Chapter One: The 21st day of the month of December, 1712
The soft light from the lantern could still be seen through a crack in the door of the captain’s cabin. Barely breathing, but aware of the pounding of their own hearts, First Mate John Henry and Cookey, the ship’s cook, cautiously pressed their ears against the cold, wooden door. After hearing a series of loud snores, they silently crept in. The two men, fired by fear and desperation, quietly closed the door behind them, their eyes seeking out shapes in the half-light of the lantern. Their mission was as simple as it was dangerous: Murder the captain.
The stench inside the cabin was so overwhelming, that Henry and Cookey covered their noses, feeling instantly nauseous. It had been months since either of them had entered the master’s quarters, and both were appalled to see it utterly changed: The putrid smells of squalor enveloped them and stung their senses. The once beautiful floorboards were caked with grime, and the handsome Persian rugs now resembled scabrous beasts. A saggy, leather chair dozed beside the desk, which was a shamble of leftover meals, grimy mugs, and pheasant quills stabbed in the scribbles of the Captain’s log. The ink had tipped over and run onto the floor in a dried puddle. Several small, venomous snakes lay coiled around different objects, flicking their forked tongues at dust particles that were launched by the constant motion of the ship. A wood fire constantly smoldered in the grate. Curiously, it expelled no warmth whatsoever. On the contrary, the cabin was icy cold, the air was damp and, though no the windows were ever opened, an unsettling draft whistled about the wooden walls.
The determined duo inched their way toward the berth where the portly captain lay numb, a lit cigar dangling from his mouth. Completely awash from the effects of the rum, he snored loudly. Still in his hand was a half-emptied flask of spiced rum from the Caribbean. Raising their daggers, Henry and Cookey froze at a fearful sight: A large and thick, black serpent wrapped snugly around the neck of the diabolical captain.
“Lord God Almighty!” cried Henry in a tight undertone. “From where has such a creature come?”
Craning his neck to see through the dim lantern light, Cookey whispered, “An omen, matey, an omen provin’ we be standin’ at the gates of hell itself.”
Henry took a step closer to better observe the captain, who had not yet stirred. “Looks like the snake has already done us the deed,” he murmured.
“Aye,” whispered Cookey.
Suddenly, a strange grumbling erupted deep from within Captain Morag’s body. It heaved as he breathed, and as he exhaled a wave of decay invaded their nostrils. Daggers at the ready, the pair crept yet closer, both feeling a repugnant, tingling sensation. The snake eyed them closely, raising its vile head, hissing and showing its venomous fangs for the strike. In haste, the two men gasped, and quickly took a step back, contemplating the unprecedented situation. Startling them half out of their wits, a ghastly moan emerged from the captain, though their eyes could not see from where it came, for it was not coming from his cigar-filled mouth. Though he did not bodily stir, a frightful growl belched from within his unnaturally bulging belly, rumbling louder and louder. Before it stopped, there was an ear-splitting noise sounded like the roar of an angry beast. Shivering in their boots, First Mate Henry and Cookey heard the roar deepen, then transfigured into articulated words.
“Dare you two presume vanquish one such as I?” it bellowed loudly. “This is no mortal business. It is a matter of great consequence. Continue now, and say you had your warning.” Surprising them both, Captain Morag’s Scottish brogue was not in this voice.
The men exchanged a horrific look, raised their daggers higher and then returned their eyes to the sleeping captain. Cookey’s palms were wet with sweat, and his stomach started to spin over. He yanked on Henry’s muscular arm. Panic and nausea spewed in his throat. It burned there.
“We must escape!” Cookey whispered.
“Nay, he knows of our presence,” Henry shot back. “It shall be our demise if we retreat now. Fear not, for the Lord shall lift His sword in battle and vanquish this demon from whence it came. We are merely acting in the name of the Almighty. Tis our sacred duty and destiny. You know this be true, Cookey.”
Cookey nodded, his eyes fixed on the captain. Henry’s face contorted, his hazel eyes opened wide.
“Now!” Henry shouted.
As they lurched forward, the body of the overweight captain began to convulse violently, although he still seemed to be asleep. Spitting obscenities, the strange voice thundered on. Suddenly, the grand ship pitched, throwing Henry and Cookey off their feet. Every drawer and cabinet flew open, spewing their contents at the desperate pair. The terror-stricken men dodged the flying items that targeted them. An icy wind burst in from nowhere. The embers in the grate exploded into flame, first a blazing red, then black, as if the life had been stolen from it. A smoky haze filled the cabin. Dusky figures loomed out of the mist, whipping around the master, and then hovering overhead.
