The following passage will chronicle the ventures and eventual demise of Stenton “Madstrom” Morris, a pirate who, despite enjoying passing prominence in various mediums, often sees the full depth of his story marginalized to widen its general appeal. Stenton’s tale provides an interesting and introspective take on how we as a society elect to categorize the most noteworthy among us, and more importantly, affords us an opportunity to meter the differences in our perception of such figures by isolating which aspects of their respective stories and characteristics we find to be most engaging. While written in scholarly earnest, it is the aim of this piece to ensure that readers also receive the narrative in a manner that permits further discussion on the transpired events. To begin, we will address the “Madstrom” appellation, with the understanding that this name itself, as well as its inception, is the first step towards a proper analysis of how any given individual is identified.
Most pirates, when named, earned their monikers by their trade. The titles were often a vestige from some fierce battle or run-in with maritime enforcers, and sometimes, it was those on the side of the law that would create those honorifics, usually for convenience. Rarely, the pirates themselves would decide what they would be called, but one had be of considerable note already for it to be recognized, and so it often defeated the purpose entirely, or was added as a secondary. Almost never, though, are names given after the corsair was dead and done, swallowed by the vortex of the icy blue. Obviously, Stenton “Madstrom” Morris, the last captain of The Rusted Cutlass, falls into this category. It should be acknowledged that names are often fleeting, and so Madstrom’s case isn’t particularly unusual outside of the fact that it was given after his death. Even the ship on which he sailed had had its share of names, having been a naval vessel twice commandeered. Back during its service to the law it sailed under The Sunrise Treaty, and once first taken by bandits, it wasn’t long at all before pirate and straight sailor alike came to fear mention of The Sapphire Shark. That ship had a successful plunderer for a captain, but he died of sickness while making port in Red Town, just off the coast of the Withered Sea, and was succeeded by the second most important captain in this telling, Rusty “Anchortooth” Bledden. For Madstrom’s story to carry weight, Anchortooth’s needs to be given its due. Anchortooth’s predecessor had also been a pirate, but he had had a code, as nearly all pirates did. Anchortooth prided himself on the absence of such, and somehow, his crew came to accept this capricious aspect of his character over the years, possibly because they were better off under him than against him. Only a year into his reign and the ship had been renamed The Abattoir, Adrift, an unsettling title that still failed to adequately convey the conditions met by those held there. Anchortooth was quite fond of taking prisoners and converted them to crewmembers, albeit in roles that ranged from unnecessary to borderline ancillary. He’d often make entertainment of them while doing his rounds, disrupting the very services that kept him afloat, challenging any and all to quasi-friendly contests that often led to near-fatal injuries, and on other occasions he would stow himself away in the captain’s quarters, his absence appreciated up until some direction was needed and not given. Under these details, one might wonder how Anchortooth managed even that first year without mutiny stirring, and sure enough, it did at one point, quite early, and to poor effect. Real-life Rusty Bledden, as it turned out, was a disgraced officer who’d been dismissed due to, allegedly, a predilection for making advances on those he was tasked to protect, including children—a consideration that might manifest itself elsewhere in this tale. Whatever the case, he was trained, and trained well, and managed to kill five of his aggressors that night before the rest of his crew had flopped into hybrid gestures of obeisance and cowardice. Anchortooth, perhaps surprisingly, appears to have made his first attempt at the formulation of a code that very night, in that he spared a large portion of his crew under a single condition—they offer their children to his service aboard The Abattoir, Adrift. If one hadn’t had a grasp of the depth of Anchortooth’s villainy before this point in his account, they might be forgiven, for the vagueness of the circumstances surrounding his youth and time as an officer might have permitted some ambiguity in regards to the true intentions of his actions. But given, as noted previously, that Anchortooth had no problem taking slaves from any of the dwellings his despoiled, that he specifically demanded the children of his crew is a crude indication of the mechanics of his mind. He didn’t need more workers—he’d only lost five, after all—and if he did, children scarcely made for better labor than even the most inefficient of fully grown men. They were offered up, then, not merely as penalty, but as some twisted form of penance. The narrative at this juncture leans, briefly, into the realm of conjecture, as the