It’s not that I’m not grateful to those who helped me get here, because heaven forfend I remain where I was. But at times I do truly wonder why this little box was not just a tad larger. Or this terrible voyage not just a little smoother. But, I know better than to complain. The box is how it is so that it will be unnoticed. And I knew going in the voyage would be less than pleasant. It is the destination I seek. To vanish, so far from the overbearing eyes that I will be forgotten. And, in the new world we have, perhaps that vanishing act can make my life better as well. Well, that was the hope in any case. Still is, assuming we make it across this sea. But if this boat’s great captaining through that last storm is any indication, I don’t think that will happen. No, I find it much more likely by this time next week, I shall be clinging for dear life to some barrel or swath or plank of hull, hoping the currents and winds are just right to get me to any sort of isle before I starve. But, this is not the worst position my family has been in. We’ve been forced to move before. It only happens every five, ten generations, but we have. Our history begins in Italy, during Roman times, supposedly. Though all I know is that my great-great-and-so-on grandmother moved from some minor principality in Eastern Europe, to France. She helped out an army some, and after a few years, settled down in a small village in the Pyrenees that she helped liberate. It’s been about two hundred years there. Longer than some, probably. Not as long as others. Such is our family curse, according to my father.
It is around this point that my thoughts are interrupted quite suddenly, like most interruptions are. The method, however, is less common. A loud explosion, which I fear might be thunder, happens just outside the ship’s hull. I am quickly disabused of that notion, as the continuing explosions are swiftly accompanied by the shattering of wood. If I am to venture a guess, we’ve made it to the new world, and our reception is somewhat less than pleased with that fact. Or the ship simply looks particularly laden with goods and someone believes it worth the effort.
It’s around the third chorus of explosions and cracking wood that a few more sounds join in. The shouts, quieter, higher explosions, and clangings of metal against metal. Sounds I am much more familiar with than the deeper explosions from the… cannon I figure. The final of the cannon’s volleys echoes out, and comes far closer than I would like, tearing a corner of my small but safe little box clean away, pulling the connected planks along its path. Cracks and splinters galore. Unfortunate, long term. I best find a new place to hide, one not quite as open to those I am and shall be hiding from would be ideal.
Kicking out the now shattered wall of my box, I head out into the hold. It’s dark, the only light being what shines through the fractured hull. Looking around, the hull seems much more full than it was when I got aboard. Sliding the crow out from my shattered box, I begin to make my way around the hull, opening boxes I deem large enough ever so slightly, to make sure the contents are expendable. Other than the boxes of foodstuffs near where I had been hiding, the stored away goods are not quite what I expect them to be. Instead of the expected seeds, and currency, perhaps some livestock, what I find is the makings of a fortification. Or, the more machined elements of one, in any case. Cast gun barrels, stowed musketry, and gunpowder. Lots of gunpowder. Explains why the fighting is taking so long, these people are well armed and aren’t going to be eager to surrender. Unfortunately, that also means many of the boxes large enough for me to fit in have contents too heavy for me to remove quietly.
The noises of the fight grow closer. That’s not good. That means they seek the contents of the hold, they don’t simply hate the French. Which means the fight may well continue into the hold. Normally fine, but I am in the hold, and would really prefer neither side to find me. I continue around the hold. The extent of what I find is more powder, more cannon, and some small chests.
As I look, the door to the hold bursts open. One of the French sailors falls through it. He’s followed by someone who looks quite savage and vaguely Spanish. Probably a privateer of some sort. Also, from his dress, not the one in charge. The sailor looks at me, standing before a box with a crowbar, and shouted out, “THIEF!”
I understand two simple facts. One, that is certainly what this looks like. And two, explaining the situation would do nothing to change my situation. So, instead of dying or waiting to be executed, I suppose it is time to act. I am quite good at acting. Good enough that I had to leave my old family home in a hurry. Heading towards them, I tell him, “Look out, the Spaniard’s about to strike.” The French man brings up his sword to block the Spanish strike. They both seem somewhat confused. It’s an old family saying, “Defeating the enemy of your enemy helps an enemy succeed. Aiding their success also helps an enemy succeed. But putting the fear into them, that makes them more dangerous. And more likely no enemies truly succeed.” That, and I need the pair distracted. Coming up behind the French sailor, I strike him hard across the back of the head with my crow. Before he’s fallen to the ground, I drop the crow and grab his sword, removing it from the block. The privateer’s blade, no longer being engaged, thunks deep into the Frenchman’s unconscious body. This strike, though defeating his opponent, leaves the privateer open and I thrust the French blade through the privateer’s heart. A clean kill. I can hear more people coming though. It seems the shout of thief was heard. Oh well. Perhaps it is better this way. Cleaner. Get the past out of the way before I make it to the new world.
