Pale Flower

 Many a raid I have set into motion, glorious and grim, thwarting ships and drifting vessels, ransacking coastal towns while farmers and fishermen sleep under star-bejeweled skies. Such folk seldom rise to wake again, but when they do, they find themselves in the tattooed arms of scurvy sea dogs, grappled by possessive, suntanned hands. These few survivors —wives and daughters for the most part, though, on occasion, a young lad or a well-seasoned geezer (depending on the tastes of their captors)— usually expire within a fortnight, electing to jump ship or fall on their kidnapper’s rusty cutlass to expedite their wretched thralldom.
Many a dazzling razzia I have marshaled, executed with aplomb, a swift schooner cleaving the fog of infant dawn. I recall these mornings fondly: tea and coffee, a wedge of melon, marauding the townsfolk who dream upon their mattresses of straw. Thatched roof and beds aflame; us pirates dub this “a rude awakening.”
One more rude awakening, hearties?
Aye, Cap’n. Why the fuck not?
Though men of few words, we are men of great appetite—we take what we want. We fill our purses. We fill our hearts. We fill our bellies with rum, the hours with song and menace. We fill our enemies with dread, and the sky with black, billowing sails.
Many a bright bauble I’ve accrued from a good ol’ smash n’ grab. Many a bonny, boner-forming babe I’ve acquired after a classic rape n’ raid. Many a sparkling coin. Many a fresh buxom tart. And mundane items, too. Everyday goods that some may think are beneath a pirate’s interest—not so. We have use for fruits and foodstuffs, for we are mortal men, not monsters! We make excellent use of rope, tallow, domestic beasts, women’s clothing, and fine, billowy hats. We are dignified—we are not Vikings.
But there is one thing that we pirates love more than even gold or jewels, gunpowder or glory, fair winds or casks of grog, and that one thing is cracking Jenny’s teacup. Do not make me spell it out, for I am a gentleman.
The sight of her hit me harder than a clap of thunder filled to the brim. I lifted my eyepatch, which I wear for style, not for necessity, as I have 20/20 in both blue eyes. I beheld a flower in full bloom, a pretty little lass who at once melted my legendary icy heart. Others saw her, too; gangrenous, peg-legged sorts that ran to her with mizzenmasts in their patched pantaloons.
Sink me! You loathsome bastards and biscuit eaters! I raised my black-nailed finger at the throng of would-be mutineers. Stay away from my flower!
They all looked at their feet, perplexed and searching.
The girl, you fucking idiots! Touch her, and you die.
The crew moaned and groaned but knew ‘twas best not to test an old salt and their dreaded captain. Swab the poop deck, I commanded. Swab the poop off the deck, I laughed at my pirate-themed jest.
Now, as for the girl… I am no poet, but let me try my hand, which is four-fingered and the only one I have. I sheathed my blade and removed my cap. I smoothed my hair, raven black and greased in whale fat. I said to the maid who trembled in her nightdress:
Fair white blossom, pale flower from the deep green sea. Pristine, says I, doubloon-shiny in the morning sun. Should the fabled kraken rise to slake its murderous thirst upon my haggard flesh and tired bones, I’d die a bright and cheerful bucko, having first laid eyes on thee.
My charms had little effect. The young girl screamed. She ran. Her legs were the color of spume off the bow, blurring as one as they carried her across the seashells and sand. She gave good sport, and I knew that she always would. I crossed the driftwood shore on surefooted strides and scooped her up. I ignored the booty that we left unclaimed. I resisted the urge to touch her booty. I left the seaside village in our wake. I returned to my ship and sailed away into a rose-tinted horizon, a sublime new dawn.