All These Storms That I've Seen

There was a young woman on the shore, watching the ship leave. She stood there, winds whipping around her choppy hair and long coat. Dressed in pirate wear, it was only on close inspection you could tell she was a girl. She took quick long strides onto the sleeping ship; the bridge was down since everyone had been too intoxicated to remove it. Passing snoring piles of men who dribbled the forgotten mouthfuls of alcohol onto each other, she shook her head. Anything with a penis seemed to live up to being an idiot these days. She stowed down a fight of narrow stairs and disappeared into darkness. They couldn’t very well deny her entry if they didn’t know she was there.

Up in the rigging, a monkey-like young man named Mitchell was putting up the flag. Gaze was ordering people around; everyone was hard at work, scrubbing and stumbling around in hung-over hazes. The Captain was nowhere to be seen. Slowly, Sean started to learn more about the motley crew he was travelling with. Jolliffe, a bawdy man with a broad sense of humour, seemed to be rather attached to the Taylor brothers; Mr Richardson was not one to speak to if you were of a delicate disposition; and, of course, there were rumours abound surrounding the Captain. Some said that he had drank more whiskey than was in the entire Irish sea. Others said to stop being ridiculous – it was rum.

Smith was eager to hear more about the Captain, more than just his drinking habits, from the sounds of it though Watkins wasn’t even that sure of himself, his past was lost in a haze of drunken brawls and fearless fights. That was a part of being a pirate, the fights. The sun haired boy grinned to himself at the thought of hanging from a sail, brandishing his cutlass at a sea ravaged enemy, becoming a hero once he struck him down. This be just fantasy, for now. He shook his head, realising he’d been listening to the tales that fell from the stereotypical pirate loon that was Mr Butler. He took his role very seriously. He’d never heard anyone actually say “o’course, landlubber”, but what do you know.

Soon the ship left the harbour, rocking back and forth in the waves until you couldn’t even see the mainland anymore. Smith grinned, settling by a cannon for a few moments to let his raw hands cool from the amount of cleaning they’d been subjected to. Captain Watkins stood at the forecastle of the boat, staring out proudly at the sea.

“O, Lee! Look at all the birds,” he cried joyfully, watching the gulls and other winged creatures circle above him. “Proper fat flying fuckers. I want one.”

“You want one, Cap’n?” Gaze asked, cocking up a pale eyebrow, a look of ‘here we go…’ crossing his tanned face.

“Yes. Get one of the men to shoot me one for dinner.”

Gaze nodded curtly and turned to survey the crew. Everyone was hard at work, rigging the sails, looking out at for potential dangers or unexplored lands…everyone but Sean. “Smith! Can you shoot?”

“Uhm…Not well, sir,” He called in reply, standing up straight. “I haven’t tried.”

“Do it anyway. A bit of pressure never hurt anyone!” Watkins grinned, looking over his shoulder at Smith with his eyes gleaming.

He pulled a shotgun out of a holster on his waist, a long and sleek thing. Smith gulped at the sight of it. It was horribly masculine and looked powerful, more so than a sword did.

“Come on, boy, get to it,” Watkins said imperiously. Smith took hold of the gun, weighing it in his hands. “No, no, you’re doing it all wrong…”

Watkins moved behind Smith, arms loosely around his, pulling and manipulating his body into the right shape. “Weight balanced, arms like this… legs apart.” Watkins kneed Smith’s legs, then moved his legs apart with one of his own. Sean swallowed, feeling some hot feeling creeping down the back of his neck. Embarrassment at not knowing how to do this, he reassured himself.

The Captain stepped back and cocked his head at Gaze. “Look sharp, Lee. Go check on that Lawrence fellow.”

“Right you are, Captain,” Mr Gaze said, turning to go
.
“Anyway, ready, aim…” Smith said, trying to gain his composure.

“Fire!” Captain Watkins whispered in his ear. Sure he was imagining things, Smith could have sworn that his lips seemed to linger in the space next to his skin. He closed his eyes and squeezed his finger against the trigger. The recoil knocked his shoulder backwards and he felt it bruise; he took a step back, into the Captain’s solid body. He was laughing heartily as a poor dead pigeon, fat as anything, landed on deck, dripping blood, its eyes wide open.

“Go give that to Cook Oliver,” Captain Watkins said, clapping his newest shipmate on the shoulder. “You can dine with me tonight… I feel we ought to get better acquainted.” And then he raised a bottle to his stubbly lips and wandered off down the deck, leaving Smith blinking in awe and confusion.

