1. One of my teachers talked about how his daughter died a few years ago. Made me feel lucky.
2. My classes don't sound like they'll be too tough.
3. I've got a class with one of my buddies. It doesn't happen very often at college so I fell blessed.
It will be hard to understand this post without reading Part 8.
Mutiny. It might as well have been tattooed on their foreheads. On his way to his room Stacey did not see any familiar faces. The Captain, in his great wisdom, must have fired the entire existing crew because he thought this one looked better, all except his cook of course. Stacey imagined the old crew back in Andrill, sitting in The Pig's Pajamas, cussing their horrible luck, to have lost their jobs and to have been left in Andrill. Even under the circumstances, The Cook couldn't help but laugh a little. They hated their situation, and he probably would have given his left eyeball to switch positions with them. Mutinies seldom worked out well for sea cooks. There was a general belief, as untrue as it was, that captains and their cooks were always the best of friends. They were far away from one another on the chain of command on the ship, but they often formed a bond that was closer than brotherhood.
Stacey and The Captain held no such bond. If anything The Cook found The Captain a revolting, spineless man, and The Captain found The Cook to be an uneducated moron. The mutineers didn't know that though, and shortly after The Captain was disposed of, The Cook would follow. Stacey looked out his little peep hole at the main sun setting on Andrill, with a minor one off to the left of it. The two made an interesting barrage of colors that The Cook had to smile at. This might be his last sunset as a free man, but more likely, this would be his last sunset ever, and in the grand scheme of sunsets, it was a pretty good one to end on.
Once the main sun had gone down the entire way, and the second minor followed it, Stacey unrolled his blanket and laid down, hoping they would give him one more night of uninterrupted sleep. They nearly succeeded, but Stacey awoke to the sounds of shouting and gunfire. He imagined The Captain on the Quarter deck, fighting for what he would have seen as his territory. Stacey opened his door slowly and peeked out to see several dark figures running down the hall in front of his door. He closed it momentarily and waited for the boots to run past him. He then ventured out. Stacey wasn't sure what he planned to do once out of his room, but knew that staying there would be certain death, so he walked down the hall and up the stairs to the main deck. He saw flintlock pistols and sabers in every sailor's hands.
Quickly, Stacey shrank down into a pile of ropes to watch the scene. Surely some other ship had boarded, because the sailors weren't fighting The Captain, they were fighting other sailors. Sabers met and clanked, hammers fell, and exploded, but each sailor seemed perfectly matched to the man in front of him. The Cook had seen no sailor fall, and just as he was about to stand to see why not, a dark figure with red glowing eyes appeared in front of him. The figure was half a man taller than he was, and just as The Cook was about to protest, the figure buried a saber deep in his chest, and Stacey woke with a start.
Sweat poured out his forehead and he couldn't gulp air fast enough. It had been a dream, a nightmare, and Stacey looked out his peep hole to see a storm off in the distance, where thunder rolled across the ocean and to his ears. Why did he walk back to the ship at all? Why didn't he just run with the child when he had the chance? In the morning he would likely be executed, and for what? For a captain he never truly respected. For a life of borderline servitude. It was almost too much for the poor cook to bear. He had a child to look after. He finally had a reason to live, and the next day he might see a guillotine. The Captain had purchased one back in Haresmoot. It would make sense for them to use it on the both of them.
Stacey did not find anymore sleep that night. The dawn came, and to his surprise, no sea dog was sent to drag him to the main deck. As he fretted, he realized this to be just another bit of torture before the end. Surely they had seen the terrified cook and wanted nothing more than to play with him before his demise. So, The Cook got up and left his quarters. Surely he would be killed, but he would not die the play thing of evil men.
The Cook came up the stairs just in time to witness The Captain's execution. He stood on the plank, hands tied, with a sailor pointing a flintlock rifle at him.
"I have no wish to shoot captain! Jump so that we may save the bullet!"
The Captain almost looked dignified as he stood in silence.
"Suite yourself!" Was the last thing The Captain heard before the hammer fell and a lead ball sent him over and into the deep. The executioner looked at the rifle and let it hang in one hand. The coldness with which he killed was telling of him. He was a pirate no doubt, and his companions must be also. The rifleman looked up and down the length of the ship, "Now where's that cook?"