I was a fool to set foot on that vile ship of doom. The legend of Captain Cavendish was so compelling as to drive all thought of caution from my mind. When word found me that some of his crew would come to port I readied my things. It was my stupid hope that they would be in need of crewmen, for such were the tales, and failing that I would stow aboard one of their longboats and plead my case to that great pirate known only by reputation.

I met up with the First Mate soon after they landed. I should have known then I would be falling in and among a strange crowd for his features were distorted. His mouth was too wide, his eyes bulged out of his head rarely blinking, his skin seemed scaley, and he resembled too much the aquatic creatures dreamers and crazed fishermen speak of. He did not need much persuasion; after I introduced myself and made my request he merely nodded his head and instructed me to be ready to leave an hour before nightfall, or I'd be left behind.

I should have been suspicious when he did not inquire as to any skills as befitting a sailor. In truth I have none, and thinking this quite unordinary I was well prepared to argue my case. Surely a man as renowned and infamous as Captain Bartholomew Cavendish would want a chronicler, if for no other reason than to tell his story free from the politics of those whom he plundered. I was temporarily elated at the chance to finally meet the man behind the legend, to fulfill my dream of learning his secrets and plumb the depths of his uncanny success. That elation shriveled and died mere moments after I arrived upon the ship.

Rather than be introduced to the captain and his crew, as I hoped and expected, I was ceremoniously passed from one crew member to the next, each similarly disfigured as the First Mate, each placing a hand on my head, until finally I was led below decks, guided into a room, then locked in. Not a word was spoken the entire time; I was dumfounded at the spectacle. It was then I decided I had been shanghaied, and by some wicked twist of irony I willingly walked into it. At this time I had no clue what the ship's crew and captain had in store for me; this was a mercy, for had I known my mind would have long been lost, veiled in tattered shreds of sanity, and I would have been powerless to act.

I sat alone in my cell, for such it was as I soon discovered, bereft of any and all human contact. Twice a day an unseen thing shoved food under my door. I call it a thing for no man was it. Its hand was tinged a grey-green and traces of scales dotted the flesh; webbing as of some amphibian creature tied its fingers together. It was then I knew the secrets of Bartholomew Cavendish; his ship, his pirate crew, and possibly even himself were of that strange hybrid of man and Deep One.

A week into my captivity I heard quite a commotion above. It was the first I had heard of the crew, and these sounded very much like war cries, though I could not make out their strange speech. I deduced that another ship had been sighted and the pirate crew were about to claim another victim. I knew not whether to be elated or tremble in fear. If indeed another ship were out there it might reign victorious and send this evil ship to its grave, yet captive as I was I too would likely find a watery end.

Sudden splashing just outside my cell both thrilled and chilled me, for I thought the other ship had fired upon us only narrowly missing. When I heard no report of any cannon and the splashes continued I shrunk back in enlightened terror; those of the crew more Deep Ones than men were plunging themselves into the sea either to call up reinforcements or to take the ship unawares. All hope of rescue died as realization came upon me.

It was at that moment, in the midst of my awestruck horror, that clarity came to me, and I recalled what bits and pieces I had learned of the lore of the Elder Sign. What I had so easily discarded as silly superstition I now clung to with newfound hope. In haste I fashioned a crude likeness of the powerful sign and affixed it to my coat. If my hunch was correct I was to play a key part in some dark ritual to that hateful god of the Deep Ones. I was not wrong.

The crew grew more and more agitated, their warlike cries growing in pitch and fervor, soon gave way to cheers of victory. I steeled myself for I knew the door to my captivity would be finally opened and with it my one chance for escape. Crude as it was my Elder Sign was quite efficacious for when the door swung wide the creature crouching on the other side took one look at me and cowered in horror, letting me pass unmolested. Likewise the crew shrank back from me gibbering in their strange tongue as I hastily ran through the ship. I threw myself into the first longboat, lowered it to the ocean below, and rowed for two straight days before I collapsed from exhaustion.

I know the secret of Captain Bartholomew Cavendish and his pirate crew. I know where their treasure is stored, but I no longer care. They can keep it tucked away in their vaults in the underwater cities of the Deep Ones. For my sake I don't care if I never see a large body of water again.