite well suited for the task. In fact, he was the one to spot a Man o’ War on a foggy night. A ship that could’ve easily sunk their Frigate and sent them down to Davy Jones’ locker.
It didn’t make him an overnight hero, by any means. But he had earned the captain’s trust and that, he knew, could very well be more valuable than gold. Especially in pursuit of a prize you meant to captain one day. The prize he had in mind was the Black Hound. A rival crew’s pirate ship with a larger hull and mounted swivel guns along the front and back rails.
He knew she would put up a hell of a fight, but to take a ship with better equipment and more space to carry loot in was worth it in his mind. The only challenge he faced was to convince his captain to pursue her, preferably without killing her crew, so it would be easy to sail her out from under his nose when the time came. It’s not hard, he knew, to convince a rival crew to keep their ship under new command if it means doing everything they were in spite of their attacker.
So he set off that morning to talk to the captain about this plan, only to find he was already plotting course.
Duane, shocked at the sight, asked the captain what he was plotting a course for and was met with a knowing grin. The captain answered simply that he was looking for a remote island to drop off some excess. Duane looked confused and the captain stood up, walked towards Duane and straightened his coat.
“Duane, you’re a fine crewman and you’re very perceptive, so surely you must have known I’d find out”. The captain said in a calm, matter of fact fashion.
“Captain?” Duane asked.
“You can’t go around asking for information about the Black Hound and expect it not to reach my ear.” The captain stated flatly.
“I… sir, please.” Duane pleaded
But to no avail. The captain made clear his intention to drop Duane on that beach with a single shot pistol and a knife, as a mercy. The captain believed he would do wrong by shooting Duane in the skull aboard the Illusion of Hope and thus figured that life on that island was the next best suited punishment.
Duane was gutted. His plans, his hopes and dreams had just been thrown onto an island with limited resources and god knows what type of predators that might cut his life short. What was worse, he couldn’t fight it, as doing so would give the quartermaster ample cause to shoot him anyway.
So he sat below decks, thinking of things to sneak with him in his boots and trousers before they dropped him off. His first thought, and subsequent theft, were 10 gold doubloons from the ship’s latest haul. Next, he snatched a pouch of about 20 grams of blasting powder and finally, he took a flask, which he stuffed down his pants. It was uncomfortable to be sure, and probably all looked quite ridiculous, but at that point, he was just planning to survive. Thoughts about looking presentable were far from his mind.
When after 9 days, the ship reached its destination, the quartermaster dragged Duane from below decks and marched him to the ship’s ladder which had been lowered for the occasion. Duane stood there for a long second, looking at each of the men carefully and nodding each time he noticed a gaze turn from his. He had friends on this ship yet, but they couldn’t save him from this. Nor did they want to risk the same fate.
Finally, he faced the captain and looked him dead in the eyes.
“I really hope you survive out here Duane. I know you don’t believe me right now, but tis true all the same. I just can’t let mine become a Sea of Thieves.” The captain said with a frown.
Duane burst into laughter and replied “With all due respect cap’n, there is no other sea we sailed in.”
With a final courtesy, Duane jumped down into the water, followed closely by the knife and pistol he was promised. It was his final day as a crew member and the final day he would see the Illusion of Hope as his home. But he promised himself that day he would hunt her when he could and he would send her down to the locker with a smile on his face. More importantly, he promised himself he would not die that day nor any other until he had his revenge against his former captain.
On the sands of that long forgotten beach, Duane took a moment to catch his breath, then ran towards the trees the moment the ship was out of sight. As he ran, hundreds of scenarios played through his head and each more violent than the next. But his thoughts came at a quick and unexpected cost as his feet caught a rope that sent him tumbling, face first, into the dirt next to a crooked skeleton head with a single hole in its temple. The thing seemed to grimace at him, mocking his clumsiness, and the sign “Traitor’s Beach” mocked him further as he revealed it from behind a cluster of vines. Though the shovel, rusting against it, brought him hope that perhaps there were more such tools to be found all around.