Abruptly, the ship stopped thrashing. Slowly, the two men, turned to see Morag, his red eyes glaring at them maliciously. A smile crept across his bearded face, resembling the grimace of a demented clown. The captain rose silently from his soiled berth, edging along the grimy wall. With one hand clasped around the black snake and the other still clutching the flask of spirits, Henry and Cookey watched Captain Morag drink from the bottle, dribbling half its contents down his chest.
“Thou shalt not kill!” Morag chuckled in a low bellow. With sharp, dancing eyes that betrayed his eagerness to reveal his true intentions, he threw the flask at the fireplace, where it exploded thunderously, and long tongues of fire swirled about him, then licked his face, singeing his beard. Morag displayed no signs of dismay. “Come on you cowardly knaves,” he teased. “Kill me and repent, for ye shall be more damned than I.” An eccentric gleam of humor twinkled in his eyes. For only a fraction of a second, Cookey and Henry stood frozen in fear. Nonetheless, the decision had been made, and they knew that it was either him or them. Hearts pumping with adrenaline, they lurched forward, plunging and twisting their curved daggers deep into the possessed captain’s chest in an attempt to pierce his heart. Morag did not resist. Morag did not scream. To their shock, he laughed wickedly. Ignoring the laughter, Cookey, who was an expert with a knife, went directly for the heart, but no blood gushed from the wound. Instead, maggots and a strong smell of decay poured out, as though the man had been dead for some time already. Still, Morag was smirking and laughing harder through his gritted teeth. Wide-eyed with fear, Cookey and Henry glanced sideways at each other, and then stared incredulously at the captain.
John Henry screamed, “How does one kill such evil?”
Desperately, Cookey severed the captain’s head from his body, and dropped it upon the table that sat under the starboard window. It was the small, wooden table Morag had brought from Haiti; old and scratched, not even knee-high. At that moment, the ship’s bell sounded but no one had rung it.
“Lord sink me,” Henry sighed, feeling completely drained. “Twas just too easy,” he said, a muscle jumping in his square jaw. “The captain gave no fight. Said I well, Cookey?”
“Aye,” agreed Cookey, wiping his hands clean on a green velvet curtain behind the little table. “Twas as though the poor bastard wanted relief of ‘is livin’ hell.”
First Mate Henry finally took a deep breath, showing some relief.
“We know now that the captain he was not. Until this moment, I was not completely convinced. Alas, a heart was not in his chest,” Henry said, in a deep, wavering voice. “Twas in fact a demon we have defeated, one that has brought such misery and death to our beloved Stellar Wind.” Henry squinted, recalling the nightmare they had lived since Haiti.
“Cast off ‘is followers, will ye?” Cookey added, his eyes darting nervously toward the cabin door. “We’ll deal out justice by sweepin’ them seduced by the devil to the sea!”
“I give you my Bible-oath: They will give us no grief,” said Henry, pulling his gaze away from the head of the dead captain. “They were slaves, Cookey. Surely their hearts shall rejoice with freedom.”
“Let’s hope so, Cap’n,” replied Cookey, feeling empty and achy. First Mate Henry’s eyes were wide in surprise at the title Cookey had just bestowed on him. He did not want to be captain of William Morag’s ship. It did not seem proper. He was next in command, yet, the idea did not appeal to him in the least.
“Nay,” Henry said in a harsh, hushed voice. “Captain, I am not.”
“I’ll thank ye be rememberin’ our ship be needin’ a captain. Not a one’s as qualified, not a one, mate. Ye know I speak in reason.”
“Nay,” he repeated, shaking his head, turning to glare at the bodiless head of Captain Morag.
Feeling a flush of sickness, he was taken aback at the malicious grin fixed on the evil captain’s face. His eyes, though lifeless and vacant, seemed to hide a humorous secret. A horrible feeling invaded Henry, unsettling him.
A banging on the door, then a blast of shockingly icy air as it flew opened, interrupted his thoughts. It was the cabin boy, Marcus, who, upon seeing the captain’s head on the table, gasped at the unnerving sight. He was a very pale boy, so white that the blue veines under his skin gave him a peculiar glow. His undefined lips were pallid, but he was commonly seen wearing and irresistible smile on his heart-shaped face, a smile so contagious that even the most solemn mariners grinned back in spite of themselves. Tight yellow curls flipped up and coiled down his forehead and his eyes. Oh what eyes did this boy have! They were large and sky-blue and liquid, fringed with incredibly long, brown lashes. When he spoke, his voice sounded almost feminine, yet it was full of self-confidence.
“Faith lad. Fear not. Your eyes bore witness to the months of evil. A dark soul had taken harbor within our beloved captain. He is at peace now. Be gone with you! Fetch Yael and Juan. Run, boy!” The youngster stood frozen in place, staring into the captain’s unblinking eyes. Cookey hurriedly pushed him out.
