With only a few days left on our voyage, I was on watch in the crow’s nest, perched high atop the ship. I didn’t fear the heights and gladly climbed the mast to savor the solitude. That night, the wind was calm. A blanket of stars wrapped around me while I sat with paper and charcoal, mapping shortened stars in the constellation Breve.

Strange glints of light struck my spyglass. Glimmers of moonlight danced across its lens. An ominous fleet of rowboats and rafts filled with glowing cooking pots rushed toward the ship. I climbed down the nets as hundreds of smoldering cooking pots collided with the hull. Dark, billowing smoke consumed the ship, stealing the air from my lungs and filling my nose with tar. I choked and tripped. Outstretched, flailing arms grasped a thick dangling rope, and I rang the bells with all my might.

The salts rushed across the deck, coughing and gagging as they stumbled to their battle stations. Swirling smoke drifted past our ship, followed by the eerie clang of metal biting into the polished planks. Volleys of muzzle flashes revealed waves of masked, hooded men pouring over the rails. The cacophony of battle ensued. What a brutal symphony it was. The ring of steel against steel. The percussive cracks of pistols and rifles. Men were screaming, shouting, and shitting. I pressed my back against the main mast, thrusting my rusty blade into anyone wearing a hooded cloak. I hadn’t any skill with a sword, but I knew how to kill.

My shipmates fought valiantly, but bravery wasn’t enough. They fell by the dozens, leaving me to wonder when I would join them on the bloody planks. Then silence fell upon the ship.

A burly figure, his nose poking out from beneath an orange beard, ascended the stairs to the quarterdeck. He tapped his curved blade against the railing and cleared his throat. “I, Captain Meyer, claim this ship by right of conquest. If any officer still alive wishes to challenge my claim, make yourself known.”

For a moment, the surviving salts seemed to regain a bit of hope. Doss was the only officer alive. He was excellent with a sword. The best most of the salts had seen.

Doss saluted Captain Meyer with his nimble blade and stood on guard. Their sharp steel clashed. Captain Meyer was no match for Doss’s skill with a sword. He resorted to fists and grappling, throwing himself upon Doss and bashing my captain’s skull into the planks. It was a fight for which no one could adequately train. Doss was better with a sword, but his gentleman’s demeanor would be his downfall. Honor dies in duels.

Captain Meyer cut the buttons from Doss’s uniform and threw the body overboard. Then his crew rounded up and shot the old salts. The younger of us found ourselves in chains, without a chance to die or choose a side. Cloaked men forced us to carry crates of food, weapons, and anything of value or practical use. They marched us single file off the Elsbury and into rowboats. We sat with pistols to our heads. Callous hands pressed upon the oars. My arms shook. Every muscle burned while I rowed through the night.

In the morning, a butchered, velvet sun dripped over the horizon. We maneuvered past the mountainous coast of an island. Rugged cliffs loomed above as we approached the enemy’s hidden ship. I counted five decks outfitted with more sails and cannons than I had ever seen. Climbing aboard that awful ship was my last glimpse of sunlight. When I stepped on the splintered planks, three gruesome men dragged me below the decks and chained me to the floor inside the lower hull.

Every time the ship swayed, clanging chains echoed against the slick, slimy planks. A hundred helpless people struggled for breath. They could taste the stink in the air; I could too.

“Where are we?” I said to a girl chained on the floor next to me.

“Keep your voice down,” she whispered. “They’ll cut your tongue off if they hear you.”

“Who are they?” I said. “What are they doing to us.”

“You’re on a slave ship; whisper better.”

“Yesterday, I thought I had escaped slavery. And here I am wearing irons again. How did you end up in this putrid place?”

“The king’s sailors raided my home and sold me. I’ve never been a slave.”

“You were a free citizen? I would say you’re lucky, but luck doesn’t lead a person to a place like this.”

“Can I ask you for a favor?” she whispered.

“A favor?” I rattled my chains. “What could I possibly do for you?”

“The slavers think my name is Olivia, but if I die, I want someone to remember the name my mother gave me, Zerelda Giganti.”

