The cauldron of hell
The wood of the ship’s hull was coated in a layer of slime as if dredged from the depths of a putrid and forsaken cavern, a stopover on the descent to hell. The dampness clung to the walls like a thick mucus, remnants of wicked creatures slithering back into the underworld, figments of an overstimulated imagination. Francisco Butero found himself trapped in this cursed pit, impervious to prayer, clean air, daylight, or even hope.
The voices inside his head echoed the accusations that had led to his plight, reminding him that he had brought this upon himself. He felt his skull bounce off the grimy walls of the tiny cell, the sharp sting of pain radiating through his head. He tried to move, only to find himself bound by cold, unwavering iron manacles on his wrists and ankles. The stench of his own waste permeated the small space, mixing with the putrid odour of the cramped quarters. But he was the lucky one. The one privilege he had been granted was a cell to himself, a privilege he was not allowed to forget by his neighbours.
Struggling to find some semblance of comfort, Francisco lifted his feet off the filthy floor and collapsed onto a rusted bench attached to the wall by a single hinge and chain. But even in this momentary respite, he could only cry out in despair. “What infernal cauldron have I been cast into?” he bellowed at the bars of his cell, hoping for some sort of answer or reprieve. Instead, all he received were taunts from other prisoners, their words laced with bitterness and resentment. “Now you know what it feels like,” they goaded, “there’s no one to make your meals and wash your clothes here, your lordship.” To which Francisco could only curse and swear revenge towards his tormentors and the cruel world that had cast him into this wretched place. But at least he had finally got some attention from those who controlled the keys.
The jailer sauntered in, his heavy footsteps echoing like a death knell. His face twisted in resentment at being disturbed by the noise and activity that demanded his attention, tearing him away from more enjoyable pursuits. Sickly pale skin clung to his gaunt face, a reflection of his neglectful care for himself, the prisoner and guard duties.
His scruff matched the unkempt appearance of the man behind bars, but unlike the tattered rags adorning the prisoner’s body, the jailer boasted a pair of sturdy boots and a filthy breastplate as symbols of his authority. While the imprisoned man had no protection for his head against the violent thrashing of the ship, the guard wore a morion to shield himself. While the prisoner clung to a simple chain for support, the jailer held onto his freedom and authority with a wooden club and sword.
“Release me from this hellhole!” Francisco’s hands gripped the cold metal bars of his cage with trembling fingers as he pleaded, his voice hoarse from weeks of neglect, making him sound pitiful.
A flicker of desperate hope burned in Francisco’s eyes.
“Surely I could better serve my admiral, fleet, and king if I were up on deck using my skills? If God were truly judging my supposed crimes, then I should have been thrown overboard to suffer at the mercy of sea serpents and monstrous creatures. But God, in His boundless wisdom, would surely command those beasts to spit me back out onto the deck so that I may continue to serve Him and our fleet all the way back to Spain. There, I would stand trial for my alleged crimes and let God be the ultimate judge. He would see that any perceived wrongdoing has been more than redeemed by the countless souls I have saved through my service.”
The desperation in his voice was almost palpable as he begged for mercy from both God and his captors.
The jailer threw his head back and let out a deep, bellowing laugh. He was accustomed to grasping hands protruding from the cell bars and the eloquent pleas generated by the fear of meeting one’s maker or one of the implements of discipline the jailer may bring with him. With a sarcastic sigh, he pulled up a small stool and settled down, revelling in the entertainment that would surely come from this afternoon’s interrogation. As the jailer, he held respect and power in only one area of the ship and at only one time in his life. It was over these prisoners, and he would make them pay for all those who had mocked and taunted him all his life for his lowly standing, portly body and distorted face, and take pleasure in their suffering.
He tilted his head and sneered at Francisco, who now sat humbled and cowed in his cell. “Oh, Francisco, how the mighty have fallen. Can I now refer to you by your first name since you share the stench of this jail with me?” The jailer’s smirk widened as he continued to mock his prisoner. “Were you too much of a coward to face our enemy, or perhaps you were in league with them and the devil himself? How do we know it was not your actions that brought us to this cauldron of hell as punishment for your sins?”
The jailer paused, savouring the torment he inflicted on Francisco. He leaned in close, his breath hot on Francisco’s face as he whispered cruel accusations.
“How do we know you’re not a secret heretic, seduced by the heathen queen’s beauty and lured by the hope of gaining her favour? You could have conspired to overthrow the admiral and claim the kingdom for yourself. Who knows what dark fantasies linger beneath that stern exterior of yours?” The jailer scoffed, relishing his own twisted words. “No, no one can trust a man like you. That’s why the admiral has ordered your trial as soon as this storm passes, hoping your sacrifice will appease any further occurrence of the raging tempest.”
Francisco could no longer bear to sweeten his words for this cruel man. He fell to his knees, clasping his hands together in desperate prayer.
“I swear, I am not a vessel for the devil’s work,” he pleaded. “I will only speak of breaking ranks when my words are heard by those who truly matter. I implore you not to reduce my case, which could decide whether I live or die, into mere entertainment and idle chatter for your own amusement.”
The jailer’s face cracked with laughter, and what was left of his crooked brown teeth was on rare display for Francisco’s benefit.
“You may have been a captain of the fleet once, but you are no more. Now you are the lowest of the low, a mere prisoner and I have your life in my hands. The more you respect me, the less I piss in your food.”
“Don’t debase yourself,” Francisco retorted through gritted teeth.
The jailer let out another harsh laugh. “Captains like you always rely on people like me to do their dirty work. But when your own mess is staring back at you, suddenly you’re not so brave.”
Francisco withdrew his begging hands and shifted off his sore knees onto the bench, curling up into himself with his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. It was a feeble attempt to protect what little dignity he had left.
“Can’t even give me a blanket? Don’t let your admiral put a corpse on trial.”
With a smirk, the jailer left and returned with a threadbare and ragged blanket. He shoved it through the bars, and to Francisco’s horror, it landed directly in the foul contents of the water bowl and latrine.
“Any lice are from the last prisoner, not me.” The jailer snickered.
Francisco sighed and lowered himself back to the ground, examining the blanket for any dry spots or holes that could provide some warmth. But as he lifted it to cover himself, he couldn’t help but recoil at the overwhelming stench that wafted from it. He resigned himself to the fact that there would be no comfort in this blanket, only repulsion.
“And I haven’t even been put on trial yet, let alone found guilty,” Francisco muttered bitterly.
The jailer sneered at his dirty and beaten appearance. “Make good use of this time before your trial. I could send for a priest if you wish.”
Francisco’s mind drifted towards his own ship, where he was master and commander. There, he had the protection of the crew, who vigorously protested when the admiral came to take him. If he could get back to his ship, he would have their protection, which would grant him the time to prove his innocence.
“If you’re granting requests, send for Father Pedro from my own ship,” he said with a flicker of hope.
“I’m sure for your past services, no one would deny you access to your own priest. If the weather allows, I will send a boat to your ship,” the jailer replied callously.
“God bless your kindness,” Francisco said sarcastically.
The jailer chuckled. “And so he should. He sees it so rarely.”
