26 Absurdities of Tragic Proportions

by Matthew C Woodruff

  Any minute the guard was going see all the other tacks, and the ones in Leo’s hand and he was going to be in full blown trouble. In Leo’s mind there was only one thing to do to avoid getting in to serious trouble. He swallowed all the tacks that he was still holding onto.

  The End.

  Maud

  The Fluyt was a thing of beauty, riding the waves of the great oceans and seas with a grace and sublimity lacking in other types of trading vessels. Embert stood on the dock outside one of his father-in-law’s many warehouses in the port town of Hoorn, marveling at the two- and three-masted ships that lay at anchor waiting to be serviced by the dock workers. Embert loved the slapping of the waves and the taste of salt on the air, the call of seabirds and the yells, songs and curses of the dockside work gangs. The hawking of vendors, the swagger of seamen on leave, the whistles, catcalls and risqué comments for the ’Ladies’ as they strolled by displaying their ‘wares’. The docks were a lively, busy and occasionally rough place.

  The large fleet of Fluyts employed by the majority of the Dutch trading families, including his wife’s family, is what has given the Dutch their mastery over the sea-based trade of Scandinavia, Europe, North Africa and India. These 80-foot cargo vessels could be managed by a minimum crew, carried relatively no armaments and therefore were able to be built more cheaply and move faster over the seas. Their speed allowed them to outrun any pirate vessels encountered. Occasionally, the merchant fleet was herded by the larger, older and more powerful galleons or the quicker frigates of the Dutch East India Trading Co’s warship fleet.

  Traditionally on a trading voyage the cargo master was a member of the family, a son, neer-do-well cousin, son-in-law, etc. The cargo master oversees the coin and the trade, what sells where, what gets purchased etc., while the captain is in charge of the ship itself. To the crew, the cargo master is a respected member of the family, all he had to do for that respect was be born. The Captain was a seaman, who earned his respect through hard work and experience. Little rivalry exists between the two, for both know they must work together to make a successful voyage. For one to override the other’s decision, there had better be compelling reason.

  In just a fortnight, Embert was to make his first trading voyage as cargo master, on a lone trading vessel, the Beverielle. Embert felt honored to be appointed such by his father-in-law, even if it was just the one ship. The Beverielle was to depart Hoorn for Christiana with a supply of expensive rare spices and perfumes to be sold to the highest bidders among the factors there. After unloading, the Beverielle’s next custom was at the discretion of the cargo master. He may play it safe and pick up furs and lumber at a set price or, if he makes good contacts, may hear of a better trade elsewhere. Under no circumstances would the ship return empty. There may be three or four additional trade stops before returning to Hoorn with whatever cargo the cargo master decided upon, and with whatever coin garnered in his trades. The Beverielle may be out for three weeks or three months. With Embert chomping to prove himself to his father-in-law and new wife, anything might possibly happen.

  On the Hoorn to Christiana route, there was little chance of pirates, unless they be pirates off the English isle, so there was no escort planned. The German Ocean could be treacherous with large ice floes and floating bergs that could be unpredictable. Pirates tended to the warmer southern seas of the Atlantic and Mediterranean. However on this occasion, while Embert was pouring over charts and logs and trading accounts and preparing for his voyage, on the north-western coast of Scotland, what may have been the world’s unluckiest pirate was himself preparing for a journey.

  Ferguson Aberdeen, aka Ferg the Fearless, ‘inherited’ his ship from its previous owner in a card game, after the previous owner’s untimely demise. You might think winning a pirate ship in a card game takes some luck, but you’ve never seen the Black Death. The Black Death was the most rat-infested, barnacle encrusted, leaky death trap to ever put to sea. Its keel was warped, its bow crooked, its steering wheel off center, its rudder was cracked, and the sails were the worst, moth eaten, moldy and holey things to ever be run up a mast. The Black Death has killed many a sailor but unfortunately, mostly her own. The traditional pirate flag itself was so faded and torn that most people thought it was just an off-white smudge on a graying background. We shouldn’t even mention what the crew was like. About all of them being one-eyed, peg-legged, pock-faced broken-down murderers, rapists and thieves. Oh, and one Lutheran.

  “You sail in that thing?” It was often asked, ‘You must be fearless,” (i.e. completely cracked), thus ‘Ferg the Fearless’.

  Now the Black Death wasn’t the only part of Ferg’s life that indicated some passing familiarity with bad luck. Ferg’s homely wife, Mathilda, died giving birth to Ferg’s only would-be son, taking the poor little tyke with her to hell or wherever. Ferg was left with one child, a daughter, Maud. Maud was too young to be left alone, and as everyone knows, it was extremely unlucky to have a female of any age aboard a ship, so Ferg decided to pass Maud off as a boy. With her short-shorn hair, grime-covered exterior and non-descript clothes, no one could tell the difference anyway.

  As a pirate, plying the waters of the German ocean was as good a plan as any, there being little competition and little expectation by merchant ship captains of pirates. Assuming you could avoid the freezing fogs, floating castles of ice, treacherous currents and colder-than-balls temperatures. In a fast ship the German ocean could be sailed in each direction in as little as a few days. Quick out and strike, quick back in to count your plunder was the plan, if your luck was with you.

