The Sea Wolf

[jamesblack]

Oak staves splintered with a loud crack from the impact of a musket ball that had just missed the dark figure’s head. The man who was as dark as night bent down behind the old barrels that were stacked in the ally behind the tavern. The narrow walkway stank of stale alcohol, urine, and vomit all mixed with the finer aroma of rotting garbage. Another shot rang out and split more barrel staves just above his head.

“Did yer get ‘im?” a voice rang out in the night from thirty yards away where the ally met the street.

“I got th’ bloody bastard!” was the response.

Two men came running into the ally, anxious to view the fallen body that would bring them their reward of 10,000 gold. They stopped at the stack of barrels and felt around with their feet for a fallen body. “He’s got ta be ‘ere somewhere. Giv’ me some light ‘ere so we can see.”

The scrubby old man pushed forward a small, smoky oil torch and they looked on the ground for the fallen body, but they could see no dead or wounded man behind the barrels. “Yer missed ‘im!”

“Couldn’t ‘ave!” the one kneeling down with the flintlock protested.

“Don’t… be… so… sure,” came a voice from behind them that was as cold as death. The man with the torch turned around and came face-to-face with eyes that were blacker than the night. The mouth turned from a sneer to a smile. A blade flickered in the light of the torch, blood splattered against barrels and walls, and a head rolled in the filth of the ally floor.

The man who was bent down raised his pistol in defense and pointed it with shaky hands at the shadow of a figure standing over him. “Get a-away…or I’ll s-shoot!”

“I would lay a wager that you haven’t had time to reload that pistol,” the voice in the night said.

The impotent click of an unloaded pistol was heard just before the point of the sword passed through the man’s body, splitting breastbone and spine. The figure in black wiped off his blade on the man’s pants then turned at the sound of a group of men with pistols and lanterns arrived at the opening in the ally. He pulled one of his two pistols from his belt and fired. A man with a lantern fell in the street. It the moment it took the crowd of reward-hunting vigilantes to pick up the lantern and start down the ally, the figure in black silently slipped away within the shadows of the night.

- - - - - -

An hour later Captain James Black was back on board the SeaWolf, pacing the quarterdeck with eyes afire with anger. The only crewmember who would come within twenty feet of him was Sam, his cabin boy; and Sam stood off in the shadows and said nothing.

Captain Black stopped pacing long enough to train a spyglass upon the lamp-lit city docks to see if there was any action in the city’s defenses. Satisfied that the SeaWolf was still safe in the harbor, the spyglass slowly lowered from the eye that was so dark, one might easily construe it as black; an impression that was only enhanced by the black color of his brows and lashes, and the antimony-oxide liner of kohl applied around his eyes. It was applied to reduce ocean glare; a technique that he had, of all things, learned from the people (women, to be exact) of the desert.

“Sam! I believe I need to have a meeting with the most esteemed, reputable and illustrious crew of the SeaWolf. Give the word. We meet in thirty minutes.”

Captain Black opened the crumpled paper that was still grasped in his fist and looked at it with disgust. There he saw his own picture above the description, “Captain JD Blood Bath Black.” He didn’t know why they added “JD Blood Bath”. The “Captain Black” more than described his appearance. In addition to the dark and blackened eyes that had been so keenly peering through the spyglass, he also had black hair that was usually covered by his black, tri-point leather hat. His long, black hair was partially braided with colorful beads in several places on both sides of his head. He also had a handkerchief that was folded in a band and tied about his head. It was red and not black, but he liked it anyway.

All of this might have afforded anyone good reason to call him “Captain Black,” but it didn’t end there. Captain Black always wore black shirts – black, silk shirts to be exact. The black silk shirts were tucked into tight, black pants, that where themselves tucked into black boots. One could rightly assume that Captain Black was partial to black. He also liked silver and he wore a lot of it. The silver chains around his neck and silver bracelets seemed to only enhance the black background of Captain Black.

The tall (6’2” to be exact) pirate with the muscular frame crumpled the paper in his hand and sneered. “Hurry, Sam!” He called out. “We have things to do, and people to damage.”

[jamesblack]

Sam didn't need to be told again and hurried off, skipping down the short flight of stairs to the main deck, pausing to give Deaf Pete a shake and a kick. "Up!" Shouting because "Deaf" wasn't just part of Pete's name. He'd been manning cannon for longer'n Sam had seen sunlight, and was deaf as a post on one side. "Meetin in thirty, fetch the Gov." And that in passing as the opened hatch door beckoned.

Sam's voice held a rasp that was not altogether due to the harsh salt laden air, nor to being raised above the roar of storms or other voices. There was a faint thread of scar hid under a jaunty scarf (one of the captain's old ones). Sam quite literally owed Captain Black a life.

