Sunken Sailor
The unsafe found their haven in the Hidden Cove of Isla Oscura. Fleets of pirates channelled through the strange perspective of it’s massive rock face, daring to sail the torrential rapids and scattered rocks. Once inside, a pirates dream of a carefree land appeared. A place free for any scallywag or former privateer to relax.
Or at least, relax by pirate standards.
Bar fights, shoot outs, cutlass swipes, all were as common as the drunken sailors that littered the ground. Across the high walls of wooden houses and stores, there would be at least one man falling to the ocean every hour or so.
While one man screamed as he fell towards the calm, clear water, two people conversed in the third most popular tavern of the cove – the ‘Sunken Sailor’. A barmaid poured another glass of beer, listening attentively to the other. They took the tankard, sculled half in one go, and smashed it back down on the table, continuing to tell their story.
“And so the captain held his sword to the bastards throat, threatening to light him up like a bonfire,” they continued. “Not unless they freed the men below deck. You should have seen the guys face! Scared beyond belief.”
“Wow,” the barmaid sighed. “And did he let them go?”
“Sure did!” the other continued, her voice excited and rambling. “Along with all the booty. It’s fantastic, Wendy. I’ve finally got enough gold to retire here.”
“Oh, Isabella, that’s wonderful!” Wendy smiled. “So is this your retirement drink? Enough of the life out on the sea and time to settle down here?”
“Yeah, it’s coming around to that, I think,” Isabella shrugged. “I’ll let Captain Matchstick know. Not sure how well he’ll take it, mind. He knows I’m loyal and won’t say anything. But… it’s risky. Wouldn’t want to be like that last guy, you know?”
“I know what you mean,” Wendy said, picking up the tankard and bringing it back to the bar. “But I’m sure the crew won’t mind. They all like you well enough, right?”
“They like ‘Gary’ enough, yeah,” she smiled. “Will be glad to finally shed the disguise, I’ll say that much. Lowering the voice, grumbling every third word. Gets exhausting.”
“Trust me, Bella. It’s no less exhausting than being the barmaid of this place.”
The two friends laughed, with Isabella throwing another coin up for a fourth swig of rum. They continued to chat, mostly about what she’d do with her life now that she was no longer sailing the seven seas.
Floorboards rumbled as large footsteps approached. Isabella sighed and transformed herself. She ruffled her hair and smeared dirt over her face. Lowering her voice, she coughing to add that harsh edge to it. Soon, she was no longer Isabella, but instead ‘Gary’.
She turned around and saw her captain appear, smiling proudly to his first mate. He called up Wendy for an ale, grinning as she turned her back and wandered over.
“Quite the ladies man, aren’t you, Gary?” he grinned, knocking elbows with her. She smiled and laughed.
“Just celebrating with a lass, Captain,” Isabella said, voice low and gravely.
Captain Matchstick smiled and sculled the ale in one go, white foam populating his full beard. Veins appeared over his burly white fists as he gripped the tankard. Red overcoat and hat masked the swashing of blood over him. Half the time Isabella wasn’t sure what was dyed wool versus human remains.
“Good man,” Matchstick said, wiping the foam from his mouth. “But I’m afraid you’ll have to keep it inside for a moment. Because I’ve had something interesting appear from our most recent haul.”
“Ah, captain, that reminds me–”
“No, no, stay quiet for a moment, lad, stay quiet. I have something to show you.”
Captain Matchstick withdrew a scraggly piece of paper, brown and matted from years of abuse and hiding. He laid it out over the table, staring at it in lust.
“This, young Gary, is the greatest haul we will ever encounter,” he began. “One of the slaves we freed offered it over to me. Says they found it from the officer who helped trap them below deck. Nasty business, those Spaniards. No honour in their thieving.”
Isabella frowned as she looked the map over. It was unlike anything she had seen before. Most maps were becoming more precise and accurate, using the fancy trigonometry and tools they’d come up with. Something a privateer could use to find his way through the dangerous and unpredictable seas.
The map in front of her was not for accuracy. It was for plundering. Abstract drawings of merfolk and kraken, ghosts and dragons. Fantastical drawings suited to the story books from her childhood. A dotted line marked the way to an island called…
“Isla Sin Cabeza?” she began. “Never heard of the place.”
“Me either,” Matchstick grinned. “But I’ve had Spec look into it. Says it’s legitimate. All the islands are in the right order, even with the strange drawings. Anyway, that’s not the point. Slave whom I took it from said that it lead to the greatest pile of treasure known to man. Left by a Dutch ship called the Erfprinses van Oranje after it took the wrong turn home.”