  The Black Death was put to rights, as much as was possible. Provisions were stowed, water barreled, powder and shot made ready. As he and his crew worked, Ferg never dreamed what a prize he was going to encounter in the Beverielle.

  The Black Death’s second mate was a particularly unlikeable, greasy, bad-tempered, lout who liked to fight, drink, gamble and screw, pretty much in that order. He had come with the ship. The crew knew and if not liked, at least respected his ability with his fists and his knowledge of curse words.

  On the morning of the day the Black Death was going to set sail, the Quarter Master (the man in charge of ship and crew), a barely more respectable man than the first mate was killed in a back-alley knife fight.

  As soon as the news was relayed to the Black Death, a melee of astronomical proportions broke out among the crew. After all, it is how promotions are decided on a Pirate ship. Last man standing, and all that. The former second mate survived to become the Quarter Master and so on down the line, positions were re-ordered. Cuts and gashes were sewed, blood sopped up, mead and congratulations passed around.

  When Ferg boarded the Death with a youngster in tow, if the crew had any thoughts about it, they kept them to themselves. What business of theirs was it? A nephew, wanting to be a sailor, they had heard it said. He kept to himself, and no more thought was accorded him.

  “Raise the anchors and make sail toward Christiana” Ferg ordered the sailing master.

  Now just about anyone could own a ship. The important thing was the charts one owned. The charts were the most securely guarded treasure of a ship’s captain. Without the charts, no one would know how to get where they wanted to be. So, a few more directions were required, “steer Nor Nor’West at 18 degrees,” type of thing. You see, the thing about sailing a ship was you don’t really have to detour for much. You could pretty much go in a straight line if you knew how, otherwise you just went in circles.

  Off went the Black Death, zig-zagging across the German Ocean toward Christiana. A look out the whole way had to be kept for the tell-tale signs of a sail on the horizon, which would indicate their prey. After about two weeks of sailing, avoiding icebergs and whatever sea monsters lurked hereabouts, the Death still hadn’t spotted any other ships.

  “Should we go closer to land, Cap’n?” the new Quarter Master asked, anxious to do some plundering and what not, during one of the brief times they were
both on the poop deck. “Not much out ‘ere but bergs ‘n cold.”

  Ferg considered. If they moved in closer to the Denmark coast, they would probably have more luck, but there may be patrols out as well. It has been two weeks and the crew were starting to grumble. Ferg knew it was not uncommon for a pirate ships crew to remove the captain for any number of reasons, no booty being chief among them.

  “Is that your recommendation then?” Ferg asked, more to be able to share the blame if something went wrong than for any other reason. “Closer on to Denmark, then, Sailing Master,” Ferg directed the Sailing Master, who was listening intently to the exchange between the Quarter Master and Captain.

  Almost immediately, down from the crow’s nest came the words “sail ho”, indicating a ship had been spotted on the horizon, making it between two and three miles away. Immediately all three men snapped open their ‘Netherlands Telescopes’ the single, hand-held spyglass just recently invented.

  “Dutch India Trading,” muttered the Quarter master, spying the flags.

  “Looks as though it is headed straight for us.” Ferg replied. “I don’t see any others.”

  “A fat prize, then,” the greasy quartermaster exclaimed.

  “Raise the Dutch flag,” the captain yelled, the order being repeated down the length of the deck. The crew ran to do their captain’s bidding from among the many flags available. “Make your heading 5 degrees starboard,” He told the Sailing Master, “You there,” pointing to the chief, “spill the wind.”

  “Cap’n,” inquired the QM? Even though the QM was basically in charge of ship and crew, it was the Captain who plotted the course, devised strategy and ruled absolutely during all engagements.

  “If we come straight at them, they will turn with the wind and flee, and we will not be able to catch them, these Fluyts are too fast for us. If we turn now and slow, we can turn into them at the last moment, come up alongside and board them with ease, maybe hit them with a broadside.” The captain explained to respectful and hopeful faces all around, fighting and not strategy being the crews’ strong point. After all, this is why they have a captain.

  “Ready the port guns, but keep the ports closed,” the captain yelled and again his orders were repeated down into the ship as men ran to their posts. Fortunately for Ferg, the wind was behind them, meaning the Beverielle was having to tack into the wind. Timed just right as they tacked to their starboard, Ferg could order his ship to port, and close the distance twice as fast, catching them unawares.

  Over on the Beverielle, they had also spotted the Black Death, and not recognizing it was suspiciously watching it to see what its captain and crew would do.

  “They are turning to their starboard, Sir,” yelled the lookout, to the relief of many. “Dutch colors flying.”

  “Beat to quarters,” the captain of the Beverille demanded and drum beats tolled out, calling all crewmen to stations, and all officers to the bridge. He was not one to take chances. When he could see the Dutch uniforms, then he would relax. When Embert made it to the bridge and was apprised of the situation he felt there was nothing to worry about. Another Dutch ship would never attack them so he asked for his leave to return to his cabin, where he had been counting coins and notating registers. He was below minutes later when the ship shuddered and groaned mightily like a gigantic hand had slapped it. He and all his coin tossed about the tiny cabin like flotsam, and then all hell broke out.

