Letters to the Dead: A Rogues of Sea and Sky Salty Short Story Read online

  Letters to the Dead

  A Rogues of Sea and Sky

  Salty Short Story

  by

  Michelle Stinson Ross

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  PUBLISHED BY:

  Michelle Stinson Ross/Caroline Street Press

  Copyright © 2016 by Michelle Stinson Ross

  KINDLE EDITION

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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  Visit MichelleStinsonRoss.com for more about

  the author and the Rogues of Sea and Sky

  The following story is dedicated to my friend of many years, Kelly McDaniels, keeper of all that is weird and wonderful in this realm. Thank you, my friend for your support and encouragement. If I can do this, so can you.

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  The lamp on her desk was burning low. Dinner had been cleared away hours ago. The hypnotic flicker of the lamp’s wick was aiding sleep in its bid to overtake Grace’s efforts to work a while longer. She rose from her seat to stretch and revive her sleepy mind. As she took a turn about the cabin, she could hear the sounds of laughter and talking out on deck.

  “A breath of fresh air is just what I need,” thought Grace.

  She stepped out on deck under a great canopy of stars. The night was clear and cool with naught but a new moon to compete with the starlight. The Siren Song seemed to be suspended in the dust of a billion diamonds.

  The breeze was too slight to move the sheets, but the Song was carried along on her course by a friendly current skirting the Patagonian coast. The men on watch had gathered together on the main deck to swap stories and keep each other awake. Many of them were enjoying a pipe as they told their tales, and their faces were set in an orange glow as they puffed.

  Grace walked up just as they were all chuckling at the ending of a young sailor’s wild fish story.

  “Hands to your stations,” the watch commander ordered as soon as he realized his captain was standing there.

  “Belay that,” Grace smiled. “I too find sleep hard to chase off during these late watches. Carry on as you were.” She took a spot near the railing where she could hear and still watch as the glided through the stars.

  “It’s a wonder we’ve yet to hear of a sighting of the Flying Dutchman in all these mad tales,” Teach, the rigger’s mate chuckled.

  “I’ve never seen the Flying Dutchman, but I’ve seen a ghost ship before,” piped up one of the young riggers.

  “You don’t say,” scoffed Teach, egging the lad on.

  “Aye, sir, ‘twas several years ago while I was aboard a trading sloop, the Crowley. Oddest thing I’ve ever experienced, without a doubt.”

  The men sitting around him all shifted toward him in anticipation of his tale.

  “We had been trading in the Lesser Antilles and set course for Jamaica to sell off our goods when the weather began to turn foul. The sun had set into a furious bank of clouds to our west. Not long after sunset the winds began to pick up and stir a heavy chop. The captain adjusted course to try to make Puerto Rico before the worst of the storm, but by about midnight we were being tossed about in a high sea. We’d already been knocked around so much in the dark that we couldn’t be sure which direction we were pointed.

  I had been below decks helping to secure the cargo that had gotten loose, when the riggers were ordered to haul in the canvas. We had all gathered on deck when the lookout spotted something off the starboard side. We all went to the rails for a look, when out of the mist and spray we could see the lights of the aft cabin of a huge merchantman. Above the railing over the cabins, someone looked to be swinging a lantern to and fro. To a man, we all thought the ship was signaling us to follow.

  Under the circumstances there wasn’t any compelling reason to do so, but the captain gave the order to alter course and follow the other ship.

  In about half an hour’s time the mysterious merchantman lead us around the eastern side of an island that we had no idea we were near. It led us around to a sheltering deep water cove on the leeward side of the island.

  As we dropped anchor and made fast to ride out the rest of the storm, the other ship disappeared. We rode out the night alone and saw no sign of her the next morning.

  The next day we sailed all around that little island worried that the ship that had guided us to safety had wrecked during the night. But, we found no sign of wreckage anywhere. It was as if the storm had swallowed her whole. There was nothing more to do, but sail on.

  In Jamaica we sold much of our cargo, and the captain decided to carry a shipment of sugar cane back to London. As soon as we made for open water the lookout spotted a ship on the horizon in a direct line of our course. Throughout the day we gained on her but not enough to make out who she was.

  The next morning was shrouded in fog, and the navigator had to mind the compass carefully. When the cloudy mists finally burnt off in the midday sun, we found we had nearly caught up with the ship from the day before. We were close enough that she looked much like the ship that had saved us from the storm several weeks prior.

  Thinking it might be the same ship, the captain decided to come along side and hail them. As we approached we could see more details of the mysterious ship. The lines of her design were old. Nothing like her had come out of the shipyards of England in over 30 years, and yet, she looked as though she were sailing her maiden voyage. She showed no signs of decades at sea. The paint seemed fresh and there were no patches to be seen. All was quiet as we drew closer. There was no noise, not even a sign of a crew aboard. Everyone aboard the Crowley held their breath rather than break the eerie silence. As we came along side, we could see no one along the decks high above us.

  The captain hailed, but there was no response.”

  The young sailor’s face grew tense as he told his tale to his rapt audience.

  “He hailed again, but still not a sound came from the other ship. He drew his breath to hail a third time when a rasping hollow voice came on the wind.

  ‘Ahoy, Crowley,’ it seemed to hum. ‘You seemed to have fared the storm well. Are you bound for London?’

  ‘Aye, we are,’ answered the captain. His face grew pale at the sound of that soulless voice.

