Hell Ships - 3 Monstrous Scary Sea Tales: The Derelict - Desolation Bay Whaling Station - The Lighthouse

By Ben Hammott

3 monstrous sea tales

3 tales of sea monsters and the humans who are unfortunate to cross their path.

The Derelict

When medical student Nathanial Larkin is assigned as ship's doctor aboard the Falcon, he is determined to make the most of the undesirable posting. Looking upon it as an adventure, he climbs aboard. Thrown off course by a savage storm, they spy a derelict ship. Little knowing what horrors he and the crew would shortly face, they board her. Finding no sign of life; they turn their minds to salvaging the cargo. However, the ship might be derelict, but it is not abandoned. Something is on board and is coming for them.

Desolation Bay Whaling Station

A whale hunt turns deadly when the hunter becomes the hunted. With their ship damaged and in danger of sinking, the crew of the Harpooner head for the nearest safe harbor, Desolation Bay Whaling Station. They arrive to find it abandoned and partly destroyed. As they set out to repair their ship, they are unaware that the whaling station has been built on another's territory. She is pregnant, vicious, and doesn't take kindly to trespasses.

The Lighthouse

The lighthouse was meant to save souls in peril. Instead, it drew dangerous criminals into a world their worst nightmares would shun.

They have nowhere to run.

They have no way to leave.

They have no hope of rescue.

They only have one choice; to fight.

But how can they fight and hope to win against something that isn't human, is faster, stronger, and has them outnumbered…

Welcome to The Lighthouse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ben Hammott
• Release date: Mar 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393422358

Book preview

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More Books by Ben Hammott

Hell Ship – The Flying Dutchman

Horror Island

The Strange Side of Midnight

Ice Rift – 3 book series

Sarcophagus

Solomon’s Treasure – 2 book series

El Dorado – 2 book series

Full details of my books can be found on my website

benhammottbooks.com

Hell Ships

3 Monstrous Scary Sea Tales

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Ben Hammott

Copyright 2019 ©Ben Hammott

No part of this publication may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any other information storage and retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the written permission of the copyright holders.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The author can be contacted at [e-mail]

Author website: Ben Hammott Books

Book formatted by format-your-book-4u

SEA TALE 1

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CHAPTER 1

Hurricane

Rushing through the erratically heaving vessel, the ship’s doctor, Nathanial Larkin, clamped a hand over his mouth in an attempt to hold at bay the vomit threatening to erupt from his throat. He took the steps at the end of the corridor two at a time and fighting the force pressing against it, shoved open the storm door and slipped through, narrowly avoiding trapping his leg when the wind slammed it shut behind him. Blasted by stinging rain, and almost blown off his feet by the howling gale screaming across the Falcon’s tilting deck, he fought against the powerful gusts and the ship’s rocking and pitching motions as he struggled across the slippery boards.

Barely noticed with Nathanial’s eagerness to reach the side, the crew, mere hazy spray lashed forms rushing to and fro around him, battled the hurricane that had the ship at its mercy. Gripping the rail to prevent from being pitched into the angry ocean, he leaned over and having the sense to direct his head away from the wind, hurled up the contents of his stomach. So much erupted; he thought it must be everything he had ever eaten.

This was Nathanial’s first voyage. Though he had experienced mild seasickness shortly after the Falcon had ventured from the calm waters of the harbor onto the high seas, it had been nothing like the illness plaguing him now. Turning his green-tinted face to the waves, he let the spray’s refreshing coolness wash over him. Now regretting his foolish notion that a life at sea would be an adventure and ever setting foot aboard the stricken vessel, he remembered the events that had led to his current hell.

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For the umpteenth time, Nathanial glanced at the gold lettering announcing whose office he sat outside, Dr. Mathew Brisbane. Professor of Medicine, Anatomy, and Botany. He cocked an ear to the door across the corridor in a failed attempt to eavesdrop on the muffled conservation Doctor Brisbane was having with a fellow student, Samuel Benion. Unlike Nathanial, Benion came from a wealthy family and had no trouble paying his university fees. To pay his way, Nathanial had to turn to other means, one of which was to join other similar poverty-stricken fellows skulking through graveyards in the dead of night. When a fresh grave was discovered, they dug up the recently interred corpse—man, woman, or child; all were acceptable—to be used by the students to dissect for their anatomy training.

