Three Sheets to the Wind (129 hits)
Category: UberMadness! EntryRating: 2 on 1 review (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Chronic (View user info) at 2006-09-24 23:50:18 EDT
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A parchment in a buried empty bottle of rum.
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Our atrociously lovely ship drifted amidst the heavy fog of Capetown seas with its sails fully closed. Visibility was a matter of only a few feet, but there was a tone of fearlessness, almost indifference among all of us. Men sharpened their swords and polished their pistols and smoked cigarettes, and whispered. More than a whisper would simply not be tolerable to The Captain, but by those days, we all simply believed in him.
I was a bit of a character too, I suppose, and if I'm writing this story for you, I guess you should know a little about me. The name's Murphy, and I was the ship's resident engineer and all around "educated man." I was also a hell of a clever young buck back then, and The Captain knew I could be trusted, making us a dangerous pair. Maybe that's just what I'd like to think, though. Maybe I was just useful to him.
On that foggy night off Capetown, I was sitting on the second deck quietly shootin' the shit with Antioch. He wasn't the brightest fella on board. In fact, he might have been the dumbest, but he had a good way about him, one that even I grew fond of. He was kind of a big lug, but honest, and loyal, and tough as a bear.
All of a sudden, Charlie landed on the banister between Antioch and me.
"Engage the weapons. CREAWNNHHH! Engage the weapons."
Then he just flew off.
Now, let me tell you something about Charlie. He was The Captain's parrot, and he was second in command. I guess it wasn't really in the sense that he had much intellectual input on things, being a parrot and all, but his orders were to be considered the second highest in hierarchy, as they often came from The Captain himself. Admittedly, we all looked ridiculous on more than a few occasions that Charlie told us to man the stations in the middle of the damn night, but to disregard Charlie's order, if legitimate, would mean facing the Captain's sword for charges of mutiny. He'd never just have you executed, either. He'd toss you a blade and then establish a duel. Needless to say, after all the times it must've happened in the last 40 years on the seas, 35 as a Captain, he was still standing, and his eyes were still fiery.
I glanced out into the milky white all around us where I couldn't see more than a few feet, and then right back to Antioch. He shrugged and lumbered toward the Warbox Hatch. As you might guess, it led down to the Warbox where we could initiate the combat systems. I followed him of course, but first, a little bragging.
I actually invented the Warbox. It was pretty much a stone box right in the middle of the ship that had 4 seats facing their respective walls, giving access to the levers and switches and wheels controlling their respective weaponry. "Murphy The Smith," I was called in our circles. Smithy to the crew. Not to brag, but I do have to admit that I mechanized the most incredible Pirate ship to ever sail the seas.
I guess I didn't actually say that we were pirates, but of course we were. We were all pirates. We were the Pirates of Captain Quinn, Captain of the Killer Clover, and we were to be feared at the least and revered at most, but always feared. Piracy was a bit of a lost art in the new and changing world, but it takes a long time to lose a whole way of life, especially when the finest captains had the finest ships. There was never more reverence than those days. The Imperials and their ships were formidable and to be evaded at all costs, but destroyed if necessary. We were an unknown. Sure, there were stories of a ship with clear sails, that was even faster with them down, but no one could put a name or face with any of us. A few odd reports of a Captain wearing a shimmering cloak in the sun. It was actually a light chain mail he could unclip and swing like a metallic net. He enjoyed wearing it during the day sometimes when he wanted to practice on a few seagulls. Realistically though, if anyone got close to us, save a few Pirate ships, the vessels were sunk and the survivors didn't survive.
Over the years, I had implemented revolving cannons, and then revolving chain cannons. We had chain guns as well. There were harpoon launchers to grab whatever we needed. I also invented the buckshot pipes and shrappers. The buckshot pipes were nothing but a series of metal tubes that all led straight to a wrought iron drum beneath the floor of the Warbox. When the buckshot cartridges were fitted to the gunpowder drum and the whole apparatus was bolted into place, the explosion in the drum could create the equivalent of giant shotgun blasts, straight from the hull, in essentially 360 degrees. Shrappers were my explosive cannon balls, and they delivered unadulterated violence. The Gun Ports extended from the ship's hull and could be moved by the gunner with levers right in the pod. A series of mirrors ran throughout the entire vessel and men in the Warbox could essentially fire something powerful, with precision, in any direction. We were truly dominant. Sure, it was a bitch to rewind the hundreds of enormous bands and reload the weapons after each onslaught, but when we let it go and got those spinning cannons up and kicking, we could take on an armada.
And I was going on the word of a bird that I can't imagine could see much further than me that night. At least he didn't tell us to engage the Spinning Fin. The bands on my propeller were a bitch to rewind and trusting the Bird could mean running aground if he simply got into the rum again. Antioch and I disengaged the bands, which began to slowly unwind, automatically engaging the weapons. Glancing into the mirrors, there was nothing to see but fog in every direction. All around us, we could hear the gears of war grinding into action for an unforeseeable purpose. Redeye the Albino and Clarksy the Chief Gunner dropped down into the Warbox and took their seats.
"Clarksy, what is it? I can't see anything out there, but at least it's not just Charlie fucking with us, eh?"
