The Tale of Casey Gilman

The beginning of a story inspired by C.S. Forester's Horatio Hornblower.

The boat tossed to and fro on the bounding waves. Casey Gilman could feel his stomach trying to escape his diaphragm via the exit trail of his throat and mouth. He held down the siege of the ever advancing lunch. He hated traveling by ship and this storm was making things intolerable for his weak constitution. The boat lurched to the side and a wooden table slid across the room crashing into the stacked bunk beds along the wall. The hanging lantern swung violently back and forth. Shadows danced across the faces of the men gathered all around the cabin. They were all tough looking men with shifty eyes and leathery skin. Casey couldn't help but feel a sense of uneasiness when the men turned heir gaze toward him. He looked back to the floor of the cabin each time his eyes met with another. He feared these men. After all, they were monsters. Casey knew that these men would have their way with him had it not been for the chains on their feat and shackles on their hands keeping them bound in place. He hated even having to sit with these low life criminals.

The ship pitched again and the table shifted back across the floor to its original position. A chained man in the corner of the chamber began mumbling to himself. At first his voice was too low to make out what he was saying but gradually his became loud enough to hear.

“We're all going to die. We're all going to drown. God will punish us by casting us into the depths.”

“Shut up, you fool.” Another man shouted. He was big and gruff. He seemed unfazed by the storm. Casey thought the man had the look of a solider about him. Yes, he looked like the kind of cold-heart-ed man who would enjoyed killing. The gruff man looked at Casey. Casey quickly diverted his eyes back to the floor, back to his shoes and back to the chains. Strong irons were clamped around his ankles and a strong chain linked the bonds to the men sating to his side. The irons had pulled down his stockings leaving a clump of cloth over the ridged frame. He reached down to pull the stocking back up his leg. What was he doing here? He was a noblemen, after all, and such a place was not befitting of his status. Just then a sinking feeling settled upon the depths of his soul. His status didn't matter anymore. Perhaps at one time the name Gilman meant something but now in the eyes of her majesty and all of the isles he was nothing more than a common criminal... No, not a common criminal, a murderer.

The night was long but at last the storm was over. The ship now seemed as if it was gliding among among the cloud like a bird in comparison to the turmoil the night before. The hatchway opened and a British navel lieutenant, followed by one of the ship's crew and two armed red coat marines descended the stairs into the hold. The crewmen help large iron ring with several keys dangling from the circle.

“Open it.” The lieutenant ordered.

The crewmen grabbed the metal bars and placed the key in the lock on the door. With a click the door was opened and the crewmen stepped into the cell.

“Get up you vagabonds.” The crewmen grunted.

The prisoners all stood to their feet as the sound of a dozen chains clanged along the floor.

“Let me be the first to welcome you all to your new home.” The lieutenant said with a wicked smile. “Welcome to Australia.”

Author's Note

Any suggestions as to where the story should go from here?