Giving up trying to overhear the too-faint dialog, Nathanial pondered his immediate future that was firmly in Doctor Brisbane’s hands. Shortly, he would be called into his office and told where he would be spending the remaining year of his medical training. Aware he wasn’t the most proficient pupil in the class, he didn’t expect to be awarded one of the sought-after postings all the students yearned for. No, it wouldn’t be a coveted position at one of the London hospitals of Saint Bartholomew’s, Guys or Westminster, for him. He also doubted the farther afield hospitals such as the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary in Scotland, and in the provincial cities, Addenbrookes in Cambridge and the Bristol Royal Infirmary. The best he could hope for was a position at one of the smaller, more rural voluntary hospitals that had started to spring up across the country over the last few years, which was fine. What he dreaded, as did most medical students, was being sent to one of the asylums they’d all heard such horror stories about, notably London's Bethlem Royal Hospital—nicknamed Bedlam. It wasn’t just the inhumane treatment of inmates and the thuggish nature of the asylum keepers they had to contend with, it was built over a sewer that regularly backed up, the stench of raw sewage permeating through the building was intolerable to the senses.

Sitting up straight at the sound of the door handle turning, Nathanial watched Benion emerge with satisfied smugness beaming on his handsome face.

Benion smiled when he waved the document he held at Nathanial. I got Barts.

You lucky devil, replied Nathanial, hiding his jealousy.

Luck had nothing to do with it, scoffed Benion. Hard work and brains got me this.

More like wealth and privilege thought Nathanial.

Your turn. Benion walked off along the corridor with a jaunty stride.

Nathanial crossed to the door and nervously entered.

The man about to decide his fate, sat at his desk reading papers that he flicked through with critical grunts and judgmental tuts. Unsure what he should do, Nathanial closed the door, crossed to the desk and stood beside it.

Finally acknowledging his presence, Brisbane looked up and peered over his spectacles at his visitor. After aiming his disapproving stare at him for a few moments, he limply waved at the chair positioned before his throne. Sit!

Nathanial sat.

A few more pages were begrudgingly flicked through before Brisbane sighed and discarded the papers to his desk as if they had soiled his hands. Well, Larkin. He tapped the recently rejected documents with a finger. Poor show indeed.

Sorry, sir, was all Nathanial could think of to say.

I should think you are. You barely made the grade. If I had my way, you’d be restarting your apprenticeship from scratch! He sighed, But alas, rules are rules, and you did somehow scrape through, leaving me with the difficult task of finding a position suitable for your dismal qualifications. He reached for a small stack of papers and went through them until he found what he was looking for.

Please, God, don’t let it be an asylum, prayed Nathanial.

Without disclosing his choice, Brisbane picked up a pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and started writing on the selected document. This position will be a perfect match for your depressing level of medical attainment. Having a thought, he paused his writing and looked at Nathanial. Have you ever been on a ship before?

Guessing what Brisbane had in mind for him and thus the reason for the question asked, Nathanial shook his head worriedly. Though it was one step up from an asylum posting, no university student volunteered to be a ship’s doctor. No, sir.

Brisbane smiled. Splendid. There will be rough seas where you are going. It won’t be pleasant.

Er… sir, I would prefer a position on land. A small rural hospital would be sufficient.

Brisbane glared at his student. Then you should have buckled down and worked harder. Those positions are reserved for my more prestigious students. However, if you are dead set against becoming a ship’s doctor to finish out your studies, then I suppose I can offer you a land-based position at the infamous Bedlam asylum; they’ll take anyone. He reached for his pile of selection papers.

No, sir! blurted Nathanial. A posting as a ship’s doctor is acceptable.

Glad to hear it. Brisbane thrust the document at Nathanial. Shut the door on your way out, Brisbane smirked as Nathanial stood. Good luck, Larkin.

Thank you, sir.

Both of their last words lacked the sincerity of their meanings.

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Making his way through gloomy, narrow backstreets set out in a maze-like configuration with uninviting dead-end alleys, Nathanial passed shadowy buildings with equally shadowy figures watching him from their dark windows. Baulking from the stench of raw sewage intermingled with horse manure and the refuse from pigsties and slaughterhouses oozing toward the docks and the sea through the open drains, he placed a hankie over his nose and mouth to try and filter out the disgusting odor.

Stepping around the decaying carcass of a dead dog that three rats were feasting upon in competition with the wriggling maggots to consume the most flesh, he arrived at the cobbled street that led down to the quayside. A worried glance along its length revealed sea fog drifting spookily toward him. Jumping when a woman lurched furtively from an alley to block his route, almost dropping his bag of worldly possessions, he stared at her tobacco-stained gapped-toothed smile when she removed the smoking pipe from her gaudily painted lips and spoke.

