All These Storms That I've Seen

The first mate adjusted his cap and knocked on the door of the Captain’s quarters. “Cap’n?”

“What is it, Mr Gaze?” slurred the captain from behind the door. Mr Gaze pulled open the door and a mountain of brown bottles flooded out.

“We have a new shipmate… a Mr Smith?”

“A Smith?” The Captain pulled himself into a sitting position, belched and fumbled for his shirt. “Thanks, Lee.”

“It’s Mr Gaze.”

“I’m Cap’n and I’ll call you what I bloody well like! Now bugger off and let me get dressed.”

A young man with fading blond hair stood on the pier, looking nervously around. People had stories about this ship; they said that the crew were right weirdoes; that people who served on the ship were never the same again. He shook his head and ran a hand through his blond fringe. No, he’d be fine; after all, being a pirate on the high seas… what could be cooler? He put a hand to his hip, feeling for the knob of his cutlass. The handle, that is. He chastised himself, and turned to glance at his reflection in a shop window. Sleek hair, no-nonsense shirt, coat and boots tucked into tight trousers. They were sure to love him.

A man appeared on deck.

“Mr Smith?”

“Yeah? That’s me.”

“Hmph. Looks like I’ll have to put up with another oil lamp on the ship,” sniffed Mr Gaze. “The Captain will see you now.”

“Oh okay. Cool. Um… what’s the Captain’s name?”

“Watkins. But you can’t call him anything except Captain, Mr Smith.” The young man swallowed, and made his way off dry land into the swaying embrace of his new home.

“Ahoy there,” greeted a tall, unbearably slim boy half way across the deck. Long, shaggy dark hair whipped against his face from the force of the costal wind as he lent his elbow on the sopping mop he clung to. “Name’s Gustav, Gustav Wood. Yours?”

“Sean Smith,” the blond replied, eyes casting up and down the torn, dirty clothes of Gustav Wood, the ship’s cabin boy.

He seemed nice, though the intensity of his pale blue eyes looked like he held far too many secrets for a man his age. Reassuring, of course. Smith gave him a small smile before continuing after Mr Gaze who had continued marching on ahead without stopping for the brief encounter.

Gaze met Captain Watkins half way down the narrow, salt and alcohol reeking passageway to the Captains Quarters. He was swaying slightly, a demented sort of look haunting his angular face, the kind of look that made Smith peer around Gaze’s blond head to get a second look at.

“Here’s the new shipmate, Cap’n,” The first mate addressed his superior. Ian Watkins grinned and popped up the collar of his thick, black coat which made the necklaces jingle around his neck. He took a good look at Mr Smith, critically trying to judge his entire character on the next five silent seconds. Ringed fingers reached out and tilted up the younger man’s chin so he could get a good look at his face. Pretty. Very.

“He’ll do. Ever been on a boat, boy?”

“A dingy, once,” Smith replied with a smile. He didn’t know whether he should regret the comment or not, he’d heard that the Captain’s bite could be far worst than his bark, but he didn’t look all that cutthroat right now.

“A dingy. So not a ship?”

Mr Smith squirmed, unable to take his eyes off the awe-inspiring good looks of this man. He was dangerous and clearly the sort of man who shouldn’t be trifled with… but this was Sean, and his sense of self-preservation wasn’t terribly high on his list of priorities. The Captain seemed oblivious to the fact that his shirt wasn’t buttoned up, and lean muscles slid under his skin, toned to perfection from hard work on decks.

“Oh I don’t know. It was pretty shipshape.”

“Excellent. Set him to work, Mr Gaze,” the Captain said, throwing his arms around his first mate and giving him a drunken kiss on the cheek. “And send that cabin boy up to mine, I want a word with him…”

The tour of the ship passed in a dizzying blur for Mr Smith. As well as the cabin boy with his paralysing smile, there were several other mates – the innocent-looking Michael Lewis, a tall man with tough tattoos by the name of Mr Johnson, Mr Richardson with forearms the size of small melons, James Oliver who eternally had a bottle of beer in one hand; and then plenty of younger people he only glimpsed in brief moments of tense eye-contact. The entire crew had a feeling about it; like they knew each others’ secrets and wished they didn’t. Like if he turned his back on any of them for too long, he would end up one of them.

Mr Gaze put him to work cleaning one deck. Smith didn’t mind; the work was grunt, but they had to prepare for leaving soon. The sea wasn’t right to leave on yet, apparently – there was a storm further east, and there was no point in leaving until morning. Despite this, Mr Gaze had made all the crew promise to stay on the ship.

“We’ll be leaving in the morning. That means no drinking off decks. That includes you, Mr Butler, and – where’s Mr Wood?”

There was a dull thump, and a muffled noise.

“I think he’s… in the kitchen. Doing some cooking,” said the older of the two Taylors uncertainly.

“Cooking? A likely story,” Gaze huffed, heading forward towards the noise. “The only one who should be cooking is the chef!”

Mr Oliver grimaced and decided to ignore the sounds that issued from his kitchen, choosing what he didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Sean followed the first mate curiously, unable to stand back as more sounds issued from the cabins. The other men all seemed reluctant to do so, Smith never really went with the majority though.
Just as Mr Gaze headed inside, there was only a split second of his back being turned before he came right back out and shoved Smith along with him.

“I’m sure whatever he is doing can wait. You should be working,” he shouted. His tone seemed pretty firm, but spooked. Obviously something was going on, something mysterious that shivered his spine…wait, timbers! Yes. Of course.

Smith spent the next few hours as the sun sunk into the vast blue sea contemplating what had been going on back where Gaze forbade everyone to go. Not that that seemed a problem for anyone but the curious blond. After a back aching few hours the crew were told to rest in preparation for the morning’s voyage. Rest meant very different things on land it seemed, while Smith expected to be shown to the lower decks where he could swing himself to sleep in a hammock of some sort it was quite a different reality.

Drinks were passed around. Raucous singing and guffawing rose to the stars from rabbles of rum slugging men, none who which seemed to be contemplating how the morning would go with such pounding hangovers. Smith sat back; apparently he was the only pirate in the entire world who didn’t like a drink. Small and giggling Rhys Lewis collapsed against him, chuckling about how he was once stung by a jellyfish. This seemed like a perfect time to go to bed.

Settled under a blanket, Smith closed his eyes for a few minutes, only to be awoken by the sound of boots on the wooden floor. Silence would be a silly wish anyway. Gustav Wood had reappeared; his shirt ripped at the collar, hanging limply from his shoulders, all the buttons seeming to be missing. He paid no attention to the seemingly sleeping blond as he climbed up into his own rest area, a worn look flickering across his face in the dull moonlight that passed through the slits in the planks of the wall.

Sean opened one eye and watched the young man carefully. Was he really…? No, he’d be best to ignore it. Go to sleep, silly boy, he told himself sternly; it’s the first day here, and you can’t go getting yourself in trouble right now.

It was hard to sleep listening to the sound of Gustav just… being. His breathing was ragged and shallow, hitching in places. Was he crying? No. No, he’d been here for years now, surely. He would be fine. Tomorrow, Sean thought as he started to slip out of consciousness, he might ask, if he still looked sad.