He mused to himself that one man’s desperation can be another’s salvation and quickly got to work building shelter and a fire for the night. None of the 10 skeletons he met after the first could discourage him. Not even the one pinned to a palm tree near the beach on the other side of the island. In fact the captains hat it still wore suited him nicely, so he thought. If nothing else, it would help him make a case should another ship come to this island to rid itself of a traitor. Mutiny would be his story. A crew gone mad with grog and gold only to turn on their captain and leave him to die.
He paused at that thought. Grog.
He quickly grabbed the flask from his trousers and looked carefully for any holes. When he didn’t find any he shook it and to his delight, heard the sloshing of grog inside. More than enough to fill his needs, he thought. The harsh taste of the alcohol made him smile. This would be but one of many nights he would thrive in this place. Of this, he was convinced.
Though if he were honest with himself, the prospect of a fire dying out while he slept did worry him. As did the thought of his shelter failing to keep rain from disturbing his sleep. But he wasn’t, so he didn’t worry about anything other than that moment when the grog passed his lips and teased his throat with a warm sensation.
That night, long after Duane had first put his head down to rest, he heard a rustle coming from deeper in the woods. Soft at first, a squirrel perhaps, or some other vermin. But growing ever louder, drawing ever closer. A scavenger then? A predator?
Duane awoke, kept still and his eyes closed, waiting for whatever it was to come from out of the woods so he could see. But once the rustling stopped and he opened up one eye, he saw nothing. He kept a close eye on the bushes for a minute longer, but then decided it must have been the grog.
He shrugged, sighed and lay himself back down to sleep when something poked his shoulder. It felt like a stick or perhaps the butt of the shovel he took. He waited for it to poke him again with the intent of gauging its texture and when it did poke him again, he could swear it was bone.
Slowly, he turned his head and grabbed for his knife until finally he was face to face with a skeleton, moving as though it were still alive.
Duane gasped, and a bony finger rose to shush him.
“Now that ain’t no way to treat a lady, is it love?” the raspy voiced skeleton asked.
Duane looked at every detail of its form and couldn’t for the life of him figure out what this thing was, so he replied: “lady?”
“Oh b****r, e’s a fresh one! Stand me on a plank and shoot me in the ‘eart all over again!” the raspy skeleton complained.
Duane was thoroughly confused at this point. Not only at the fact that this skeletal creature didn’t attack him, but the fact that she –if that’s what it was – was offended. So he shook his head at her, tapped the knife in his belt and asked her what in the hell she was on about.
“Twenty years ‘ere and all I get is the dead, murderous or dying landing on these shores! I finally get a live one with a bit of sense what wants to live, and he don’t know the difference between a lady and a lad!” the raspy voice explained.
Duane laughed, both in relief and in understanding. This skeletal woman obviously thought she was still as much a woman as she had been in life. What’s more, she was frustrated with all the dead.
He paused again. All the dead? He wondered. Would there be more of these living skeletons on the island and if so, would they be like the one he was talking to now? The outcome seemed somehow unlikely, so he asked her.
A coughing, raspy laugh escaped the skeletal form as she told him that there are only a few that walk as she does and even fewer that interact with the living, unless it’s to keelhaul them or slit their throats. She explained that some of the most notorious pirates and mutineers walked the island in their skeletal form and one of them in particular was more dangerous than the others. She explained that his black beard and gleaming cutlass were unmistakable under the orange light pulsing from beneath his coat. She believed him to be cursed as he had a certain rage about him and kept to his cave on the northern shore. But then she told him the one thing about this strange pirate she shouldn’t have. She told him that this captain, or whatever he was, had treasure he had taken from the living.
Duane’s greed sang with glee, as did Duane, leaving the female skeleton baffled and confused. Duane smiled wickedly at her and thanked her for providing him with a clear path and bright golden future, then darted off towards the cave he believed wouldn’t only hold a fortune, but all he needed to get out. A captain to serve until he was no longer useful and a boat to sail and if it had a skeletal crew that couldn’t be exhausted, all the better.
On any other day and for any other man, this would have been utter madness. But for Duane, on this particular day, it was lady luck telling him to seize the day by its ugly skeletal head and twist it to fit his desires. The potential for death and un-life in service of this pirate captain reduced to but the slightest of nagging feelings in the very back of his mind. It was the l**t for treasure and adventure calling for him now and it was all that mattered.
Even the faint raspy voice calling from a distance behind him to reconsider, fell on deaf ears.
