Dearest Elizabeth,

Once again, I write to you in an attempt to preserve my soundness of mind, as well as to preserve my experiences in the vain hope that I will live long enough to watch them metamorphosize into an amusing story of times past.

Captain Driscoll Stomlins is undoubtedly insane. That conclusion is one that I had been certain of since the moment I met him, yet on occasion, that reality surprises me. Oft, despite his madness, we have chats that are most enlightened and intellectual, and he has time and time again made me believe that his madness was only a calculated mask he wears when it suits him. Other times, when talking to the crew, he strikes me as more of a kindly old fisher who thinks of his crew as close family rather than the piratical sort. Yet this time, as always, events have arisen to make me reassert the claim of his madness, and by extension, also the madness of the crew, who make no attempt and show no desire to provide sensibility to his madness, and instead follow his every whim with vigor and cruelty.

Yesterday, he decided that they would be attacking the port settlement of Wateridge. That alone had revived my belief in him being stark raving mad, as the port in question has quite a formidable seaside fortress, a significant naval presence, and undoubtedly a battalion or two of the King’s finest regulars. I had believed that, due to Captain Stomlins’ madness, I would soon be free at last, and could finally sit my buttocks on land alongside of other civilized people. But I had unfortunately underestimated the full extent of the madness the man truly possessed.

When I eventually came to the realization that he was indeed not joking, I had asked him exactly what his plan was, in an attempt to ascertain if I would have a greater chance of survival jumping into the ocean and swimming the several miles to shore. I wasn’t confident enough in my swimming ability to be certain of making it, but it would be better than being riddled with cannon fire and splinters long enough and traveling fast enough to mimic the ballista bolts of antiquity.

Captain Stomlins found my line of questioning most amusing and believed it to be more suitable to leave it as much of a surprise for me as for the enemy. “Yeh’ll see, Mistah Evans”, he said in his strange accent, one that I have begun to believe gets stronger with the madness. I still have no understanding of what locality that accent originates from, and I can’t help but wonder if attaining that knowledge would help in understanding him.

I had of course protested, having a vested interest in obtaining that knowledge and using it to continue to protect my wellbeing, yet my protests were waved away with a chuckle and a grin. Circumstances have since led me to believe he views me as a mongrel pup; one that is both confused and curious. While I resent that comparison, I had foolishly believed at the time that he would give in and tell me.

Then there was a brief moment where one aspect of his madness was clarified for me. In the process of ignoring my increasingly worried questions, Captain Driscoll called forth a spirit—a spirit, the captain was a sorcerer of all things. I dare say that at least answered some of the questions of his insanity, and at the same time, raised quite a few more. “Diongemma”, he called it, “go knock on tha door, will ya?” And then, as quickly as it appeared, it vanished from sight, not even giving me the chance to study it.

After voicing yet more confused questions that were increasingly worry-filled, the sea itself shook, like we lived inside a child’s bath and the rim was bumped harshly. More waiting ensued and abruptly I noticed we were moving, despite having no sails up. The captain began to give directions in rapid succession; directions along the line of “Batten down tha hatches”, “Look lively, laddies” and of that sort, which even in my inexperience, I had learned meant that something along the lines of ‘bad weather approaching’. Once again, I had attempted to ask him what the blazes was going on, and finally he decided to entertain my curiosity. “Twas an earthquake, that was”, he said, his accent being noticeably thicker, “and Ah am sure tha yar clever enough ta know wha tha means on the sea. Now git below decks, doc. It does us no good ta lose yeh.”

I was somewhat stunned at his sudden forthrightness, and had to take a moment to gather my thoughts enough to realize what exactly he meant. And when I had realized, I felt, to borrow some of the crews lingo, ‘green at the gills’—which, to clarify, my dearest, means to feel quite sick to the stomach.

