Cap'n Crunch: Genesis

My waking thoughts are all of thee. Your portrait and the remembrance of last night’s delirium have robbed my senses of repose. Sweet and incomparable Joséphine, what an extraordinary influence you have over my heart. Are you vexed? do I see you sad? are you ill at ease? My soul is broken with grief, and there is no rest for your lover. But is there more for me when, delivering ourselves up to the deep feelings which master me, I breathe out upon your lips, upon your heart, a flame which burns me up ah, it was this past night I realised that your portrait was not you.You start at noon; I shall see you in three hours. Meanwhile, dolce amor, accept a thousand kisses, but give me none, for they fire my blood.

Yours For Ever,

Horatio

Twenty months had now passed since he'd seen Joséphine. Fourteen months since he'd sent that letter, six since he'd given up hope of hearing from her, and three since he received news from Joséphine's sister that she'd fallen ill with pneumonia and was buried by the time his last letter reached her. That was when he sailed for the New World.

Horatio still dreamed of her sometimes. It was among the last comforts he had on the cruel sea, between the ache in his bones from lack of nutrition and the countless friends he'd seen washed overboard by storms. He knew the risks when he signed his enlistment papers, but with only a third of the crew left, he often wondered how they'd make it back to land - or if they would at all. Rations were low, tempers were high, and tonight was the night he would take fate back into his own hands.

At first, he couldn't tell if it was the ocean shaking him.

"Horatio - wake up. Wake up, it's time," whispered Carlyle. Horatio wiped the sleep from his eyes and took stock of his surroundings, no longer in the garden with Joséphine but in a wretched galley, surrounded by disease and rot.

He opened his mouth to speak, but Carlyle silenced him. They'd been planning for weeks, and could not afford to blow cover with a stray cough or sneeze, let alone a misplaced word that might echo into the captain's ears.

Carlyle was the first mate, but even he had grown tired of the captain's hollow promises and stilted rationing policies. They'd lost a dozen men to starvation, and a dozen more to madness. It wasn't that supplies were low - the hold was well stocked with potatoes and salt pork and rum - but the captain was hell bent on reaching the West Indies with them and selling off the excess. The last man who'd been caught with more than his fistful of bread for the day had been whipped half to death and thrown into the sea. At this rate, the ship may reach the islands, but what good is gold if no one is alive to spend it?

Captain Jean LaFoote slept quietly above in his quarters, his own belly full of the rations for which the crew was finally willing to risk it all. Tonight they would dine well. They'd open each crate of oranges, slaughter each chicken, and hold a feast. And when they were done they would gorge some more, maybe even breaking into the secret crate of supplies the captain had kept all for himself.

One by one, Carlyle and Horatio woke them and they grabbed their swords. The sun would come up in a few hours, but the boat's wake would run red long before the first light colored it.

The group of them - now less than twenty - crept above carefully, making sure not to creak the boards more than was necessary. They snuck across the moonlit deck toward the doors to the captain's quarters, and when they'd all crowded around, Carlyle gave the signal.

He held up his first finger. The men were practically drooling mad already at the thought of eating bread that wasn't rotten for the first time in a month.

He held up his second finger. Bloodlust filled their hearts, each sword as hungry as the man holding it.

He held up a third and kicked down the door.

Click. Carlyle, once leading the charge, found himself staring down the barrel of a flintlock pistol. Captain LaFoote may have been possessed by greed, but he was no fool.

"So, we've got ourselves a mutiny," LaFoote mused, his mustache curling at the edges as the air in the room sapped all energy from the coup and replaced it with cold fear.

Carlyle dropped his sword, slowly raising his hands. "Shoot me and you'll be sliced to ribbons," he said carefully.

LaFoote stepped forward, driving the men back outside. Over his shoulder, Horatio spotted a golden chest in the cabin, providing a surreal light that filled the otherwise dark room. The men continued to backpedal.

"I've taken us this far, nine-tenths across the ocean, and these are my wages, eh?" LaFoote said. No one dared answer him. "We're heading toward a mountain of gold and you fools are worried about - what is it - food? Sleeping quarters? I've got the same rats as you biting me while I sleep; I've got the same watery shits and my wife's just as dead as yours."

