Fate of the Mary

Fate of Mary

In the bygone era of the high seas, often referred to as the Age of Pirates, the Royal Navy vessel known as the "HMS MARY" sailed through the dark, perilous waters of the southern seas—a notorious pirate stronghold. "HMS MARY" was the crown jewel of the Southern Navy, a formidable frigate designed explicitly for hunting pirates.

The "HMS MARY," a three-masted frigate with gleaming black cannons, was adorned with the Southern Navy's crest, featuring a roaring lion rampant. Its sails, made from sturdy canvas, fluttered in the night wind, illuminated by the pale glow of a few lanterns scattered across the deck. The ship's timeworn wooden planks creaked rhythmically with the ebb and flow of the sea, and the scent of salt and seaweed hung in the air.

On this frigid and eerie night, unease permeated the crew as they navigated these treacherous waters. Hushed whispers about the notorious pirates filled the air.

The crew, huddled beneath the dim lamplight on the upper deck, clung to barrels and crates, their faces partially obscured by the dark clouds of their breath in the cold night air. They were dressed in weather-worn naval uniforms, their fingers nervously tracing patterns on the rough-hewn barrels they sat upon.

"Has the captain lost his mind? Doesn't he realize we've ventured into pirate-infested waters?" one sailor muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Indeed, the tales of these fearless pirates send shivers down my spine," another crewmember added. "And have you heard of Bloody Sam and his vessel, the Red Rose? Rumor has it they've left not a single soul breathing on the ships they've plundered," yet another chimed in, amplifying the collective fear.

Amidst this shadowy backdrop, a mysterious figure in a tattered hood, a chiseled jawline, and an enigmatic grin interrupted the anxious group. He leaned against a coil of thick rope, his silhouette merging with the night's darkness.

The hooded man stepped into a dim circle of lamplight, revealing the worn planks of the deck beneath his worn boots. The feeble glow played tricks with his features, making him appear even more enigmatic. "I've heard that Bloody Sam sports a wooden leg and a face resembling an octopus with tentacles," the hooded man said with a wry smile.

The crew grew even more unnerved. Around them, stacked barrels and crates bore witness to their tension. Nets and coiled ropes were strewn about, evidence of the ship's ongoing activities.

"Is that true?" someone from the group asked, his breath forming a small cloud in the chilly air.

The hooded figure, who went by the name Jax, replied cryptically, "Legends are spun from whispers, my friends. What you choose to believe is what becomes real. How do you think tales are told when there are no survivors to tell them?"

As the crew continued their conversation, a warning bell rang out, jolting their nerves. A brass bell, polished despite the harsh maritime conditions, hung from a wooden beam, its toll echoing eerily across the ship. The crewman who rang it was stationed near the ship's prow, where the flagpole with the Union Jack fluttered in the night breeze.

A crew member stationed on the mast lookout shouted, "A ship is approaching, Captain!"

The captain, clad in a regal naval coat with gleaming epaulets, stood on the quarterdeck, where the ship's wheel was positioned. The faint light from a lantern at his side illuminated his stern expression. He inquired about the ship's identity, and the reply was delivered with trembling voice, "It bears a black flag, Captain. It's a pirate ship."

The captain wasted no time, his leather boots thudding against the wooden planks as he moved purposefully across the quarterdeck. He was surrounded by navigational instruments, charts, and the ship's wheel, and the sea breeze ruffled the pages of the nautical charts displayed there. The stars above were obscured by thick, rolling clouds.

The pirate ship drew closer and unleashed its first volley, the deafening roar of the cannons shattering the night's eerie silence. The Royal Navy frigate, designed for offense but lacking in defense, suffered another devastating hit. The deafening boom of the cannon fire filled the air, reverberating across the deck and leaving a haze of acrid smoke in its wake.

The pirates, their faces obscured by black bandanas, their tattered clothing marked with the scars of countless battles, had chosen their moment wisely. The pirate boarding parties, swinging on ropes and wielding cutlasses, launched their hooks and ropes, initiating a brutal hand-to-hand combat that sent shockwaves through the crew.

Chaos erupted on the ship, with barrels and crates knocked askew as the crew fought for their lives. The sound of clashing swords, the shouts of men, and the pained cries of the wounded created a nightmarish symphony.

The captain, his normally confident demeanor shattered, stood on the quarterdeck, the ship's wheel slipping through his trembling hands. He watched in helpless despair as the pirates closed in.