“How about a favor for a favor? My slave name was Pietro. The salts called me Richard. But if I die, I want someone to know my grandmother named me Achille Marozzo.”

“The salts? Are you one of the king’s sailors?”

“No, but I was on a royal warship. It’s a long story. Do we have a deal or not, Zerelda Giganti?”

“We do,” she tucked her knees into her chest. “I hate the king.”

“The king doesn’t care if you hate him,” I said the wrong thing and tried to change the subject. “Is there any way off this ship other than a bullet?”

“The lucky ones get a bullet. A girl named Julia Gramsci used to sit next to me. She told me if you’re healthy, you’ll work in the fields. If you cause trouble, you’ll be a miner. If you’re pretty, you’d rather die.”

“I won’t be a slave, and neither will you. How many guards have you seen?”

“I haven’t seen anyone. I’m blind, always have been.”

“My grandmother was blind,” I said. “Everyone underestimated her until they realized she could spear a fish better than anyone. Tell me about the ship’s crew. How many voices have you heard? Do they have a schedule?”

“I’ve heard three voices. It’s always the same three men who sort the living from the dead. Without the warm sun on my face or crickets chirping, I can’t tell how many days it takes for them to check on us. I’ve tried to keep track, but you’ll understand soon. There’s no difference between day and night down here.”

“How do they check to see who’s alive?”

“They beat us with a club and throw the dead overboard.”

“We have to endure the beating,” I said. “I’m an excellent swimmer. We must seem dead, be strong.”

“You just got here,” Zerelda said. “Don’t talk to me about strength. The hull was empty when I arrived.”

Most adventures at sea start with perilous storms, which test a person’s courage. It’s the hero’s chance to prove they are fearless on the open sea, knowing full well that danger lurks in every gust of wind and swirling wave. My story, on the other hand, is a bit different. My journey began with a burlap bag over my head for the first thirty days of our three-hundred-and-sixty-day voyage. The salts insisted it was to make sure I didn’t spread a foreign disease.

Sailors, like fishers, love to laugh, and I was a living, breathing joke. My voyage seemed like a prison sentence while I scrubbed the decks, secured the rope, and cleaned the animal locker with a bag over my head. The longer I endured the joke, the more the old salts started to like me. They didn’t know if I was dumb or brave, and I wanted to keep them guessing.

Another joke the old salts played involved forcing me to sleep in the animal locker. “We don’t have enough hammocks,” they said. It was another lie that put sarcastic smiles on their weathered faces. If only they knew that I preferred the company of sheep and goats. A rough, dry hay bed was better than hammock rotations with a crusty old sailor. It smelled better too.

After my thirty days of hazing, the salts embraced me as one of their own. I had done everything they asked with a bag over my head and proved my worth. Or, at least, my ability to take a joke. Either way, I proved something to them.

On the fortieth day of my journey, I began mandatory literacy lessons with Old White Dwight. He was a wise and educated man. No matter how drunk he was. Most of the old salts believed Dwight was a sorcerer. It was their only explanation for why Dwight’s flask never ran dry. After a while, the rumors of sorcery seemed true. No matter how much Dwight drank, he always had a flask full of rum. Whenever his shipmates asked about his mystical ability, he gave them the same answer. “I ration my portions.” If it was sorcery, he never taught me his trick.

Dwight opened a children’s book and pointed to the page. “Have you seen this letter before?”

“I know how to read and write,” I said. “A tavern girl named Lydia taught me. She told me that all the wealthy merchants know how to read and write better than most men. So, while the merchants spent all their money on her, I snuck onto their ships and stole their books, among other things.”

Dwight glowered at me. “Do you have a favorite book?”

“I used to spend my nights reading the ancient epics about the goddess Kellena and her age of heroes.”

“Those are rare books,” Dwight said. “Which story did you read the most?”

“I read Hedra’s adventures more times than I remember.”

“Hedra, Dragon of the East and of the West. Do you remember his prayer?”

“I used to sit on the beach every night and pray for the beast.”