"Captain's called a meeting at the half." It wasn't near a bellow, but that reedy, husky rasp could carry to the further corners of the galley and companionway.

"An' spoil tea time?" One lanky individual mock moaned as he threw down his cards; he'd been losing that particular hand anyway.

His partner in the game grinned and heaved his bulk off the upended barrel he'd been using as a seat. "Eh, ye'll be getting yer tea in due time, Nibs." The cook was a decidedly unsavory looking man, lacking teeth and an eye. His Nibs had once tried to convince a newer and rawer Sam that it'd all gone into the stews. Which might have had something to do with the fact that for the captain, Sam did the cooking and serving.

"Nah then ye be making teacakes and dainties?" Nibs simpered and crooked a finger as he mimed sipping from a teacup to the guffaws of the others. Sam had already turned tail and padded back up to fetch the Governor from his haven.

No one was late to a meeting on the Sea Wolf.

There was a sense of barely contained agitation on the deck as the crew took care of last minute tasks to ready for the meeting that the captain had called. The Governor stood near the rail, staring back at the city with an unreadable (to most) expression, one that made Sam suppress a shudder before turning back to stirring the small, dented copper pot that had been set over the firebox.

The box was nearly three hands deep, filled with sand and rock- that curious kind of rock that floated and some said was spat from volcanos. Sam had never seen it, but for certes wouldn't argue the point, being as it had been the Captain who had said it.

"Makin' soup eh?" Nibs paused to look into the pot as Sam gave the glutinous mess a stir.

Landon Reed looked up from where he was drilling holes into thin copper disks, the auger in his mouth looking like an odd appendage as the firelight caught and danced over his thin features. "Leave the lad be," his voice was gruff. "Don't want him to add the wrong things to the mix now,"

Sam grinned and reached into what looked like a minature barrel, dipping out a small scoop of treacle and drizzling it into the pot as Reed scooted closer, laying out a selection of thin copper wires. "Time for one dip before the meeting," Sam didn't even look, reaching to lift the first wire and begin.

[jamesblack]

“Come to order! Come to order or die, you sons of swine and dogs!” Whiskey Jack wanted to kill someone to prove his point, but another voice spoke up over the raucous. The voice belonged to Governor.

“This highly dishonorable, mostly corrupt, and yet quite official meeting of all unworthy courtesans of th’ lady SeaWolf is hereby called to order!” shouted Governor as he banged the butt-end of his pistol on the capstan, totally unconcerned of the clear and present danger of having the “smoking end” of said pistol pointing into his gut. What he was concerned about was punctuality and image. Governor was always on time, and when the Captain called a meeting, Governor was going to make sure that meeting was going to start on time or someone was going to die. He always wore an oversized, long, black coat with tails. He liked the way it complemented his short-cropped red hair and crooked yellow teeth. Governor also always presided over matters of pirate legalese, and therefore he considered himself to be the legal expert and the natural, god-appointed “Caller of Meetings” on the SeaWolf.

By five minutes before the scheduled time, every single person of the 130-odd crew – and they were certainly odd – were on or about the main deck. They were found sitting on the gunn’le, hanging from the rigging, perched on the yardarms, laying on the hold covers, straddling the cannons, lounging in coils of thick rope, and leaning against anything that supported their weight. Then there was the Earl of Wormwood, who always positioned himself fifteen feet over the deck, between the main and mizzenmasts, supported by the wooden keelhaul seat like some acrobat in the midst of a circus tent. He hovered there in the soft glow of the lantern light, perfectly comfortable in his woolen Earl's coat of regal blues and purples, and with an old-style “professor’s cap” pulled tightly down on his graying hair which was sticking straight out all around the rim. The Earl of Wormwood reached into his woolen cloak with both hands and pulled out two pistols. “Ye heard Governor, ye worthless scum, now shut yer traps or suffer th’ consequences!”

The rumble of voices on the deck quickly settled into complete silence that went undisturbed for nearly a full minute, when the door of the captain’s quarters finally creaked open and Captain Black sauntered out into the open with the slow click-clack cadence of his boot heels upon the wooden deck. He stopped in the midst of his men, spread his feet apart, rested the knuckles of each hand upon his hips and slowly looked around, making eye contact with his men along the way. He smiled a pirate smile of near-perfect teeth. The silver chains about his neck and the sparkle in his dark eyes caught the lamplight with equal luster. He was as handsome as the crew was pitiful, and that created a perverse kind of balance of nature upon the SeaWolf. It was a balance that the men respected. The captain’s looks and charm were the glue that held the rift-raft together. At least it was part of the glue. The other part was their success in plundering merchant ships when the weather was good, and plundering unprepared cities when the fall and winter storms would arrive. Unfortunately, the recent turn of events was hindering that process, something which Captain James Black was not going to tolerate.