Hello, dearie. Fancy a bit of company? It’ll only cost you a shilling.

Shaking his head briskly at her offer and her far too-high price, Nathaniel swiftly dodged around the harlot and entered the fog. Wishing he had timed his journey to arrive during daylight hours, and eager to reach the safety of his lodgings for the night, that should be close by now, he hurried along the street.

Fear gripped him when a scream pierced the night air far too close. Something thudded to the ground. A jangle of coins then footsteps running his way. Having no doubts that some unfortunate had just been murdered and robbed, Nathanael sought shelter in a doorway when the fog-hazy form of the assailant approached. Pressing his body tight against the door set back in the small space, he watched the ruffian rush by, a bloodied knife gripped in his grubby, calloused hand.

When the footsteps had faded to a safe distance, Nathaniel forced himself to move from his hiding place and headed in the opposite direction. He halted when he came across the murderer’s victim. The corpse’s bloodstained chest revealed the knife’s point of entry. Quickly moving on lest he is blamed for the crime, he experienced relief when the dull music cords hammered out from a piano, and the babble of voices drifted from the fog. Hoping the sounds derived from the inn where he had booked his room, he headed for them.

Yellow light seeping through dirty windows was a welcoming sight in the gloomy fog-shrouded streets. Halting outside the building, Nathaniel gazed up at the creaking wooden sign set into motion by the salty sea breeze. Though faded and weatherworn, the gold lettering announcing the inn’s name could still be read, The Mary Celeste.

For a few moments, he stared at the depiction of the storm-tossed ship, its sails ragged, its decks deserted, a giant tentacled sea monster reaching out for the stricken vessel. Hoping his voyage would prove less fateful, Nathaniel entered the Mary Celeste.

Greeted by drunken revelry and out of tune music beaten out from the old drink-stained piano set in the corner, Nathaniel shut the door and glanced around at the inn’s nefarious clientele, which thankfully paid him no heed. All appeared to be of the criminal variety, cutpurses, vagabonds, and ne’er-do-wells. Women with chests bursting from lowcut gowns and enticing smiles on heavily made-up faces moved amongst the men plying their trade. Once a mark who had the funds to pay her dues had been hooked, she led him upstairs to conclude their business.

Turning his attention to the giggling harlot sitting on a man’s lap at the nearby table, Nathaniel watched as she planted her painted lips on his. She dipped her hand into his pocket to relieve him of his wallet, which was speedily slipped beneath her thigh garter. Pushing the man away and slapping him playfully around the face with words of good-natured banter, she stood and crossed to the bar. After smoothly slipping the wallet to the barkeep, she moved through the room, searching for another gin-riddled customer to relieve of his cash.

Nathaniel headed for the bar and attracted the attention of the deceitful innkeeper. I have a room booked and would like to retire to it as swiftly as possible.

The man grunted. Thruppence a night in advance.

When the man of little words—and even fewer scruples—held out a grubby hand, Nathaniel noticed his raw knuckles showed evidence of a recent fight. No doubt, a customer complaining about his stolen cash and voicing his accusations at those he thought responsible.

Nathaniel counted out the coins from the change in his pocket and dropped them into the barkeep’s hand. After checking they weren’t counterfeit, something that was rife all over England, he stashed them into his pocket and nodded his shaved, tattooed head at the stairs. Room’s at end of the corridor.

Nathaniel glanced at the stairs where a man wearing a satisfied smile, drunkenly staggered down, and then back at the barkeep. What about a key?

No key. Door locks from within. He reached for a bottle of gin, wanna drink?

When Nathaniel shook his head, the innkeeper moved along the bar to serve someone that did. Eager to get to his room and shut out the debauchery being enacted all around him, he climbed the creaking staircase. Grimacing at the groans and creaking bedsprings coming from behind some of the other doors that put unwelcome visions in his head, Nathaniel headed for the room at the end of the corridor. He entered, and glad to find it unoccupied, he shut and bolted the door.

The room was surprisingly clean, and a bowl of water was set out on the washstand. He pulled back the blanket on the bed and found it dressed in freshly laundered, if not completely stain-free, sheets.

Placing his bag on the floor, he sat on the bed, the straw-filled mattress crunching brittlely when it sagged from his weight. Turning his gaze away from the faded bloodstain on the floorboards, he gazed out the window that overlooked the port. During fleeting glimpses through the parting fog, he picked out the tall masts of the many ships moored in the harbor, one of which would be the vessel he was to sail upon as ship’s doctor. Having elected to remain positive about the voyage thrust upon him, he was determined to look on it as an exciting adventure.

