A SEAMAN'S LOG by Philip For five long weeks we sailed the unfamiliar straits with nary a sign of a ship to plunder. The timing was bad--although our last raiding foray had been a spectacular success, we found our return passage to the friendly waters of the West Indies blocked by a huge armada deployed by the accursed Spaniards to put an end to our loose-knit pirate confederacy, the Brethren of the Coast. Unable to reach sympathetic ports by regular routes, our ship had of necessity embarked on a circuitous course home. But our provisions were dangerously low, and if we did not find suitable new prey soon our situation would become dire indeed... It was Stinking Olaf who yelped word of the solitary sail he'd spotted on the starboard horizon, earning for himself the gold doubloon our Captain had promised to the sharpest-eyed among us. Taking up the spyglass, I labored to determine what manner of craft she was. As we drew nearer, I perceived her to be a slaver ship bound for the New World, though curiously far from of the main transport routes. When I announced my discovery, a general rush of excitement ran through our stalwart crew, for all knew that in addition to their cargo of human misery such vessels were often loaded with jewels and monies sent by emigrating Europeans to their new homes. This looked to be a promising encounter, I reflected as we continued to gain on our sluggish quarry. And one I would particularly relish, for I had nothing in my heart but hatred for slave traders and their inhuman disdain for the lives they bartered as merchandise. I had observed that often as not those lives were superior to their masters'--in fact, several Africans liberated in our raids were now among the fiercest and most loyal members of our crew. The whole sickening practice of slavery was but one of the many hypocrisies of our so-called "civilization." Although I was of noble birth, I had long ago come to hold my peers in contempt. I spent many years seeking a purer life in distant lands, only to find the putrifying tentacles of Europe never far behind. It was during one of my voyages that the ship bearing me from yet another ruined village had come under attack by pirates. Their wise Captain, sensing in me some kindred sympathies, offered me a chance to join his crew. I readily accepted, and have never regretted my choice. Men without countries all, we savor the wrath of the formidable nations allied against us, exulting in the only pure freedom left in this world. We sail in proud defiance of our inevitable capture and destruction...for is that not what it means to be truly alive? And so, unfurling our skull and crossbones, we advanced on the hapless slaver ship. The grim determination on the faces of her crew told us the battle would be hard fought--so much the better. They were not equipped for serious combat, however--a handful of well-aimed shots from our cannons disabled their few heavy armaments before they'd had a chance to inflict any real damage. The remaining fighting would be hand-to-hand. At last our ship drew up alongside. Our bloodcurdling cries rang in the air as we leapt across the boarding planks. The fighting was fierce, but soon over. As usual, I acquitted myself well, dispatching with my blade five strong crewmen and then the three bloated slave traders it pleases me well to report would never realize another sovereign from their foul enterprise. The ship was ours. As we secured the topside, I made my way to the sole surviving trader, and drew up short when he called out "My, God, Lord Philip!" Then I recognized him from my days at Oxford, a ghostly apparition from another life. With a sneer, I let him know past connections would do him no good, and demanded the key to the padlocked cargo hold. Whimpering for mercy, he readily produced it and opened the hatch. To a man we were transfixed in astonishment when, instead of the expected contingent of muscle-bound Africans, there emerged fifty fair maidens, barefoot and clad in most fetching attire. As they huddled in fear on the main deck, I turned on my one-time schoolmate and demanded an explanation. The ship, he stammered, was carrying this unique cargo exclusively for the Duc de Curval. De Curval! Of course! Who had not heard of that depraved aristocrat, who ran his Haiti plantation like a private pleasure kingdom? His excesses of debauchery were legendary, and it was said that the numerous females who came under his "patronage" were never heard from again. His name alone explained everything--this solitary vessel, its surreptitious course, and its extraordinary cargo of beautiful, frail and doomed women. The trader had begun whimpering again, and in a wave of cold fury I sliced off his piggish head. Then I stood contemplating the shivering wenches until a cry of dismay from below brought me to my Captain's side. A sizeable amount of booty