“Our captain shall now speak,” Governor announced with a deep bow of exaggerated flourish that parted his waistcoat back over his scabbard.

“Renowned pirates of all the seas. . .” he began his address. It got no response from his crew. “You worthless, dirty dog sons of pregnant doges who would kill your own mother for a mug of stale ale . . .” he tried again. This time the voices of the men rang out in cheers as they raised their fists, some grasping knives and others grasping sabers. The cheers slowly died down. “It is time we made our name known in Barrett’s Bay.” Cheers rang out again, this time for several minutes. It was the way their meetings happened. You could not hurry such things. It was the pirate way, and in all practical aspects it was a liturgy of lost souls.

“You dogs may have noticed that there has been a rather inhospitable attitude being directed in our direction when we try to mingle so pleasantly amongst the populace of our King Charles' ports of call. This very evening I had shots being taken at head.” At that remark the crew broke out in never before heard of curses that all had something to do with firing on the city, destroying people and raping the ladies, and sending King Charles II a message.

Captain Black held up his hands to silent the pirates. “Men! Men! ‘Tis not the fault of the towns and those that live therein. It’s seems that I’m being framed for crimes that I didn’t do!” He took out the wanted posted from within his shirt and handed it to Sam. “Lad, hold this up against the mizzenmast.”

When Sam complied, Captain black looked to Whiskey Jack. “Whiskey, your knife please.” A knife wasn’t in Whiskey’s hand and then it was…and then it wasn’t again. It was now vibrating in the mast, through the poster and inches above Sam’s fingers.

“Thank you, Whisker Jack.” The pirate just nodded as if it was nothing. For him, it was nothing. He had grown up in the seediest part of Paris and spent years doing little else than throwing knives. His ability to put a blade into someone’s eye socket at thirty feet was the only thing he could take pride in.

The Wanted Poster read:

Wanted:
Captain JD Blood Bath Black, Dead or Alive.
Crimes: High treason against England and Spain
Murder, Plundering and pillaging innocents
Thievery, Arson, Kidnapping, Rape
10,000 gold for any who brings this scoundrel to justice.

[jamesblack]

Sam held the crackling parchment up in front of the mast, never even blinking at the whizzthunk of the blade driving deep. Whiskey Jack was simply THAT good.

There was a little growl then, as, in a clear, carrying voice, Sam read the words on the sheet so that the crew would know just what their Captain was being accused of.

Aye, he was guilty of something similiar (plundering.. then there was that time in St Johns when they burnt down a few warehouses..)... all of them were to an extent, either directly or by virtue of their place in the crew.

"But.. Captain.. dat be makin nowt a lick a sense," Reed squinted at the poster.

"Blood Bath?" Nibs scoffed. "Now that be a new'n. Aye?" He nudged Reed who snorted and nodded, crossing his arms.

Sam listened as the mutters ran their course, looking over the words again and remembering quite vividly when the Captain had read a manifest out, pointing out each letter and using that as a primer. "It's a good thing to know what the letters mean, Sam." His nod had been approving. Sam hadn't stopped reading things since. Learning.

The pirates gathered around to look at the poster. Most couldn’t read what it said, so Sam’s help was appreciated. “Mighty fine resemblance, sir!” Mr. Turmoil said, quite innocent of the implications associated with that picture.

The Earl of Wormwood fired off a pistol and shouted down to the deck, “That’s not the point, you swine! The point is that our dear and innocent Captain has somehow been framed!”

A man in the back raised his hand. “Rat has something to say,” Governor announced. "Speak your mind, Rat."

A tall, thin man in a tattered gray shirt and equally tattered gray pants with legs that came only to his calves stepped forward. The man had a long pointed nose, a recessed chin that augmented a significant overbite, large ears and a head that was bald at the crown. No one could disagree that Rat looked very much like his namesake. Rat could not read, but he listened to the words.

“B-but, Captain; h-haven’t we m-murdered an p-p-plundered and p-pillaged innocents?” Rat asked in his characteristic squeaky, stuttering voice. The deck erupted in cheers and saber waving. “And I b-believe theft a-and k-k-kidnapping and r-rape is what we’re g-good at.” There was another round of joyful shouts and affirmations of Mr. Rat’s great insight. It took a full five minutes to quiet everyone down.