The pirates successfully boarded the vessel, their boots thudding on the wooden planks. They brandished cutlasses and pistols, their blackened eyes gleaming with malevolent intent. The "HMS MARY," once a symbol of naval power, had been invaded.

Amidst the mayhem, the captain grappled with despair, uncertain of how to counter this nocturnal assault. The ship's wheel, its polished wood marked by the captain's fingerprints, seemed as if it had lost its purpose.

The pirates made their way through the smoky haze, silhouetted by the flickering lamplight that struggled to illuminate the chaos. Barrels of supplies were overturned, their contents spilled across the deck. Coils of ropes and pulleys dangled ominously, swaying with each lurch of the ship.

The pirate captain, known as Hector, swaggered onto the "HMS MARY." He wore a long, tattered coat adorned with mismatched buttons and trophies from previous conquests. Hector's boots echoed ominously as he ascended to the quarterdeck, his gaze fixed upon the beleaguered royal navy ship.

"This is the pride of the Royal Navy?" he spat, his words punctuated by the crackling of the lanterns on the quarterdeck.

Below deck, where the captured cargo was stored, the pirates had discovered barrels of rum and provisions. Rusty chains and pulleys hung from the low ceilings, remnants of a time when the ship's cargo hold had held valuable goods. Now, those barrels were being rolled out by the pirates, who were relishing their spoils.

"Bring me the survivors, quartermaster," Hector ordered.

The surviving crew members, their hands bound in ropes, were lined up before Hector. The pirates, their eyes gleaming with malicious glee, observed the proceedings from various corners of the deck. A row of cannons, their black muzzles pointed toward the sky, stood silent witness to the grim scene.

Jax observed the proceedings from the shadows, his hood pulled low over his forehead. The moonlight filtered through a small gap in the ship's rigging, casting a faint, spectral glow on his features.

As the tension mounted, Hector took a sinister turn. "Fetch me a pistol," he ordered his crew. A crew member produced the firearm, and Hector issued a chilling command. "You see, mate, I don't recruit former navy officers. It's against our code. And I leave only one man alive to tell the tale, and it won't be you. You have a choice: end your own life, or I'll end it for you in a way that will haunt you even in the afterlife."

One by one, the survivors reluctantly complied, taking their own lives at Hector's command. Only two remained, and among them was Jax. Hector turned to him, inquiring, "Are you afraid of death?"

Jax, ever enigmatic, replied, "Perhaps, mate, that's a question you should be asking yourself."

"You're brave, I'll give you that, boy," Captain Hector sneered, a sinister glint in his eyes. "But your words won't save you."

Jax, undaunted, suddenly hurled a dart from his mouth with uncanny precision, striking Hector in the neck. The crew watched in bewilderment as the captain staggered, clutching his wound.

The attack was so sudden and unexpected that it left everyone at a loss for words. "Give me the gun, and I'll end him myself," Hector seethed in anger.

"The least of your worries should be a gunshot, mate, because that dart is coated with Arakh poison," Jax calmly revealed.

"Arakh poison? The northern islands, impenetrable tribe, they don't let anyone in those islands, It's not possible" Hector muttered.

Jax grinned cryptically. " You are right captain, but where do you think I come from"

"The poison is slow-acting," Jax continued, "You'll rot before you die, and I'm the only one who knows how to cure it."

Hector's anger raged, and if not for Jax's leverage, he might have acted on his murderous impulses. But he couldn't afford to kill the only person who held the antidote to his doom.

"Tell me what you want in return—money, treasure, or something else?" Hector demanded.

"First, free me from these ropes, mate," Jax replied.

"Free the gentleman!" Hector ordered his crew, who hastened to release Jax from his bonds.

"I'm not interested in money, my friend," Jax said, rubbing his wrists. "What I want is you and your ship, the 'Red's Death.'"

"What do you intend to do with my ship, boy?" Hector inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"Why don't we discuss it aboard the 'Red's Death'? I'm famished, and it seems we'll be spending a lot of time together," Jax suggested.

Hector gave the order to his crew to gather the cargo from the 'Mary,' leaving only one survivor. Jax, unexpectedly, turned and shot the last survivor in the head. Hector stared at him, taken aback by the cold-blooded act.

"I don't want this tale to be told, mate," Jax stated firmly.

With the cargo collected and the lone survivor silenced, the crew left the 'Mary' behind and sailed off into the inky darkness aboard the 'Red's Death.'

To be continued....