"I can't see shit. Smithy, this one's straight from Quinn. He's pacing on the deck."
"Pacing?"
"Set the weapons to 30 degrees."
"This is Three Sheets to the Wind, utterly daft. That can't be right."
"Just do it."
"Setting to 30. He's pacing, did you say?"
I didn't have much time to wonder because it was right then that Quinn yelled a single order.
"PORT SIDE FULL ASSAULT!! FIRE!!"
We had never fired a full assault in my 20 years on the Clover, certainly not since all the upgrades, and to be honest, we were all a little excited just to do it. What a waste, though. The weapon bands were all at speed. The stations were manned. And then, raw thunder. Dozens of cannons, rifles, and chain guns made the whole ship rumble. In less than a second, we heard massive impact. I couldn't believe we were hitting something, but whatever it was, it had to be close. Close, and huge. I moved from switch to switch and lever to lever. A series of bangs or blasts resounded after each one. Right in the thick of the attack, who dropped down the hatch but Quinn himself? His eyes were wide, frantic. I'd never seen anything like it.
He screamed as loud as I'd ever heard.
"KEEP FIRING! HARPOONS, NOW!"
Instantly, Redeye and Antioch yanked the handles above their heads. I could just barely hear the additional pops and then the harpoon chains being reeled in through the deafening explosions. It seemed like by the time I actually realized what Quinn had said, he was gone. A moment or two passed and I figured the guns had another 15 seconds or so when the entire port-side mirror vision went black and red. In protocol, Clarksy called for a cease fire and threw on the master band locks. A moment later, he disappeared up the hatch. Then he peaked back down an instant later.
"You're not gonna believe this. Get up here."
My ears were ringing, but I forgot about it almost instantly when I hopped up and saw what we were holding. It was the largest ship I'd ever seen. It looked to be a hundred feet above our own behemoth of a vessel. The side we were holding had a massive smoldering hole at least 65 feet in diameter. Parts of the hole were blown clear through the ship, but 2 of the harpoons had actually locked into significant internal beams. They would hold. I designed them.
There was small arms' fire from deep within the enormous victim, which I quickly realized must be our boarding party trying to deal with resistance. More and more of the Clover's crew flooded the ladders leading into the gaping wound we had made in the side of this leviathan. I may be a man of knowledge, but I'm a pirate. I grabbed a revolver and a sword, but Quinn caught me by the arm.
"Not you. Upstairs."
We entered The Captain's quarters, a loft on the top deck.
"Murphy, The Clover is my ship. I have been its Captain for 28 years. It's been rebuilt a dozen times, most at your suggestion. The Clover is mine. The Killer Clover, while your finest achievement, is also mine. The Goliath, however, is ours."
"First man back! CRENNAWWH! First man back!"
"Captain, I..."
But he was already following Charlie out the door, so I followed just behind. Lyle was leaning on the Captain's deck with a smile, a cigarette, and a blood spattered sword. He was likely the leader of the first boarding party and I could still hear gunfire. But why wasn't he reporting?
"SO??" I'd never heard Quinn have such a childish excitement in his voice.
"It's there."
The Treasures of the East India Company, containing loot from every corner of the globe. The amassed loot of legendary pirates. Aztec Gold. East Asian relics. African Gems. Imperial cash. The Goliath turned out to be the largest, thickest ship ever commissioned to date, sailing for English royalty we surmised from the logs. It was well armed, but the ambush was unforeseeable, sudden, point-blank, and ballistic. The hull was meant to be unharmed by naval warships, but there was no way to expect the Killer Clover and its brutal onslaught.
We didn't leave survivors. We never had before and weren't going to start just then. Hell, we were a myth if anything, and always would be now.
After a makeshift patch on The Goliath's hull, both ships set sail for Three Sheets to the Wind, one of the last, but most legendary pirate paradises. I guess it sort've had a double meaning. First, it was the kind of thing you only find if you set the sails for nothing and happen to hit it. "Three Sheets to the Wind" was the famous last heading for many a pirate in this dying age of piracy, and a famous last state of mind. If you happen to land in a pirate's cove, you were surely blessed by the sea. Furthermore, everyone on that lawless island was a drunken sailor as drunk as a drunken sailor. The loss of direction that comes with being "Three Sheets to the Wind" was apparent as we cruised into port and saw men falling off the docks at our mere appearance.
When we arrived with The Goliath and its exceptional treasure, the crew of the Killer Clover had a lifetime to figure out what that place would mean for us. It would be a lie to say we didn't spend it for the sake of vices, but how else were we to spend such world renowned treasure than on women and drink? Most of us stayed there to die rich pirates, though some left with their piece of the loot. I never left the Killer Clover, which never really left port again. I never really left the Captain, either. He was the cornerstone of my infamy, and that ship was my pride. Many memorable things happened during those years, but I best remember the moments when revelers would ask how he could've possibly known that The Goliath was there in that thick Capetown mist. He would always just laugh. Those men that were there that night would laugh too, even though we all wondered just the same.
Sure, we were all pirates, but Captain Quinn could feel treasure in the fog. He could slay giants, blind.
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My knife was my piracy. May this tale and this blade find you rich and well.
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