Tired from the long journey, he completed his ablutions and climbed into bed.

Having breakfasted on stringy pork strips and eggs at the inn, the following morning, Nathaniel left the Mary Celeste and headed for the docks. The overcast sky discharged a grayness that seemed at home in the sordid streets he traversed. The smells from the previous evening had not improved with the dawn of a new day. The chill wind carried the aromas of cinder smoke from the coal soot belched into the air from houses and factories, the rankness of the town's decaying garbage, open sewage, decomposing corpses, and the stench emanating from the putrid estuary he headed for. Nathaniel thought that with a favorable wind, the powerful stink could likely be smelled several miles away. Drunks, both men and women, huddled in doorways or lay in the streets where their gin drunken stupors had dropped them the night before.

Arriving at the bustling port, Nathaniel gazed around at the ant-like activity of the people crowding the docks. It was as if the whole town had gathered here. The wide range of ancillary and service trades needed to keep the ship and port running was in evidence all around him. Occupied with building, furnishing, or repairing vessels were shipbuilders, carpenters, coopers, anchor smiths, ropers, and sailmakers. Lumpers, coalheavers, pilots, lightermen, bargemen, keelmen, carters, and general laborers handled the lading and unlading of cargo. Wagons, carts, pack mules, and horses loaded with wares from grocers, victuallers, butchers, and provision merchants provided the ships with the stores required for their voyages. A host of merchants, ship owners, lawyers, scriveners, agents, factors, customs officials, brokers, and insurance clerks armed with legal papers administered the financial, organizational, and legal aspects of trade.

As he made his way through the throng of activity, he kept his hand firmly on his pocketed purse to guard it against the slick, thieving fingers of the pickpockets he imagined operating in the crowd. He passed some women mending fishing nets, salting and packing fish, whose pungent aroma was added to the town’s drifting stench.

Astounded by the variety of imported commodities being unloaded onto the wharves and loaded into carts to be taken to the surrounding warehouses, Nathaniel looked at some of the labels as he passed. He found sugar, rum, dyewoods, ginger, and other spices from the West Indies. Wine from the Mediterranean, furs, timber, and hemp for rope from Russia and the Baltic. Tobacco, coal, and grain from America. There were also hundreds of barrels, sacks, and crates being transported back and forth in what seemed organized chaos.

A bit bewildered by the hive of activity, and the plethora of competing sounds, Nathaniel glanced at the paper in his hand for the wharf number he needed to find. Committing it to memory, he began his search. It took a good thirty minutes of dodging around people, wagons, carts, cargo, and horses before he was successful. Moving beside a stack of provisions waiting to be loaded aboard the ship to be out of the way of the passing tradesmen, who all seemed to have a purpose that needed to be completed swiftly, Nathaniel gazed at the Falcon; the ship that was to be his home for the next twelve months.

Though far from an expert on ships, he thought the Falcon looked old but sturdy. A voice louder than the other shouts all around him turned Nathaniel to the man bellowing orders. Believing him to be one of the Falcon’s officers, Nathaniel went over to introduce himself.

Running his eyes over Nathaniel, Raoul Valdez took the offered document and read it before handing it back. Right! Let’s get you and yer belongings stowed on board, but mind yer keep clear of the crew. We have a lot to do in little time if we’re to catch the morning tide. He turned, gazed up the hull of the Falcon, and bellowed, Renshaw! A man appeared at the rail and looked down. Valdez nodded at Nathaniel. Show the doctor to his quarters.

Aye, sir.

Nathaniel headed for the gangplank, and as soon as a gap opened up in the constant stream of men heading on and off the ship, he boarded.

Welcome, aboard, Doctor, greeted Renshaw. Follow me.

Nathaniel followed.

Electing to stay in his small but adequate cabin to keep out of the way of the hustle and bustle on deck, Nathaniel unpacked and stowed his belongings.

Later that day, he was introduced to the captain, officers, and crew and shown around the ship so he could get his bearings. Though he was disappointed there was no room set aside for him to administer to his patients, Nathaniel understood there was sparse space enough as it was for the crew, without taking more from them.

After joining the captain and officers for dinner that evening, Nathaniel retired to his cabin and bed.

They set sail on the early morning tide, and a few days later, the storm struck.