  ‘Since you are bound for home, could we beg a favor of ye,’ the hollow voice moaned.

  ‘Are you the same ship that we met off Puerto Rico in a storm a few weeks ago,’ the captain asked.

  ‘Aye, we spotted you a fo
undering, and were glad you changed course when you did.’

  ‘Then, aye, we will grant you any favor in return for the help you gave us,’ the captain responded.

  A small wooden wine cask came over the side of the merchantman and splashed between the two ships.

  ‘Inside are letters for our loved ones back home in Portsmouth. Will you see they are delivered?’ the hollow voice rasped.

  The captain signaled to have the cask hauled aboard, and answered, ‘aye, we’ll take your letters home.’

  ‘Thanks be to ye all,’ the voice seemed to die on the breeze as the merchantman immediately came about and went back the way she came.

  For several moments we stared at the small wooden cask sitting on the deck. Not a soul aboard had the nerve to touch it. But, as the mysterious merchantman shrank in the distance, our minds seemed to clear. The captain took the cask into his cabin and ordered us all back to work.

  Not another thought was given to the strange ship or its little barrel of letters until we made sight of the English shore. The call at Portsmouth was a welcome rest after the long Atlantic crossing, but rather than the excited talk of food, and spirits, and fine women the ship was filled with whispers of the promise made and the mysterious ship we’d encountered.

  The captain wasted no time inquiring of the harbor master where to hand over the letters we were carrying. The official looked over several of the notes and recommended that the captain take them to the local church.

  ‘The church, sir? But I don’t understand,’ the captain said what we were all thinking.

  ‘I don’t pretend to know how you came by these letters, but most them are addressed to folks what’s long been laid to rest in the local church yard. Maybe the vicar would be able to point you to next of kin?’

  The poor harbor master had no idea what to make of us wanting to deliver letters to the dead. I can’t say as I blame him.

  Since the lot of us were far from saintly, few of the crew were willing to accompany the captain to the church. I, for one, was far too curious about the mysterious circumstances of our mission that I couldn’t say no. But, I was only one of three willing to cross the holy threshold with our captain to see the vicar. The first mate and one other sailor made up our company.

  Mind you, I’m not a religious man, but something deep in the pit of my stomach began to gnaw at me as we walked through those hallowed grounds. By the time we made the door, I was recalling every prayer from childhood for fear of catching God’s disfavor.

  It was nearing dusk by the time we entered the old church. The only light inside the thick walls of the sanctuary was cast by the army of candles guarding the altar. The vicar in his billowing robes came to greet us from some alcove off to the side of the main room.

  ‘Good evening, my children,’ he greeted us warmly. ‘How may I be of service to you?’

  ‘We have these…’ the captain croaked, his throat so dry his voice had left him. ‘We have these letters to deliver to families of this parish,’ he finally got out once he’d cleared his throat. He shoved the letters at the clergyman as if his hands would burn if he held them a moment longer.

  ‘Let’s see what we have here,’ the vicar said as he pulled a wiry pair of spectacles from a fold in his robes. The kind smile on his face began to fade as he read the names. ‘Tell me, my son, how long have you had these letters?’

  ‘Not more than a couple of months, sir. We were asked to deliver them home just as we set sail from the Caribbean Colonies.’

  ‘I’d be inclined to tell you to mind yourself in the House of God and not lie to me here,’ he said after a long pause. ‘But, the ink and paper are fresh, these letters couldn’t possibly be 40 years old.’

  ‘No, sir! It’s just as I’ve told you. We were asked to take these letters home only a few months ago. Why would you think they’d be so old?’

  ‘My dear boy, these are addressed to the families of the crew of the Royal Anne. That ship was lost in a storm just south of Puerto Rico nearly 40 years ago.’

  In unison we dropped ourselves on the nearest pew.

  ‘I take it there is more yet to be told of this tale,’ the vicar asked as the patted the captain on the shoulder.

  After several stunned moments, the captain took a deep breath and related to the vicar all that I have told you thus far. The old vicar sat there turning his thoughts in his head.

  ‘Captain, I’d say that you and the crew of the Crowley have been the beneficiaries of souls caught in limbo and looking for redemption. It is now up to you to complete your vow and help the souls pass on to eternity.’

  ‘But how can we keep our promise, sir? You said yourself that these people have passed on themselves.’

  ‘Indeed I did,’ the vicar smiled. ‘The last remaining family member was laid to rest some ten years ago. I performed the rites myself. What I would suggest is that we gather some candles and go out into the church yard to pay our respects to the families of these wayward souls and pray that they are finally joined with them again on that side of heaven.’

  I tell you now that it was the most morbid treasure hunt I ever took part in. The captain and first mate took some of the candles and letters, the vicar took the rest and guided myself and the other sailor from stone to stone looking for names that matched. When we found one, we would lay the letter against the head stone and light a candle next to it. Once all the notes and candles were set out, we all gathered back in the middle of the church yard and followed along as the vicar prayed fervently for the souls of the lost.

  By the time we returned to the ship, not a one of us was interested in food, spirits, or fine women.”

  The tension broke with raucous laughter. Grace applauded the young man’s storytelling skills and awaited the tale of the man brave enough to follow him.

 

 

  Michelle Stinson Ross, Letters to the Dead: A Rogues of Sea and Sky Salty Short Story

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