“And you believe that?” Wendy asked, looking over the picture with scepticism.
“Believe it? I know it! I was shooting that ship before it lost itself into the smoke. Been after it for many years. Now to finally turn up, it’s a miracle. Gary, tell your friend here.”
Isabella cringed, but nodded.
“It’s true,” she began. “Was my first round of combat on the Harrington. Quite a nasty fight, too. Took us three weeks to restock and recover.”
“And now the money’s ours!” Matchstick said excitedly. “Follow these trails and we’ll have more gold than even Black Sam could dream of. What do ya say, Gary?”
Isabella had to admit, the pull of gold and silver and trophies and goblets and more excited her. The natural itch of a pirate tickled her. Excitement over what could come of their reward.
But it wasn’t to be. She’d already made her decision. She looked back to Matchstick and sighed.
“Captain, I’d love to,” she said. “But I can’t. I was going to tell you earlier, but I’m retired. I’ve got a nice place lined up, and I’d like to die in my bed instead of the deck of a ship, sword in my chest.”
Matchstick looked at her in bewilderment. A hundred different emotions crossed his face, a thousand more his eyes. Surprise, shock, anger, sorrow, happiness, relief, reluctance.
“I… must say,” he stammered. “I didn’t expect this. You seemed excited at our last battle.”
“I was,” she nodded. “But I uh… got hit by a stray bullet. Little gash along my cheek, nothing too deadly. But um… it was enough. I can’t uh, keep up with this lifestyle, you know? Besides, I got more than enough gold from it that I never need to work again. So I’m fairly happy with that.”
Matchstick smiled, nodding quickly as if he totally understood, no problem, great for you, happy to hear. As she feared for the worse, he finally grinned.
“Ahh, I can’t stay mad at you, Gary. You enjoy your retirement. You’ve earned it. Though be careful with what you say about me. Land can be rather easy to find, you know.”
He winked and departed from the tavern as quickly as he came, scrunching the map up and stuffing it into his coat. Isabella eyed him as he took a rope and descended to the docks just below. She gulped and took another drink from her dirty glass, rum foaming her mouth like a white beard.
Wendy sighed and shrugged.
“Well, he took that well.”
“I don’t know,” Isabella mumbled. “There was something in his eyes. I don’t think that this is over for him.”
#
A pounding woke Isabella. Loud, thundering bangs that shook her hammock inside the ship. She blinked, rubbing her eyes awake. Perhaps there was a fight just above. Or a particularly rowdy band going through the streets nearby. She squinted and forced herself out.
Before she could adjust herself, one of her mates descended the deck and called out.
“All hands to stations! We’re under attack!”
Stunned, Isabella dressed in her garbs and rushed outside. Just as she reached the edge of the deck, a cannonball flew overhead, missing her by a hair’s breadth. Slowing down, she peered over the edge of the ship.
A galleon! A British naval galleon! The massive and terrifying beast the size of an island, with more cannons than she could conceive dotting each side. Artillery bombarded the walls of the cove, shrapnel flying off in directions countable only by gods. Pirates jumped from their dwellings and into the clear water, some coming back up for air.
Under the cover of smoke, Isabella felt a stern hand grab her shoulder. She whipped around and saw her captain staring back at her, beard burning in a fiery blaze.
“Didn’t expect to see this tonight, did we lad?” he said excitedly.
“No, sir!” Isabella agreed. He’d had time to light his face? The fear tactic picked up from another man she dread to even repeat the name of.
“Agh, let’s send these King’s men bastards back to their island. Grab a cutlass and join me!” he turned to his men, raising his weapon. “To arms!”
Roars followed him as red-coats stormed the docks. Blood and guts filled the wood, clashes of swords against bayonets scraping the air. Isabella grabbed a fallen mans sword and defended herself against a quick-stab. Deflecting the blow to one side, she stabbed the man back, watching the life escape his eyes as fast as the cannon balls sunk.
In minutes, Isabella was wide awake and fighting for her life among the scallywags and former privateers. Part of her felt disgusted. Shedding blood for no reason. Risking herself for no clear reward. Pretending to be who she wasn’t.
Yet another part of her relished this. The adventure, the excitement. Grinning from ear to ear, she slashed her way through the crowds of pirates and red-coats until she found herself with her captain once more.
“How did they get here?” she begged, pulling a fallen man’s pistol and shooting a running Brit.
“Through the cove’s entrance,” the man replied, shooting his own gun. “No clue how they got inside. But I have a suspicion of what they’re after. Follow me, if you are still got a spine.”
