A Ship Cursed Part 2

As it bore down on me I thought of what I owed, and what I was owed. But at the last instant the ship swerved; narrowly avoiding the docks, it careened into the beach, and the hull shattered. Wood splinters flew every which way.

The man was thrown to the deck. I sent my apprentice to fetch the doctor. I ran to the side of the ship, climbed up to and swung over the railing. I landed on the slopped deck and stumbled—I’m not as young as I once was. I saw that there had been fighting on the deck, and hoped the man at the helm was my son, that he had not died in the battle. The hull and masts were, or had been before the beaching, in good condition. There was no sign of any treasure either. This ship had seen a second mutiny. But where was everyone? Where was my son? Even if the man at the helm was the only survivor, he was in no condition to have cleaned the deck of bodies.

‘Sam?’ I called, hoping he was below, or was the man on the bridge, and would answer me. The only sound that answered was the creak of the masts in the wind, and the wiping of sails that billowed, cocked half way to the wind.

My knee was sore; it had been a long time since I had done much of anything and the climb to the deck had been long. It shook as I climbed the stairs to the bridge: remembering the old injury, from my days raiding the Spanish Main. I had settled in Tortuga with the first English colonists, about 15 years ago, on a handsome sum as compensation for my injury. The Spanish had come and gone, fighting all the way. As I topped the stairs, I saw him. He was thinner than I had thought was possible. Most devastatingly though-he was not my son.