exact means by which Anchortooth gathered these children seems a point of contention. Shared in all records is that the remaining crew, of which there were somewhere between thirty and thirty-five surviving, were divided into three groups: those without children (who were executed), those with children who wouldn’t surrender them (also executed, only slowly), and those who agreed to the terms. We don’t know for sure how many comprised this last group, though it was enough that the task of finding these children scattered about the beaches and ports north of the Ivory Channel occupied the next three years or so of Anchortooth’s time and interest. How this particular endeavor reached completion would require a tale all its own, much as how Anchortooth himself nearly does, but suffice to say, it did occur. One could inquire quite easily as to what prevented his crewmembers from simply making port and snatching random boys and girls on a whim, but Anchortooth seemed to have had a system of reasonable complexity in place, requiring names and nearly exact locations before making each venture off shore, and there is only one account given of a crewmember who attempted to deceive the captain, having been childless but claiming otherwise, and his demise could perhaps be elaborated across many tales, though this too is outside the scope of Madstrom, Anchortooth, and the as-of-yet-unnamed Rusted Cutlass. It should instead simply be acknowledged that various compiled records show numerous children to have went missing from a myriad of coastal locations during that time period, nearly all of whom had been confirmed by authorities later to have been fathered by pirates in Bledden’s crew. What fate befell these children, a group comprised of girls and boys both, aged somewhere between nine and fourteen? To Anchortooth’s credit, it can at least be said that no explicit tales of unique debauchery exist, and so the accusations against him as a citizen may be said to be tainted with some degree of hearsay, though certainly, the absence of such evidence can scarcely be used as a tool for exoneration given the other indictments against him. Indeed, it seems, from the delineations of those fortunate enough to have once walked his ship and left, that the children were only ever exposed to the same kind of general physical abuse that their parents endured, albeit comparatively worse given their size and age. They also, as it turned out, seemed to have been gives tasks befitting of real crewmembers, from cleaning, to managing the sails, to scouting ahead from the masthead. The true abuse, then, would have been in the sheer mental anguish of having been ripped from their homes, betrayed by their parents, and forced into a life that almost certainly would not have been of their choosing. The atrocities that they would have witnessed serving under Anchortooth deserve special mention, for, as noted, he was a ferocious plunderer, prone to acts of gratuitous violence and, despite contemporary arguments of the peculiar nature of his physical ambitions, quite lascivious when pillaging. He would also continue to replenish his crew by taking prisoners and converting them to slavish workers, in what must have been particularly poignant for the young captives aboard. And yet, Anchortooth’s reign seemed to last well over a decade, with those children growing and sometimes simply coming to replace their deceased parents, whom they had witnessed commit heinous acts and had undoubtedly taken after. There seemed to have been no other viable attempts at mutiny during this period, for what can only be explained as a result of Anchortooth, for whatever his moral failings, typically accomplishing his goals. During that stretch it seems to have been the case that his crew—which over time would have consisted of those budding children, their parents, and various accumulated persons—enjoyed a plethora of earthly pleasures from their piracy, the likes of which, it seemed, managed to ameliorate what must have been an otherwise unbearable environment. One might expect that the bonds forged by those children as they transitioned from young captives to fully-fledged pirates must have been the likes of which any myth would gladly indulge, and yet, such relations are barely mentioned on paper. Instead, it is a tale of fraught with numerous glimpses into the intricacies of the human condition. Quite little is known of those children outside of their capture and the inexact nature of their tormented living, but there is something resembling consensus as to the name and eventual fate of at least one of those children, a name that many will have predicted to be, of course, Stenton Morris. At this point it is often the case that, in needing to expand upon the particulars of these next events, some degree of visual commentary is preferred, if not required. The Abattoir, Adrift should not be dismissed as some mere setting, floating along and worthy of mention only because of those who steered it. It was a majestic specimen, having once been not just any naval ship, but of an elite sort meant to house only the most revered of officers, and was equipped accordingly. It was built largely of oak and spruce, and within days