If they think me a thief, perhaps I become one of a sort. I shove a couple cans of food into a couple of my bandolier’s pockets, and fill a waterskin with grog. Taking one of the small chests, with the hope it has some value, I push it into my belt. Then, it is time to head up the stairs. Drawing the pair of blades out from the pair of corpses, I walk confidently out from the hold and into the lower decks. There are quite a few French soldiers waiting. “I am not your enemy, at the moment,” I half whisper, just loud enough to be heard over the din of battle.
“Surrender, thief,” One says.
My response is saved by the chaos above coming into the decks below. A bunch of privateers burst into the deck, hollering and yelling. The prepared soldiers turn about fast and fire at the newer intruders. Perfect. I may be good, but trained people with guns already aiming is a situation beyond even my capabilities. For the most part. I figure the one who spoke is the one in charge of this group. He’s looking away at the moment, but his pistol is still aimed towards me. I throw the French blade from my left hand at him. It surprises him. What surprises him even more is the fact that I charge just behind the blade. Wrenching the pistol from his dying hand, I fire it off at one of the charging privateers. He screams in pain as the French sailors who do not notice my action charge the privateers, and those who do notice me drop their rifles and draw blades. Pulling the sword out from the dying man’s chest, I throw both at the approaching foes. Taking the nicer sword from his belt, I charge towards the stairs up to the main deck. In my way is a pair of foes, fighting one another. Smashing my elbow into one, I knock their sword from their hand. Grabbing it, I skewer them both, and toss the pair off the stairs. Onwards and upwards, and the corpses should slow my pursuers.
I burst forth onto the deck. I could see in an instant, the privateers hadn’t gotten below decks by winning. They were fleeing. The captain, while not particularly skilled at captaining the ship, looks well at home leading men to glory and death. I begin to walk across the somewhat foggy ship. A privateer tries to rush past me. I cut him down. Taking his pistol, I fire at a soldier standing between me and the escape boats. He falls and I toss the empty gun aside. Unfortunately, it seems the privateering captain also noticed his side losing. The cannons begin firing again. One ball shatters the boat I am headed towards. Less than ideal. I look around. They’re going to sink the ship. Whether intentional or not, random fire into this powder keg is not good. I need to be as far away from the powder as possible when that happens.
I hurry without running towards the mainmast. Running leaves you vulnerable. Someone tries to stop me. I don’t even bother looking for the man’s colors, I simply draw his dagger and stab it through his temple, then remove the blade without breaking stride. Ideal. Climbing will be faster this way. Taking my pair of blades, I leap up, jamming them into the wood of the mast. Removing the sword, I clench my abdominals and pull myself up. Then I raise the sword arm as high as it goes and jab it into the wood. Removing the dagger, I pull myself up slightly and swing about in a semicircle, stabbing it even higher into the mast. I continue this swinging climb, one side, then the other. Over and over again. At the fourth swing, a cannonball hits the mast. It starts to crack and fall over. Away from both ships. I have a chance to escape. The mast begins to fall over. My swinging climb becomes a simple anchoring crawl, and as the slope becomes manageable, a run. The man in the nest also notices it is falling, and climbs out onto the mast to go the opposite direction. Another getting in my way. No longer needing the dagger to climb, I whip it out of my hand towards his groin. By the time it reaches him, it strikes his stomach. Some combination of the pain and the surprise causes him to fall off the thinning mast. Making it to the nest as the mast has nearly come flat, I begin hacking at the mast itself. I know the fancy blade will not cut it in time, but ideally, it can cause enough scoring that the impact of the mast and the deck of the ship will break it.
Things do not exactly go as planned. The scoring is deep enough to crack it, but it doesn’t break. In addition, I see from my new position at deck level, a fire has started below decks. I do not have the time to find a new way out. I do get one lucky break. Quite literally. The deck, with whatever structural damage has happened, collapses under the weight of the mainmast. I hack away once more. There is another impact to come that can break the crow’s nest from the mast. I smash my blade against the cracks, hoping to weaken the wood beneath further.
The mast hits the water, nest first. It does break off. Unfortunately, only after a portion of the crow’s nest shatters too. Climbing aboard my makeshift escape craft, I grab one of the shattered boards and push off from the mast. Drifting away, I watch as the expected happens and the vessel, which I traveled across the ocean to the new world aboard, explodes in a fiery ball of death. If I cared more about those men, or my old country, I might look into how the Spanish privateers knew when the boat was coming and what it carried. But I am moving on from my past, moving forwards. And worrying about that isn’t moving on.
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