s the seas churned and the waves crested over the bow, spitting drops of saltwater across the deck, a man leaned over the railing as the ship split the ocean in front of him. The man drew deep breath, and the wind and the push of metal upon water made the air porous with the smell of salt. The sun bore down on the tiny vessel in the massive expanse of the Gulf of Aden, just north from the Horn of Africa. The sea drifted away in every direction, and the horizon settled in its cradle to the north, the south, the east and the west.
The horn blew. The man hesitated as he heard it, its long ring echoing through the sheets of metal lying on the deck. When it was over, the metal shook from the shock of it, and the man’s ears rung as he retrieved his rifle from the deck and made his way to the captain’s quarters. The thump of his boots on the deck grew fainter as he marched, and the gusts of wind grew more powerful with each step. The ship was moving faster. Already the waves were crashing against the hull with greater ferocity and more strength then they had a moment ago, already the ship rocked more violently as it pummeled the ocean surface with its ponderous weight.
The man imagined the ocean as a black coffin—the same churning ocean so beautiful amidst the streaming light of midsummer’s afternoon could just as easily consume a man in its moonless shadow. There was no predicting, only anticipation of the worst. My family is somewhere out there, he thought, wrecked and ruined amidst the tatters of a sunken freighter. My brother, my father, my mother, eclipsed by that blackness, lost in some ocean trench. And now I’m one of them—I’ve become my family’s murderers.
But choice was not the issue, was it? I had no choice. They came with their rifles and their smiles and their plots and their murderous rage. Could I have stopped them? No. They would have killed me too. And if I don’t pick up this rifle they will slit my throat. And if I do not follow the horn’s instructions they will strangle me in my sleep. And if I launch myself overboard, it will all be for naught. Watching my family die…at least they knew I would live. But what good is this life if I send more to their doom. What good is life if I save no one from this wretched fate?
Now the captain’s quarters was closer and closer still, and as the man approached the steel outline of the hatch, the door flew open. The stench of rotted fish enveloped the man for a brief moment. He stiffened and coughed and rubbed his eyes and stung and cursed. A dark whiskered face stared. Cigarette smoke permeated the room, and through the cloud of ash the man could see the captain watching over him, his newest recruit. The man hesitated. At first he thought he was alone with the captain, whose piercing eyes never left him as he scrambled into his quarters and sat on a metallic chest that lay in the middle of the room.
The men appeared around him, drifting through the smoke, drifting into the smoke. Men with charred faces, men with scarred and torn faces. Some smiled, as jackals do. Others grimaced and scowled, as thieves do. Their withered decency were displayed for all to see—the man was hardly blind to the banality of this kind of evil. Yet some looked far-off; some looked distant and grey. It was not excitement or fear or anticipation that dogged their mind. They were simply…withdrawn. Withdrawn from the cares and the worldly enterprises of the world. None of that would suffice now. Treasure was the operative word here, the image hounding at each man with a relentlessness not unlike the slits of pain a deep, longing hunger brings upon the mind and the body.
The captain stared.
“Who is this rat, who is this…maggot?” the Captain asked.
“He is the child, of course.” Someone said.
“The child?”
“From Bari. From the last port.”
“This is the man from Bari?”
“Yes.”
“He is a rat.”
The captain looked at the man as he shivered at his powerful gaze. The man looked away, trying not to catch the captain’s pale eyes, but to no avail.
“You are a rat, no?” the Captain asked.
“Sir?”
“You are a maggot, are you not? Are you a rat or are you not?”
“Captain—”
“Because a rat scampers away at the first sign of danger. Now, you wouldn’t want to be a rat. Not in my army.”
“No sir.”
“Well, that settles nothing. You are a child, you will be trained.”
“I am not a child. I wish to go home.”
“You are a child in the way you look like a man but know nothing of being one. We’ve taken you now. There is no home. Do you understand?”
The man said nothing.
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND?”
“Yes, Captain.”
The captain broke his gaze from the man and reached behind him to close the hatch. The door slammed with a thunder that resonated throughout the room. It was enough to make the man jump. The other men observed this and laughed to themselves. The captain remained silent. It was only when the captain shot his men a look did silence capture the room. And then the man could hear it. At first it was as if the ship was aching, as if the years of misuse and mistreatment had taken the form of a chronic, degenerative illness of pain and torment. The man stopped and strained his senses. Crying. Not crying by any measure of a man crying. Crying…a child crying. Wailing, weeping, crying. Was it a child? Could it be a child? Here?
The captain grinned. He drifted into the smoke and disappeared, and the crying pierced through the room like the deafening horn had pierced his senses just a few moments ago. The wailing only grew louder, closer.
“He is American, do you see?” said the captain, but the man could only see the yellow grin and the pale eyes through the smokescreen. The man said nothing. The captain approached, and with him, nestled in a canary blanket, was a child not quite two months old, helpless and forlorn. The captain eyed it steadily, and then cast his furious gaze back at the recruit.
“Do you see?” the captain asked.
“Yes.”
“He is American. Do you see?”
There was nothing to tell where the child was from; only its pale skin betrayed its Western origins. But the man understood what they were to do with Americans. The Americans had declared war on the people in this room, and the vendetta had been returned in kind. The Americans had slaughtered their brothers in arms, and the captain and the crew thirsted for vengeance. Every American they found would die. Every American they found…would die.
“We do not know where this child is from, captain,” the man said.
“It does not matter where you think it’s from, rat.”
“We don’t know Captain.”
“He is American, Mr. Rat. HA. That’s what I will call you now, very respectful don’t you think? Don’t you think you need respect? Do you think this thing needs respect?”
The Captain laughed as he unraveled the child and held it out with one palm of his leathered, calloused hand. The child screamed—squealing in terror and pain and trembling fright.
“Throw it overboard, Mr. Rat. Do it now.”
“Captain—“
“Do it now or I’ll gut you right here and throw you in with him,” the Captain threatened, his yellow grin growing wider until it nearly foamed in anticipation.
“Throw it overboard, Mr. Rat.”
The men in the room said nothing.
“We are thieves, not murderers. The Americans and the French have killed. We do not kill. Not children.”
“There is no decency for pirates, Mr. Rat. We kill.”
“There is decency for children, Captain.”
The Captain looked back at his men. The chil
d was wrapped up once more, and the Captain laid it down on the chest. His back turned, he now began to walk away. It was over.
“Throw them both overboard. Make sure of it,” the Captain said.
And as the mist and the smoke swallowed the captain once again, the crew slowly descended upon him. They took their time. And as the shadows grew and the light turned into night and back into the cold, dark blackness of the churning ocean, the man whisked the child into his arms and waited…and waited still…for the sea would swallow two more souls tonight, two more souls churning in this dreadful of nights.