According to maritime tradition, Stellar Wind was prepped and maintained motionless for the funeral of the deceased captain; her sails were cocked up to the weather, some full of drive and some laid all a'back. Signifying a burial, the topgallant yards were a-cock-bill and lisft lines were out of trim to speak of grief. The goat-skin drum rumbled a steady beat from the fore castle.
Fearing it cursed, no one dared touch the bodiless head. Two men, Yael, a hefty black man from Algeria, and Juan, a Spanish sailor with a lousy head, lifted either end of the Haitian table. Eyed by all, they walked stiffly across the deck, fearing that the head might roll off. As the head passed, some did the sign of the cross while others spat at its still smiling face. Two other crewmen placed Captain Morag’s foul-smelling cadaver upon an eight-man mess table. The corpse had been shrouded in canvas, and on top of that was the sealskin coverlet from the captain’s berth.
The ship’s carpenter, Red Dog, a short, thin man with red hair, immediately sealed off the captain’s cabin with boards. Red Dog had secretly made crosses with wood from a vegetable crate. After nailing the door shut, he hung the largest of the crosses on the barricaded door. Henry, who was proclaimed the ship’s new captain, removed his hat as he knelt in prayer before the dead captain’s corpse. Lifting his eyes, he cried, “O, merciful Lord in Heaven, forgive us and receive in Your blessed bosom this lost sheep. In the sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our shipmate Captain William Morag, and we commit his body to the depths. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord lift up His countenance upon him, and give him peace. Amen.”
Gathered crewmembers murmured, “Amen.”
At the Entry port on the starboard gangway, the burial party upended the mess table, allowing the body to slip into the sea. With two cannon balls tied to his feet, he vanished under the waves. At the rail, Yael and Juan held the small table that carried Morag’s head over the swirling sea. In one swift move, they released both the table and the head into the ocean. In that very moment, an ear piercing, high-pitched crack filled the empty air, and the sea opened like a large funnel beneath the falling table. Everyone on board watched the little, wooden table and Morag’s head swirl and be swallowed up by the watery grave. When the table and head could no longer be seen, everyone heard eerie laughter disgorged from below the waves. As mysteriously as the funnel appeared, it closed up with a large wave swashing over it.
Reluctantly accepting his new position, Captain Henry set out to chart the eastern coast of North America in the spring months, planning to return to England by late summer. Surely, the proprietors would name a proper captain for the Stellar Wind upon its return, and he would resume his role as the ship’s First Mate. The diminished crew appeared anemic and raw-boned, still tremendously terrified. The ship was dangerously understaffed, but Henry knew that they could pick up experienced seafaring hands in the northern region.
The deck-head was dancing with ripples of sun setting light, and soft winds carried an enticing aroma of land. Minutes later, the twilight formed a mystical backdrop of velvety blue spotted with a zillion twinkling stars. The vast ocean was barely awake, swelling sluggishly from its depths, rocking the carrack to sleep.
The day following Morag’s funeral, the distant snowy land that had been the ship’s companion was lost in the gathering darkness of a late afternoon storm. First the sleet began, making the deck slippery and treacherous. The sea, grey and sullen as wet slate, heaved with angry swells that flooded nefariously over the ship. Rain stabbed at them like knives. As night rushed over the Stellar Wind, the sky emptied tons of snow upon her, the sudden darkness making it impossible to tell sky from sea. Out of nowhere, hurricane force winds raised the waters, and a series of furious waves battered relentlessly against the ship.
Heavy in winter wool and animal fur, the men rushed urgently about the deck, shoveling snow into the sea. No sooner had they cleared an area of the white enemy, the decks were again overflowing with icy drifts taller than they. Snow raged across the open bow as the scrappy old ship’s helmsman cursed, his frozen fingers clutching the enormous wheel. Holding fast, the cantankerous mariner spit back at the snow as it spat in his face. In retaliation, the furious sea unleashed its indignation in an icy wave and the helmsman was gone, swallowed into the dark.
A nearby Scotsman lurched for the wheel, slipping and falling on the ice as the ship pitched about in the violent waves.
“Starboard the helm!” shouted Henry to him.
“Aye, Captain!”
“Reef the topsail!” Henry shouted above, squinting against the snow.
“Aye, aye!” hollered the men, hugging the yard desperately lest they be tossed overboard.
“Steady now!” Henry shouted again to the Scott at the wheel. “Lay her a’hold!” But before the man could carry out the order, he was lifted off his feet, vanishing in the raging tempest. Captain Henry swiftly made his way to the ship’s unmanned helm, remaining at his icy post throughout the endless night. Hunched over the wheel, and huddling against the cold with his scarf up to his ears, Henry watched the gusty night turn into day. Oddly, the monstrous wind moaned and then laughed, as it bit his face and tried to yank his frozen hands from the wheel.