At the last line, he turned his pistol on Horatio. "You kill me and you'll go mad before you spy land - nevermind set foot on it."

Horatio backed up but, unlike Carlyle, held fast to his sword. The men around him cowered, but he tried to keep an even keel. "You've been holding supplies for yourself," he said without an ounce of fear. A crew's worth of eyes trained on him, but he held his nerve. "We can't sell our cargo if we don't live to get it to the New World."

A murmur of agreement rose up but LaFoote smiled wryly and turned back to Carlyle. "You have no idea what we're carrying on this ship, do you?"

"Nothing worth dying for!" he cried out, as LaFoote began to laugh. The air around them grew suddenly darker, and a bolt of lightning lit up the Captain's face.

His eyes had sunken into his head, more than Horatio had realized, but his pupils filled out round as ever - mad man's eyes. Scars from past voyages streaked over him like mountain ranges spanning the continent of his face, and his beard had grown thin from malnourishment. And most horrifying of all, Horatio noticed what appeared to be gold flakes littering it. Tiny yellow crystals flaked his beard, each like a goldfinch caught in a fence. Another lightning bolt struck - closer this time - and the men realized his beard was almost entirely covered in tiny golden crumbs.

"I tell you what," LaFoote called, addressing the men he once called loyal. "We hit land in two weeks. We have food to last us one."

This caused a stir among the crew, and the storm drew ever closer. "Look at those around you!" his voice was practically booming now, so loud that even the thunder could not drown him out.

"When we reach the New World, we'll be rich beyond our wildest dreams. But he's right," the pistol swerved back in Horatio's direction. "We can't sell our cargo if we don't reach port. That won't be the case for all of us - many more will starve and be driven mad by the sea before we arrive, and all the gold and riches in the world do no good to a dead man. So I ask each of you this..." His wicked face contorted into something that resembled a smile. "What good will the riches do you?"

Armageddon erupted as the sky unleashed a pent up fury for the ages onto the ship. LaFoote turned back to Carlyle and pulled the trigger, a steel shot entering through his cheekbone, took off the back of his head, and buried itself in the main mast. Deckhands drew swords against boatswains, and cooks took arms against gunners. Calamity ensued, clashing swords rang like terrible bells in Horatio's ears, and as the next bolt of lightning was upon them, he saw LaFoote rushing at him with the ferocity of a hungry wolf.

Horatio raised his sword in time to counter a blow that might have taken off his head. LaFoote's remark about Joséphine had stirred a deep rage in him that he was all too happy to focus on the captain. He blocked, struck, and grazed LaFoote's coat with the tip of his sword. LaFoote stood back for a moment, fingers examining the damage, coming off with a speck of blood.

"I can't wait to throw you to the whales myself," he growled, rushing back at Horatio.

The two exchanged blows, back and forth. The sound of the storm enveloping them was interrupted periodically by screams of men being taken apart by metal that had grown rusty and dull from disuse. Horatio had learned much in his time as quartermaster, however. His sword remained razor sharp and drew sparks against LaFoote's, sometimes visible between lightning strikes, as they traded slashes meant to kill, each more hateful than the last.

Horatio and LaFoote made their way up the stairs, to the helm of the ship. LaFoote's golden face still shining madly, although he was clearly on the retreat. The storm raged on as Horatio's attacks grew ever more fierce.

At last, LaFoote slipped. His oversized captain's coat, now thoroughly soaked and weighing him down, caught fast on the ship's wheel and threw him off balance. Horatio struck at his arm, and while the blow did not land quite squarely on muscle and flesh, it was enough to cause LaFoote to lose hold on his sword, sending it spiraling across the deck.

The captain fell to his knees, gripping his wound. "Yield!" Horatio cried over the storm. LaFoote glared up at him in pain. "Yield," Horatio told him again, now realizing that he would not. Jean LaFoote had descended too deeply into madness, and the crumbs in his beard seemed more plentiful than ever, glittering with the now-sparse flashes from the sky.

Horatio closed in, placing his sword under LaFoote's chin. LaFoote spoke up: "If you're going to kill me, let me die on my feet." Horatio, against his better judgment, allowed him to stand.

