We stood up on the cliff looking down at the scene of destruction below. The gale force wind so strong that we could hardly stand. Waves crashed over the bow of the stricken vessel. We could not keep our torches alight unless we lay upon the ground sheltering them from the driving rain with our curled bodies. The cries from below sounded English but there were also high-pitched screams in a language I couldn’t identify. Daniel beside me had toshout to make himself hard, “I s’pect tis them Frenchies they’ve been tellin about, poor buggers.” I only nodded in agreement. There was nothing we could do till the sea and wind settled. Then we would go down to the beach to see if anyone had got off to the shore. All we could was sit and wait.
At first light the wind had lessened. There was no sound. Fearing the worst we climbed down the fisherman’s path to the shingle beach. The ship had completely broken up overnight. There were rough, broken planks of timber, chests and casks scattered among the rocks. Much more numerous were the bodies. Some lying face down, arms outstretched as if scrabbling at the sand. Some face up, their faces white, fixed in fear, eyes dull and lifeless. The worst sight were a group of both men and women lying like rag dolls close to a cave entrance.
Going over to examine them we were stopped in our tracks at the sight. All were wearing leg-irons and neck-braces chained one to each other. It was obvious, they were slaves being transported to the colonies. The sailors hadn’t even freed them at the time of the wreck in order that they might have a chance of escape.
I believe it was that one act that turned us against our sea-faring brothers. Without a word being spoken the vow never again to help them was taken. Not only that, our loathing at their cowardice was so high that we were encouraged to start the act of wrecking and thus gaining benefit from their distress. Much to my shame I can safely say that was how and why our terrible, callous and cowardly acts of piracy started.
When the pen takes control. 
That would be enough to turn anyone…
LikeLike
I love where you took this. Very nice write, Bobby.
LikeLiked by 1 person
It’s obviously Sue’s inspiring photo
LikeLike
Pingback: Dawn of Disgrace ~ Bobby Fairfield #writephoto | Sue Vincent's Daily Echo
Great story sadly based in truth 💜💜
LikeLiked by 1 person
Untold stories of forgotten suffering
LikeLike
Yes indeed 💜
LikeLike
A sad but such a well written story. And eerily fitting, as I spent yesterday going round the Mary Rose museum in Portsmouth with my daughter who wants to be a maritime historian. That was also very sad, but fascinating.
LikeLiked by 1 person
A massive and intriguing subject for study, I was on the guardship for the Mary Rose recovery, within a hundred yards of it
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh my goodness, really? I’ll have to tell my daughter that. She was really quite choked by some of the superb museum they have created around the Mary Rose, as was I. And she was fascinated by the recovery project, so she’ll be impressed that I’ve talked with someone who was actually there! It must have made a huge impact on you.
LikeLike
I’m still fascinated by so much history in one small (relatively) space
LikeLiked by 1 person
Absolutely. We were too. As you’ll know they found 19,000 artefacts, it’s almost as though the ship wanted to be found and the stories of those who died told. They’ve done the museum so well, and we were particularly touched that they’ve dedicated it to the men who lost their lives in the disaster. How poignant.
LikeLike
You have done a splendid write with this story. Though it is a sad event you have captured the essence of movement of these actions.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Glad you liked it
LikeLiked by 1 person
Pingback: Photo prompt round-up: Threshold #writephoto | Sue Vincent's Daily Echo