Striken

The_Wreck_of_the_Birkenhead
Captain Blake strode the deck of his ship and shuddered. The galleon had run aground days before, following a fierce 
battle and stood for a sorry sight. The masts cracked, the bow broken and the decks creaked with pain. The Spanish 
hadn't been so lucky and now sang shanties in the depths.
The archipelago was a maze and without guidance it'd take months to find their way back to the open ocean.
Her figure clung to the bow and as the crew watched; their maiden fell to shore and closed her eyes for the last time. Set to task, so as to distract, the men of the HMS Cornwall found timber and made short work repairing the stricken vessel, but without guidance, what hope had they?
Blake sat in his cabin, pondering, when a knock sounded on the oaken door.
The Bosun’s Mate came forth and proceeded to regale a story of such astound as to be all but unbelievable, but the 
Captain did believe, he had to.
The men made for the far side of the island, for such as lived there a beauty that could lend them direction and purpose. 
And there she swam; dipping in and out of the falls of a tiny lagoon. Her hair glistening as the mid-day’s light shone.
It took little time to capture her and strap her to the bow with chains of iron affixed her every limb.
The faerie figure would surely lend salvation, she must.
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