Die Free

So, I wrote a prologue to a story, and it’s not very good (especially because it’s not about God) but here it is:

Prologue

Cause we fight ’til the end

And gather all our plunder,

Closer than our friends

Or any of our mothers

The sea was calm and beautiful. No storms would be heading their way for a long time; the sea was as docile as a month old calf. A blustery wind whipped through the sail, helping the steam engine along. But such a large ship required much, much more than that. The wind couldn’t do all the work-no crew could ever be as lethargic as this, even in the nicest of weather.

“Those lazy men’ll be the death of me. We’ll starve before reaching port!” The captain sauntered below deck, where the thick smog of burning coal and the terrible sound of sea shanties assailed her ears. “Shut up about yer rotten-rigged gunports! If you want to see yer families anytime between now and Davy Jone’s Locker, than you’d better shovel like men instead of new-born babes!”

“But we don’t have families, Ca’n!” one of the crew cried genially, tossing his double-load of coal into the fire effortlessly. There was a great deal of laughing and jostling among the others. Rujula was a popular, jovial fellow, stronger than the others, and completely loyal. He needed no rebuke for talking back to his captain, so she let it go, jesting back,

“Ah, men!” she spat, grinning. “No life but the life on board.” A great consensus of ‘hurrah’s answered her jokingly, jostling their agreement over to her as she walked past back up to the deck.

The air was clean, open and empty. The captain smiled and took out her telescope, unfolding it with a snap of her wrist and peering out past the railing along the side of the ship. She frowned. Something was swiftly approaching from behind, its bright red flag snapping across the soft blue sky, the swords of the Saraceni crossed over it.

“Karif!” she screamed against the wind, throwing her head back and squinting at the crow’s nest, eyes stinging from the sea spray. “Wake up, you useless man!” She ran back below decks, cursing him loudly. “Man the six-pounders, men! Sarasols coming!” There were loud cries of war from each of the men as they dropped their shovels, coal scattering around the floor, running for the cannon room. The captain grabbed one of them by the arm, saying in a hushed tone, “Ready the guns, Nuhad. We don’t have enough chain-shot left to bring them down before they get here.” Nuhad nodded grimly, running off without a word.

The captain walked quickly in the opposite direction, her jaw tightly clenched. Once she reached her quarters she slammed the door behind her, shaking its weak frame, and kicked the desk ruthlessly. Maps slid onto the floor, scattering the navigation instruments with them. The captain yelled sharply, glaring, and sat down to sharpen her cutlass with a short, agitated sigh. A knock sounded through the grating screech of rock against steel.

“Come in,” she growled.

“Do you have a plan, Cap’n?” the man asked, standing next to the door.

“We fight, Jabari.”

Her first mate nodded. “What should we do with Karif?”

“Make him fight. Tell him if we win, we’ll drop him off next time we land. We need as many men as we can get, even if they are all lazy idiots.”

Jabari nodded.

“Jabari? We can’t beat them, not if they get on board.”

There was a pause, then he answered, “I know, Cap’n.”

“Tell the men, if the choice is between death and slavery, we’re not infamous enough for death to be the choice. They at least have a chance-none of them have the tattoos.”

A faint smile washed over Jabari’s face. “Aye, aye, Cap’n,” he said quietly.

The captain sheathed her cutlass and walked to him, putting her hand on his tense shoulder, covered with the unfinished tattoo that matched hers. “I’m sorry.” She walked past, hardening her face into a stony glare, heading for where the crew was preparing for battle. Jabari closed the door and followed her at a distance.

The cannon room was noisy until the door pushed open crankily, revealing the captain. The crew grew hushed and silent, understanding why she was there and what happened next. She walked into the crowd, shaking hands with many of her crew, Jabari taking her place in the doorway, opening his mouth slightly and taking a deep breath.

The captain could scarcely listen to him. She didn’t want to. Such a brave man shouldn’t lose his life on a ship like this, hopeless, fighting for nothing but to show resistance. Battling to his last breath truly alive. He deserved to finish his apprenticeship and become a captain himself, sailing back and forth along the coast, terrorizing the Saracenis. The same thought went for most of these men. She put on a stern face as she shook hands, patting men on the back, murmuring things into their ears.

Life was over. Her crew was leaving. These would be her last words to them aside from battle orders. This was the end.

Dark lines seemed to engrave themselves into her face. The captain felt old. Older than any of these men. Wiser, sadder, ancient. She didn’t want to lose this.

Drinks were passed around silently, heavy wooden mugs of rum, the last of their stores, foaming at the top. The smell of alcohol splashed onto the wooden floor. They didn’t have much time, but the ship was out of range anyways. The drink was gulped down eagerly, the sailors welcoming the rush of strength and confidence coursing through their veins. The captain embraced the momentary confusion, and the barbaric, one-sided clarity afterwards. She would lose this fight, and die to this life, slaughtered by a science experiment, alone, away from her ship, from her people. But, even if she would rise a slave, she would die free.

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