Walk the Plank

“A straight. That's bones. You lose again.”

Stuart's eyes sunk, crestfallen, barely hearing the gravelly voice. He stared unfocused at the barrelhead that served as a tabletop. Sure enough, the five dice each showed the requisite pips: six, five, four, three, and two. He barely heard the muted roar of the men behind him. They cheered and groaned as papers and coins migrated from losers to winners, but he didn’t notice. He only saw one paper; his own marker – his final marker - disappearing into the meaty paws of Pegleg Will, the crippled cook of The Diving Swan.

"Care to roll the bones again, lad," taunted Pegleg Will? "Oh, that's right, ye' can't. Like I always says, 'you can't pay, you can't play!" He loosed a coarse belly-laugh and announced, "who's next?"

Stuart slinked from the table. That was it; all he had. They hadn't even returned to port yet and he'd already gambled away his entire share of the loot. The crew would spend days, if not weeks, in an orgy of drunken debauchery in the legendary port of St. Cruz, and all the while he'd be sitting on the beach, a tattered sail cloth for a shelter, eating whatever shellfish he'd scrounged from the tidal pools.

The crowd parted, unwilling to even brush against Stuart as he left the game. None met his eye. Instead, they watched the action from the next sucker up to the barrelhead. Another eager crewman had already put his money down and swept the dice into the cup.

"It's alright," offered Stuart as he followed Stuart away from the game.

"Easy for you to say." He started towards his hammock and sleep.

"Yes, but things could always be worse. You may be broke but you're not in debt."

He could always count on Edward. The others mocked Stuart, calling him King, or Majesty or Highness. While they meant it as a coarse jest, Edward could tell it stung. Both had confided that they didn't really feel like they fit in with the crew. Neither one wanted to sail on the account, but through various awkward circumstances, life had thrown them aboard The Diving Swan. They certainly enjoyed the adventure that came with it, to say nothing of the prize money that came with a successful voyage. Like so much in life, they resigned themselves to take the good with the bad.

Edward had made his way to Virginia as an indentured servant, only to meet abuse and broken promises from his master. The master bragged about treating the slaves better than Edward. After all, he owned the slaves. He just rented Edward, not to mention that in Edward he trained his future competition. If something happened to a slave, the master lost out his investment. On the other hand, if something happened to Edward, the master received fifty additional acres of land as compensation. The master made no secret that he preferred the land. With that in mind, Edward didn't think twice about leaving.

He'd stowed away on a merchant ship, not realizing that the captain was also the brother of the Lord of the Manor. When he revealed himself, the captain imprisoned him belowdecks. Edward's fortune finally turned for the better somewhere off the coast of Charlestown where The Swan captured the merchant. They offered him the chance to join The Swan's crew and he didn't hesitate. They bolstered his loyalty when they treated the merchant captain and his crew harshly as punishment for his imprisonment. They killed the captain, seized the ship and all its cargo, and set the crew adrift in its tender.

Things got somewhat better for Edward after that. He had an easy life aboard The Swan. They rarely stayed at sea for extended periods, so the food was usually good, the water fresh, and the rum plentiful. Mostly they ate and drank what they captured, or they supplemented it with fish and turtles. Even the work was reasonable - any captain who tried to run his ship like a navy vessel would find himself voted out of office. Most importantly, he made great money. He got a full share, just like every other sailor in the crew.

He could only think of two negatives. First, the moment he added his name to The Articles, he became an outlaw and would be killed if he were caught. He could never return to civilization, not ever. He could leave the crew at the end of any voyage with no animosity, but society would hang him for his crimes if he tried to return to a normal life. That left him stuck as a member of the crew, and the crew were the other negative. Veteran sailors, most had sailed with Captain Scarlett for many years. To them, he was just another outsider. Only Stuart spoke to him in any sort of social manner. Otherwise, conversation was perfunctory, and work related. He'd planned to take his share and leave The Swan when it made port. With any luck, he'd catch on with a more jovial crew. He'd hoped to convince Stuart to do the same. Now that Stuart had gambled away his share, he'd need to get back to sea, but maybe a different ship would change his fortune.

