Introducing Captain Farreyl.
Some time ago I kept a list of single-word prompts alongside a list of characters. I would roll a die to choose one at random, then write a short scene or character study inspired by the result.
The piece below is one of those scenes.
What a Captain Cannot Forgive.
Captain Farreyl stuck the brace of his stringed instrument underneath his chin and was just about to run the hairs of the bow over the strings when an anxious rapping sounded at his door. With utmost care, he laid the viola on the table, crossed the cabin, and opened the ornately carved door.
Outside, languidly standing in the doorway, was Dorros, his first mate.
“Sorry to disturb you, Captain,” the elf quickly apologised for the intrusion. “Got a bit of a problem.”
“Just one?” Farreyl asked with a quirked brow.
“One more problem, then,” he added. “Might need your Captain’s hat on for this one.”
“That serious?” the Captain stated, picking the broad-rimmed, extravagantly feathered hat from its hook near the door. He placed it over his long hair and stepped from his cabin into the beaming sunshine. “What’s the problem?” he asked. Over the squall of seagulls, he could hear several members of his crew arguing and the raucous singing of Drunken Pete.
“Oh no,” Captain Farreyl lamented, “Not again?”
“Aye,” Dorros stated without preamble.
He heaved a sigh and vaulted up the steps to the deck of the forecastle and, slipping his fingers in his mouth, blew out a loud whistle, commanding their silence.
The voices hushed, apart from the dreadful singing, as bodies parted, allowing the Captain a clear view of what was happening on his decks. Drunken Pete was sitting on the deck, hugging a large barrel. It was clear that the man was well into his cups and barely aware of those around him.
“Pete’s been drinking our rum again, Captain, it’s not on!” one of the crew shouted, others joining in, until he whistled them into silence once more, raising a hand.
The drunken buffoon had served alongside him since his first days on the sea, but the crewmen were absolutely right. The theft of their alcohol wasn’t fair, and that fact wasn’t sinking in after many transgressions. Even stashing him in the dregs of the ship’s hold hadn’t gotten the message through to Pete’s alcohol-fogged mind. The lash had drawn blood before, and still the man had laughed. Worse than the theft was the laughter — the way it had carried across the deck and lingered in the ears of idle men. A captain could weather storms, but not ridicule. It was high time it came to an end, and Farreyl had just the lesson in mind.
“You’re right,” Captain Farreyl shouted over them. Docked too long. Repairs delayed. Too many men with too much time to watch and measure their captain. If he could not master one drunken thief, how would they trust him in a squall? No — this would end here. “Pete taking your share of the rations isn’t fair. You work hard, while he gets off free. No more,” he placated the remaining men and with a shallow tone of regret towards the once fine member of his crew, he stated. “Stand him up, strip him. Bind his hands and legs.”
In their ire, the crew members did as their Captain bade, roughly tearing the clothing from his back and tying loops of rope around his wrists, believing this to be a just punishment for their wayward crewmate. Drunken Pete laughed as the men stripped him and made jest of his bare torso, joining in the revelry of their game.
Their Captain led them towards the fore of the ship and gracefully leapt onto the bowsprit. “The Radiant Horizon needed a new figurehead!” He called over their jeers, bringing them all into a curious quiet. Let them remember this, he thought, meeting the eyes of the nearest crewman. Let them remember what becomes of a man who mistakes mercy for weakness.
He held a hand out for the bound drunkard, whose laughing had since stopped and turned to cries of terror as he’d been made to step on the thin wooden beam. Farreyl deftly looped another piece of rope between his bound wrists and looped it over the end of the bowsprit. He forced another length between the drunkard’s ankles and narrowly avoided being pissed on as the man’s bladder emptied in fear. With a sneer of disgust, he kicked the alcoholic over the edge of the bowsprit, where his arms stretched, dangling him above the rolling water. Stepping carefully over their ropes, Farreyl pulled the one bound to the man’s ankles further down the long shaft of wood so that he was suspended below, hanging above the slowly lapping waves supported by his spindly arms.
He turned back to the crewmen as they looked in shocked silence at the cruel punishment their Captain had dished out. “I’ll have no theft on this ship,” he roared. “No man taking more than their fair share,” he bellowed. “And if any of you take pity on that pathetic excuse of a crew member and attempt to cut him down, you’ll be trussed up next to him! Understand?”
A few sullen nods ripped through the gathered crew, a couple of murmured agreements.
“Understand?” he repeated
The crew spoke louder in their agreement over the pained groans of their former crewmate.
Captain Farreyl leapt down from the bowsprit and turned to his first mate, “Get these sea-dogs back to work. I’m going ashore to find out about our sails. We’ve been stuck in this miserable port for far too long.”
“What about Pete?” Dorros asked with a quirked brow.
“Let him rot. I should have cut him loose moons ago,” Farreyl answered. He’d suffered the drunkard’s existence long enough. The groan of a strained rope followed him across the deck. He did not look back. A captain who looked back invited doubt — in others, and in himself.
“Aye, Captain,” Dorros stated, watching the Captain return across the main deck to his quarters before turning back to the remaining crew. Shouting orders to get them back to work on various ship repairs.
Captain Farreyl placed the hat carefully back on its hook as he closed the door. He picked up the viola and returned it to its case. For a moment, he considered playing. The thought of coaxing something gentle from taut strings felt almost obscene. But there would be no time to play the instrument today. They were all itching to be away from Westpool and the dull, dreary days it endured; their hold was full of trade supplied, their destination set. All they’d needed was the sails and lucky figurehead back in place, and they’d be off; at least they had one of the two.