Pirate Stroy – Last Voyage of the Black Betty – Chapter 2
by Craig Nybo ~ April 14, 2009
Welcome to chapter 2 of the ongoing pirate tale, Last Voyage of the Black Betty. If you didn’t already know, this pirate story has an official soundtrack, which is available for purchase. Due to the nature of blogging, the narrative of this story appears backwards in the post category. This works for those who stay up to date on the story. For those who want to catch up by reading the story in chronological order, visit this link: pirate story. Otherwise, enjoy the pirate story. Feel free to leave some feedback, good, bad, or ugly.
Last Voyage of the Black Betty
by Craig Nybo
Chapter 2
With the wind at her port beam, The Black Betty sliced through the surf, making excellent time, tacking along at an average of 8 knots. She moved like a native of the water, a fully square rigged frigate, beautiful, with a sleek, shallow hold for speed and mobility. The sun dipped in the distant, western horizon. The second dogwatch had taken control of the ship. A foursome of mid-shipmen played a spontaneous game of dice, wagering with extra shares of rum that the quartermaster had provided. The men laughed heartily as they drank some and gambled some away, careful to not slog too much down their gullets lest they lose their wits.
Captain Stark stood on the quarter-deck, his prematurely silver hair blowing in the crisp, sea-air. He leaned against the port rail and allowed the briny mist to moisten his pale, Scandinavian skin. As Captain, Stark was a unusually young, only in his early forties. But as a pirate, he had the right to throw in his lot for captain. According to the code, the crew decided by lots who would captain and where their ship would take them.
Stark felt comfortable as captain. But, as of late, he couldn’t help but view piracy as a petty endeavor. Land-lubbers believed that pirates amassed large fortunes in Spanish silver and other currencies; Stark had long learned to separate that notion from reality. Like any path to fortune, pirates worked hard for every shilling. From most merchant ships, Stark was lucky to loot a stock of precious fabric, beans, tea or grain. The business of piracy seemed to be just that, more business than adventure, more buying and selling, more diplomacy at port, and much more running and hiding than enjoying one’s profits. And when his crew had wrested the occasional big haul–pieces of 8, doubloons, gold–inevitably, they squandered it at port on whores and alcohol.
Stark wanted more; and he thought that he had found his path. He held a parchment in one weathered hand, rolled and folded once. A half a year ago, back in Barbados, while his crew had busied themselves spending their shares, engorged their bodies with runny meats and fats, while they had swilled on the most exorbitant, imported wines, Stark had met an ancient, a man simply known as Ah Kahn. He had first heard of Ah Kahn from a man he had met in French Guiana. Luca had been the man’s name, an old ex-French patriot, turned prate. Luca had told Stark about Ah Kahn.
“Last of the day-keepers,” Luca had said, “at least that’s what they call themselves in their savage tongue. A K’in is the official word for it.”
“What’s a day-keeper?” Stark had asked, buying Luca another drink.
Luca had smiled. The French man’s face had been half spoiled, his right cheek puckered with scar tissu. The tip of his smile slanded downward in into a harlequin frown. “He’s a shaman, a kind of priest. Word around Barbados is that he see’s the future.”
“Nobody can do that.”
“Word is Ah Khan is a man who can.” Luca drained the last of his ale and slammed the glass down on the chipped bar. “I’ll take another if you please.” He asked the barkeep.
Stark unrolled the parchment and looked it over. He had studied every inch of the parchment, trying to unlock it’s secrets. But it had been inked in a dying language; and it’s arcane, sketched diagrams, which Stark guessed made up a map of some sort, could not be deciphered. But there was more to the map than mere parchment and pen. The words, made up of crude hooks and daggers, seemed to beckon to Stark, to beseech him to understand them. The map had become Starks obsession, though he had quelled it. To bring superstition of any kind aboard The Black Betty could exact terrible consequences. For each man had his own set of fears, all grounded in the supernatural. They would gather and kill Stark if they suspected him of cursing the ship.
The mystery in the map, in its diagrams, in its imagery, perplexed Stark. And there was only one man in the world that Stark knew of who could read it, a man who lived at least a month and a half’s sail from where The Black Betty cut through the open seas. Stark had to somehow get back to Barbados–back to Ah Kahn.
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