The Pirate Brig & the Cove

I was part of the crew of a Sloop-of-War

That had sailed in the Caribbean,

We were caught asleep in the port one night

By the crew of a Brigantine.

They loosed a broadside, seven guns

As the Skull and the Bones flew high,

And I was dragged to the pirate ship

Where they said, ‘You’ll serve, or die!’

 

There wasn’t a choice to be had back then,

So I climbed aloft on the mast,

Setting the rig of the fore topsail

And making the halyards fast,

They made me stay in the Crows Nest then

To be swept by the wind and rain,

With only a couple of tots of rum

To deal with my aches, and pain.

 

I kept lookout on the pirate brig

For His Majesty’s ships, and land,

They knew we wouldn’t stand much of a chance

As a Privateer Brigand,

We sought to shelter within a cove

In an island, not on a chart,

And rowed ashore in a longboat there

With the bosun, Jacob Harte.

 

Captain Keague had stayed on the ship

With the bloodiest of his crew,

The rest of us had been pressed to sea

To do what we had to do.

We filled our barrels with water from

A rill that flowed from the hill,

And gathered fruit that we’d never seen

From trees with an earthy feel.

 

The trees had tendrils that waved about,

And trunks that were black and charred,

Just like a fire had raged there once

And left them, battle-scarred.

A voice rang out in a clearing there,

‘Hey mates, head back to the sea,

Don’t let the tendrils fasten on you

Or you’ll all end up like me.’

 

And deep in the trunk was a human face

With its skin all burnt and black,

The pain was etched on his weathered skin,

‘Look out, these trees attack!

We tried to burn them away, but they

Caught every one of the crew,

That fruit you carry is poison, mates,

They’ll be the end of you!’

 

The tendrils whipped and the tendrils slashed

And they wrapped round Jacob Harte,

He hadn’t much time to scream before

They seemed to tear him apart,

And each of the crew was tangled there,

Was absorbed into a tree,

I made it back to the beach that day

Though I’m anything but free.

 

The roots of the trees had reached on out

To the Brigantine in the bay,

Curled like manacles round its decks

And torn its masts away,

They dragged it up on the sandy beach

And they crushed it to a shell,

Caught the crew in their tendrils too

And Captain Keague as well.

 

I’ll put this note in a bottle, send it

Floating off in the sea,

Hoping that someone picks it up,

It’s the last you’ll hear from me.

Don’t let them seed in the world out there

These tendril trees are cursed,

And keep this Island from off the map,

If not, I fear the worst!

 

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Ravyne Hawke]

An amazing fantastical narrative... love this!

[Ahena MK]

amazing !!!! thanks for the wonderful read !!

[Tina Louise UK]

Fab read....really enjoyed this tale :) x

[Marie]

THis is a great story. I can just imagine tost terrible trees with their tendrils reaching out...

[Lyn Anderson]

This is story telling in poetic form at its best. I love the manacles line the best. A stellar write.

[Thomas Skahill]

The way you construct your setting is astounding, I like the choice of atmosphere and rhyme scheme. The Sloop-of-War really stood out as something that defined your style in this piece, keep up the intriguing word choices and atmospheres.