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Feeling slightly less like he was dying—a few times he had yearned for the relief death would bring—now he had vomited forth the contents that had been churning in his stomach, Nathanial pondered his next course of action. He couldn’t face going below deck again. His cabin might be comfortable, but it swayed, rocked, and rolled every which way. Although it might be more dangerous on deck facing the brutal force of the raging storm, it was the better alternative to staring at heaving walls, floor, and ceiling. Out here, he had the chill of the wind and rain to cool him. He welcomed the risk rather than face that hell below again.

Holding tight to the rail he was thrown continuously against, Nathanial glanced around the ship. He pitied the men on the rigging and heavily-swaying masts doing something to the sails that would no doubt contribute to saving the vessel and all souls aboard from a watery grave. Wondering how they managed to cling on when thrown violently hither and thither, he turned his gaze to the sterncastle. Spying the captain, his sharp eyes roaming over his crew and vessel to ensure everything was being done to save her, Nathaniel grabbed a safety line and hauled himself toward the steps that led up to the raised deck.

After twice losing his footing on the spray-slick wooden treads, he reached the upper deck. When a blast of wind tipped him back toward the stairs, a hand grabbed his arm and pulled him to safety.

Captain Bartholomew Roberts yanked the doctor over to the forward stern rail that overlooked the full length of his ship and shouted to be heard over the howling storm, Still finding your sea legs, Doctor?

Thankful to have something stable to grip onto, Nathanial steadied himself against the rail and noticed the captain—who stood with his legs apart and held onto nothing but hope for his vessel and crew—barely swayed with the ship’s movements. I am, Captain, and they are proving elusive. It’s my first sea storm.

Captain Bartholomew smiled, remembering his first. Aye, and a vicious one it is. He looked at his green-gilled doctor. You’d best get used to it because it won’t be your last.

Dismayed by the less than cheery thought, Nathanial looked along the ship that was constantly awash with waves violently battering the vessel. He could barely see halfway along the deck. Men tugged on ropes stretching from the masts, yardarms, and sails, while others tied down anything the gusts threatened to pick up and lob like cannon shot. A man blown off his feet sped down the sloping deck, and narrowly prevented himself from being tossed overboard by grabbing the rail. There would be no rescue for a man overboard in this weather.

Looking at his captain, Nathanial shouted, How long do you think the storm will last?

Captain Bartholomew tilted his rain pelted face to the heavens and observed the dark, angry clouds scudding through the sky. Could pass us by in an hour or last until morning. In this part of the world, storms arrive almost without warning and depart just as suddenly. He turned to Nathanial. You should get below and try to sleep.

If only that were possible, thought the doctor. There would be no sleep for him until the weather calmed.

Their eyes turned to a loud cracking of timber from the bow. From amidst the spray, the foremast’s main yard appeared. The twang of ropes pulled too taut swung its tilted end across the deck, crashing into any unfortunate souls in its path. The sharp cracks of snapping ropes accompanied its crashing to the deck. Screams of the injured followed. Spying a sailor trapped beneath the thick timber spar, Nathanial rushed from the sterncastle. By the time he reached the trapped man he recognized as Berzenski, four of his crewmates were raising the timber off his legs. After helping to slide him out, Nathanial knelt and examined the man’s leg. A piece of splintered shin bone had ripped through his blood-soaked canvas leggings. Fetch me a short length of rope, he shouted to no one in particular.

A nearby sailor cut a length from the downed yardarm and handed it to the doctor. After tying it tight above the wound as a tourniquet to halt the free flow of the sailor’s life-giving blood, he had two men carry him to the sick-room; little more than a wooden table divided from the crew’s quarters by canvas walls. Following the length of the rigging and rope-tangled spar, Nathanial and the crew fought the violent lurching of the vessel well and truly at the mercy of the sea now, as they set about helping the other injured crew. Two men were beyond help, their skulls crushed, one man suffered broken ribs, and another had a concussion from the yardarm catching him a glancing blow.

After Nathanial had patched up the wounded as best he could with the few tools and medications available to him, he ensured they all had a healthy dose of medicinal rum to numb their pains. Though he suspected in a few days he would be amputating Berzenski’s leg when infection took hold, he had reassured the man there was a good chance he would keep it.

He had been so busy with his work; he hadn’t noticed the rolling of the ship had lessened and with it his seasickness. The storm seemed to be abating. Feeling better, and his complexion less green, he headed to his cabin for some much-needed sleep.