“No one writes powerful words like that anymore,” Dwight frowned. “The dragon’s story made me understand why Kellena’s epics survived the religious purge. Almost made me believe in your goddess.”

“I don’t worship Kellena. I swore an oath to worship our true god, King Winston the Second.”

“I’m drunk, but I’m no fool,” Dwight sipped his flask. “Fishers and farmers worship the goddess. There’s no changing that. Don’t worry; once you finish basic training, you’ll get your royal brand, salute a half-wit drawing of the king every morning, and no one will question your secrets.”

Dwight spent our time teaching me rhetoric, drawing, and how to map the stars. “I’m not supposed to teach you more than your letters,” he said. “The king and his officers want lowly sailors to be literate but not educated. Keep your knowledge to yourself the best you can.”

“Then why take the risk?”

After all I have witnessed, I will not forget the night when a full moon and all the stars revealed my vengeance. The night I changed my fate. The night my story began.

“Damn my reckless impulses,” I hid beneath the old, splintered pier near Hook’s Point, catching my breath, and scrubbing the blood from my face. A faint torch rushed toward the beach. The clicking and clacking of a sword hung from a sailor’s belt followed me as I ran. “Halt or I’ll shoot,” a harsh voice echoed beneath the pier. I planted my feet into the sand, turned, and fell to my knees at the sight of a royal officer.

“This is a bad place to hide,” the officer said. “If I were you, I would’ve started rowing an hour ago.”

“Where would I row to?” I said. “Thalassia is four days by sail.”

“Thalassians are too friendly with The Slavers Union. I doubt they’d welcome a runaway slave washing up on their shores. Is there somewhere else you can go? A man always needs a place to hide.”

“You’re not going to arrest me?”

“Maybe, maybe not; look me in the eyes and tell me why everyone on your island is searching for you.”

I pulled his torch toward my tearless brown eyes. “If the whole island is looking for me, then you know what I did. My master was an old, drunk fool. I promised him this day would come.”

The officer lowered his pistol. “Looks like your master put up a good fight. That’s a nasty gash on your face, and more scars than I’ve ever seen on a man. You’ve felt the whip too many times.”

“Spare the whip, spoil the slave. Isn’t that what the spoiled say?”

“Aristocrats and free citizens say lots of things. It doesn’t mean you have to agree with them.”

“In my experience, disagreement leads to the whip.”

“It is an unfortunate truth. Tell me another truth about a brutal murder. I heard a butcher’s knife was involved.”

“I used what I had. Killing a man is brutal no matter how you do it.”

“That’s an honest confession, a brave one too. The king’s navy needs brave and honest sailors. Your sins and secrets will disappear if you swear your life to our true god and king. That is the law.”

“That law isn’t for slaves.”

“You have my word. I will uphold the law and make no mention of your past.”

“And who are you?”

“I am Captain Doss of the king’s royal navy. Swear allegiance to the crown and join my crew. We depart for Perria in the morning. From there, you will board a conscription ship and sail to Boar’s Tooth Island for basic training. Don’t be foolish; accept my generous offer. I could shoot you. No one would question my actions.”

That was hard to argue. His offer was far better than eating a bullet or hanging from a rope. “Fair enough,” I said. “I’ll go with you.”

Doss kept a firm grip on his pistol while we navigated a winding path along the coastal cliffs. A howling wind battered my face and tugged at my clothes. Waves crashed against moss-covered rocks. We would’ve dredged through the sand, stones, and shattered shells all night if I hadn’t shown him a trail through the goat pastures.

We reached the harbor as an orange sun rose above the shimmering Diamond Sea. Barrels filled to the brim with bait fish permeated the air. The port was abuzz with fishers and merchants preparing their vessels for a hard day’s work. Drunks and laborers pointed fingers and shook their fists when they noticed me walking alongside a royal officer. Their faces contorted with anger. Voices rose with insults and jeering.

“Keep your eyes on the ground,” Doss commanded. “Be smart, and you’ll be safe on the king’s warship. But first, we have to shave your head. Can’t risk the crew getting lice on your account.”

“I don’t have lice. I know what they feel like.”

