Day 102: "Heave! Heave, ye moulderin' codfish! H'ist them sails! Th' wind be in our favour an' we be Tortuga bound!" The bo'sun's cry in the night, harsh as the salt-weathered canvas, lifted the spirits of the Winged Adventure's crew as they hauled upon the lines and the sails filled. Morgan Corbye's hand was on the tiller, and not a man would dare to doubt her strength, for all her slightness of stature. The barque sprang forward in the dark, the captain taking her on a tack for speed. The ship pierced the swells like a porpoise, her crew barefoot to a man, the better to grip the deck as she leapt and dove. Your unfortunate biographer had come topside to observe, a decision I was coming to regret, bundled against cold and spray to which the sailors seemed to be impervious. This was no summer zepyhr bearing us along. It was a building storm and the captain was clearly in her element, sweat beading on her brow despite the chill.
By morning, the gale had subsided and the captain relinquished the tiller to her helmsman and went below for some much-needed sleep. I went to my bunk as well, with many thoughts to keep me wakeful, for moreso than the average mariner, the pirate must have exceptional skill at sailing if he is to stay ahead of those who would persecute him. He must be more cunning, more adaptable, stronger and quicker, and he must have greater endurance. Too, he must be a better swordsman than his foe if he is to survive and succeed. Yet what brings a person so gifted to the life of piracy instead of normal business? I turn to Captain Corbye for the answer: "I needs me adventure an' independence," says she, and none can claim she goes without either in any degree.
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