of having inherited it, Anchortooth had painted it a dark red, a color that while not particularly advantageous for camouflage, instead benefited for the fear it would elicit in adversaries, for at the right angle, bathed in the moonlight, it would often appear as massive bloodstain in the sea, oozing along the crests of the waves, eager to envelop all that it met. The sails were a matching red, though trimmed in charcoal black, a menacing touch that presented an imagery of soaring flames. It was roughly twice the size of competing ships as well, though it lost virtually nothing in speed to its bulk, and it was as capable in navigation as it was in combat. It was a ship that, if not for its history being well documented, could have been designed by Anchortooth himself, plank-by-plank, and that he coveted it as much as he did perhaps provides a lone clue as to the nature of its ultimate destination. For Anchortooth’s part, no portrait of the fiend exists, though there is agreement from numerous scribbles that all of the hair that should have been atop his head had found its way to his lips and chin, that he never wore a hat, perhaps to welcome conflict, and that his eyes had a glint to them often reserved for creatures of the deep. He was described as tall and bulky, though like his ship, not so much that his movements were impeded, and many made it a point to indicate that, hidden behind his coarse mustache and beard, there sat a steely snarl that only broke during his cackles, which revealed large, oval teeth. Where did his name come from, then? It would appear as though Rusty Bledden was among that rare breed of aforementioned pirates who selected his own name. As others would tell, probably at his behest, the name came from an occasion when Bledden was, during an otherwise event-less battle, snared by the chain of the anchor and dragged deep into the sea. With no other tool at his disposal, he had allegedly bit through the metal to free himself, an origin story that, aside from the obvious impossibility of occurring, follows some degree of continuity. How curious it is then, that the origin of Madstrom’s name be just the reverse; a story rich in veracity, but that makes little sense. Most anecdotes of a young Stenton Morris come from the period encompassing his adulthood, and so they are undoubtedly tainted by the passage of time on their progenitors, as any recounting tends to be. He is variously described as having been weedy, frail, and with an obvious runt-of-the-litter look to him, with large front teeth and hair that dangled about his face as though string. That he possessed a severe stutter appears to be unanimous, but beyond this lone idiosyncrasy, there is little to be said of his behavior outside of being a crew member. What we do know, however, is that Anchortooth seemed to have an affinity for the boy, so much so that shortly into his tenure on the ship he received private quarters directly across from the captain himself. He sustained, it seems, the most abuse of any of the children aboard the ship, though in a manner such that it might be argued he was being groomed as a successor down the line, rather than merely serving as an object of Anchortooth’s displeasure. What impact this had on young Stenton we cannot say for sure, and for that matter, we know even less of how this mentoring affected the boy’s relationship with his father, who we know nothing of, aside from his surname almost certainly having been Morris. There are a few other things that we know of Stenton’s development during these years, and it is these details that begin to paint the character of the individual we today consider worthy of recollection. First, it appears that Stenton Morris, after that first day aboard The Abattoir, Adrift, never once set foot on land again. As a young pirate under Anchortooth’s wing, he never once joined his myrmidons in pillaging when docked, always being assigned the task of guarding the ship and helping with the organization of the loot. It has been suggested that this restriction was entirely of Anchortooth’s device, as he may have feared that his favorite prisoner, timid as he was, would lose himself in the frenetic crowds, or perhaps even be tempted to escape. It is equally possible that Stenton shared in these fears, had grown accustomed to the ship, and came to view it as his haven. This idea is consistent with accounts of his adulthood, where if afforded the opportunity to make land, even for a brief respite from the turbulent sea, he would elect to stay on board. The second interesting element at play is Stenton’s relationships with the other kidnapped children, though for this to be fully explored, it is essential that Anchortooth’s tale come to an end. It had been mentioned previously that Anchortooth, following that first attempted mutiny (as well as the subsequent acquisition of Stenton and the other children), enjoyed over a decade of success as a feared and successful pirate, with his terrorizing spanning as far the Channels of Glenroot. This prosperity did not last, however, for eventually, another mutiny occurred, and this one to proper completion. As most will have deduced, it was, of course, carried out by Stenton Morris—though