A few feet away, Stuart lay in his own hammock. Oddly enough, he also mulled over how he'd stumbled into a life on the account. He certainly never dreamed of being a criminal when he grew up. He dreamed of running a tavern, or even a small inn. Stuart envisioned a place where locals and travelers alike could share drinks and news and stories, but with a few rooms in back for the overnight guests. The serving girls would, of course, make full use of those rooms as well. He'd get a cut for allowing them to use the room, and he would, of course, have to sample the wares when he so desired. But a tavern costs money, and all Stuart knew was the sea, so he signed aboard a merchant ship, intending to save his wages and in a few years maybe the dream tavern would come to life.

The Royal navy changed all that. On one trip, a navy ship stopped them on the pretense of "inspection." In truth, Stuart and two other crewmen were impressed; that is, the navy forced them to join on the spot. The Navy treated its sailors so poorly that they had to resort to this sort of legalized kidnapping just to maintain a crew. Men constantly died from the inhuman conditions, and those who didn't die often deserted any time a ship reached port. At his first chance, Stuart deserted, too. When the ship set anchor in the newly completed harbor of St. John, Antigua, Stuart took his chance. After dark he grabbed a piece of scrap lumber from belowdecks, tossed it overboard, and when neither sailor nor shark reacted to the splash, he followed it into the warm tropical waters. When he surfaced, he found the board, clung to it, and kicked to shore.

It was not safe to enter St John and act natural and try to start a life. The Navy would be searching for him. Instead, he entered after dark, sat outside the taverns and listened through the window for what scraps of information he could learn. It took a few days, and a few close calls where he almost got captured, but he ultimately learned that The Navy controlled St. John. The navy, not commerce made up most of the ship traffic. It seemed Falmouth, on the southern side of the island, held most of the commercial traffic. Armed with that knowledge, Stuart tightened his belt and set about walking through the jungle to Falmouth.

Antigua was small, yet rugged. On flat land, a man could run the distance between St. John and Falmouth in a matter of a few hours, yet it took Stuart a full day to make the trek. What he'd overheard described as a path turned out to be little more than a game trail, but it did lead him to the right destination. Yet when he reached the crest of the final hill, his heart sank. Before him he saw a beautiful harbor that lay devoid of ships. He saw no fort. He saw no wharf. He saw no town at all; merely a cluster of scrawny huts. Yet if nothing else, the Navy would never find him here.

It turned out Falmouth wasn't the town at all, but rather it was the name of the bay. To the extent that the cluster of shacks had a name, it was called English Town. While the harbor happened to be empty when Stuart first saw it, it did see a steady trickle of ship traffic. Most of them were looking to resupply and repair without attracting notice of the officials in St. John. The first ship to arrive was The Diving Swan and Stuart did not hesitate to sign on.

Now he'd lost his entire share of the prize money from this voyage. He'd given serious thought to asking Edward to partner with him on the tavern, but he'd need to recoup his money first. That meant another tour with The Swan. He shared Edwards sense of isolation from the rest of the crew. All they had was each other. Stuart shuddered just thinking about the risks associated with another voyage. Each time they struck at their prey, men could die, possibly him. He would do his job, but he knew he wasn't cut out for this kind of work. On the other hand, now that he'd seen the new world, he thought his tavern could be even more successful here. He'd heard wonderous stories of Port Royal, and how there were supposed to be more brothels than citizens. He'd seen firsthand how easily these men parted with their coins. As former comrades, they would find welcome in his tavern, and their silver would be especially welcome. He damn sure wouldn't lose his next share rolling bones.