had been stored in the hold, to be sure, but the more crucial food supplies were nearly as depleted as our own. We returned on deck and, as the meagre provisions were being transferred to our own ship, we wrestled with the question of the captives' fate. Besides the longstanding tradition barring all women from pirate vessels, there simply was not enough to feed them and our own crew as well. Leaving them afloat in these desolate waters would be monstrous cruelty--they were not sailors and could never have piloted their vessel to safety. At last, our Captain decreed that the women should be put to death--a more merciful fate, he reasoned, than they would have received at de Curval's hands. Somberly, we concurred, and set to the grisly business without delay. My bloodlust already sated, I stood aloof and watched the slaughter in a state of curious detachment mixed with arousal. As the first few maidens fell before the advancing swords, screams of alarm broke out all over. The terrified women flew in all directions, but there wasn't far to run, and no one escaped for long. Many sobbed and wept for mercy, dropping to their knees when cornered. Holding up their heads by their luxurious folds of hair, my mates slit their throats or stabbed their heaving bosoms and watched them expire in gurgling sobs. The bolder wenches tried to barter their considerable charms for clemency, hurling their mouths on the sex of my shipmates, or hitching up their skirts and offering their immodest orifices as sheaths for our manhood. This strategem too did them no good either, though their deaths were certainly mixed with greater pleasure--particularly for their slayers, who drove their blades home only after discharging the pent-up passions of seagoing life. A small number of the women, who evidently had succumbed entirely to their submissive training, accepted the inevitability of their impending ends with admirable grace, even requesting the manner of their own execution with quivering anticipation. One bared her breasts with a winsome smile to greet a volley of musket fire, another hurled herself on the fixed blade of my lucky shipmate, arching up with a satisfied sigh as she ran herself through. Still another asked to have her throat cut as she was being taken from behind--her final moans of contentment left no doubt that her final wish had been well-honored. Now amidst all the confusion, my eye kept returning to a pair of women who stood in the center of the deck untouched by the carnage that raged about them, as though shielded by a hurricane's eye. One had her face buried in her hands, her golden ringlets shaking with sobs of dismay. The other, dark-haired and quite the most beautiful of the entire complement, calmly surveyed the scene with sharp-eyed interest, much as I had been doing myself. Every now and then she nodded at a maiden's particularly arousing demise. Her fearlessness and quiet grace were quite a startling contrast to the untethered bestiality around her. Still, this strange sanctuary could not last forever. As the last of the other maidens met their fate, it was Stinking Olaf who ran up and struck the fair-haired one a mighty thrust from behind. Her hands flew back as surprise and hurt spread across her lovely features. "Deborah!" cried the dark one in alarm. The stricken beauty looked down at the tip of Olaf's sword protruding from her chest, coddled between her ample breasts, and as the red stain blossomed across her blouse she looked back up at her friend and murmured, "Ah, Vicki, I am slain!" Her limp frame collapsed in the other's arms and she was gone, a thin trickle of blood erupting from a corner of her mouth. Suddenly, the dark one produced a long knife from somewhere in the folds of her linen dress and with a mighty cry she advanced on Olaf, slicing him open from throat to gizzard. With a heavy thud Olaf fell across the deck, flopping for a time like a gutted fish. Two more of my crewmates advanced on her, but with the fury of a demon she hewed them down as they came, slicing the throat of one and neatly disembowling the other. Panting with the lust of battle, she stood there, fierce hazel eyes blazing defiance to all challengers. Astonished, the other crewmen in her vicinity fell back a respectful distance. With a triumphant laugh, the warrior maiden leapt into the shroud affixed to the towering foremast and began climbing, her bare feet gripping the ropes as nimbly as an extra set of hands. Knife clenched between her teeth, she negotiated the ascent as ably as any buccaneer, and in no time had reached the masthead. Making her way out onto the fourth yardarm, she began hurling taunts and jeers from her perch a good sixty feet above us. Things had reached a pretty impasse indeed when fortune dealt the maid a cruel blow--the thin rod on which she stood must have been rotted, for it parted with a