Captain Kemp Murdoch

by Caleb Freeman

            Thar’ she blows those great, mighty masts, sweeping and swaggering aloft spewing white paths. Beneath benevolent thrones of softened white tones, those mythical homes, that form the heavenly dome. The glad ghosts of the day breath sail and take flight, given away to the flickers of night. Hypnotic chop of the waves soothes sailors to sleep, under celestial spectrums, slumber mates dreaming sweet dreams, of beautiful women, and wealth’s golden gleam. Till morn’ summons men’s duty to monotonous toil working straight through noon’s merciless boil. Weathered skins sing song in proud unity, overworked dogs rejoice in the sea. The rise and the fall, give volume then pause. The unholy choir never grows tired.

“Aye sir,” mates reply with cheery inflection. Captain Kemp Murdoch casts down his ravished reflection. Tossed locks of gray mane embrace the great stump of his neck. Hands, rough like stale bread, stance proudly erect. Digits clasped behind back, sullen gaze locked ahead, heeding no man living or dead. Then assailing the horizon the craft’s unforeseen doom. Suspended afar dark tumult then loomed. Engulfing bright sun with the throat of its tomb. Angry gray demons encroach lonely white sails. Trembling monster roars a tortuous wail, triumphant approach of the incoming gale, certainly dragging death on its tail.

“Swing starboard!” he cries.

“Aye, sir!” its return. The compass whirls round.

“Set hard astern!”

Sailors song long smothered in awestruck stare, silence whispers death in the acrid air. 1^st mate at the helm hands tremble with fear, as heavenly breaths thrust the craft toward the clear. Murdock stands tall, faith in his vessel, though the sky blackens as the iron of a kettle.

            Slowly but surely the demons were gaining, howling and whooping to inflict a cruel maiming. Unmoved and unassuming his squared jaw set firm. Captain Murdoch the legend has learned all to learn. The ocean’s harsh hand is not his concern. Death smeared before his men in ghastly gray garments. They squeal in terror as cowardly trapped varmints.

            “Take heed!” cries the captain, with great gusts of the lung. “The courageous survive!” with passion he sung. “And remember forever with honor you die!” The men mount on his words to surpass the great test, singing aloud,

            “Let’s give it our best!” The rally declared, mountain of the mind calmly assailed, though the banner of death glows ghostly pale, flapping with glee at the terrible gale. Brave sailors scramble to save tortured sails.

            “Man o’erboard!” roars the drenched crew, as another man plunges into blue. The aggravated sea warped by its rage, sweeps the poor soul into its cage. Heaving and foaming as a rabid beast, the waves never cease to reprimand peace. Persevering through blows, that fragile craft, lame man of the sea, masts chopped in half, limping along each swirling surge, as one bearing sin about to be purged. Murdoch, unshaken, gripped the great wheel, while yelling out orders in thunderous peels.

            “You there!” he roared, “Stop hurling your meal! Jones to forecastle! Secure all remaining masts!” With that the first mate made haste toward his task. Then all of a sudden…

            The sentence halted uncompleted. A turn of the page yielded virgin parchment. The boy grimaced in dismay. He shut the worn cover abruptly; thrusting a billow of dust from the relic’s decayed binding.

            “The end,” he soliloquized. “What happens in the end?” his voice faded into the dusky abyss of the attic. A strong wind whistled over the drafty house. Ancient wooden beams heaved a sigh as the wick of the boy’s lamp flickered.

            “Captain Murdoch…” he trailed, staring out the small glass pane next to his cot. Outside snow fell to a world of wintry grayness. Benjamin’s brown eyes gleamed with a dancing brilliance in the dim light. His mind wandered into the world of Captain Kemp. Finally his eyelids grew weighty. Benjamin slid beneath his wool covers, pulling their protection tightly around himself. With a quick breath the boy extinguished the little flame.

It t’was 1771 in the year of our Lord, the surviving crew of the HMS Merrimont were reconciled on what seemed to be an uninhabited island and went about gathering whatever remains of the wreck floated ashore. Several sea chests had already been salvaged intact. Muskets, powder, lead balls, hammers, nails, and an assortment of other tools had, thankfully, been preserved in the great trunks. First mate Wesley Jones commanded the crew, for the brave Captain Murdoch was thought dead. Jones was enjoying his newly inherited role as commander. Something about power simply warmed his heart.

Standing to Jones’ right was the ship’s cabin boy, soberly tallying the missing on parchment.

“Sir, we’s missin’ twen’y se’en of for’y nine,” he glanced up at Wesley. “We’s only got twen’y three!”

“Aye, ‘bout half the crew,”

“An’ no sign of the cap’n”

“Aye,” Wesley smiled smugly to himself, “what about the supplies?” The boy read off the tallies.

