In Defence of My Father

By Colin Alexander

You cannot judge my father by the law of the land. The crimes your witnesses claim he committed at sea either did not happen or were done out of necessity. I stand before your honor, high on the quarterdeck, and the assembled “victims” in this court, clinging to the mahogany taffrail, to explain the actions of a seafaring man to those whose minds are bonded to the dirt.

In the desert, salt is worth its weight in gold. At sea, loyalty and fresh water are valued above all else. My father was lord over a hundred souls, with sixty-five feet of planks and iron his fiefdom. The sea makes hard men make hard choices; my father’s choices saved lives.

It is true, my father is quick to anger and quick to act. What’s seen as vice on solid earth is virtue at sea, where a failure to batten down the hatches with haste might lead to the death of dozens of men under your stewardship. A captain can’t afford to say things twice when only a few feet of hardwood separate men from the deep. Were my father to take a finger or an eye to set a lesson, wouldn’t it be mercy rather than allowing the sea to end a man’s education entirely? A scar is a better reminder than a stern warning.

My father treated us all with the same severe hand. While you may see before you a slight girl of fifteen years, my father saw a member of his crew, green and eager to learn. When caught stealing limes, I faced the lash, same as any man. I still bear the scars; haven’t stolen since. I was seven and didn’t realize the sour treats were medicine for the men. One lime in the day’s grog might keep the pox away from the whole crew. One emerald sphere bought another day on the open water, another twenty-four hours to salvage and to be free of the stifling smell of the land. My indiscretion stole life and fresh air and clear skies from the crew; it took broken skin to learn that lesson true. The law of the sea can’t be applied to the land. Would be just as silly for me to cast a line out the courthouse window and expect to reel in a mackerel.

Can you blame my father for liberating a ship, when surrounded by stony farmland and shuttered factories? Had the lords of the land taken care of their crew, my father might have held a spade or learned a trade. He grew up tasting coal ash from factories, seeing hard-clay farmlands accrue debt until laborers were paying double for every turnip they pulled from the soil. Why be condemned to starve by the rule of the land when the sea provides?

You claim my father raided English vessels, freeing them of their cargo and cursing their men to the deep. I say my father was the first to find mermaids off the coast of the Galapagos Islands, the first to develop a common tongue, and learn of treasures buried beneath the waves.

You scoff? Ask yourself—if my father truly murdered all souls aboard the vessels he supposedly raided, then all the crown’s evidence is hearsay, as founded as my claims of mermaids, as solid as the ever-changing sea.

The prosecutor called me as a witness. As my father taught me, I told the truth. I never saw him commit any of the atrocities he’s accused of. I only saw him act out of kindness or necessity, often meted out with the same gnarled hand. When I didn’t support the prosecutor’s lies, he used me as an exhibit. He pointed out the differences between my father’s swarthy skin and my pale demeanor. He pointed to the scar on my chin, claiming it matched that of the Baroness of Villfeulle, kidnapped at a tender age.

I see the opulent couple in the front row, eyes wet, bejeweled hands wringing scented scarves. My father worked above deck his whole life, slaving in the midday heat to keep his ship cutting through the water. He allowed me to tend to matters below deck as quartermaster, cataloging the stores, saving me from the harsh sun. I earned the scar you see learning to watch for a dagger after dodging a cutlass. They are not kin to me, as they claim. Blackbeard is the one who taught me to swim, to fight, to navigate by the thousand night-stars. He’s the one who finally rowed me to shore in search of books and tutelage when the sea began to confine my mind as much as the land confined his. But for seeking my education, you’d never have clapped him in irons. He’d never have ventured to land, but for my advancement.

I know your honor has already made up his mind, that the verdict before you has been lettered and signed. My father has withered on the land. His long black hair, once braided with shells and gold rings, now sits matted and gray against his patchy scalp. Once adorned with silks, his barrel chest has withered beneath drab prison garb. Without sea air, sun, and the night sky, my father cannot be sustained.

My father is a proud man. He can’t stand to be seen in his fallen state; he refuses my visits. I’m here to tell you of the man he was, and the father he is. By your crooked ruler he’s guilty, but by the straight line of the horizon he’d be free to walk out of this courtroom unfettered. He was a just captain. A loyal father.

You can take dignity, his ship; even his life.

But the love of his daughter remains.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Colin Alexander is an attorney and writer living in San Francisco. He’s previously been published in The Molotov Cocktail, Shotgun Honey, The Arcanist, and Havok, writing crime fiction, science fiction, and horror. While he has written for money in the past, he now primarily writes for revenge.

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