Chapter 2: An Accursed Ship
A cloudless dawn found the Stellar Wind. The sun exploded over the Pacific, showering the sea with millions of brilliant sparkles of light. A lone albatross circled the ship, screaming as though expecting someone to throw him an easy meal. Along with the cry of the seabird, another voice chimed in.
“Cap’n! Bowse up!” It was Yael, poking Captain Henry’s shoulder with his dark, weathered fingers. “Come!”
Startled out of the arms of Morpheus, Henry bolted up in his berth. Yael passed him his trousers, then coat. Not a word between them, Henry followed down the hatch to the poop where sailor’s hammocks swung. Juan’s lifeless remains were stiff in his hammock, his staring eyes so wide that it was unnerving. A gaping mouth drooled, and the dead man’s color was a mix of blue and purple, similar to death by asphyxiation. Strangely, a low table was perched just under him. Thinking nothing of it, Yael kicked it aside.
According to tradition, Juan’s body was shrouded in his hammock, the ends secured with thin straps of leather. Covering the brilliant sun, an unnatural cloud rolled in just as the funeral service began.
Beneath the sudden pewter-grey sky, Henry said a prayer over the corpse concluding with: “Fair winds attend you, sailor-man, Juan Alberto Rivera. God speed!” Then, with the traditional memorial whistle from the Boatswain, Sailor Rivera was cast into the sea, a proper seafarer’s funeral. Before the body reached the calm waters, a huge wave reached up like a hand from hell, snatching the bundle, and yanking it quickly into its icy abyss. The crew gasped, and though no one dared utter the words, each was thinking that they were all plagued for the mutinous slaying of Captain Morag.
Trying to maintain a sense of calm before the spooked crew, Cookey whispered in the captain’s ears: “Come away.”
“Man the yards!” Captain Henry shouted out his orders. Nervous eyes followed as the two disappeared like shadows through the doorway.
“Come hither, Cookey. We shall speak in my cabin.”
“Nay, sir. Follow me.”
Shuddering, Henry followed the cook, a horrendous fear creeping upon him. They stopped outside Captain Morag’s cabin door. A familiar odor assaulted them. Henry covered his nose, retching from the stench. His heart pounding in his chest, Cookey reached for the latch, but Captain Henry grabbed his arm, stopping him. The two men shared a fearful glance. At Henry’s nod, Cookey lifted the latch and nudged open the door. What they saw chilled their bones.
In the semi-darkness of the cabin, they saw everything that had been tossed overboard and burnt to cinders was back in its place; every book, every instrument and dust particle was there. The Captain’s log with the pheasant quill stabbed in the pages was lying innocently on the open roll top desk. Several venomous snakes coiled around different objects, and the grime on the floor and walls was as thick as before. A lit cigar, Captain Morag’s favorite brand, was burning innocently in a tortoise shell. The berth was back in place, and on it was the large, black serpent ready to strike. Even the small, Haitian table had returned, radiating a haunting sense of doom.
Henry fell to his knees, crying: “Lord God!” His hands on his head, he moaned, rocking like an affrighted child. Cookey stood behind him, a steady hand on his trembling shoulder. Henry was a man rarely distressed by conditions he could not control, but he knew that his subordinates would not remain calm after this.
“Not a soul must know of this, Cookey,” he managed to say. “The men are already frightened. What will this do to them?” Cookey nodded, though Henry did not see. “Board the room back up. Tell those who ask twas done out of respect for Captain Morag.” Cookey nodded again. Before Henry could pull himself to his feet, a slave who had come aboard with Morag in Haiti had appeared behind him. Eyes wide in panic, he moaned, frantically scratching flesh from his face. Hearing such disturbance, others came running. At the cabin threshold some vomited, others fell to the floor in tears.
Yael, too, ran to see why the ruckus. At the sight, his stomach pitched, especially when his eyes fell upon the table. Remembering having seen the table under Juan’s corpse, he ran inside the cabin seizing it. The men parted way like the opening of the Dead Sea, allowing him to pass with the old piece of furniture. Taking a butcher’s knife from the kitchen, Yael hacked at it like a crazy man. Every eye was upon him, yet no one stopped him. No one asked why. Frenzied, Yael gathered every piece of wood and splinter, burning them in the galley’s hearth.
The sun was climbing higher. Feeling down in the doldrums, the crew murmured that they could feel Morag lurking about. Happiness seemed to be a thing of the far, far past. The superstitious men, full of panic now, turned on Marcus standing near the crowd.
