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The End
By Alexa Chipman
Once again Roger glanced over the logbook as he grimaced before staring towards the dwindling coins in the ship's chest. He felt a tug at his throat as if he was being slowly suffocated by the responsibility of the command. It was his first ship; he had at first been excited by running a whole crew and even keeping part of the profits but that had soon turned to depression and near despair. Instead of the instant fortune he found himself dodging rules and begging to sell even one piece of his cargo. The salt air that had been like a perfume in the air had turned sour to him and he began doubting whether he could captain a ship or whether like the rest of his life it had been an idle dream he was not capable of fulfilling.
"Sir, permission to enter?," an obviously nervous sailer asked.
"Granted,' Roger answered, rubbing his swollen eyes and
pushing back the papers.
A young bosun entered, "Mr. Tobin's compliments, we're
approaching the bar".
The captain nodded and closed the hatch behind his crew member,
"I can't believe I've fallen to this level," he groaned.
The taxes on a harbor were way beyond the ship's resources so he had chosen the only alternative -- sneaking in the back window of the river to avoid patrols. He climbed up on deck and massaged his neck while closing his eyes to the bright sun reflecting on the water in blinding rays. The bow loomed toward the sandbar protecting the harbor. Roger knew they had to time their passage perfectly or the entire ship would be stranded and buried in the muck of the river. He had failed in all else he knew this was his last chance to save the expedition.
As he stared at the stilled hull there came a crash of the scrape of
metal over splintering wood. A sailer shouted with near terror,
"SIR! The anchor cable".
Roger stood still as the mast above him while a flurry of activity rushed around the deck of the ship with voices sounding as in another universe to his numbed ears. Even with his whole world crumbling there had always been that ship, everything else had gone wrong with the expedition but not with those decks.
"The boats, sir the boat is gone," a voice erupted next to him.
"What?"
Roger finally saw the entire crew was looking to him with fear and anticipation.
"I realize the situation looks bad," the creaking of the only remaining anchor sent the sailors grumbling again, "There is nothing we can do -- Smith, Roberts, take the remaining boat and try to get help. We'll lighten the ship and I want everything off from the cannon to the kitchen pots".
In the next few hours the ship drifted closer and closer to the bar as the tide went out. Roger abandoned the cast-iron cannon he had been sweating over moving and glanced down at the rapidly ebbing water swirling around the ship and with it his last hope of a career.
Roger felt drained and as abandoned as his ship hurtling towards inevitable destruction. He almost began to pray before realizing he didn? believe in God. Yet still he felt the urge to call on something; if only the fate which had dealt such a cruel blow.
"Sir, it won't be long now. We need to abandon ship," an unknown
voice reminded him.
"NO! I can save her I can do this," Roger almost screamed back.
The remaining sailors eyed the bar and the straining anchor cable before some ignored the captain and began jumping overboard.
This could not be happening, this was all a bad dream was all Roger could think before he was thrown halfway across the planks of the deck with the impact. She was lost along with his future, and he knew history would only remember him as the talentless captain who had caused the ship to be lost. Perhaps history was right, "Lost first command," would not bring him his dreams of captaining but rather bring him down to the lowest deckhand where he had first started all those years before.
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 Photo by Alexa Chipman
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