Sleep would not come for Stuart. Next to him, the calm swells of the sea and the familiar gentle groans of the ships timbers soon had Edward drifting off to sleep. Even the visions of silver and whores couldn't ease his troubled mind. They were merely the dream of a bankrupt fool. He lie awake thinking. Any crew who were on duty at this time of night would be on deck or in the rigging. Most of the crew chose to sleep in the cool air beneath the stars. The fact that he and Edward slept belowdecks reaffirmed their lack of status on The Swan. Anyone else below should, he thought, be sound asleep by now. Nobody would notice if he crept over to Pegleg Will's sea chest. If he were quiet, he could open it, retrieve his markers, and destroy them. When it came time for Pegleg to collect he'd have no proof.
As cook, Pegleg had a duty station in the middle of the ship, in its galley. Unlike the royal navy, the crew ate well here. If a sailor wanted something to eat, he could have it, if he didn't shirk his duties or abandon his watch to get it. The sound of a man sneaking into the galley for a late-night snack wouldn't be any more alarming than the sound of a man dropping his breeks and aiming his backside out a gun port. And Pegleg likely wouldn't be in the galley at night. Once the evening meal was finished, he needed to extinguish the fire in the hearth, but then he usually went topside and slept in the fresh air. Pegleg kept his sea chest locked, they all did, but here Stuart thought he might finally have a lucky break. He'd seen the sea chest many times and, more importantly, seen its lock. The lock appeared to be the exact same lock as what Stuart used himself on his own sea chest. It was an inexpensive lock and would keep away the curious, but a determined individual could force it open. He thought... he hoped... that the lock was so flimsy that he'd be able to use his own key to open it.
Stuart placed his feet on the smooth deck and waited. No one else stirred. Open gun ports eased the usual belowdecks odors of flatulence and decay, but only slightly. The ports served as windows and allowed the slight breeze to cool and ventilate the ship. Outside, he could hear the steady rush of the sea each time the bow dipped. It continued in a steady rhythm with each ocean swell. Up above, someone snored the great bellowing wheezes of a dying bull. Now or never.

He padded softly into the galley. The moonlight shining through the ports allowed him just enough light. He didn't have a candle and even if he did, he wouldn't use it. That would attract notice, or worse, burn down the ship. His feet gripped brick floor tiles as he entered the open galley area. The bricks floor, though heavy, added one more protection against the threat of fire.

A cauldron of leftover soup remained in the hearth. Stuart stuck a finger in the soup and licked it, savoring the flavor of the precious pepper they'd stolen a while back. He'd never tasted pepper until this voyage, and he couldn't get enough. That kings would fight wars over the stuff seemed perfectly normal to him once he'd had a taste. He thought of trying to take a measure and hide it in his powder box but dismissed it. He wasn't sure where in the galley Pegleg kept the pepper, nor did he have anything to keep it in. He could go to the slop chest and tear a rag off some discarded clothing, but he'd still need to find the pepper. Too risky. Stick to the plan, grab the markers, and get out.
He spotted the sea chest easily, nailed to the deck where it could be used as a seat or a workspace. All the men nailed their chests to the deck, as it prevented them from sliding during heavy seas. The nails would be pulled, and the chests stowed in the hold when the ship prepared for combat. Stuart approached the chest, squatted, and took his own key from around his neck. If this didn't work, he'd have to find a way to steal Pegleg's key and he had no plan for that. He stuck the key in the lock. Moment of truth. He tried to turn it, and nothing happened. He twisted the other way and still nothing. With a heavy sigh he shook the key. It turned! A little more pressure and the familiar click. The lock was open!

He opened the lid and peered in. A brace of pistols, a powder box, and a tinder box all lay on top for quick access. He placed them on the deck, and next removed a heavy greatcoat and a few more items of surplus clothing. At the bottom of the chest lay three oilcloths. He unwrapped the first to find a bible, which he re-wrapped and set aside. The second contained fabric. Upon further inspection he realized he was looking at several pairs of very large women's underdrawers. He certainly hadn't known THAT about Pegleg. That left the final cloth. If the markers weren't protected inside it, he didn't know what he'd do. He took a deep breath and unwrapped the oilcloth. Sure enough, it was filled with dozens of slips of paper, noting all the money Pegleg had won, not just from Stuart but from many others in the crew as well. Each scrap contained names and denominations, some specified coins and others fractions of shares.