“He be an evil one, the lad is…an evil one, Ah tell ya,” blubbered a man with a fat, hanging bottom lip. “He tames tempest winds. Tis unnatural! Unnatural, I say! There be somethin’ unworldly about him.” Full of a fear that was plunging into their hearts like the killing blade of a sword, the men agreed.
“Plague an perish ‘im!” bawled a sailor from the mainmast. “I’ll mischief ‘im, fer ya!”
“Tis a mere lad!” yelled another in Marcus’s defense.
“Carve ‘im up an toss ‘im to the salty brine!” shouted someone else.
“I’ll let out’ ‘is evil by incision with mi steel, carvin’ ‘is ‘eart out!” cried one that had been chained in the hoosegow by Morag. “If it remains a’beatin’ out his body, we’ll be certain the lad was possessed!”
The aggressors ripped Marcus’s wool coat from his body. Enraged, they continued to strip the boy of his clothes. Though the cabin boy’s eyes were wide, he did not scream, only struggling slightly. Henry rushed to the deck to see why so much rumpus.
“Avast!” he shouted, running to Marcus’s aid, but the crazed men held him back. “Stand off, I say!” During the struggle to get away, one sailor-man ran his dagger into Henry’s side. Still fearing for Marcus, Henry struggled to free himself. With strong fists, he punched at his aggressors, finally pulling his dagger and stabbing the eye of one of the crazed crew. Cookey appeared from the galley, brandishing a long knife in one hand and a butcher’s knife in the other. Shouting from the belly of his lungs, he slashed and hacked at the men who held Henry. Red Dog jumped to Marcus’ rescue, but was immediately struck down with a hatchet, splitting his head open at the back, killing him instantly. Fearing Marcus be rescued, a sailor drove his dagger into the boy’s chest and, swiftly cutting out his heart. At first, a look of surprise covered Marcus’s face, but within seconds, it went peaceful and his blue eyes were calm and forgiving. Just as the sailor was lifting the boy’s body, ready to cast it into the sea, Cookey, with a quick flick of his wrist, slashed the man’s neck, causing him to drop the dead boy onto the blood-filled deck. With the strength of a bull, Cookey raised anyone fighting him, easily hurling him into the unforgiving sea. Four died in rebellious battle that morning, five including Marcus.
John Henry lay sleepless. The macabre scenes hung there in full view of his eyes, whether they were open or shut. Constantly replaying in his mind were the recent deaths. He felt so dejected that his shoulders did nothing but slouch. The faces of the dead swam before his eyes: Morag, Red Dog…Marcus. But Morag was the key.
If only he could understand what had happened to his friend, William Morag. Visions of the previous months paraded across his mind again and again and again: What the hell had happened? The unsettling theories were many. Five months before Henry had taken his captain’s life, Stellar Wind had been setting a course from England to North America. A devastating hurricane had battered her timbers and destroyed her sails. Soon the illustrious merchant ship found herself quite crippled, and was taking on water. Fortunately, at a close distance was a non-hostile harbor, the tiny port of Port Au Prince on the island of Haiti. Stellar Wind moored there for over a fortnight undergoing major repairs. The weary crew had spilled eagerly into the town, which was famous for its mestizo whores, sugar, slaves, rich French colonies and voodoo.
Captain William Morag, at the ripe age of forty-two, had earned a legendary reputation as a gentleman. Furthermore, he was considered a brilliant captain and was a well-respected man of Scottish blood. He was a handsome man, with a weathered, rectangular face, and sported a grey moustache and beard that concealed a cleft chin. His wavy, brown hair was graying, and though rough and wrinkled, his hands were powerful and ready to take on any adventure. Black, stormy eyes intimidated those he encountered, and his wit was quick and barbed. A wise man, and as prudent as any captain could be, that is how men and women knew him around the world.
While his ship was undergoing major repairs, a well-kept Captain Morag had left his proud vessel, the Stellar Wind, in search of a bit of comfort from a lady friend who lived just passed the port area. Days passed, and his crew began to wonder why their captain had not made an appearance to check on her progress. A fortnight later at sunset, a churlish man returned. He was barely recognizable, now ill mannered and sullied, Morag came staggering like a drunk, blaspheming to all and swinging his sword in the air like a madman. His clothes were soiled and the buttons from his coat and shirt had been ripped away. A pungent, rotten smell swirled harshly about him, and he was wearing such a ghastly expression that people gasped and backed away. The master’s grey-brown hair had turned a dull white, and his black eyes had lost not only their light, but their life as well. Like a dead man, he now had pouches under his sunken black eyes, circled by huge, black and blue contusions that gave the impression that he had been in a brawl and lost.