The moment LaFoote stood up, he made a mad dash for the edge of the ship, catching Horatio off his guard, stumbling to reach him. At first, he thought Jean was making a run for his sword, but he soon realized a far more terrible truth. LaFoote had hoisted himself onto the edge of the ship, black waves crashing into the hull some thirty feet below.

"I'll find you someday," LaFoote growled. "And when I do, you'll pray I'd gutted you on this ship."

With that, the captain dove into the water below, a certain death whether by drowning, the jaws of some roaming creature, or the impact of the sea on his wounded body. Horatio looked over the edge, but he was too late even to see LaFoote hit the water.

The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and as hints of sunlight turned the air pink, Horatio looked upon the deck. An abbatoir of guts and moaning bodies that he once might have recognized as men littered its surface. He heard prayers for death and obliged to play God, walking through the killing field with his sword, granting a dark mercy to the mutineers, blessing each survivor before sending them to Hell.

With a ship full of dead men and spoiled meat, Horatio raised the sail himself, taking the wheel. But he couldn't help but wonder... what did LaFoote mean when he said the ship was carrying secret cargo?

It flooded back to him: the glowing chest in the captain's quarters. As futile sunlight washed away the horrors on the deck, Horatio limped down the stairs into the chamber where LaFoote went mad. The chest was still there, somehow glowing even brighter, and Horatio wondered if he dare open it at all. Whatever was inside had surely been responsible for LaFoote's descent into chaos; if he opened it too, would he survive to see land?

He sat on the unmade bed, pondering for nearly an hour. At last, curiosity got the best of him, and he unlatched the chest at its golden hinge.

What was inside was more beautiful and terrible than he could have imagined. Bright light rinsed his face, illuminating old scars and widening his eyes. Horatio had never seen anything like it. He continued to stare, transfixed at what lay before him. Now he understood. Now he knew why LaFoote hardly ever left his cabin. If he'd had this treasure himself, surely he would have gone mad protecting it as well - perhaps even more quickly than LaFoote had. He gazed upon what was inside the chest, unaware that he was not even blinking. He lost sight of the grim scene outside, the sea around him, and even of his own body. Finally, once he could bring himself to move, he reached down and touched it. He grabbed a handful, and if guided by the Lord's own touch, brought it to his mouth. He did this again, and again, and again, until the taste of the treasure was all that he knew.

Massachusetts. Thirteen days later.

Farm animals paraded slowly through the streets. A boy swept up the edge of the dock, and a man who might have been his father called out to him: "When you've finished cleaning up after the beasts, go and see the baker. Our pantry is low and he hasn't yet delivered."

The boy finished up and the man took a break from his own work to look out upon the sea.

A ship had crested the horizon, bearing a flag he didn't recognize. It was bright red, but it bore no sign of Saint George's cross. He might have thought it was Spanish, but he knew well that the crown of Spain had focused their full attention on the islands far to the south. No, this flag was from a strange nation whose mark he had never known.

The man ran to the bell tower and sounded the alarm. By the time the militia had assembled, guns at the ready, the ship was nearly upon them with no sign of slowing down. They continued to ring the bell to no avail, and they shouted at it to slow, although none of them saw a single crew member on board.

The ship did not heed. It crashed through the docks at full speed, running itself aground causing such great damage to its hull that not even a team of master shipbuilders could ever make it sail again.

The townspeople were not injured, but they had riled themselves into a furor at the massive damage caused by the vessel. Carts were overturned, the cobblestone street had cracked halfway through, and the ship's nose had split the blacksmith's workshop nearly in two.

Mixed with their anger was fear. It wasn't every day that a ship entered their small port village, let alone ran aground without a crew. Men blustered about what they'd do to the first person who stepped foot off the boat, but nobody dared to take action.

The boy, just returning from the baker, dropped five loaves of bread into a puddle when he rounded the corner toward his home and saw the ruin before him. The militia had assembled and pointed guns at the ship, but the entire world seemed motionless. He carefully walked forward, below the rifles, and no one had the presence of mind to stop him.

There was a gaping hole in the hull of the ship, just large enough for him to squeeze through. By the time anyone realized what he was doing, their shouts echoed off the bow and he was gone into the hold, climbing among ruined crates, looking for...well, he didn't know exactly what.

