The one-eyed man was named Gibbs.
He shared the name and the weathered look of the legendary boatswain Hugo remembered from the tales, but the similarities ended there. This Gibbs was a bitter, jagged flint of a man, serving as the petty officer aboard the Sea Serpent. His role, as he put it, was to "salt the fresh fish," which in practice meant ensuring Hugo spent every waking second in a state of exhaustion.
"See that stretch of deck, lad?" Gibbs barked, pointing a calloused finger toward a patch of timber stained dark by years of filth. "Scrub it until I can see the sins of your mother reflected in the grain. If the Captain spots so much as a speck of gull shite, you'll be licking the planks clean. Move!"
Hugo didn't argue. He picked up a heavy wooden bucket, its handle slick with grime, and hauled a load of seawater over the rail. He knelt and began to scrub.
His silence seemed to frustrate Gibbs, who had likely been hoping for a reason to break a few of Hugo's teeth. The pirate watched him for a moment, grunted a low curse, and stomped off to harass a sailor who was struggling with a tangled coil of stay-rope.
As the brush rhythmically scraped the wood, Hugo's eyes weren't on the grime; they were on the ship itself. To a layman, the Sea Serpent was a formidable pirate vessel. To Hugo, a man with a decade of modern naval experience and the "Basic Seamanship" skill pulsing in his mind, the ship was a floating coffin.
The problems were everywhere. The mainmast's canvas was a mosaic of rot, the patches sewn so crudely that the first real gale would tear them like wet parchment. The hempen lines were fraying, the fibers weeping under the tension of even a light breeze.
Worse than the ship was the crew. Hugo watched them handle the rigging with a chaotic, brute-force desperation. They didn't calculate the angle of the wind or the trim of the sails; they looked at the clouds, licked a finger to catch the breeze, and hoped for the best. It wasn't navigation; it was a series of lucky guesses.
Primitive, Hugo thought, shaking his head. They're not sailing; they're just gambling with the current.
"Hey! New meat! I don't pay you to daydream!"
A pirate named Billy, swaying with the rhythm of the ship and a half-empty bottle of cheap grog, stumbled toward him. With a malicious grin, Billy kicked Hugo's bucket, sending the grey, soapy water cascading across the deck Hugo had just finished cleaning.
Hugo stopped. He looked up, his expression unreadable, his eyes locking onto Billy's bloodshot gaze.
"What are you staring at? I'm talking to you, boy!" Billy's breath was a foul cloud of fermented cane and decay. "Gibbs told you to scrub. This spot's still filthy. Do you want to be hung from the yardarm to see if the wind can blow some sense into your thick skull?"
Hugo remained silent. He knew the type, a bully looking for a distraction from his own incompetence. He reached for the bucket, intending to simply start again.
"I said stop!" Billy lunged, his heavy hand catching Hugo's shoulder. "I'm talking to you! Are ye deaf as well as dim?"
The grip tightened, the pirate's dirty fingernails digging into Hugo's skin. A flash of cold anger flickered in Hugo's chest. He had spent his life navigating dangerous waters and dealing with treacherous men; he wouldn't start being a doormat now.
"Let go," Hugo said, his voice low and dangerous.
"Oh? The pup has a growl, does he?" Billy laughed, raising his other hand for a heavy backhanded slap.
Hugo didn't wait. He wasn't a brawler, but he knew leverage. As Billy swung, Hugo pivoted, driving his elbow back with the full weight of his torso. It caught Billy squarely in the solar plexus.
"Oof!" The air left Billy in a sudden wheeze. He recoiled, clutching his chest as the bottle of grog shattered against the deck.
The sound of breaking glass acted like a dinner bell. Nearby pirates abandoned their chores, gathering in a loose circle with hungry, expectant grins. On a ship like this, violence was the only entertainment.
"What's the commotion?" Gibbs shoved through the crowd, his lone eye darting between the gasping Billy and the composed Hugo.
"The... the whelp hit me!" Billy managed to choke out, pointing a trembling finger. "I was only tryin' to teach him the way of things!"
Gibbs looked at Hugo, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his face. Newcomers usually broke or begged. This one stood like he owned the deck he was scrubbing.
"He interfered with my work," Hugo said calmly, ignoring the murmurs of the crew. "If the ship isn't clean, it's your neck, Gibbs. I was doing my job. He was making sure it didn't get done."
The logic was sharp, far sharper than the usual pirate rambling. Gibbs stroked his chin. He knew Billy was a drunk and a liability, but he couldn't let a "pauper" humiliate an old hand.
"Doesn't matter who started it," Gibbs growled, though the edge was gone from his voice. "Captain Barbossa doesn't care for brawling unless there's blood on the line. Since you're so fond of 'work,' boy, you can finish the deck and then report to the head. The latrines haven't been swilled since we left Port Royal."
The pirates erupted into mocking laughter. Cleaning the head was the lowest, foulest job on the ship, a punishment designed to break the spirit.
Billy sneered, clutching his ribs as he slunk away, whispering promises of a knife in the dark.
Hugo didn't respond to the mockery. He picked up his brush and returned to the wood. But as he turned toward the stern, his gaze drifted to the western horizon. The sky was bruising, a deep, unnatural purple, and the clouds were stacking like charcoal towers.
The barometric pressure was dropping; he could feel it in the marrow of his bones. The "Seamanship" skill in his mind was screaming a warning that these drunkards were too blind to see.
A storm was coming. A massive one.
He looked at the frayed ropes, the rotting sails, and the arrogant, laughing men. This ship was a wreck held together by habit and luck, and both were about to run out.
They're all going to die, Hugo thought grimly. And if I don't find a way to take the wheel, I'm going down with them.