Duane ran through the palm forest, jumping over roots and tangle vine undergrowth and occasionally ducking under low hanging vines and branches until he reached a rocky hill that he was sure held the cave of his dreams.
He stood still and took a breath. The salt, humid air teasing him with a sense of comfort.
He closed his eyes then, allowing himself a moment's respite, when he noticed a skeletal figure very casually handling a bag of clams which he was separating from their shells.
Duane chuckled, grabbed his knife and was ready to strike. But a thought held him in place.
These things have no throats or organs. So what good is a knife then? If anything, it would more likely give them a hearty laugh before they cut him to ribbons. No, he needed something more substantial. A cudgel would be ideal, be it crude, but he didn't have one just laying around and making one would take him until nightfall.
He looked around frantically for anything, a rock, a large branch. Heck, even a non-living skeleton would be an acceptable alternative to his knife. But he found nothing. This place of plenty seemed suddenly like a barren isle of death, as it was intended to be for traitors.
Duane put his hands on his hips and looked up at the sky, pleading to whatever entity would hear his prayer, to help him and noticed he had something tucked in his belt that had -until now- completely escaped his attention. The pistol he was meant to use when he was no longer willing to go on and while it may have had but a single shot, it wasn't the shot he was interested in. Pistols have rounded handles and those were perfectly suited to bash people with.
He grinned, assured of his success, grabbed his pistol by the barrel and crept in closer to the skeleton making sure it was working whenever he moved. Slowly but surely, he got close enough to crack its skull and when he was within striking distance, he raised his hand high and slammed down with all his might. He heard the intended and quite satisfying crack, but when he tried to pull the skeleton back to lay it on the sand, it groaned.
"What you go and do that for?"
Duane gasped and crawled back in terror. The skeleton had partially calcified and so was more resilient than its initial form. How was he to defeat these things now?
"Oi! I asked you a question flesh bag. What you go ahead and do that for? I ain't done nothin' to ya and yet 'ere you are, tryin' to crack me 'ead." The skeletal pirate complained.
"I... you... the..." Duane muttered.
"Great. You're very articulate sir," the skeletal pirate said sarcastically, "how about I take ya to the capt'n eh? Maybe you'll talk to 'im nice and proper like?"
Duane's eyes grew wide with dread.
"No thanks. I won't... I'll just... head back and survive out there." Duane finally managed to say.
The skeleton grunted in an almost animal like fashion, looked at Duane and in an unexpectedly swift motion struck him with the bag of clams, knocking him out.
Duane's face took on a dazed expression as he whirled around twice before finally falling to the sand saying: "Bloody clams."
Several minutes later, Duane awoke with a splitting headache and an angry deep gruff voice talking about something he couldn't quite understand. He waited for his hearing to refocus and opened his eyes slowly.
"Looks like the sleeping rat's awake lads!" the deep gruff voice exclaimed, followed by a painful nudge to Duane's side.
"Why don't you tell us why you'd be as thick as to run up to one of our crew and try to do his head in?"
Duane grunted in pain and looked at the terrifying skeletal captain with the tattered black beard and glowing chest, but fell silent. His words utterly failed him.
"Cat got your tongue boy!?" The skeletal captain asked.
"I..." Was about all Duane could muster.
"It speaks! Lads, rejoice for the rat yet lives!" The skeletal captain started, "Do you know my name boy?"
"I... No. I mean... I don't... I've never heard of..." Duane stuttered.
"Hahaha! He's never heard of us lads! Well count your blessings then! Because the ones that hear about us, soon become a target!"
Duane looked at the skeleton as its chest pulsed, glowing brighter to match the intensity of its speech.
"Well I've been called many things. Scourge of the seas, Captain of the lost, Spirit of Vengeance and my personal favorite Captain fireheart. You must admit there's a certain beauty to its simplicity. Though I can't blame them for calling me any of the other things. I've blasted more ships than they can cope with after all." Captain fireheart cackled.
Duane looked up and smiled at captain fireheart, but was forced to wipe the smile off his face when the cold, course steel of an old blade touched his chin and throat. Duane looked at the captain questioningly.
"The time for talk is over. The time for your punishment has come. Now, if I can give you one piece of advice before we send you off to meet your maker, it'll be over quicker if you stay still." Captain fireheart said plainly.
