C9 Chapter 2-1

Oh whiskey straight, and whiskey strong,

Give me some whiskey and I’ll sing you a song,

If whiskey comes too near my nose,

I tip it up and down she goes.

“Land ho,” the lookout bellowed from atop his perch, the joyous call filling the crew in a frenzy of excitement. They scrambled to the railings, pushing and shoving their brethren aside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the approaching mass of Earth.

Caesar’s nose flared to a scowl as he watched his crew scuttle about. He took a swig from his bellbottom bottle before making his march across the deck. “Who said the lot of you could leave your post?” His gravelly voice commanded in a guttural scream.

“Back to work!?”

His lips twirled to a sour smirk as the crew leapt to his call. He glared over them, observing their movements, searching out a victim for his abuse.

The cabin boy caught his attention. The small child shivering with fright as he rushed to grab his mop. Caesar’s grin widened as he slinked across the deck, his heavy boots thumping across the wooden boards. He stopped short of the boy, towering behind him as the boy’s tiny arms maneuvered the thin rod. His hot breath seared the back of the boy’s neck as he lifted the bottle over the boy’s head.

A river of maroon liquid poured out from the bottle’s neck, drenching the top of the boy’s head. The boy shuddered as his dark curls matted to his face, yet he continued his work with his head hung low, swabbing the damp mop back and forth atop the deck.

“You missed a spot,” the tyrant cackled as the liquid dripped from the boy’s shoulder to the floor.

“Yes, sir,” the boy stuttered. “Right away, sir.”

“Please do,” the pirate said with a growl, before shoving the child to the side. He danced over the puddle, his long strides leading him across the deck to the port side railing. He pulled a long bronze cylinder from his belt, extending the metal tube as he brought it to his eye. Land was indeed on the horizon, and approaching rapidly. The hunt would soon begin.

“Caesar,” his master called from behind. His raucous voice bringing each small hair on the back of his neck to stand on end.

“Ready a crew.”

“Are we to ready the longboats?” Casar asked, lowering the glass and turning to meet his captain.

“A small crew,” the captain replied. “A hunting party. No more than four.”

“Just four, sir?”

“Just four. We don’t want to spook our prey.”

“What of the crew? Aren’t they to pillage the town?”

“No. Not yet.”