Governor banged the capstan once again with the butt-end of his pistol. This time it fired accidentally, put a bullet hole through his long trench coat, knocked the hat off of Snakeskin (who was too drunk to notice), and embedded itself in the port gunn’le. Governor took a quick look at the new ventilation in his coat and continued to speak as if that kind of near-dear calamity happened every day (as opposed to the usual once a month). “Listen up, you perverted sons of ill-bred donkeys an’ unknown fathers! Our Captain is going to speak!”

Captain Black acted as if this were the most routinely run parliamentary meeting that ever took place. He expected such actions from his men, for they were the people that society had forgotten. They were the rift-raft, the misplaced, the ignored, the avoided, the people who had fallen through the cracks of society. Captain James Black took pity on them. He gave them employment, a position, and respect – the three things their lives had always been lacking. In return, they each gave him their undying loyalty.

Take Mr. Turmoil for example. Turmoil had sandy hair, a round face, a round body, and a toothy grin. His body was not as round as it once was. He had once been the respected owner of a small boot and shoe repair business in a major port city. He would spend the earnings on food, drink and gambling – and plenty of each. One night he gambled away his business in a game that he felt sure that he had the winning hand. With no boot and shoe repair business, Tom Merle soon fell into poverty – and then he fell into the cracks of the city.

One cold, rainy night, a much less round Tom Merle was sitting outside a tavern with a cup in hand, looking pitiful and begging for any loose copper that some kind soul would spare. That’s when he met Captain Black. “What’s your name,” Captain Black asked him.

“Tom Merle,” he replied while looking up upon the dashing sea captain and trying to shield his eyes from the rain at the same time.

“Well, Mr. Turmoil, I think I would like to offer you a job.

Tom Merle rose to his feet. “I’ll work hard for you, I will. You won’t be sorry.”

“I’m sure I won’t,” Captain Black replied with a grin. He put a silver coin in Tom’s cup. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Turmoil, and meet me at the SeaWolf at noon tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you! And the name is Tom Merle.” But no one ever called him that again.

Now, Captain Black was about to speak.

“Men, Rat is correct. We have made a good, honest living doing all that’s on that poster, and more! However, according to the London Gazette, these particular crimes were done in ports where we have never laid anchor; and if I’m going to be hanged and do the sheriff’s dance for a crown of jeering onlookers, I’d like for it to be the payment for my own actions and not someone else’s.”

“We won’ let ‘em hang yer!” shouted Frypan, the SeaWolf’s cook.

“Don’t be stupid, Frypan,” said OneEye, “if th’ captain’s caught, we’ll all be doin’ the sheriff’s dance and peeing our pants for th’ world t’ see.”

The captain of the SeaWolf calmed down its crew of misfit pirates. Captain James Black was different from most men. He couldn’t lose anything he hadn’t already lost. He didn’t worry what fate was going to do to get him, because fate had already got him. He was no longer scared of what tomorrow might bring, because yesterday already brought it. And that made him dangerous. And being dangerous made him respected.

“I’ve been called many things, men, but I’ve never been called ‘Blood Bath’. I’ve also never been called ‘JD Black.’”

“Ya mean no one’s e’er called ya ‘James thingyhead’ Black?” Whoratio remarked with a smirk. There was an outburst of laughter until the shot rang out and Whoratio fell to the deck - dead.

“Not and lived,” the captain replied. “Before I was interrupted I was about to tell you how the fates smiled upon me. It just so happens that I have met the real Captain JD Black.”

“Did you kill ‘im?” the Earl asked.

“JD is not a him. JD is a her!” James replied.

“Then did you kill her?” Earl repeated his question.

“What? And ruin a perfectly good dance? No, I didn’t kill her. I also didn’t let on that I recognized the name or heard of the reward placed on my head.”

Governor took charge and spoke for the crew. “Then let’s go track down this JD Black an’ string her up ourselves. We’ll sink her ship so deep that Neptune will have to look down to find it.”

Captain Black slowly walked over to Governor and gave him a look that shut him down. “Governor, you don’t know this woman. She’d have you cut up for shark bait before you knew what happened.” He looked to the crew. “Captain JD Black is not one to be taken lightly. I hear she has more than one ship and she knows how to use them. Her crews are first rate. She has the ‘blood bath’ reputation that I haven’t begun to put together. No, we’ll not openly attack her. She’s far too strong for that.”

“Then what are we’re gonna do?” asked Turmoil.

Captain James Black smiled. “She’s making it much more difficult for us to make a decent living. I suggest we do the same to her.”

“How are we’re going to do that?” asked the Earl of Wormwood, perched above the deck.

“Remember how we put fear into the English navy when they were hanging around a little too close to our island.”

“The Red Ghost!” said the Earl.