Stuart began sifting through them, pulling out the ones with his own familiar mark. Then it dawned on him. He could take them all! He wouldn't keep them, there'd be no way to collect. But if he destroyed all the markers, Pegleg would have no idea who to blame. He'd throw them all into the sea.

"Hey!" a voice bellowed, "what's going on over there?"

His heart sank as several pairs of heavy feet stomped towards him. Several hands grabbed him, their coarse callouses scratching his arms as he was manhandled towards the deck.

"Someone wake The Quartermaster!"

The sailors manhandled him up to the deck. Groggily, the quartermaster emerged.

"Caught 'im red-handed," the sailor informed him. "Went down to the galley to get me a bite and there His Royal Majesty, rummaging through Pegleg Will's chest."

The Quartermaster looked at Stuart and pulled the oilcloth from his hands. Stuart instantly regretted not dropping the markers belowdecks, but it likely wouldn't have mattered. The quartermaster continued to stare and just shook his head as Stuart couldn't meet his gaze.
"Tie him to the mast, and back to your duties. He gets a trial, but it will wait until morning."

Those who were on duty returned to their stations, and the rest returned to bed, but none slept. The next morning couldn't arrive fast enough for the crew. Short of taking a prize, or weathering a storm, it didn't get more exciting than this; and all without the crew having to put their lives at risk.

The next morning, the ships carpenter assembled a makeshift desk on the deck. The Captain and Quartermaster sat behind it. The Quartermaster would serve as judge, run the trial, and impose sentence. The crew would serve as an informal jury, but their wishes were not automatically followed. The Quartermaster could overrule them. Likewise, the Captain would likely do nothing, but if he sensed injustice, he could in turn overrule the Quartermaster. In that case, the Captain's word was absolute. Nothing short of a mutiny could change the ruling.
Miles Harper, the quartermaster, had spent his life at sea, mostly sailing on account. His enormous height and equally sizable girth allowed him to manhandle the guns but spared him a career in the rigging. He'd seen the markers in Stuart's hands just like the rest of the crew. He also knew that The Articles they'd all signed specifically proscribed death for anyone caught stealing on the ship. As quartermaster, he had responsibility for the men, and Stuart was still one of the men so that obligation extended to him as well. He didn't particularly care for the new man, but he would still be fair. The men didn't like Stuart either, but they'd remember any mistreatment. Next time it could be one of them, and they'd all remember. Part of the allure of sailing on the account is the tremendous freedom afforded the men, but those few rules applied to everyone and must be applied fairly. The surest way to lose control of the crew as to treat even the least of them unfairly. Even the appearance of unfairness, accurate or not, could turn the ships mood against its captain. If he played favorites, he could lose his position as quartermaster and possibly even find himself marooned. So, Harper prepared himself both any surprises that might arise, and a hard decision if they didn't.

The Captain and Quartermaster made their way to the desk and sat. Without waiting for a summons, the crew all gathered. Even the rope rats kept one eye and both ears on the trial.

"Untie the prisoner, give him water, and bring him here." Harper commanded.

"Who makes the accusation?" he continued.

"I does," a voice announced. A sailor stepped forward. "I awoke to make water and before I went back to sleep, I slipped down to the galley to see what I might eat."

"You mean to see about a spot 'o rum!" a voice interrupted.

"Well, who doesn't like a spot 'o rum?" the sailor continued. "Well, I get to the galley and there he is, only he's got Pegleg's - that is Will's - chest open, stuff laying everywhere and his hands full of something. We bring him upstairs and fetch you and you saw it yourself, he had all Wills markers in his hands. He was stealing all the money Will made playing bones."

"What about you, Will? Do you have anything to add?"

"I never did care for 'im. Squirrely one, His Majesty, and a lousy dice thrower. Sad really, he wouldn't take the hint and stop rolling the bones until he had nothing left."