“Standard procedure, you’ll be fine.”

I perched on a stool and faced the port while a one-eyed barber hacked my long hair with a hunting knife. I didn’t suppose it was his fault he had one eye. Still, I was furious with the man who gave him the position. Halfway through my haircut, the barber poured months-old cooking oil over my head and shaved the remaining tufts. The grease burned and sank into the scrapes on my scalp.

“Now you look like a recruit,” Doss slapped my greasy head. “Come on, time to swear your oath in front of my fellow officers. Then we’ll get the medic to look at you.”

I climbed into a rowboat, found an open seat between two barrels of fresh water, and grasped the oars. Small glistening waves splashed into the boat as my home faded into the horizon. We pulled alongside the warship, and I became so small, helpless, and overwhelmed by the size of each towering mast. Intricate webs of ropes and rigging stretched across the sky.

“She’s called the Elsbury,” Doss said. “She’s a fine ship but slower than she looks. When you’re done staring at her, there’s loads of work to do.”

We hoisted water barrels onto the Elsbury. Then a net dropped from above. It was my turn to go up the ropes. Doss stopped me as my feet touched the net. “Before you climb,” he said. “I have one thing to say. All sailors must accept death before going out to sea.”

I nodded, climbed the net, and stepped foot on polished planks. I never knew wood could shine. The ropes were tidy. Every hand worked without complaint. Each man sang a song about his task.

The salts, as the crew called themselves, dressed in bright, form-fitting yellow uniforms. My thoughts of wearing such a thing made me laugh until one of the old salts saw me snicker. “You’ll be dressed like this soon enough,” the old salt tugged on his collar and continued securing an endless line of rope.

I was weary but unafraid of the bloodshot eyes watching me stroll behind Doss like a newfound puppy. A fine group of officers climbed the stairs and joined us on the quarterdeck. Waxed and groomed mustaches nearly blotted out the sun. Every glittering button on their green uniforms was worth more than my life. I’ll never forget how the officers looked at me; it was the same way I inspected a fish before plucking it from my hook.

“Raise your right hand,” Doss commanded. “State your name for all to hear.”

“Richard Hawthorne,” I lied.

Doss cleared his throat. “Do you, Richard Hawthorne, swear to serve our god and king, Winston the Second, Lord of The Diamond Sea, with all your heart and soul? Will you pledge your life in service to his kingdom and his heirs according to the divine law?”

I held my head high and told another lie. “I swear.”

After reading a fictitious obituary that bore my name, I, Achille Marozzo, dipped my pen into ink. Despite the devious and tyrannical efforts of King Winston the Third, I am alive. Our watery world looked upon the king’s newspaper and saw the tragic spectacle of an innocent soul. King Winston the Plump disfigured and tortured a poor drunk named Edward Tasson in a pathetic attempt to make Edward look like me. I say with certainty that those who have seen me know I am far more hideous.

Furthermore, I must address a series of false accusations that tarnish my reputation. King Winston the Third, Fattest of His Name, and Lord of Pies labeled me a murderer, which is true from his point of view. I have indeed taken the lives of many men, but was it murder? A few, yes, though I gave fair warning to all who threatened me with chains, whips, pistols, and swords.

The tubby tyrant’s malicious news article claimed that a nefarious sorceress had conjured demons and possessed me. When I read the slanderous story, I tore the paper to pieces. I know nothing about demons, but I’ve learned a lot about love and sorcery.

Lastly, the rotund ruler branded me a thief. Yet, let us pause and ponder who pilfers our pockets. Is it the outlaw who, with daring courage, liberates the captive souls from their shackles? Or are the king’s plump fingers, stained with greed, the ones that reach into your pockets and steal your hard-earned wealth in the guise of taxes? Whose hands, smooth and supple, plunder the sustenance from your mouths? Who seized your innocent children, bound them in iron, and forced them to labor?

Good People, it is through these ink-stained pages that I shall endeavor to tell you more than a story. I will tell you the truth about who I am. My history will not be the king’s fiction. For I, Achille Marozzo, who can read, write, and draw, held the pen.