From the rigging, Mitchell laughed at the situation. Watkins glanced at him; he pretended to be whistling, and carefully started shimmying his way back down the ropes. The Captain glanced at him briefly, making a mental note of his rather muscled body.

Below decks, the girl wrapped her hair around one hand and surveyed the carnage. A young man was still asleep, despite the day having broken above decks. He looked troubled. She placed her hat over her head and settled down on the empty bunk in the same room, crossing her feet at the ankles and letting the swaying motion of the ship soothe her jagged nerves.

After hours of feverish chopping and simmering Oliver was able to finish cooking for the entire ship, despite Smith suddenly turning up with a blood dribbling bird saying the Captain demanded he dined on that this evening. So, while an army of men scrabbled at not-yet-stale bread and enough fish to feed a small town he took up a platter of food, with the bird in the middle, to Watkins private quarters.

The rum doused man was striding around the room in a large circle, pointing at all the treasures he had secured to the wall. Smith sat at the small wooden dining table, grinning at the stories Ian told.

“He wouldn’t give up though, oh no no no, he wouldn’t have been worthy of his title if he had! Ages it took, we battled right into the night, all I could see was the moonlight against his sword and the whites of his eyes,” The Captain hissed theatrically, placing both hands on the table and leaning in close to Sean’s face. “Then, he slipped back and split his head open. We’d ended up by the rocks…years, fucking years we’d been at each others throats, the bloody salt licker hadn’t relented then…he was defeated by a slick bit of moss!”

A loud, hearty laugh escaped his lips. Smith chuckled along with him, flicking back his hair and giving the Captain a look of adoration. The chef had no idea how long the pair of them had been talking, but it was enough to capture Smith’s attention and liking for the man. He rolled his eyes, Watkins did this every time there was a new shipmate, especially one like this boy. Announcing himself with a cough, he stepped forward and placed the platter in the middle of the table.

“Dinner, Gentlemen,” he said, taking the cover from the meal and stepping back.
“Very good, Jamie!” Watkins grinned, turning towards the chef and leaning down to his smaller stance. “Looks scrumptious…”

His eyes darkened and a smirk spread across his lips. Oliver was very aware of Smith staring at the two of them, though usually one that raked in attention, the chef felt a bit awkward about this with him as a spectator.

“Just like something else I know…” The captain continued.

“Oh…yeah,” he nodded, trying to act casual.

“Smith, of course!” Watkins said suddenly, he threw his arm around Oliver and turned him towards the seated blond. A wide grin on his face. “Just look at him,” Ian’s tongue whipped quickly across his upper lip as he stared down at the flushing shipmate. “Mmm.”

Jealousy stabbed Oliver’s chest. What? Watkins wasn’t meant to go this far. The small space of time between finishing cooking and before eating was his time to be adored by Watkins. Sure, it was a little awkward, but he liked it like that.

Smith seemed unaware of how this comment made Oliver feel, he was far more preoccupied with how closely the Captain stared at him, how exposed he felt by his eyes. It was like being naked in a room full of very attractive people, daunting…but exhilarating in its own weird way.

“Right. Well, um…”

“Thank you, Mr Oliver,” Watkins said curtly, flashing him a smile that plainly told him to leave. He did so, sulkily.

“Anyway… where were we, Smithy?” he asked, turning his attention back to the newest crewmember. He swallowed, and Watkins watched the Adam’s apple in his neck bob up and down.

“Food?” he suggested, his voice rising due to nerves.

“Ah yes. Fat bird, much? Good shot, Smith.”

“Thank you, Cap’n. I wouldn’t have been able to shoot it without your help, though…”

“Oh yes, I know,” he said, flashing a wolfish smile at the new crew boy. A hungry smile. “Shall we tuck in, now?”

The bird was good; cooked rare and meaty and salty. It tasted of the sea and something else entirely. Watkins picked at it with his fingers, gnawing at it and then licking the bone and his fingers clean. As they kept demolishing the seagull and the food, the two started to move closer. Sean stayed to drinking his water, but he was beginning to feel slightly woozy. Had Watkins slipped something into his mug? He didn’t know… but when Watkins leant over and licked his fingers clean, he was completely unsure how to react. Surely this wasn’t normal decorum for the cap’n… was it?