He moved his blade to the far left side of Duane's throat and pushed it into his skin to start the cut that would end him, when suddenly a raspy voice came from the cavern entrance.
"Let 'im be, ye blood loving no good thief!"
"Jermaine?"
"Aye! Ye may have left me out there to die all those years ago, but I be afeared yer bullets 'n blades won't help ye now! Let 'im go! He's got somethin' ye lost when ye were betrayed all those years ago. The will to bloody well stay alive!" Jermaine spat at him.
Captain Fireheart's expression -if he had one- turned to one of surprise and confusion.
"He's mine Jermaine! He attacked one of my men and now he's going to pay for that-" He started.
"With his life!?" Jermaine asked, "Are ye daft or have ye been dead fer too long?"
"What do you-?"
"Ye know this place be cursed, Christopher. Even if ye slit his throat, he'll be coming back to life soon thereafter. What's more, he'll probably be more of a pain then than what he be now." Jermaine reasoned.
Captain fireheart looked at Jermaine, then at Duane and back at Jermaine, then grunted.
"Nay. I think it's because you fancy him." He taunted.
"Look at yer crew, ye daft sea dog! They're not even yer proper crew. They're the wretches left on this isle and sailin' with ye in death just to cling to the memory of life!" Jermaine yelled.
Captain fireheart sighed, pushed the blade in to draw blood, then withdrew the blade from Duane's throat and offered him a bony hand. Duane quickly took it and was relieved to find he was being helped to his feet.
"Fine then. He escapes death's clutches today. But hear me Jermaine, he's mine." Captain fireheart said, turning to Duane. "You'll sail under my flag and you'll obey my commands whatever they may be. D'you understand?"
Duane nodded more quickly than even he expected and offered his hand to seal this new life saving arrangement.
"Good then," captain fireheart said, grabbing and shaking Duane's hand, "welcome to the crew of the damned."
Duane smiled and nodded, feeling that he was again one step closer to getting what he wanted.
The one obstacle which remained was captain fireheart. Though he was sure he could take care of that obstacle given enough time.
"So, don't I get a thank ye?" Jermaine asked.
"Oh. Uhm. Thank you." Duane replied.
Jermaine let out a raspy laugh and pat Duane on the shoulder with her skeletal hand.
"That's alright. Like I said, ye're wantin' to be alive. So I be motivated to keep ye that way. Even if just to 'ave a conversation about things that don't involve being dead." Jermaine joked.
Duane chuckled and nodded, but the promise of his impending service nagged him. If he was to serve among a crew who weren't afraid of gunfire and cutlasses, how was he going to survive being the only one vulnerable to such things?
He couldn't fight alongside them or he would surely lose his life and he couldn't ask to be the cook for a crew that didn't need to eat, or have the want to. Not that his cooking skill would've given them anything but stomach cramps and loose bowels, but it was better than getting shot or stabbed during a reckless charge.
Then he remembered. The function on his former crew, of course. Why would they not let him be their spotter up in the crow's nest? It kept him out of their way on deck and during fights and it gave them some knowledge about approaching vessels before engaging. It seemed perfect. And not just for his survival, but for his plan to get on the crew's good side as well. After all, you can't stage a mutiny if you don't have the crew's ear.
His plan was slowly taking shape when he was rudely interrupted in his thought process by a bony hand dragging him to his feet.
"Get up meat bag, we're off to take another prize!" the course voice yelled.
Duane shook his head, looked at the strangely well dressed skeletal pirate in front of him and quickly nodded as he saw its expression change to an eerily angry one.
"Just get to the captain afore we leave. He'll be wanting to tell you the rules." it added.
Duane nodded again and darted off towards the cave entrance where he was sure he would find the captain.
When he finally did find captain fireheart, the captain had donned a long coat, a collection of pistols and a large cutlass. If it was possible, this made him look even more intimidating than when Duane first saw him.
"Ah, the live one! Come here, we don't have all day!" Captain fireheart commanded.
Duane ran toward the captain and looked at him expectantly.
"Right! There are rules aboard my ship, boy! And you'll do well to keep to them. Lest you want to be thrown in the drink." Captain fireheart stated flatly.