“Aye, the Red Ghost. She’ll have trouble making a living if she can’t crew her ships.” He turned back to Sam. “Sam, I’m putting you in charge of preparations. The rest of you, to your stations. We weigh anchor in ten minutes. We’ve got terror to bring down upon Blood Bath and her crew!”

[jamesblack]

“Sam, I’m putting you in charge of preparations. The rest of you, to your stations. We weigh anchor in ten minutes. We’ve got terror to bring down upon Blood Bath and her crew!”

Sam grinned, the expression a fleeting one though, before the crew scattered. Ten minutes. Ten minutes to get everything ready, lashed into place. Sams place was up then in the rigging after fetching a small net bag filled with what looked like the isinglass balls that fishermen used as floats for their deepwater nets. They were based on the principal, Sam had watched as the glass was heated then blown, so very delicately tinted- and with the same pigments that were used to fashion a fine nobles ruby coloured goblets. But thinner, finer, and stronger somehow though it was beyond Sams ken on the how and why as well as the way of't.

The net bag was tied to Sam's belt to allow for ease of movement as the ropes were navigated, all the way up to the top of the crows nest. Such a view there, the town like some fine ladys jewel box tipped out for the pleasure of the eye. Not that the view was spared much of a glance. There wasn't all that much time. There were wicks to be trimmed, and a careful measurement of chemicals ladled into the base of a special lamp. the glass balls- lanterns, really, were then carefully fastened into place with clever little hooks that wove into the ropes themselves.

There was a special sail as well. It was brought out by Reed and Frypan, angling the heavy, augmented canvase between them as others came to ready it for the voyage.

Sam remained up in the lines until the sails had been reset, clinging to the ropes with fingers and toes as the ship swayed, dipped then glided into motion like a vast shadow and waited for the command to light the lamps.


There were many names for them. Dragonsblood, Firesheart, Chinese blossom. Hematite, Ochre, copper, salts of strontium. Sam didn't care what they were called, it was results that mattered.

And since blackpowder was one of the things needed for some of the workings, the magazine was the most appropriate place to mix together the components.

There was a nose-tingling smell of powder, the familiar stench of kerosene, of whale oil, the acrid tang of charcoal and the blood-smell of iron. Mingling to add to the atmosphere was a scraping sound as Sam added to the small pile of shavings on the small, scarred worktable. Copper filings had been swept into a heap then carefully put into a small bowl.

In a tall clear flask the powdered, glistening sparks of a ground up bit of stone glittered as it swirled and dippe to settle at the bottom of the bottle, floating in the viscous liquid like a bizarre captured snowfall.

Light streamed in from a narrow hatch. There were of course, no lanterns, torches, candles or flames of any sort in the magazine, and there was a precision, an order to the placement of everything in the room. The trunk (Locked, and the key in Captain Black's possession) rested under the table, well away from the barrels of powder and shot. Rumor had it that the trunk held treasure. Or guns.

Stone jars, clear glass jars and heavy earthenware jugs of kersone were stored there too. No one really knew what was in the stone jars, or in the corked bottles. No one but Sam. They were parts and pieces of the components that made up the mystery of the Red Ghost Ship. Things Sam had read on a tattered and half legible few pages in the back of some pilots journal.

Sam was oblivious to all but the task at hand, the sway and dip of the Sea Wolf second nature, something expected. Indeed, the lack of it would have been cause for notice. With hands as steady as a marksman, a glistening silvery powder was added to another flask of kerosene, followed by a bare sprinkling of the copper that had been turned into a powder, just about.

Three days out of port, and they'd not sighted sail yet. But now.. now they were ready. Sam nodded, a grin flickering across charcoal smudged features. "Aye, now to wake the Ghost."

The SeaWolf cut her way through the ocean’s waves, beginning the voyage from coastal shores England. The morning sun had just made its journey over the eastern horizon, yielding a fine silhouette of the Captain as he stood at the bow, feet spread, and arms akimbo. The morning breeze blew refreshingly against his face, whipping about strands of jet-black hair and rippling his black, silk shirt. He was tall, strong, and determined.

He lifted his right leg and rested his foot on the anchor chock, while leaning forward with his right forearm on his right knee, and his left forearm lying on top of the right. Eyes blacker than coal needed no sunlight to shine brightly. He had a grin upon his handsome face; a grin put there by the promise of action – and, in no little degree, by the thought of once again meeting Captain JD Black face-to-face.

Whether this journey was actually to vindicate his name and have the bounty lifted, or to once again see the pirate captain who had caught his interest, none would ever be able to say.

It really didn’t matter.

Captain James Black hoped to do both.