The Remarkable drifted across the empty ocean. The serenity of the day, low waves and an even sun, stood in stark contrast to the ship, ragged and prepared for the worst. Its sails lay hidden, tied by the countless ropes, and the small skip gently drifted with the current.
Not a sign of life graced the deck of the ship, and with the gentle movement, the water that had puddled on this deck moved with it, and the ship creaked with the changing pressure. As the sun beamed down upon it, it remained battened down for the storms, and not a sign of life graced the ship.
Only on the bottom deck did anything dare move, beneath the surprisingly cramped cargo hold, did a girl take another bite of her flour-filled meal.
She quietly lamented her lack of rations, all sat mere feet above her, as she munched on the brick of flour she relied on for the last few days. Digging through the pack that sat beside her, she shook her pitcher before taking a swig, making a face at the taste. She pushed the pitcher back to where it sat before, beneath the continual leak of water, which was the only sense of time she had in her prison.
Taste soured, she instead diverted her focus towards the aged notebook atop her legs, idly twirling her pencil before continuing her writing.
Captain’s Log, Day 51, Expedition 36
I assume it’s day 51 at least. Not sure how long I’ve been below deck, but I assume it’s been more than two days. Weather seems calm, which is acting against me, but I’m also not sure. For all I know, dark clouds loom above the horizon. In due time, someone will find me, and I just hope they think to check the below decks for any stashes. If not, I may die here, and I know my time is limited.
I stretched the day’s rations for nearly thrice as long as I wanted to. I’m starving, and yet I can only sate my ever-increasing appetite enough to stave off the weakness. At least I was lucky enough to have left one of the water barrels open, though in its spill it mixed with the salt and rain. Not the greatest I’ve had, but I suppose I’m in no position to be picky.
I suppose this whole experience has been enlightening. Next time I’m at port I’ll pick myself up a saw to stay down here. Or just add a second door to the compartment. And I now know that checking on the cargo is an activity best left for a cloudless day, and to lash the water barrels down first thing.
I wonder if making the water into tea would make it more bearable. God knows I have enough of the stuff down here. Not that I have anything to heat it with. Anything would be better than that awful mixture though. At least if this had happened on the return trip I’d have had rum, but all I have now is hundreds of boxes of tea.
Hoping for a rescue. Maybe some other smuggler will find me this close to the coast. I certainly hope so.
The lone captain shut her book, gently packing it away in her satchel, before leaning her back upon the ship’s wooden interior. She shut her eyes, and let the gentle sway of the ship guide her to rest.
Captain’s Log, Day 52?, Expedition 36
Still no news. Waves seem to be picking up though. Hope they’ll pick up more.
Captain’s Log, Day 54?, Expedition 36
Weather is calm again. Must be awfully close to the coast by now, with waters this calm. Nearly out of food
Captain’s Log, Day 57, Expedition 36
I tried mixing the tea with the ever-dwindling water supply. It wasn’t great, but it was certainly an improvement. Helps distract me from the ever-growing hunger.
I ran out of food today. Maybe eating the tea will help?
Captain’s Log, Day 58, Expedition 36
Eating the tea was fine. Not the greatest meal. Not thrilled to only eat that for the next while. Better than nothing, I suppose.
Clear weather today. I presume. Who knows anymore?
Captain’s Log, Day 60, Expedition 36
It's funny. I thought after so long sailing, the loneliness didn’t bother me. I certainly thought it didn’t. Days in the dark though, and it seems to rear its’ ugly head. I thought this journal to be enough accompaniment during voyages, but it seems the work and the sun were just as vital, and now I only write when the few rays of sunlight peak through the hull of the ship.
Even in my brief moments of solace, I still feel the same loneliness that haunted me when she left, and I stayed. Even now though, the bustling halls of the university seem so welcoming, a return to humanity. I miss it, and I miss her even more.
Captain’s Log, Day 64, Expedition 36
I told her it was mutual when she left. That we’d both fallen out of love. But I hadn’t, and in our goodbyes, I just wanted to see her leave without guilt. Without knowing how she tore my heart out. I didn’t want the guilt, for me or her. She’d fallen out of love. It was simpler to say I did too. It hurt less.
It was only a matter of time before she needed someone more exciting. Her time with me at the university was probably the longest she’d ever stayed in one place, or with one person. I guess that’s flattering in a way.
Doesn’t make me feel much better.
Captain’s Log, Day 65, Expedition 36
I never wanted to leave the university. It was home, and it was my everything. So much history; it was overflowing with ancient knowledge, and it felt right. I thought that’d be my life, working in academia until the old man croaked and I took over the company.
But my heart hadn’t been enough for her; She had to tear up the roots of my life too. I let her. I thought she had a plan. I guess she did have one, but it certainly didn’t have room for me.