CHAPTER 2

Ghost Ship

The following morning, after checking on his patients, Nathanial headed on deck. He took in a few deep breaths to expel the stale, stuffy air choked with the stench of unwashed bodies that was prevalent in the crew quarters. Though the seas were still a bit choppy and the sky gray, he was otherwise greeted by clement weather. Feeling well enough to risk a pipe of tobacco, he took it from his pocket and lit it.

His gaze around the Falcon revealed it to be alive with crewmen working to repair the storm damage. Carpenters and riggers toiled to rebuild the fallen spar and lines so it could be hoisted back into place on the foremast. Strolling sternward, he spied the captain and the first mate, Raoul Valdez, gathered at the sterncastle rail gazing out at something. Intrigued as to what had captured their attention, he moved to the starboard side to find out. In the distance, but nearer than the horizon was a ship. It also had two masts, but her length was a little shorter than the Falcon.

Even from this distance, he could tell by its ripped and ragged sails that it had also suffered from the wrath of the brutal hurricane that had crippled their own ship. Wondering if they would go to her to offer assistance if required, Nathanial went to speak to the captain.

Morning, Captain. Mr. Valdez.

Both men turned to the approaching doctor.

You certainly have a better color today, Doctor, commented the captain.

I’m feeling a lot better.

How're your patients? inquired Raoul.

Nealen, who suffered four broken ribs, died sometime in the night; internal bleeding was the cause I believe, but the others should pull through. Berzenski will probably lose his leg below the knee if it becomes infected.

The captain nodded. Berzenski won’t be the first or the last sailor to sport a wooden leg. I’ve sailed with the man for a few years now, he has a strong constitution, a positive outlook, and the sea flows through his veins. He’ll soon be back hobbling amongst the crew.

Nathanial turned his attention to the distant ship. Will we be going to see if she needs assistance?

She’s beyond any help we can give her. Raoul handed the doctor the spyglass. Take a look.

Nathanial put the spyglass to his eye and focused on the ship. It was easy to see now why the first mate had said it was beyond help. It had obviously been sailing the seas unaided by any captain or crew for many a long year. Her shape seemed old-fashioned even for a non-sailor like him. He moved the glass to her masts and noticed the trailing lines hung loose like vines swaying in the wind. Was it a ghost ship? The Flying Dutchman, perhaps?

She’s a derelict, stated Raoul, taking the spyglass from the doctor. An ancient vessel you won’t see many of today. I’m surprised she’s still afloat as she’s way past her time going down to Davy Jones’ Locker. He pointed at the adrift vessel with the spyglass. Did you notice the growths covering her hull and deck; salt encrustation is what that is and even more evidence she’s been adrift a long time.

Nevertheless, the vessel is intriguing, pushed Nathanial. I wonder if it might be worth taking a boat to her and having a look around. Maybe we’ll discover why she’s been abandoned.

We were just discussing that same thing afore you joined us, commented the captain, and if she carries a cargo worth salvaging that might have survived the ravages of time. However, repairs to the Falcon are my priority before another storm hits us. In our present condition, we’d stand little chance. That hurricane blew us miles off course, so as soon as we’ve worked out where we are, we’ll head for the nearest port to get a good look at her to ensure she’s seaworthy before we continue.

Well, let me know if I can be of any help. Nathanial glanced at the derelict ship. If you do decide to board her, I’d like to volunteer as one of the boarding party. Now, I must go check on my patients. He headed below deck.

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It took most of the day to carry out the repairs. During this time, the derelict ship had steadily drifted closer to the Falcon. It was the subject of the officers’ discussion at dinner that afternoon.

If there is a salvageable cargo aboard, the extra income would be welcomed by all, offered the second mate, John Fletcher.

Aye, that be true, added the first mate.

All eyes turned to the captain, who had the last word on the subject.

Be assured, I’m as intrigued as you all about the mysterious vessel. I was contemplating leaving it ‘til the morrow to board her, but as it seems like another storm is on its way, if we don’t do it now, we’ll likely not get the chance.

Smiles abounded on the faces of the others on the news.

Just a small party mind. Myself, you Raoul, then glancing at the doctor, you also if you’ve still a mind, Nathaniel nodded he did, along with six crew, will row across in one of the landing boats. If there’s a cargo worth the effort salvaging, we’ll bring the Falcon alongside and transfer it over.

Raoul glanced out through the starlight windows. Better take some lanterns as it’ll be dark soon.

And you’ll need a hook and rope to board her, added Fletcher.

The captain rose from his chair. "Then