The entire wooden body of The Ashaton trembled and shuddered, as it's red and ebony painted form rammed along side the port of an incapacitated frigate. The captain of The Ashaton called out to his crew.
"Pull up the sails! Prepare to board!" Yet, the broad-shouldered captain had no true need to command such. The crew was already working on it. This was a commonly practiced ritual for them, as if they were doing a menial, everyday task. The sails were up quickly, and they were now preparing to annihilate the British Soldiers. The redcoats were scurrying across the decks like the slimy, crimson rats they are in preparation to defend themselves.
Captain Hector Monroe released the wheel. Looking out over the starboard rail, he counted the redcoats as fast as his eyes could swivel in their sockets.
Twenty-three.
He would have plenty of fun this fine, salty afternoon. Then his gaze darted skyward in a millisecond, to where two snipers were posted on two platforms. They needed to be taken care of.
All that thinking in only a second or two.
In a flash, he hopped the railing behind the wheel, and sprinted forward, towards the lift. He snatched the hook, kicked the lever, and up he went. It was more exhilarating than leveling his gun with the forehead of a Redcoat and pulling the trigger.
In a couple seconds, his feet were already moving over the small platform the lift had carried him to, and was running along the tangled masts of the two ships.
Hector Monroe leapt upon an unsuspecting sniper, dagger in hand. Only a gargle, and he was eternally silenced. He pushed himself up, turning to see the other sniper. The musket in which his position demanded, was level with Hector Monroe's chest. Quick as a whip, the sniper pulled the trigger. What saved Hector Monroe from the unfortunate fate of getting his chest cavity punctured with a lead ball, was him being quick enough to respond to the twitch of the sniper's finger as he went to pull the trigger. To avoid the said shot, he had moved to hide the bulk of his body behind a very thick pole that lead up to the crow's nest of the frigate.
After that one shot had rung out, clearly heard by Monroe over the cacophony of battle below, Monroe, whirled around. As the sniper struggled to reload, Monroe made his way to him by utilizing his lithe body. He could've been compared to a monkey, the way he flung his body between mast and thick coils of rope.
Seeing that the hope of being able to shoot down the captain was impossible, the sniper gave up on reloading. Instead, he took a defensive stance, holding his musket like a Spartan soldier would with a spear. He was prepared for Monroe to leap upon him like a jaguar.
Monroe wasn't stupid, and this man obviously didn't suspect that, for some God-forsaken reason. Perched like a personal messenger pigeon from Satan, he rested one hand on the mast his talons were currently dug into. With the other, his threw his dagger like a lightning bolt. The dagger landed squarely in the Sniper's left eye.
Monroe didn't hear him scream, but the man made a very brief motion with his mouth, as if to scream. Monroe was sure that the sniper was dead before the familiar thump of a lifeless body against wood reached his ears.
Satan's messenger pigeon then "flew" to the platform, a flurry of red, black, white, and the glint of steel in the bright gaze of an afternoon sun. He tore the dagger from the corpse's eye, and shook the gore off, before quickly sheathing it.
Monroe turned, and leapt to the horizontal mast just below the platform. From there, he climbed down the latter-like rigging until he was close enough to, once more, unsheathe his trusty, eight-inch claw of bereavement. At that moment, he leapt upon the captain, who was the closest, and easily distinguished by the fancy uniform, and the frilly hat.
Crimson liquid showered Monroe's face, result of a slashed jugular. The three crew members who fought the British captain, quickly moved to take down other Lobster-backs. They were like fishermen straight from the deepest darkest corners of Hell, and fought like the devils they were. The lobster-backs, trained soldiers they might have been, but Monroe's crew was better. These lobsters could not withstand the might of the crews' steel "fishing poles".
Monroe seethed with adrenaline and excitement, to be surrounded by all this prey. With his other hand, he unsheathed his cutlass, and began his feast of souls.
Swipe, stab, gurgle, and thump. Charge, rinse, and repeat. Death surrounded him, and blood splattered his black, red, and white overcoat.
Every man who fell to Monroe's whirlwind of steel, only seemed to push the Captain further, driving him to the very edge of his sanity. To the very point in which everything was so fast, he would never be able to recall this moment later should he ever try. All he would remember would be red. The red of his vision as his pulse pounded in his ears. The red of British uniforms. And the red of blood that signaled it's friend, Death, to join in.
The fun only abruptly stopped when the redcoat whom he was about to disembowel, threw his hands up. His sword clattered upon the deck splattered with British blood. Suddenly, all he saw, was a terrified expression plastered on the face of the British soldier before him. The amusement of witnessing it caused him to freeze.
Monroe now had a grim smile pulling at the corners of his lips. The thrill of victory lingered in the air. He inhaled it's intoxicating fumes. Ah, these were the moments he lived for.
"Sir, what shall we do the remaining three who surrendered?" He turned to face the crew member who spoke, sheathing the tools of his trade.
"The usual. They join us or die. Take the cargo they have, the weapons of their dead, and see if we can't make any quick repairs to The Ashaton."
Hector Monroe then left his loyal sea dogs to it. The crew member he had just spoken to, Timothy, relayed Monroe's orders. Satisfied, he then moved to assess the damage he caused. Redcoats littered the deck, with pools of blood redder than their uniforms soaking into the beautiful wood.
"The days I live for." He genuinely smiled, as if he was receiving a gift, and not basking in the glory of directly and indirectly desecrating twenty-two lives. That number included the two snipers he hadn't originally counted within the twenty-three soldiers upon deck.
Monroe took another moment to inhale the smell of victory, and the smell of the salty ocean air mingled with the metallic scent of blood. After he had gotten his final thrill, he moved to the nearest latter-like rigging. With a grunt of exertion, he hauled himself all the way to the crow's nest. He took down the British flag, and folded it very neatly.
Back in his early days of being a captain, Monroe decided to take up the hobby of collecting the flags of every ship he boarded and successfully took over. Needless to say, he has quite a few trunks filled with flags. Most were British, but there was no shortage of Spanish and French flags in his collection.
He draped his newest trophy over his shoulder, before climbing back down to assist his crew.
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