"ALL HANDS ON DECK!"
Upon hearing the order, men above and belowdeck scrambled to their posts. As torrents of rain bombard the sails, a man rose from the companionway to the open deck of the ship. He was donning a cerulean jerkin over a white linen tunic and a pair of azure petticoat trousers tucked inside a pair of pitch-colored musketeers' with sewn on soles. He was also wearing a tricorne atop his powder darkened shoulder-length hair. Tucked behind the folds of his belt are two primed muskets and a cutlass.
"Unreef the topsails, and tighten the ropes. We're wearing Christine in chock-full!" the man wearing the hues of the ocean yelled.
That man was James "Mackerel" Hodge: a well-known privateer and captain of several successful raids against Spanish ships and settlements. The townsfolk of Port Royal – an infamous English stronghold – knew him by the name Mack – an abbreviated version of his moniker 'Mackerel'. In French, maquerelmeans 'procurer', a name that he gained because of his ability to 'collect' women – nobles and commoners alike. It was also a subtle comment to the dark, pea-sized lump of skin on his chin. He is the owner and the captain of Christine, a three-decked brig.
"How fare we?" he asked a gigantic, dark-skinned man that everyone referred to as the Nubian.
"Thirty knots, due Northeast."
"No good, no good," Captain Mack mumbled. "We have just escaped three Donnish ships o' the line and now we are sailing windbound because of this bloody storm." He turned to the men that were clinging to the shrouds by the foremast. "We're listing to port, men. Bare the spritsails! O'Lear! Frap the forestay!"
From a hatch, a cry for help floated. "Loose cannon, larboard!" It was followed by a large set of heavy footsteps.
Across the slippery deck, Richardson, the helmsman, ran abaft and grabbed the captain by the elbow.
"Cap'n," he said. "Should we change tack and head back or should we weather her?"
"Weather her at a rate of knots, I say," Captain Mack said. "We cannot risk the Spaniards again."
"God's blood," Richardson muttered. "The swells will consume us soon!" As Richardson ran for the tiller, Edgeworth, the Boatswain, walked briskly across the bridge to report.
"Decks are ready for action, captain!"
"All footloose, go under the weather! Lash yourselves to the ship," Captain Mack ordered. A huge wave struck bow of Christine, causing one of the men to fall off of one of the Jacob's ladders. As the others threw lines at the fallen sailor, the lookout, Glasseye Jack, called from the crow's nest.
"Ship ho!"
Because of the storm and arrival of the dusk's gloom, they failed to readily see the arrival of another ship. As Captain Mack turned to look at the direction of the lookout's hands, he was appalled when he saw that the ship was only two miles from them, at most.
"Glasseye!" he called out. "Can you identify?"
"No colors. Three-decker frigate. Armed to the teeth."
Captain Mack spat and cursed. The storm already had their hands full; but with the windward ship closing their distances at a terrible speed, he had to consider the possibility of a piratical attack.
"Old Bronze!" From the cannon deck, a bearded old man surfaced. Captain Mack turned to face him. "Prepare the cannons, quick!"
Old Bronze gazed at the tumultuous blue and said "Devil's curse. A corsair, you suppose?"
