Description: 1763 - when British rule crippled the American colonies, two men, Arlen Paul and Murray Belshevic, saw the cruel truth of their country's demeanor and departed from their homes in England. They gained a crew and set sail on the waves of the Atlantic Ocean, defending the American colonies by sea.
"Hard to port, Cap'n!" yelled my First Mate, Murray, to my right, "One more hit and she'll be a' good a' dead!" As I pulled hard left on the timber helm the Liberty swung herself sideways, just enough to miss plummeting into the stern or jarring against the starboard side of a long and slender English brigantine. Once cleared and out of the way of the enemy, I released another command to fire,
"Fire off the starboard-bow!" I howled. Murray echoed my command, louder than the mighty roar of thunder, and hoarser than a sick man, with his hands cupped around the corners of his bearded mouth. His bared, yellow teeth appeared gold in the broiling sunlight. Murray and I have been friends since we've been little. Back in our home in England, he's always been there for me and I've always been there for him. In our youth, we've always dreamed of being soldiers - sailors - for the former king, King George II. One day we got our wish; it wasn't as expected.
I watched as all fourteen cannons fired starboard-side in unison. A skull-shattering resonance echoed, seeming to shake the earth to its very core. Black specks took flight from beside the Liberty and soared inches above the churned sea - some unfortunately plummeting into it's vastness. Following a long and gut-wrenching whistle of the mighty projectiles flying into action, the cannonballs rocketed into the rival ship. Wood splintered anew when the missiles found their grisly way into the rival ship's starboard and hull. Her frantic crew shouted with horror as their ship's side was battered with the heavy, lethal cannonballs. Upon impact, flames erupted within the ship's cargo hold. A multitude of blood-curdling wails soaked the air with terror shortly after - telling the gruesome tale of the men who burned alive within the hold.
Their screams were abruptly silenced once fate struck again; the English vessel finally collapsed in on herself. Apparently one of the cannonballs had gone astray and struck the lass viciously in her mast. The mast snapped with a crack and a terrifying creak - similar to a dry bone splintering in two. Sails draped her battered deck in a sea of cloth - acting as a generous blindfold to her crews' demise. The mast suddenly swung down like a monstrous guillotine to her crew, flattening some and skewering the unlucky majority in half. Hostile ropes from the mast acted as fate's minions as they swung down and caught the necks and limbs of those who were still standing. The murderous mast ended her spree by tearing into and through her starboard until a big, gaping hole was carved into the deck.
My eyes studied the horrific scene in shock as it had played out. Although I had felt little remorse after the fatal ends of tens of Englishmen, I couldn't help but feel sympathetic towards the men. I had once been like them, fighting against colonists like us - but we are no ordinary colonists.
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