Narrator Wil DeVoe explains about hard language in his half page introduction: Aye, ‘twas there, salty sprinkled through, as where’er seafaring men are found. But I swear the tale can be well told without it. (‘Tis humor, swearing not ta use the swearing words.) I must leave out the hardest language, or apologize ta the ladies an’ youngsters on its account.
Suitable for mature ten year olds, or older adventure lovers of any age, this book is historically accurate and a vocabulary builder for youngsters.
The Vengeferth encounters a great white, then it’s capsized by a rogue wave. Seven men escape the overturned ship to spend months at sea in a smallboat. During those days they pass the time telling stories of their pirate lives. They encounter the Crazy Cousin carrying Captain Smyth, Reverend Jo, and his flock. Are they saved? This foundering Crazy Cousin has a belly full of “extra” water, a broken pump, and no life boats.
The author’s poetry background is evident in riveting passages, as when the wave, known by seamen as a wall, is spotted from the nest: Wallllll!!! A second’s prayer in my head begged I’d misheard ‘im shrilling squall. But all the raw fear’d ripped through his voice. Hair on necks prickled, as eightysome eyes flew ta the horizon. “Port bow” was gasped, an’ heads swiveled. My bleary gaze saw a silver sword blade stretch across the horizon, sparkling with the sun. These knuckles whitened, clasping the rail as my knees tried ta buckle.
“Four ta the oars!” Captain barked. “The rest below! Batten down all but aft hatch! Tighten ship, douse candles, an’ hug a bed leg! Doc, raise the weather flag ‘fore ya go down!” His words rang, sharp, quick, an’ clear, like sword clangs in a hot fray.
The next morning, aboard the smallboat, DeVoe spots a squall: I deep breathed honey sweet air. Everything considered, all wasn't honey sweet. ‘Twas sweet we had a usable craft ‘neath us. Sweet we had enough kegs a food an’ water ta survive a time. Sweet that many materials strewn about awaited our use. Most sweet ‘twas that we, breathing, flesh an’ blood men, had faced a wall an' were no crumbs brushed ta the ocean floor. Yet there was a storm abrew on the horizon.
Factually, there she was! A squall looming at us from the north. I espied her, though she half hid behind our desperate, low sinking Vengeferth struggling still, like a whale last-gasping. I rousted the crew, whilst beseeching: When might we lowly men expect ta draw a peacefull breath in this bloody lifetime?