[ WP ] You are the captain of a ship in the 1600 's and for the past 4 hours a pirate ship has been mercilessly gaining on you- Their first cannon just fired .

This had been a terrible voyage. Contrary wind and waves had robbed us of a full week immediately after we were underway. The hardtack had been infested by weevils. Under-sailor Smithy had been found stealing from the rum supplies, and during the ensuing fight two barrels had been breached. 
 
 
 Smithy had died two days later, and worse, the rum loss meant half-rations. The sailors were surly and it would n't get better as time went on. 
 
 
 As if those mundane problems were n't enough to drive a captain to tears, it seems the supernatural decided to throw their two bits in as well. I stood at the aft of the ship, the full sails slapping fitfully in the light gale staring back at what would, very likely, be the doom of my vessel. 
 
 
 The fire-blackened ship that trailed in my wake had few sails, and those that still hung were tattered and hung flat despite the wind. It did n't matter, the ship still gained on me like a force of inevitability. My crew swarmed about, trying to coax the slightest bit of speed out of our canvas while theirs stood without moving on their bow. Darkness flowed with the pursuer's vessel, painting the ocean into a deep blue. 
 
 
 A cannon fired, the sound seeming like it came from far away, through a thick fog. The ball struck my boat near the water line, passing through the boards without leaving so much as a mark. The ship groaned and quivered like it had been mortally wounded, heeling strongly port. It was all we could do to prevent her from going over. Sails hanging too heavily ripped with the sudden change and one of our masts went down with three sailors still clinging to it. 
 
 
 We struggled to get our bearing back into the wind, but it was far too late. Perhaps it had always been too late. 
 
 
 I tried to rally the men to defend the rail, but only four salt-blooded men would stand with me. Some chose to dive into the sea. Others cowered in what corners they could find. We drew our swords as the first hooks dug into the deck. 
 
 
 The enemy flowed over the rail, silent and unflinching. The first took my sword through his head, but it had no effect over his progress. The wave of grey men passed through me and my stalwart men, paying us no mind at all. 
 
 
 They piled into the hold, dead eyes and icy hands, only to return a moment later with under-sailor Smithy held firmly between them. His wispy form shouted silently at them, at me, at every sailor that would look at him. They dragged him back to their ship, and just as suddenly as the ship had appeared, it was gone. 
 
 
 That was the moment as I sat on my crippled mechantman, its ripped sails trailing in the water, its sailors calling for help, or sitting in puddles of their own leavings, that I decided on a career in accounting.