snap, and she plunged into the rigging, which, although it saved her from a messy end on the deck below, entangled her in helpless imobility. Some of my companions began shooting at her with their muskets. The distance made their aim unreliable, however, so I called for them to stop wasting their bullets and, sheathing my cutlass in my sash, began the arduous climb to where the girl lay writhing in the ropes. She had to be approached with caution, however, because her one free arm still held that bloodstained blade, and I'd seen well enough how skillfully she could wield it. As I made my way towards her from below, she managed to work one leg free as well, and aimed a fierce kick at my head which, if it had landed, would surely have sent me hurtling to my death. Yet I managed to catch her bare foot in my hand, and held it there in an iron grip. Struggle as she might, she could not break free. I looked up at her, silhouetted against the sky, her hair flying about in the warm breeze, and on a sudden impulse pressed my lips to that perfectly shaped foot, licking away the blood and smothering it with fervid kisses. As I felt her tense resolve weaken, I began caressing her arch with my hand, working my way up around the ankles in soft, undulating waves. She sighed and set her head back, suddenly relaxed. Then she let the knife fall, and suffered me to clamber up beside her without resistance. We lay there gazing into each others' eyes with an intensity I'd never known. A smile played across her lips as worlds of understanding passed between us--the dark urges we shared, our hidden dreams and buried longings never uttered to another soul. We knew each other more completely in those few minutes than a lifetime of idle chatter could ever reveal, and when at last our heads drew together in a single motion, her lips pressing against mine set stars ablaze in my very soul. We clove to each other in heedless passion. I worked her dress up around her throat, exposing her magnificent nakedness to my admiring gaze and the caresses of the salty winds. Her tight, heaving nipples beckoned me on. Quickly undoing my codpiece, I plunged into her with abandon, delighting in her warm wetness sliding around my thundering cock, her shameless tongue fencing with my own as we thrust our way to mutual ecstacy. Our entwined bodies dangled there a long while as I covered her beautiful face in soft kisses. A glow of final contentment lit her fine features. Never had I beheld such beauty! In desperate hope I looked down to my Captain for some sign of leniency, but he just shook his head sadly but firmly. And so with troubled heart I slowly withdrew the cutlass from my sash and held it against her, right below her breasts. All the while her eyes never left my face, though she knew full well what was about to occur. "Come, dispatch," she said softly. Her look of fulfillment never wavered, even as I thrust the blade home. Her lips parted slightly and her eyes lost their focus as a last shiver rippled through her. Plucking my weapon from her still chest, I cast it far into the sea. Then I kissed away the blood streaming from her sorry wound, my adoring lips eventually traversing her torso to the luscious bush below. She was glorious, even in death. Overcome with the intensity of her exquisite beauty, I took her once again, even more fiercely than before. Her flesh yielded completely to me in a final gift, until at last I exploded inside her. Clutching her to me, I whispered my love for her over and over into the emptiness. At last I began my descent, leaving her where she was, her sightless eyes surveying the feeble farce of mortality from on high. As I regained my footing on deck, I saw that my shipmates had begun gathering the bodies into two piles. One was for the slavers and their crew, whom we cast overboard to the sharks--booty from one predator to another. The women we left nestled in a heap with their soft limbs entangled, the repose in their fair faces an aching testament to their delivery from wretchedness. Silently we made our way back to our own vessel and shoved off. For a long while I watched with a heavy heart the other ship recede into the horizon, bearing aloft my valiant slain sea goddess suspended between heaven and earth... That vision of her haunts me still, though the years since have brought many adventures. In the fullness of time I became Captain and led my stalwart rebels on many a daring raid, and I take much pride in the damage I have been able to inflict on your civilized sense of maritime propriety. Yet when I reflect back on my long career, what stands out ever more clearly is the tender windswept face of my lost siren Vicki, even as all other memories of battle fade into misty oblivion. And so it is with joy rather than fear that I await the dawn, when I shall join her once again at the end of the hangman's noose.