He found his way to a ladder, then another ladder, and he climbed them both to reach the deck. Bones littered the deck, shifted into a grisly pile near the stern due to the crash. Flies swarmed the boy, but he was overcome with a feeling that he must press on. Not everyone was dead here - at least not in the normal sense, as the boy understood it.

He noticed light through a filthy window. The door next to it had come slightly ajar, and he steeled his nerved before walking towards it and grabbing the handle. That's when he heard a groan from inside - he was right, there was life on this vessel yet.

The men on the shore continued to shout at him. "Come back," they said, "it's dangerous," and for the rest of his days, the boy would come to wish he had heeded their warnings. But on that day, he did not, and he opened the door.

Inside, he saw a man lying on the ground, bloated and covered in some combination of vomit and his own waste. He wore a bright blue captain's jacket, and a matching bicorne hat. He looked to be in bad condition, and upon close inspection, the boy noticed something glimmering in his beard. It appeared to be gold, but the particles were far too fine. They were almost like crumbs, but more crystalline, like sugar.

Suddenly, the man tried to sit up, and the boy realized the man was absolutely covered in these mysterious particles. They not only dotted his beard, but there were so many that he realized the man didn't have a beard at all - he was caked in this strange material. His fingers were covered as well, but were bright red and raw - it looked as if the man had been sucking on them for weeks on end.

"Sir...?" the boy ventured. The man looked at him, greedy eyes darting between the boy and a large chest that had toppled over, crushing his arm and pinning him to the ground. "Sir, are you all right? Can I get you some water?"

The man did look parched. His lips were encrusted with the same material as his fingers and the rest of his face, and the boy could tell they were badly chapped. He would die soon if he didn't drink something.

"Sir, I'm going to get you some water," the boy said cautiously, and the man tried to answer. The boy got closer, the sound of the ghost-ship's captain too feeble to hear from the ten feet that separated them. The man had something in his mouth: more of those awful golden flakes.

"Don't speak sir, help is on the way," the boy said. He'd never seen a dead man, let alone one who was dying, but something in his hard colonial upbringing had steeled him for this moment.

"Nowaer....mil..." it sounded like the man said. The boy inched closer, crumbs spilling from the man's mouth as he tried to speak.

"Let me get you some water, sir, you look like you're in bad shape," he said. The man sat up, clearly in pain, and to the boy's disgust, swallowed whatever was in his mouth.

"Not water..." the man whispered, his parched throat hardly letting a voice escape. "Milk."

The boy sprinted outside onto the deck, looking down at the villagers below, who had finally lowered their guns.

"There's a survivor! Someone's alive! We need help up here!" he shouted down to them.

He returned into the cabin, where the man had passed out and collapsed onto his back, arm still crushed beneath the chest. The boy hadn't realized it at first, but the chest was glowing softly, even in the midday sun. He couldn't take his eyes off it. Sure, the boy had heard stories about treasures at sea, and pirates, and desert island adventures, but that's all they were - stories. Or were they? He had been so worried about the dying man that he hadn't stopped to ponder who he was or what he was doing here, let alone what else might be on board with him.

Shuffles rippled up through the boards below deck. Villagers were climbing on board slowly, but the adults would have a much harder time navigating the mess of smashed crates than he had.

Now that the imminent danger had passed, the boy became curious. "What's your name?" he asked the man, who was fading in and out of consciousness, increasingly aware of his mangled arm and his fragile condition.

"Captain Crunch," the dying man sputtered. "But you can call me Horatio,"

The boy stood over him now, looking down. He paused. "Horatio. That's my name, too."

He turned his attention back to the chest, and the dying captain tried to raise his good arm, almost as if he wanted to stop the boy from touching it. "Don't..." he said, before fading, his breath getting slower and slower.

The boy cocked his head, looked at the captain pitifully, and removed his hat out of respect. The man was fading quickly, and this gesture was all the boy had to give. Before placing the bright blue bicorne hat on his chest, however, he had second thoughts. The boy placed it on his own head, looking in a dingy, broken mirror hanging over the bed. "Captain Crunch," he whispered to himself, almost a question and answer all in one. The sounds of rescuers were getting closer, and he turned back to the chest. With both hands gripping its edge, light emanating from within, he slowly opened it to see whether it held gold doubloons, maps of forgotten lands, or something else entirely.