That night the crew slept on the beach. Lying on beds of palm leaves the star-crossed sailors were soothed to sleep by the ebb of the ocean. That tranquil, peaceful sea that they had battled so fiercely just days earlier, that grotesque thread that weaves life and death into one united fabric, the circle of paradox that invades all reason. There rested the remainder of the good ship Merrimont in the balmy, cool of the night. Palm branches swaying lazily in the breeze to the rhythm of the tides. The full face of the moon smiled graciously upon the somnolent dogs. How picturesque the eye of the storm.

An Oxford clad young man stood skirting a crowd waiting to board the next train to Boston. He could hear the giant steam engine brooding at the front end of the iron caravan. The train yard was restless with the morning hustle and bustle. Up and down the platform boards shoes clopped toward their various destinations. Each shoe had a different person, each person a different destination, each destination a different business. The human experience surely is complicated, however not for that one young man. The man had one goal, one love, and rising himself to his tiptoes he searching intently for that heart in which he so desired. Not spying any familiar face, he started down one direction of the platform, searching, anxiously searching for her. How long had it been since he had seen her beautiful face? He wondered if he would recognize her. Finally he reached the end of the platform. He looked about almost frantically. What if she forgot?

“Could you spare a penny for bread, son?” The young man turned his head. There in the lonely corner at the end of the platform sat a withered old man. Between his wrinkled hands a small tin can sat empty and without a bottom. Peculiar, the object was simply a hollow tin. What good is that? The young man had no time for this old dog, but he began to feel a guilt creep into his mind. Five dollars for the ticket, 20 cents for a meal, He still had 2 dollars. The old man looked at him longingly, his sagging white face, he seemed to be withering away that very moment. Yet the man’s eyes, they were strikingly vibrant, as if retaining every ounce of youthful brilliance. He ignored it, simply tossing the man a nickel and clopping back down the platform.

Wesley Jones scanned the masked eyes of his combatant. Long braids of gray hair advanced from the brow of the mask. The ends of which danced on the back of the warriors head with each motion the man made. The savage wielded a giant spear, the head of which was a great shark tooth. The tooth’s razors glistened in the tropical sun as the two circled in the hot sand. Jones held a small dagger in the fist of his right hand. Sweat rolled off both men’s bear backs. Jones held up his weapon ready to pounce. His offender held his stick slanted with two hands, bent over, seeking weakness. Jones struck first swinging the jagged edge at the warrior’s face. The masked man ducks, winds up, and hits Jones’ unguarded right side. Jones writhes and retreats out of range. The warrior sets his spear in the position to jab. Jones meets eyes with his offenders, they look strangely familiar. Suddenly the warrior thrust his spear toward Jones’ left side. Jones’ swiftly swept to the right avoiding the jab. Then rising his grotesque blade Jones plunged the weapon into the back of the warrior’s left shoulder. The mysterious man collapsed in the sand. Sweat mixed with blood dribble off the arch of his back. Here it was, Jones was rejoicing, the end of his search.

“Your people are quite stubborn,” Jones spat at him. “They would not...”

“I have no people,” the man interrupted.

“Shut up! Just tell me where it is!”

“NO!”

“The Spanish merchant leaves in less than a week. I swear I will not leave without that...”

“Stay! You’ll never find it!”

“What use is wealth to you? What value is gold or silver to you! You are a savage! Give it to me!”

“I guard it from men like you. Cowards, driven by selfish-ambitions, lust for themselves.” The warrior spat on Jones. Jones roared in rage, raising the dagger once again, thrusting a lethal plunge. The dead warrior rolled onto his back. His mask, bloodied, fell to the sand revealing the man’s mystery. Jones froze his skin cold and shivering in the tropical heat, before him laid Captain Kemp Murdoch.

Benjamin had grown tall since that night in his attic bedroom. He had grown old since marrying the woman he loved. Now he was a working man, a red-blooded blue collared working man, or at least a man trying to find work. The depression had everyone in financial straits. He left home promising his wife he would find a job in Boston and bring a check home every weekend. It would be difficult, but for now this would have to do. Now again he was at that train station, the same platform in which he had so eagerly proposed to his wife more than 20 years before. Suddenly he remembered the mysterious old man. Benjamin decided to humor himself and walked toward the end of the platform where that man once sat. In the distance he heard the Boston train heading for the station. He kept clopping. From a distance he could make out a figure sitting in the same spot. He laughed to himself. This must be a popular spot for beggars. As he approached his laughing turned to astonishment. It couldn’t be! The same old man? Impossible! Absolutely impossible! There sitting in the same place holding the same can was the same withered man with the same brilliant eyes. Benjamin stopped.

“Have you ever wondered how the story ends?” the old man said looking at Benjamin.

“What? What story?” Benjamin’s mind whirled. The man pulled an old worn book out of his tattered shirt. It was thin and dusty, on the cover read “Captain Kemp Murdoch.”

Copyright © 2005