Trailing behind Captain Morag were four slaves, protectively carrying a small, wooden table. They were fleshless and sickly looking, and were so bony, that it seemed the light breeze would take them away. The meager threads they wore were filthy and ripped, and were dangling so loose on their gaunt bodies that they seemed to have been thrown at them. It was soon discovered that three of the four men were tongueless. Their movements were erratic and their eyes fearful, as they huddled together like frightened, herded animals awaiting slaughter.
An hour after the captain returned to the ship, he hailed out orders to weigh anchor. Stellar Wind made sail, and struck out from Haiti with swarms of sea birds swooping and whirling and crying about her. To everyone’s surprise, their charted course had changed, and instead of proceeding to North America as planned, they were now skirting the east coast of South America, off the coast of The Viceroyalty of New Granada. Not a single crewmember understood this change, finding it odd and ominous. Seafaring men, no matter to which country they were allied, were by nature highly superstitious. It was soon after they hit the open sea, that the crew was certain that their good captain was no longer amongst them.
At sea, the man once considered a fair and understanding captain, had now become unpredictable, and was behaving in an irrationally vicious manner. Captain Morag soon established a regime of terror and punishment, and enjoyed watching his crewmembers flogged for his own entertainment. The ship’s traditional Sunday church service was prohibited, and he confiscated all crosses and Bibles, which he personally burned in his cabin’s hearth. With evil in his dead, ebony eyes, Morag watched, as the religious relics turned to ash. Furthermore, he threatened that anyone who dared utter the Lord’s name would be pitched into the sea for the sharks to feast upon. There would be no more singing; not even their work chantey was allowed.
A feeling of doom infected the hearts of all. They feared, not only for their lives, but also for their souls. The crew was convinced that their captain was evil, and that John Henry should take command of the ship. Filled with dread, Henry too had seen the drastic change in the man he had come to respect during his thirteen years aboard the ship. At first, Henry had believed that he could depend upon his close friendship with Morag to reason with him on behalf of the frightened seafarers. Indeed, Henry had long regarded Captain Morag as nearly a father figure, and together the two had endured and enjoyed much. They had battled against pirate raids and ragtag mercenaries, survived hurricanes, feasted at the same table, sharing a glass of fine Scottish whiskey and many a joke and tall tale to get them through the long, lonely nights at sea. What had become of the Morag he had known? How had it come to Henry murdering his dear friend and Captain? If only those gale winds could have foretold the future of the ship!
“Cookey,” John Henry sighed, his heart heavy with despair. He watched as Cookey prepared the afternoon meal. “You have known the captain for many a year. How could a man have changed so in a fortnight? True enough he was known for good character and honor. What was his trouble since Haiti, my friend?”
“I, too, am baffled, skipper. Morag an me, we come aboard Stellar Wind together, many years ago…1698, twas. I ain’t never seen such change in a man,” thirty-two-year-old, Cookey said, gutting a fish in one quick movement.
“Evil stole his soul,” said Henry. “Some say he had fallen prey to voodoo, probably inflicted by a man with a grudge or a jealous woman. What say you about this, Cookey?”
“Voodoo?” said Cookey, scratching his baldhead with the tip of his bloody dagger. “Now there’s a thought for ye. I never believed in such things, but now….”
“Aye, Cookey, what other explanation could there be for such dramatic change in a man?”
“Now bend yer ear to this, skipper.” Henry leaned in closer as though Cookey was about to tell him a secret. “Have ye e’r heard of Petro spirits, Henry?” Cookey asked, lifting his jug of rum off the gory table and taking a swig.
“Petro? Nay, I dare say I have not.” Cookey savored the rum in his mouth and, swallowing it as though it was the finest tasting liquid on the face of the earth.
“Well, truth be told, I don’t know much about’em either, but I’ve ‘eard, the buggers squeeze into yer body, makin’ ye aggressive an violent.”
“I suppose this could be a logical explanation, Cookey…And the fact that we found no heart in his chest, Cookey. What say you to this?”
“I’m a thinkin’, John Henry. I’m a thinkin’.”
“My mind is ill at ease, Cookey. Tis not the end.”
“Batten down yer hatches, mate!” insisted the cook. “Content ye! We’ve cured his soul by destroyin’ the demon from within. May God rot ‘is bones!”
“This man we speak of was once like a father to me, Cookey. I can only pray the Lord took mercy upon him.”
“Mind ye, Henry, before the transformation, Morag was mi friend, by all accounts. We’ve done ’im justice, we ‘ave.”
Cookey took a stalky breath and picked up the filleted fish, placing it in a skillet to fry. As the fish hissed in the hot oil, Henry closed his eyes.