"Anyone else care to speak?"

The deck erupted in sound as the crew all tried to yell over each other. Harper tried to isolate individual voices but heard nothing of substance.

"ENOUGH!" he yelled, quieting the crew, "Any of you mangy dogs have anything important to add?

The rabble quieted and Harper turned to Stuart. "What have ye' to say for yourself?"

"It ain't fair! He took my whole share. I work as hard as any man on this crew and for what? For nothing! And nobody even cares. And not just me, either. He wins against everyone else too. How soon before you have more broke men on the crew? Who's to say the next time someone won't put a knife in his belly? We all know the dice are loaded!"

With that the crew erupted again.

"SILENCE!"

"That's a bold accusation. Will, would you care to answer it?"

"The dice ain't loaded. He's just a lousy player. And anyone who wants to knife me? Well, go ahead and try."

"Stuart, do you have anything else?"

He thought for a moment and remembered, "the Pegleg wears woman's drawers, sire! I saw 'em in his trunk!"

This time the crew's eruption was deafening.

"This is absurd," responded Pegleg once order had been restored, "you know as well as I do, sire, that they were part of my share from that twin-mast last year with all the cloth. I just ain't had time to sell 'em yet. We need to make port in a place with more women so I can sell 'em."

Stuart's heart sank as the crew roared their assent at a port of call with numerous women.

"Anything else?" The Quartermaster asked.

Stuart had nothing.

"Stand fast. I'll return in a few moments with my verdict."

The quartermaster then went belowdecks. When he returned, he had a leg of cold fowl in his hand. The fowl was, at best, questionable, giving off an odor that, while not quite rancid, certainly revealed that it was not the freshest piece of meat. He walked to the rail and started peeling off chunks of half-rancid fowl, tossing the meat overboard. The bone followed. In a matter of seconds, the ominous shapes of dorsal fins pierced the water's surface. Every man recognized the beasts. Sharks. They followed The Swan - and every other ship - constantly, feeding on whatever scraps and offal made their way overboard. With the water chummed, The Quartermaster returned to his place behind the desk.

"The evidence is clear. I find you guilty. Before I give a sentence, does anyone wish to speak on your behalf?"

The crew remained silent. A few, including the Quartermaster, looked to Edward to speak.

"Ye got anything to say to yer mate?”

He opened his mouth to say something but had no words and meekly hung his head, ashamed that he couldn't even beg for mercy for his friend. At the last moment he summoned a reserve of courage and spoke.

"You all hated him for no reason. You stole his share of the proceeds. Yes, he tried to take them back, but that doesn't mean he deserves to die."

The Quartermaster waited until he was sure Edward had finished, and when no one else offered to speak, he announced the punishment.
"Every man here has signed The Articles. Every man here knows what they say and agreed to abide by them and made his mark to attest his willingness. The Articles spell it out. The penalty for theft is death. No man should take any pleasure from today's events, but nor is there any reason to deviate from The Articles.

"If I may, I have an idea," said The Carpenter. "I've always wanted to try this. Let's nail a plank to the deck, blindfold him, and make him walk off the edge."

"That's a waste of time." The Quartermaster answered. "The sentence has been announced and will be executed immediately. Let’s get this over with." He grabbed Stuart by the scalp and the breeks, which he'd soiled. Harper dragged him to the rail and gave a single heave.
Edward saw flailing limbs as he turned his head away. He heard the scream even after averting his gaze. The scream ended with a loud slap as Stuart hit the water. Edward couldn't help but look as the water exploded in crimson violence. Fins and teeth churned the sea as sharks dashed in for bite after bite. They even attacked each other, feasting on weaker sharks long after Stuart disappeared. As quickly as it started, it was over, and only a pale pink froth marked the end of his friend.

Then it was over. Without a word, and seemingly without a care, the crew returned to their tasks. Death was just another part of life on the sea. "I'll do one more voyage," Edward thought, "I don't have a choice; but a pirate's life is not for me."