Captain William Galewalker ordered his pirates to set anchor offshore. He grasped the rail to steady his wooden leg against the roll and raised a spyglass to his good, left eye. Forever, the right lid wrinkled shut on an eyeless socket. The leg he lost to a shark, the eye in a knife fight, but he’d won both times. He was alive and they weren’t. The ship rode all evening in the grey sea, buffeted by winds, while crew grumbled.
His worried first mate told the captain what he already knew. “Should have never divvied out the gold so soon.” The sailors wanted a port where they could waste their ill-gotten gains, not this lonely stretch of dismal shore.
Blackness descended. The cutthroats slept, leaving the mate fidgety, wondering if his captain had gone mad. The brass buttons on the captain’s overcoat shone from a fresh rubbing. His leather boot gleamed. He’d slicked his long hair back and bound it in a queue. Galewalker surveyed the shore again. High from a cliff, a light pierced the darkness.
The captain turned to his mate. “Lower the cockboat. I’m going ashore.”
“The lady prefers it that way, yes.”
Sunday Photo Fiction: 200-word stories
photo prompt: A Mixed Bag