The captain ran off, and Isabella followed obediently. Till all was said and done, he was her leader, and nothing could change that.
They ducked and weaved through bounties of foe and friend. A parry here, a dodge there. Enough to get out of the way of the worst blows. There could hardly have been forty people, Isabella thought. But with how much chaos billowed around them, it didn’t matter. One wrong move, one wrong step, and she’d be with Davy Jones in no time.
Bounding up flights of stairs, avoiding shrapnel and splinters, they arrived at the third level. Red-coats burst out of a door, carrying a scrapped piece of paper and a single woman with them. She screamed in fear. Bella gasped.
“Wendy!” Isabella cried, voice slightly higher than she should have done. She gripped her cutlass and dived towards the soldiers, roaring with anger. One of them, a general of some kind, ordered two of them to guard as he jumped into the water with his prize. Isabella fought, but one-on-two would never work.
Captain Matchstick followed behind, easily cutting the men down one by one. It stunned even Isabella. She’d always underestimated how good he was in a fight.
Defeated, a soldier looked up to him in fight.
“Matchstick!” the man cried.
The captain approached the dying man, scowling. Light flames dancing over his beard like firecrackers, he stared into the mans soul. He stuck his boot to his throat, leaning down to induce as much fear as possible.
“Tell me,” he growled. “What has your man taken from me?”
“The–” he gulped, “–The map! To Sin Cabeza. Please, don’t kill me.”
“Kill you?” Matchstick said, raising an eyebrow. He caressed the soldiers face like a sad father, drifting him off to death. “My boy, you’re already dying. Can’t get much worse than this. Of course, there is one thing…”
The soldier looked up to him. Fear burst from his face, eyes holding onto the hope he would be let go. Matchstick looked up to Isabella, who nodded and went to get the nearest bottle of rum.
“You know why they call me Matchstick, boy?” The soldier shook his head. “It’s not my charming attitude or tenacity. Oh, no. It’s…”
He reaching into his pocket, withdrawing a piece of flint and steel. While doing so, Isabella poured the alcoholic drink over the man.
“Because…”
He scratched it once. Small spark escaped it’s tiny frame, though already caused a brief flash on the soiled clothes of the soldier.
“Of…”
He scratched again. A larger flash erupted from it. The dash found it’s way to the soldiers coat. He tried to pat it down, but it continued to find it’s way up the red cloth.
“This!”
One final stroke, and it was over for the man. Flame engulfed his entire body in seconds, embalming his last moments to a fate that could only await himself in the afterlife. He crawled his way to the side of the balcony, screaming for the waters cool embrace.
He jumped.
It was over.
Matchstick stared at the spot where he had fallen from. Isabella was never sure if he enjoyed these moments. He had a name to maintain, she knew, but it was hard to tell if he wanted to keep it.
Still, it was over now. The man was dead, the map was gone, and Wendy with it.
“Captain,” she asked. “What now?”
“Now, Gary?” Matchstick said, turning to face his first mate. “We follow them to the treasure.”
“But they took the map. How are we supposed to go after them?”
“Oh my boy,” he smiled. “That was a copy. I knew someone would come after it. It would be the greatest haul in all pirate history, one Captain Johnson is sure to write about in his book. I got the original right here.” He patted his coat fondly. “Rather have them think they’re the only ones going after it instead of us, hey?”
“Then… you want them to clear the way?”
“Exactly! Now you’re getting it. Though I must admit, this was sooner than I expected.”
Isabella looked out to the galleon. The row boat carrying the map and her friend had made it back, departing from what was supposed to be the safety of a pirate cove. A fleeting thought crossed her mind. How did they possibly get through? She never understood it, but only pirates were able to pass through the risky and intrepid rocks of the island around them. And in a galleon no less?
Was someone helping them from inside? Another jealous pirate wanting the gold for themselves? Or had the protection they so craved been a mirage? A hope more than anything solid.
She shook her head. No use wondering that now. Her focus wasn’t on the ship. Or the map. It was on her friend. Unlike her, Wendy was no pirate. The high seas never agreed with her. She’d only ended up here as a favour. Solid ground, never further.
Isabella had to save her. Because if she wouldn’t, who will?
She turned back to her captain.
“When do we go after them?” she asked.
Matchstick looked down to her, smiling broadly as if he had been waiting for those exact words. He put a solid hand on her shoulder, gripping tight and excitedly.
“We head of this very instant,” he said. “First Officer Gary.”
He had control over her once again. Isabella gulped, though could do little else to resist his claim.
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Cheesman Chronicles 
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