A Mariner's Voyage

A Mariner's Voyage Intro

A lone silhouette clad in black strode through the cobblestone, paved streets (which were overruled by the strong aroma of the various exotic spices sold there) and through that dark and stormy Curaçao night. A large tropical storm had been brewing throughout the far Southeastern Caribbean Isles, devastating major isles such as Puerto Bello, Nombre de Dios, Santa Marta, Rio de la Hacha, around and through the curve of the large inlet, barraging Maracaibo first and then Gibraltar. It had taken naught but four-and-twenty suns for the hell-spawned storm to reach Curaçao—where the lone figure now hurried to the Admiral of the Fleet's residence.

Upon arriving at his destination, wherein the Admiral, a battle-worn, young master-at-arms and excellent sailor, slept, the frantic messenger rapped on his higher-up's oaken, worn door, the wood on which gave him a splinter.

“Verdoemen,” hissed the frantic man quietly to himself.

The Admiral came to the door and they began to converse in their native language. “Mijn excuses, meneer, heb ik je niet laten storen.”

“Het is oke. Waarom ben je gekomen, luitenant?”

“Meneer, we hebben verloren Fluyt. Ze was op weg naar Port-de-Paix.”

“Taken of verloren?”

“Taken.” What they were saying was as follows:

“My apologies, Sir, I did not mean to disturb you.”

“It is okay. Why have you come, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, we've lost a Fluyt. She was headed toward Port-de-Paix.”

“Taken or lost?”

“Taken.”

Utter silence followed.

The Admiral, switching to his best (though heavily accented) English, so as his family could not understand, replied, “Ready the Krijger to sail on the morrow, first light. We are to prey on Spanish vessels. This embargo is coming to an end.” “Aye, Sir.”