Young Writers Society

"Cap'n, she's goin' down."

"Rothschild, me hearty lieutenant, aft everythin' I done, I ain't losin' me ship. Ye give these scurvy-infested swabs a taste o' the cat if ye've got to.

To land buckoes!"

The captain retired to his quarters, leaving his lieutenant in charge of getting the ship to land. Rothschild turned and bellowed.

"Drop the flying jib, pick up the winds! Get up off yer arses or I'll rip out yer hearts an' dance to the beat!"

A boy of a mere twelve years scurried past the lieutenant like a rat scared out of hiding, the sailors leaped to their feet.

"Don' letcher wife catch ye sayin' that, corsair!" One of the sailors shouted, to the amusement of his crew-mates, who chuckled but took up their stations nonetheless.

"I'll send ye to Davy Jones' locker and plunder yer coffer, ye salty blow-fish." The lieutenant growled in his already gravelly voice and began sauntering down the middle of the deck, patrolling with a cat-o’-nine-tails in his hand. He stopped, turning to point at the boy. "You there."

The boy, swigging one of the sailor's mugs of grog, put the drink down on the closest crate and stood up straight, at attention.

"Aye, ye lad. What be yer name?"

"I've no name." The boy followed his response with a slight hanging of his head.

A nearby sailor turned toward the two. "He be one o' them orphans. Wan't given no name."

A crooked grin spread over Rothschild's rough features as he gazed at the boy. "Then we'll have to give ye one, lad." He turned back toward the crew, the sailor back to his post. The boy sat watching the waves lap at the side of the hull. He began humming to the rhythm. Recalling the words to the song, he continued with the addition of the words.

"... the seas be ours,

and by the powers,

where we will, we'll roam."

The sailor's ears perked up at the young boy's voice and he joined in at the chorus with a forte bass, causing his fellow sailors to sing along.

"Yo ho, haul together,

hoist the colours high,

heave ho, thieves and beggars,

never shall we die."

The lieutenant shouted orders at the sailors consumed in song in the meantime. They obeyed, but didn't stop singing, each pulling ropes or moving to the tune.

"The bell had been raised from its watery grave,

do ye hear its sepulchral tone?

we be a call to all,

pay heed to the squall,

and turn yer sail t'ward home."

Another round of the chorus echoed across the vast sea.

"Hoist the colours high!" The boy yelled in excitement when the last line had been sung. Silence fell over the ship, the men went back to their work with heavier hearts.

High up in the mast, one man slept with his arms folded and his head cradled on the ledge of the crow's nest. A snort, a gulp, and upright posture took him at the sudden silence.

"I'm awake, I'm awake." He mumbled, reaching for his spyglass. His eyes scanned his fellow pirates on the deck below. "Eh, Farrel!" He grinned. "Ever hear a more mournful chantey?"

The man William Hawkins had sought out looked up at him.

"Nay, but the one ye'll write fer me may be, Will!"

Rothschild kicked him. "Slacken that sail any more an' I'll skewer yer gizzard as an example fer yer mates!"

"Cocky bastard." Will mused to himself, raising the glass to his eye and turning himself sternward. He squinted, shifting both glass and torso slightly to the right. "Land ho!"

The phrase worked its way up the hull like a rampant rumour unleashed amid housewives with naught better to do. The boatswain swabbing the small deck above the captain's cabin dropped his mop against the guardrail, rushing down the steps to bang on the door.

"Whaddye want?"

"Captain, we found distant shore."

The door opened and the captain stepped out from his quarters in high spirits. "Then what be ye doin' up here jawin' away at me door? Bring up a barrel o' rum. And mind the sharks down there." He gave the swabee a grin and a pat on the shoulder, then sauntered down to his crew.

"Slow the sails hads... splice the mainbrace!"

Agreements of "Yarr!" sounded and resounded around the main deck.

Will held his hand to his forehead, palm down to block the sun from his view - they were getting close. He smiled to himself, taking up his own bottle.

The twelve year old stuck his head through to the crow's nest. "Ahoy sir, but I noticed ye be differ'nt from them lot o' pirates." He indicated the men below. "A real rum fellow if I might."

Will grinned, gazing down at the boy with eyes that twinkled with laughter. "And I suppose ye think yer like them then?"

A deep frown and scowl adorned the boy's face while his head snapped back on his neck as if he'd been slapped. "Aye! A pirate at heart since me mum gave me life. I just need some time to learn s'all."

"Yer mum? She left ye, prob'ly to die, 'fore ye could remember what she looked like." He shook his head. "A seafarer maybe, but not a pirate."

The water was beginning to weigh down on the ship, the waves crashing against the side of the hull to the hole. The tops of trees began taking form to the naked eye. Will climbed down the rope ladder to join his crew-mates. "Captain, land approaches."

The captain gave his lookout an enthusiastic slap on the back. "Willum! Ye've not failed me yet. Yer the best deadlights me ship's known."

"Aye, well... I've a name for the orphan."

"What be it then?" The captain raised a brow, intrigued.

"It be a boy, and he will be a pirate."

The captain stared, responding with silence.

"Nemo." Will replied to the captain's question. He strode to the wheel where the master stood guiding the ship and its crew toward the island. The crew found themselves out at sea once more the next morning with a working, repaired ship. Albeit the unsightly chunk of repair wood, the ship was once more a beauty.

"Turn the wheel t'ward sunset. We go west!" The captain exclaimed.

Rothschild did as his captain commanded, turning the wheel sharply to the left so that his mates would feel it. The barrels left on deck slid to their opposing sides, the boatswain were forced to grab hold of ropes or nets to jump over them. Several scowled, the lieutenant simply grinned gleefully and resumed steadying the wheel.

"There be a storm brewing 'fore sun up Will."

"Oh? Why do ye think so lad?" Will raised his gaze Heavenward for signs of storm clouds or, against the time of day, the moon for its cycle. Finding neither, he turned his gaze to the boy.

"A rattling in me bones. It be a rough evenin' ahead."

Will narrowed his eyes in skepticism, but encouraged the boy anyway, "Go tell the captain... Nemo."

The boy's brows furrowed in confusion, but the expression on the man's face said he wouldn't be questioned. Nemo clambered down the ladder and began making his way to the captain's cabin.

"Grub!"

The captain flew out of his cabin at the prospect of food. Most of the crew made their way below deck, Nemo followed and Will remained at his station in the crow's nest. The master took over for Rothschild.

"Captain!" One of few sailors left on deck shouted, excitement and alarm in his voice.

"What?" The captain disliked being interrupted, particularly while he was eating.

"Sail ho! Will thinks it be privateers."

The captain stood, adjusting his patch. "All hands on deck. Grab yer blades an' rifles."

He called attention to the entirety of his ship when all had gathered on the large surface above. "There be pillaging tonight me hearties, no quarter."

Nemo picked up a cutlass, surprisingly good for his ragged image and evidently not too large for his size.

A vulture circled high above the ship, waiting for its feed.

"You be careful with that blade, lad. This be the day ye earn yer name." Will placed his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Arr!" Rothschild liked the idea.

"Prisoners?" Nemo asked, the savage look in his eyes making him appear years older.

"Nay, none." The captain fixed his eye squarely on the boy. "Dead men tell no tales."

-- Before anyone asks or comments on it, I did not write the song, I simply thought it fitting. Credit goes to Hans Zimmer. --