the nature of the act remains among the most puzzling facets to his tale. As far as we know, Stenton acted alone, and with the scheme itself entirely his product. To call it a scheme is quite generous, however, as the many retellings of that infamous mutiny, cobbled together though they may be, make it quite apparent that there was little strategy displayed. It appears that one random day, while Anchortooth made his rounds and offered his routine denigration of the crew, Stenton emerged from the bowels of the ship, cutlass in hand, and wordlessly attacked the captain, who drew his own sword without hesitation. While no other members of the crew joined in the mutiny, it is understood that none came to their captain’s aid either. The duel is said to have been fairly quick, lasting less than a minute, and yet ferocious, with its abrupt ending the most notable portion. It has been reported that Stenton inexplicably wept as he drove his blade into his captain’s chest, and that, even more bizarrely, Anchortooth declared the boy as the new captain in his dying breaths. The perplexity aroused by the actual confrontation is matched by the surrounding context. Stenton, as far as we know, had no reputation for violence, and had probably never even held a sword, having been the only member of the crew to never take part in the ransacking of a port. Even the single existing account of The Abattoir, Adrift’s battle with another ship during that period places Stenton in the role of loading the cannons, despite his prominence. Where Stenton found the sword is also a question of merit, though the answer may be as simple as there having been a storage area for weapons below deck. By far, the most pressing inquiry made by historians is of just how Stenton managed to defeat such an experienced and well trained opponent, a question that remains a source of discussion to this day. Most answers contend that the young pirate had a distinct physical advantage in agility and even strength, as Stenton would have been between the ages of nineteen and twenty-five at the time, while Anchortooth would have been at or approaching his fifties. It has also been suggested that Anchortooth may have at this time began in the tutelage of his protege in swordplay, and that Stenton may have realized his capabilities during sparring. Whatever the case, Anchortooth’s end, while remarkable an event in its own right, serves as an important segue into the most intriguing portions of Madstrom’s tale. There is a great deal of general information offered in regards to the occurrences that followed Anchortooth’s demise. Stenton did indeed assume the role of a leader, but seemed to eschew the title of captain; this may be why there is no record of an official sobriquet during his lifetime. One action that does seem to have come directly from Stenton, however, is that shortly after the mutiny, the ship’s name was changed once more, this time to The Rusted Cutlass. The name appears to have been selected both as a reference to the mutinous act itself, as well as possibly a sign of deference for Anchortooth—a very unusual combination indeed, given what had transpired. Whatever the case, the years that followed do little to present insight into just why Stenton murdered his captain, and even less to explain his temperament in the time-frame surrounding the act. That is not to say, however, that Stenton’s endeavors at the helm of The Rusted Cutlass are lost to history; only that they exist in the abstract, the bulk of its contents to be interpreted as one desires. While Stenton never took the mantle of captain per se, the many reports of the Cutlass’ activities give credence to the notion that the crew almost certainly identified him as such, so much so that they adopted his views of piracy, which proved to be remarkably different from their undertakings when Anchortooth had been at the wheel--though not nearly as different as is sometimes suggested. Over the years, it should be made aware, legends of Stenton’s activities on the high seas have become somewhat sensationalized, with many popular tales depicting the man—and by extension, his crew—as noble pirates, the likes of which plundered from the rich and gave to the poor, as other folk heroes tended to do. The reason for these dramatizations are likely layered; first, it rounds Stenton’s character arch, pitting him ideologically against the dastardly Anchortooth, and helps construct a moral tale that children can appreciate, about forging one’s own destiny and the indomitable, good spirit of man. Likewise, the true end of Stenton’s story, which we are nearing, lacks any such overt positivity, and so it is sometimes deemed necessary to celebrate the man in life as a swashbuckling hero, lest too many questions be asked about his eventual fate. As has already been noted however, some tales are at best misconceptions, at worst, complete falsehoods. It is true, as stated, that Stenton’s brand of piracy was quite different from his predecessor’s, but more so in the manner in which it was conducted, rather than in its intent. The Rusted Cutlass proved, over the next two decades or so, to be a highly successful vessel, largely due to Stenton’s decisions to