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In my haste to get below decks to find some semblance of protection, I had not noticed that the captain wasn’t joining us below the hatches. Upon realizing this, I turned back, and saw him standing quite precariously along the bowsprit, singing something in what could only assume to be his native tongue, grinning wildly, his hair and beard loose waving in the wind. I also noticed he was joined by some of the crew, those I had noticed to be more the wild and vicious, yet they, unlike him, were fastening themselves to the railing. Even they saw sense enough to secure themselves for the deadly impact, yet none made any worried glances at the singing madman standing astride a place I would struggle to balance on even in the calmest of sea. I tried to call him, but by that point the ship had begun to move at considerable speed, and with the wild wind I doubt he heard me. Yet I could hear him, every word of his song in the language I could not understand, every note of the melody, every breath he took, as if he was performing in some grand auditorium, and I was at the perfect point of convergence. And then some of the crew dragged me below decks to safety. In my instability of mind, I had mistakenly believed them to be demons dragging me down to the abyss.

I remember nothing more once he was out of sight, and was told that at the moment of impact, I, still being unfastened, had careened headfirst into a keg of freshwater. That stunt would explain my massive headache, and the terrifying scolding the captain gave me when I awoke, on the grounds of putting myself at risk, and by extension, putting the crew at risk. Apparently, a doctor’s wellbeing is of utmost importance on the high seas. Frankly, I am still quite surprised to be alive at all, and equally surprised that the ship itself is still intact, even largely undamaged. If it weren’t for the fact that the town was completely smashed to bits and our ship being positioned firmly on an overlooking hill, I would have believed that what happened had been a strange and terrible nightmare. But it wasn’t. If I look outside while I write this, I may still see the ruined stone fort, shattered by the sea, or the mangled and waterlogged corpses of the townsfolk. And the town. Based on the quantity and spread of rubble, it must have been quite large, yet I have yet to see sign of any survivors, only the signs of terrible death.

I have, against my own wishes, been thinking about what their last moments were like. I imagine them seeing a shadow looming over them, and upon looking up, see a wave of unbelievable proportions, bearing down on them. And then, above them, despite knowing they should run, should attempt to flee to higher ground, they see a ship, riding the wave, crewed by cackling demons, with the devil at the forefront of them all, singing a song of their death, beard and hair flying wildly in the wind, with swords in both hands.

I fear for my sanity, Elizabeth. Just earlier today, and taking care of the wounded, I had given the butchers bill—the account of the casualties and permanent injuries—to the captain. Despite having known these men, having eaten alongside them, and in some cases, being amicable acquaintances or even friends with them, I was startlingly unperturbed at their deaths and maiming. And despite seeing immense amounts of death in this place that was once a thriving town, I have yet to feel nary an ounce of nausea. I fear in my misadventures that I have become desensitized to death and destruction, and that by being in the companionship of rogues and scoundrels, that I myself have become one.

I kn-I miss you, and I very much want to return home. I don’t know who I am anymore. This unwanted journey has done wonders on my understanding of the medical craft, gifting me the practical experience I sorely lacked, but the cost of that experience is haunting me. When I became a doctor, it was to be the sort that heals broken bodies, souls and hearts, to sort to fix what was broken by the world, not the sort that reads the butchers bill without flinching. Not the sort to amputate a man’s leg without feeling. Not the sort to see a sea of death that used to be a town, and be unperturbed. I know you will probably never get this, my love, but I miss you. I hate that I missed your birthday, and I hate to think you will have likely married another in my absence. If that is the case, I cannot blame you. Only me.

I hate that my last words to you were so harsh, and I hate that I was such a fool. I suppose this is all mThis is undoubtedly my comeuppance for being a dreadful person that day. I know you will likely never read this, but I miss you dearly. I am sorry.

Yours forever, though a world lies between us,

James Evans

Postscript: Now that I am thoroughly sober, I can’t help but think that the horrid swill they insist is alcohol pushed my brain to dark thoughts. I feel it is now in my best interests to abstain from it now on, and any other drunken revelry that it might entail, in hopes of preserving my mental wellbeing. And as a hopeful note to my future self, in the event that I find myself on a carriage homeward bound, or having access to a trustworthy mail rider, I resolve to reread and perhaps rewrite some of these letters so as to not cause Elizabeth any undue stress. It would not be healthy for her to read some of the contents.