Maybe that’s why the ship doesn’t seem so lonely. I have no other home, not after I left with her. Especially not after she left. There's nobody waiting for me. Probably why I’m still lost here.
Captain’s Log, Day 68, Expedition 36
I miss home. I miss the Sun, the wind, and the sky. I miss real food, and I miss real people.
I don’t think I have much left in me. I’m so tired. I’m so hungry.
I hope someone shows up soon
Captain’s Log, Day 71, Expedition 36
I guess it’ll be a ghost ship soon.
Wonder who’ll collect it.
Or if it’ll just sink.
If I’ll just sink.
The girl was barely awake. Her normally well-kept hair had fallen apart within days, and her clothes draped across her more than they had when she first set sail. Her eyelids drooped, and the bags beneath her eyes, despite her constant sleep, had only grown deeper. Her frail frame seemed to fade into the stained shirt she wore, and she huddled into it, despite the warmth of the room.
She sat the notebook down, seemingly taking all her strength to do so, and curled up on the wooden floor, wet with salty water. She felt herself drifting asleep, and she surely would’ve, if she hadn’t heard the thud of wood above her, and cautious footsteps.
She sat up, with what remained of her strength, and strained her hearing to its limits.
“Aye if what they say about this ship is true, we’ll be in for a pretty penny.” The stray voice was unfamiliar, a note of Scottish in the accent. The footsteps continued, and what sounded like boxes were shuffled across the deck immediately above her head.
“I’m not sure I believe it. She’s better at spinning a story than doing real work.” The second, posher and feminine voice, chimed in.
“There should be a trapdoor somewhere around here. That’s where she stashes the good stuff” the posh voice continued.
If she had all her wits, she would’ve rained an eyebrow. A pirate who knew her identity was rare, even rarer they saw past her disguise. Nor did she tell anyone of her stash, though she supposed it might be what would save her life. Or ends it, depending on who it was waltzing aboard her ship.
She heard the footsteps, which sounded more like a pair than a single set, move closer to the door above her. Mustering some semblance of strength or will, she managed to move herself behind a box, and poked her head above it. With a set of grunts, she hears what she presumes to be water barrels scraping across the floor, and a pause afterward.
“Aye, found it” After a brief moment, the cellar door swings open, and the hold is flooded with light. It blinds the ragged girl, and she ducks farther behind the box in response to the sudden light.
The figure whistles, looking out at the vast hold. Which one it was became clear when they spoke. “Damn. She must’ve put everything on this one. Shame we’ll never know what got her.” The Scottish voice echoed in the cramped room.
The silhouette’s head swings back up and waits for their companion to start helping them count their new bounty. Her vision hadn’t quite acclimated, the captain instead relied on counting the footsteps.
Only when she heard them round the first row did she begin.
Sudden adrenaline gives her the push she needs, and she takes it for all it has. Quickly and quietly moving across the floorboards, the splash of water gives her away, and she hears the footsteps still, and she figures she’s got 30 seconds of lead time. Silence abandoned, she pulls herself out of her former prison and closes the door. She knows that she doesn’t have enough left in her to shove the barrel back over the door, so she instead bolts for her study. Stumbling to the door, she remembered where she left the key.
With her journal. And her pack. Down in the sub-deck.
As she took a moment to think up a plan, she heard the cellar slam open, and the sudden noise filled her veins with yet more adrenaline, and she started on a new, more dangerous plan.
She sprints up the stairs towards the helm, she rushes past and vaults over the railing, flipping herself and holding on with all she has. With a swing, she shatters the window of her room and tumbles into the small room, now decorated with glass shards. Glass tearing at her skin, she pulls herself up and rushes for her weapon. She quickly loads the flintlock, while simultaneously trying to buckle the sword around her waist.
Blade firmly affixed to her side, she pulled the saber from its scabbard and readied herself. With a grim smile, she notes that once she shoots one, getting the other down would be near impossible. Back against the door, she waits for the pair to swing in the way she came, and soon enough they do.
Before the figure finished swinging, the smuggler had her pistol in her off-hand and was ready to fire. Only as the figure landed, broken glass screaming out, did she pull the trigger. As she pulled, she recognized the pirate.
She had already shot.
Straight through the heart.
It seemed fitting.
Tears ran from her face.
The familiar figure staggered back, and fell lifeless onto the bloody glass. She hadn’t even recognized her.
One of them had changed, and one of them was dead.
The second swung in, staggering on their feet. Only when they saw the corpse did they freeze.
She was really dead.
The tired smuggler expected a challenge, or a duel, from the unfamiliar pirate. They issued no such challenge and just stared wide-eyed at the corpse.
The sword clattered to the floor. Maybe the foreign pirate would take her revenge. The tired smuggler wouldn’t blame her. But she didn’t.
Had she missed her?
Or just missed home?
They both wept.
Only later did the adrenaline fade, and the exhausted sailor collapsed onto the deck.
