The Swashbuckling Yarn of Milady Vixen by Christopher Newman

victims clambered over the railings, trudged up the steps or swung on rotting ropes to land upon the poop. She faced ten, twenty and then over fifty of those she had ushered to Hell. Crowding around her with leering faces and deep, gurgling chuckles, they rushed forward. Vixen felt their cold, lifeless hands upon her cringing flesh. Fabric tore in terrible ripping sounds. Icy mouths, dead fingers and the cold press of gray skin made her scream in both defiance and terror while they bore her to the slippery deck.
    She awoke still shrieking, shuddering and alone.

Milady’s Booty is Plundered from Her Locked, Treasured Chest
    “Ye have been strangely quiet, Cap’n,” Ginger Tom said, stepping into her cabin. “Since we’ve put to port ye have hardly come out of your cabin. What ailment could keep you locked away from the wind and the sun?”
    Vixen didn’t answer. Her throbbing leg and the images of the nightmare still haunted her. Trying to come to grips with such hellish images, she found herself in an awkward and unfamiliar mood. They had slid into port without incident, and the crew had been given liberty after their spoils were divvied up amongst the King of Gaston, herself, Ginger Tom and the remainder to her cutthroats. The vessel was strangely quiet. Only the mournful cries of the gulls above and the slap of the waves against her hull could be heard. Sitting in her chair staring at a mug of tea, the silent woman could barely bring her eyes up to meet her friend’s.
    “If’n your wound ails you too long, there will be another one like K’wanta who’ll think ye be ripe for the killing,” he continued.
    “Tom,” she whispered. “Do ye ever dream?”
    “What?”
    “Dreams—do you have them?”
    “Aye, Cap’n—why does this matter so?”
    Casting her gaze back to the medicinal brew, she watched the steam rise and curl from the lip of the cup. Something in her heart was weighting her down like an anchor. The first mate sat down in the chair in front of her, his eyes suddenly curious and large.
    “For too long I have reveled in the nightly visions of wreaking my vengeance upon those who cast my mother and me out of my father’s keep,” she whispered. “Acts of revenge, bloody and well pictured, filled my head from the time I first set foot upon a ship. Know ye well that I’ve been driven by that single act to rise to the position I hold now. I wonder, is this all my life is worth? To be a vessel of vengeance, with only the ghosts of whom I’ve slain to stalk nightly in my slumbering mind?”
    “There is more to life than revenge,” he answered. “You only exist to sink Effingham ships, raid their sea lanes and earn a spot on their gallows. I haven’t seen a smile, a genuine grin upon your face since you went on account. Swearing your allegiance to our former master be the last time I saw your teeth flash white behind those lips of yours. I think your heart has died, and this vision is your mind trying to revive it.”
    “Aye, ye may be right.”
    “Let us get drunk, sing and laugh. Tell bawdy stories of this roguish life until we fall down senseless beside our empty cups. Ye need to kick up you heels, Milady Vixen.”
    “My mood is too ill suited for such merriment.”
    “Only if’n ye don’t try. Let us wander over to the Seasick Parrot and quaff a few bottles of rum and roar out some songs. It will do ye a world of good.”
    Looking into his blue eyes, she saw something there she had never spied before. Deep within those cerulean orbs, something twinkled with a soft, yet sorrowful gleam. A gull’s cry from outside the porthole lent an eerie music to what Vixen saw.
    “What grips you now, Cap’n?” he queried.
    “Why have you stayed with me?” she asked instead of answering. “You could’ve put into port and returned home; your deeds are not as well sung as mine.”
    “I owe you my life, as miserable as it is, remember?”
    The sting of her repeated words pierced her dully