  At the last possible second, just as the Beverielle was starting its starboard tack, Ferg ordered all sails full and ordered the turn into the oncoming ship. “Roll out the guns!” Ferg yelled, and pirates strained to do it, getting ready to fire the first volley, as they turned back for the broadside. “Prepare to board!” he ordered the rest of the waiting crew. The QM could already taste sweet victory. This captain knew his stuff!

  It was a nicely executed plan, or it would have been except for Ferg’s traditionally bad luck. Just as both ships were headed almost straight at each other, the Black Death’s rudder snapped completely in half. With sails on full and the wheel spinning out of control, impact was inevitable, even though the Beverielle tried to turn with all her might, with her bells clanging ferociously.

  Ferg’s ship smashed into the Beverielle just forward of midstern, and broke apart with crew, cargo and ship’s parts being flung into the ice-cold sea. The poor old Black Death had taken too much strain over her long years of pirating, cold death poured into her belowdecks. The Beverielle, though heavily damaged managed to stay afloat.

  Some few of the Death’s crew were rescued, including the QM, just to be unceremoniously hanged for piracy. Many more met again in Davey Jones’s locker. Maud, who had been laying on her small cot in the captain’s cabin due to having caught a sickness some days before, wearing the type of sleeping gown all children of the age wore, floated away on a broken piece of galley table, too small to be seen by the busy crew of the Beverielle.

  Neither Ferg nor Maud was ever seen again. As for the Beverielle, it limped into a nearby Danish port, having made a tidy profit on its original cargo. The sailors of the Beverielle drank for many a night on tales of the vicious pirate attack and ramming they had survived, by the grace of Neptune himself.

  The End.

  Neville

  Part 1.

  Few things generate the kind of warmth in a man’s heart than does the feeling he gets when he returns home to a happy and loving family after a hard day’s work. Bob Cratchitt, from that other story, certainly felt that way as did our John Farrow, the fellow whose family this story is about.

  Now, by almost anyone’s account, John Farrow was a lucky man. He had been born handsome and sturdy of mind and body into a well-off family, being educated at some of England’s best institutions. He met and married the beautiful, smart and engaging Claudette. They had two of the most wonderful, happy and well-mannered children a man could hope for, Louise and Neville, children who were a pleasure to speak to and spend time with. John’s children were inquisitive, kind, intelligent and energetic.

  Louise and Neville engaged with their tutors on a much higher level than the ordinary children their ages. They were interested in history, science, mathematics, art and music. Louise could dance and played two instruments, the flute and violin.

  In addition to enjoying sculpture, and being a passingly fine alto, Neville was athletic, excelling in football and cricket, and also had a deft hand at the violin.

  There wasn’t a moment in their home that the conversations weren’t lively, engaging and even sometimes funny. Never was a cross word spoken, or an exasperated look passed. At supper, which may have been prepared by any one, or all of them, conversations were sometimes serious, sometimes light-hearted but always filled with wonder, the love and respect shared among them apparent to any onlookers, who may have been fortunate enough to have been invited into their home.

  Yes, John Farrow was a lucky man indeed, until the day the tragedy struck.

  It started out like any other of a hundred Sundays for the Farrow family. As was their habit, Church was skipped, the Farrows being scientifically inclined, had gravitated more toward a humanist view, rather than religious. The warm and

  breezy day called for tea and croissants on the back patio, while the paper was digested, the politics debated, and the arts scene section exclaimed over.

  “Oh look, this lecture at the Natural History museum on Wednesday eve, looks positively enthralling,” exclaimed Louise. Then they all laughed at Neville’s mock look of disdain, for all present knew he loved the Natural History museum.

  “We’d love to go honey,” Mrs. Farrow said, “But Judith and Lee are coming over to play pinochle.” To John’s mock look of disdain (they all knew John loved to play pinochle) and after chuckling, she continued, “It is our turn to host, after all.”

  “Well, next time then,” Louise said, a little disappointedly.

  “Hey,” Neville said, to try to shore up Louise’s spirits, “You and I could go t
o the library instead that night and see if they have Theodore Dreiser’s new book yet. I heard it was great!”

  “Oh yes,” Louise replied, brightening immensely. “If it’s Okay with you Mummy and Daddy?”

  “That sounds perfect,” John Farrow said, “but don’t you two be going in there and causing a ruckus,” he finished while jokingly wagging a finger at his two perfectly behaved children.

  Everyone laughed.

  Later that afternoon they were all dead, except for Neville, who had gotten not even a scratch from the horrific accident that killed the rest of his family.

  Now John and Claudette Farrow had been only children, having no siblings. Both sets of their parents had also previously passed, John’s on a missionary trip to Africa where apparently they had been mistaken for dinner and Claudette’s on the ill-fated maiden voyage of the Titanic. You might think that left poor Neville in the care of the State but it just so happened John Farrow had a spinster aunt. A mean, over-weight, unkempt, penny-pinching ornery old biddy with a big wart on the end of her nose, with hairs growing out of it.