Though the perpetually soaked crew thought it possible, the weather worsened. The majestic Stellar Wind was pitched about like a toy boat, held mercilessly at the hands of a giant child who was throwing her about in a tantrum. Suddenly, the carrack began to spin in tight circles as though being sucked under by some unnatural force. Marcus, the cabin boy, who was no older than twelve, climbed the slippery foremast to the very top. The wicked wind laughed at the scrawny boy, trying very hard to send him plummeting to his death. Amazingly, young Marcus held steady.
With authority the lad shouted loudly into the winds… to the dead Captain Morag: “Be off with you, mystran, for the good Lord stands with Captain Henry at the wheel. This ship is no longer yours. In the name of the Lord, my God, I command you, avast now and likewise belay!”
Obediently, the loud howling wind ceased, leaving only a pleasant breeze whispering lightly across the snow-filled decks. At first, a reluctant orb sent its rays beaming upon the carrack, smiling with tiny, tingling warmth. In only minutes, the rays became brighter, bringing with the light a gratifying heat. The men, sweating now, peeled themselves of their wintery garments, watching the enormous snowdrifts vanish and the glassy ice disappear. All was in peaceful calm. Old and young mariners lifted their heads at the sound of the young lad singing, his beautiful voice rejoicing the Lord. Every eye filled with tears. Some men fell to their knees, joining young Marcus in heavenly song, but many of the crew was struck mute by what they had just witnessed. The boy’s voice was as soft as a true angel glorifying God.
The wind shifted, and Stellar Wind got underway with a fair breeze. Greatly relieved, her crew roared with merriment, dancing to the rhythm of the coxswain’s fiddle and the flute hand-carved by Red Dog. For hours on end, they tap danced around singing ancient mariners’ songs. Spirits were light and all was good. At last, they were free from the hex that had plagued them during these last excruciating months.
To celebrate, Cookey prepared the finest of meals with stores from Chiloe; it was a feast fit for a king.
“We’ll push the boat out!” Cookey cheered, sharing out his stock of spicy rum for all to indulge. Red Dog handed out small, wooden crosses that he had secreted away in his workshop. Even the non-Christians wanted to hold a cross close to their hearts singing and dancing under the starry sky.
The following morning, Captain Morag’s cabin door was pried opened. The odors from within were so offensive, that mouths and noses had to be hidden behind handkerchiefs in order to enter. Captain Henry ordered that everything inside the unholy cabin be hauled out and pitched into the ocean. Even the berth was sawed away from its place and burned in the cabin’s hearth. Nothing remained. No books, no adornments, no draperies, no roll-top desk, no saggy leather chair, and no instruments, not even the captain’s logbook was saved. Then holystone was used to scrub the floorboards free of scum, as well as the ceiling and the walls. Though every man working in the cabin was fearful, he remembered the miracle he had witnessed through Marcus. Each made the Sign of the Cross upon entering.
Later that afternoon, Henry, still fired from his ordeal, invited his new helmsman, Marcus, to the wheel. Company and crew murmured their surprise: Never in the history of Stellar Wind had a cabin boy been permitted to steer the great ship! But now the crewmen saw the lad in a new light. They believed that the Lord stood at his shoulder.
After the captain’s cabin had been refurnished, the Boatswain, Adam Bridwell, asked Captain Henry when he would be moving his belongings out of his cuddy. Henry raised an eyebrow.
“If I may be so bold, Captain. The crew expects ye move in the Master’s quarters. They are still frightened. Surely, they’ll be more at ease seeing you unafraid to stay there. A superstitious lot they are…all looking your way to find some peace of mind.”
Captain Henry asked Bridwell to summon all hands on deck. At all events, Henry knew that he must not be without his wits or woe betide him.
Boatswain Bridwell tugged a chain that hung proudly around his neck. At the end of it was his prized possession: A battered, brass whistle known to all as ‘The Boat’s Pipe’ . He cupped a hand over the pipe, and with a good hard blows, he summoned the crew with a standard “all hands on deck’ call. The crew stopped what they were doing, and turned to where the shrill piper’s call had come from.
“All hands on deck!” Bridwell then blustered from the aft castle. A scraggly lot soon assembled before Bridwell and Henry.
“Heed men!” Captain Henry shouted out to quiet the crowd. “To my sorrow, many of you were only were acquainted with the demon that Captain Morag had become. Hear me when I say that I knew him well. He was a grand man, a notable sailor and a cherished friend. I shall miss him greatly. After North America, England is our destiny. You may be sure the captain’s quarters shall remain empty until the ship’s proprietors appoint a proper Master. Put your fears aside, men. Be comforted.”
“We gladly could’ve done without the devil’s acquaintance,” spat the gunner.
“Arrr,” replied a few.
After giving the call with his whistle, Boatswain Bridwell shouted: “Ready about!”
Mumbling amongst them, all men returned to their stations still not feeling comforted.
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