Duane swallowed hard.
"Rule number one! You will always obey your captain. Should you find yourself in a situation where you consider not doing so, observe the first line of rule one." Captain fireheart began.
"Rule number two! The vessel is your priority. If you are faced with the choice between your crew mates or even your own life and the integrity of the vessel, say your prayers and make sure the ship sails on."
Duane shivered and looked at Captain fireheart with worry.
"Oh, don't you worry! We're getting to the good parts yet!" Captain fireheart roared.
"Rule number three! When a prize is taken, all loot is to be stowed below decks to await equal distribution upon arrival on the island after the captain has taken his share."
"Rule number four! You will give no quarter. Any and all living souls on the prize vessel are to be eliminated. Be they pretty, young or old. We've no time or resource to keep them."
Duane sighed and looked at the ground for a long while before finally looking up to the captain who was wearing an amused expression.
"Oh aye! We leave non alive. The only thing left to tell the tale of what we've done is the vessel, full of bodies and empty of cargo. D'you have a problem with that?" Captain fireheart taunted.
"No captain, I guess I don't." Duane said, doing his best to keep his voice level.
"Good! You understand then! There's one final rule. Rule number five! If you think mutinous thoughts and speak them to incite the crew or carry out any actions that may be considered mutiny, you'll be tied to a cannonball and sent down to learn the language of the sea creatures. For they will be your only company for eternity." Captain fireheart chuckled.
"Though I suppose for you that won't be much of a problem. You would just drown. I'd consider myself lucky." He added.
Duane looked at the captain with obvious anger then, as if the reminder of his mortality had been an insult. The captain merely waved his hand dismissively in response.
"Go. Get on the ship and make yourself useful. Quartermaster will have something for you to do, I'm sure." Captain fireheart said calmly.
Duane nodded sharply and headed for the ship, all the while thinking about the rules his new captain had shouted out with near glee. Disgust and anger washed over him in waves as he went over each rule, thinking they were crude rules meant to subjugate the crew and incite fear. Not even when he had stepped onto the deck of the ship could he fully hide his feelings, much to the chagrin of the quartermaster.
"If you need to vomit, I suggest you do it over the side or you'll be the one swabbing the mess of the deck." The quartermaster warned.
Duane nodded, wiped his hand over his face and looked the quartermaster in the eye socket.
"Right then. I don't know what you can possibly contribute, so the first thing you can do is swab the deck. When you're done, maybe we'll be able to find something else you can do." The quartermaster said.
"I'm good in the crow's nest." Duane dared.
"Oh really? Well then. I suppose your job on the deck will be the measure of your likelihood to end up there!" The quartermaster yelled, pointing a bony finger at the bucket and swab on the far side of the deck.
Duane muttered insults under his breath and made his way to the bucket and swab, thinking of the indignity of it. He hadn't been made to swab the deck since his first days on the seas and to think it would determine his chances to do what he was good at, made his stomach turn. He threw the bucket over the side and hauled it back in, using the fresh seawater to swab the deck. To the crew, it looked like he was trying to scrub with the mop, but to him it was his anger pushing him on to get the job done.
"Not bad, but now the deck's all wet and slimy you'll want to scrub off any seaweed. Won't you!?" The quartermaster said, as Duane was putting the swab back.
Duane grunted and stared hard at the quartermaster for a few long seconds, then grabbed the brush and began to scrub the deck angrily. Several minutes later, his anger had pushed him to scrub so hard and fast he had begun to feel tired. But half the deck needed done and he knew the quartermaster would not relent. If anything, he would find some form of torture as 'fair punishment'. So he scrubbed calmly until the whole deck had been scrubbed clean, then went to the quartermaster.
"She looks clean enough now and the crew seems to have solid footing. So I'd say you managed not to lower my already low expectations of you. You'll have your try at the crow's nest come morning. Now go rest so you're not useless to me tomorrow. Shouldn't be too hard to find your hammock, you're the only one who needs sleep." The quartermaster said calmly.
Duane nodded, looked out over the seas and up at the darkening sky, then sighed and headed below decks to rest. He wasn't sure what would happen come dawn, but he knew one thing for certain. He absolutely loathed cleaning the deck and he would make the quartermaster pay for this, eventually.
