Pirate's Life

Pirates Life

Stan Magillicuty was always in trouble. He had to swab the decks—again. Cap'n said he had to "toughen up". "Grow some balls". He kept his head down, hoping George-the-Hand wouldn't notice him. Maybe he would have some peace today.

George was the ship bully, and the captain liked to let him have his way. "It'll put hair on your chest!" Cap'n said that about everything unpleasant in life: horrible whiskey, the clap, festering wounds from the last fight.

Stan hated having attention directed at him. George knew this and exploited his fear and discomfort at every turn.

Last night at dinner, Stan had sat in his usual corner munching his chicken leg and minding his own business. There was the usual banter and rowdy behavior around the table when, abruptly, the room went silent. Stan looked up. The entire crew was staring at him with leering grins. It was like his nightmares, only at least now he had his trousers on.

He dropped his half-finished chicken and ran outside. The room behind him erupted in laughter.

Stan threw up over the side of the ship and waited for them to come out to torment him more, but no one did. He was free to sneak away, still hungry, but relieved.

First thing in the morning, George thrust a broom in Stan's hand and sent him to sweep up the poop deck. George was too busy to add more than a slap to Stan's face before he turned and walked away. Stan watched to make sure he didn't come back.

That's when his eyes were drawn past George's swaggering back, to their newest victim off in the distance. A rich Spanish ship. The alarms sounded, the Captain hollered, and the entire crew scurried about, getting ready for the raid. A sense of dread filled Stan's insides. His head pounded in sync with his heart. His hands were clammy and wet, and the broom slipped to the ground.

George came back toward him. His oversized, swollen, wart-infested hand pointed a finger at him. "You!" he hollered.

George was first mate, and it was his job to assign positions when getting ready for a raid. He loved to put Stan on the bullhorn—the caller. His would be the first voice their prey heard, warning them to prepare to be boarded. Stan hated it on multiple levels.

Everyone would look at him. He wanted to run below and hide among the fish-heads. Then he saw the mast of the victim's ship. It was the famous Jolly Marie! The most notorious woman in the world captained that ship; with an equally notorious and frightening female crew. Stan almost passed out as George handed him the bullhorn and heaved him, weak-kneed, up to the forward deck. The entire crew was laughing at him. He wanted to die. His face red, hands sweating so profusely he could barely hold the horn, he stuttered into it.

"A-a-a-a-h-h-ahoy the-the-there … Prrreeparree to be …babababoarded." Then he passed out, hitting his head on one of the ladders that George had thrown toward him. He woke up where he fell, a massive knot in the center of his forehead. He leaned up on his elbows and rubbed the bump. The clash of swords sounded as if far away. Stan considered he might benefit from a rethinking of his life choices; following his brother, now dead, wasn't one of the good ones. His mum had warned him.

He stood shaking and huddled against the edge of the forecastle, waiting for the spinning to stop so he could get his bearings.

He could see his crew was horribly outmatched. They were going down one by one with little trouble. The crew of the Jolly Marie were excellent swords-women.

Stan dropped to his knees and crawled toward the main deck. That's when he saw her.

A young woman, her black hair whipping around her face, was fighting George. He slapped her sword out of her hand, and it flung, clattering, to the floor. She kicked and scratched and punched, and he laughed at her.

His deformed, oversized hand held her arm, and with a rough jerk, he hoisted her up over his shoulder. Her head bounced back, revealing her face. Stan recognized himself. The fire-red skin, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clamped down, keeping the scream in. She was as uncomfortable being seen as he was. But she was infinitely braver. He couldn't unsee her.

At last, Stan was angry—enraged—livid. He rose to his full five feet ten inches and, in a sudden roar of courage, Stan charged from across the deck, straight for George's stomach. George noticed Stan and lost his grip on the girl. She fell to the deck. He was pointing and laughing at Stan. But the laughter was cut short when a sword pierced him through from behind. George fell forward just before Stan reached him. His last insult died with him.

Stan stood facing the young woman he'd thought to save. She saved him instead. Without a word, she held out her hand. Stan took it, and they ran and jumped to the deck of the Jolly Marie a few feet away and watched the trouncing his crew endured. Stan felt only a little bad about how happy it made him.

Captain Joe, his face a bloody mess, his right arm hanging loose and useless on his side, surrendered ten minutes after Stan's call. Captain Louise of the Jolly Marie claimed his ship and all his assets forfeit, and chained them all up except Stan. Once their loot was collected, Stan's old ship was anchored in place and the Jolly Marie sailed away, back to Spain. They would send out their Navy and, if any of the pirates were still alive, take them into custody to be hanged.

As they sailed away, Stan stood on the main deck of his new home and watched his old ship fade to nothing. He decided then and there that the pirate's life was not for him.