operate in ways that had not been palatable to Anchortooth, who had reveled in discord and conflict. Stenton, we know, tended to avoid engaging in battles with other ships, preferring to intimidate rather than attack, thus minimizing casualties and helping to create a reputation for a “gentle giant” among his peers. He was even less aggressive when confronted by naval ships, electing to negotiate and bribe rather than exacerbate through warfare. And when it came to treasure, the Rusted Cutlass enjoyed more of it than it ever had under its previous owners, mostly because of Stenton’s strategic operations, which focused on the sparse looting of large affluent areas, rather than the constant plundering of port after port. Naturally, this meant less overall violence, and so while it is not wrong to portray Stenton as an antithesis to Anchortooth, it does well to draw such lines on the correct pretenses. There is, however, at least one aspect of Stenton’s governance that can be raised as a point of integrity; he never once took a slave in his entire time at the helm. In fact—and this is where Stenton’s story delves into that strangeness that we so often associate with it—he tended to do the very opposite. It would fault no shrewd reader to, at this point in the tale, query as to how it is that we came to have anything resembling accuracy in regards to Stenton and The Rusted Cutlass, given the great deal of lore that shrouds such ventures in the present. Such concerns can be abated, however, by the disclosure that we know these things because the accounts so often spoken of in this telling belong, not to those removed from the history, but from those most central to it—his crew. Specifically, those crewmembers who had grown alongside him, those others who had also been enslaved as children by Anchortooth. The assortment of testimonies provided by these pirates are unquestionably considered the most veritable sources of information on Stenton’s adulthood, due largely to both their sheer volume as well as the high degree of consistency between them, in details ranging from the timing and locations of many of the more obscure detours known to have been taken by the Cutlass, as well the appearances of one another—as well as Stenton Morris himself. He is described by all of his previous de facto subordinates as a man who, once matured, retained his youthful visage while also obtaining disproportionate bulk. In this regard, he was almost the opposite of Anchortooth, staying fairly clean shaven while retaining the straggly locks that, when combined, presented a languid, yet fairly unremarkable mien. Also agreed upon as all but factual is that, as alluded to earlier, Stenton during this time embarked on one of the most unusual ventures to ever be pursued by a pirate, let alone one who enjoyed such great success. Stenton Morris, over the next two decades following his mutinous coup, gradually returned each and every surviving crewmember who’d been kidnapped alongside him to their childhood homes. If one had found it difficult to imagine precisely how Anchortooth had initially identified and taken these children, then surely, conceptualizing how Stenton managed to return all of those who had survived (of which is believed to have been a large proportion) requires an explanation of considerable persuasion. The undertaking itself is however, as noted, considered both authentic and plausible, given the accompanying elements, of which shall be elaborated presently. First, while it is tempting to romanticize such an endeavor as some magnanimous act driven by friendship or loyalty, the reality of the situation is far more layered and convoluted. It should be restated that, by the time that this act occurred, all of the crewmembers in question had matured from children or early adolescents to full adulthood, and had almost certainly adapted to life on the sea. While this is not to say that all would have thus shown heavy resistance, it is at the very least understood that Stenton’s decision to relinquish his shipmates of their services was executive in nature. If not at the bequest of his fellow pirates, why then, did Stenton act as he did? And indeed, how long had he planned to do it? The answers to these questions will never be resolved, as it appears as though no rationale was ever given; whatever the case, however, it is obvious that the dispersion of the crew was not some great token of generosity, but rather, a compulsion that only Stenton could and did understand. The implications of such are many; first, whether he identified himself as a captain or not, Stenton had to have had tremendous command of The Rusted Cutlass, for he essentially had his crew discharge themselves, given that their labor would have been required for all of the associated sailing. Thus, it is accurate to say that, over the next twenty or so years, in between the successful raids and lavish recreation of such spoils, the crew systematically disbanded, with new laborers—brought on by conventional means—taking their place. The process was not so simple as this, however. For many of the crewmembers, their families had either went missing or had died during their time at sea, and more importantly, as all of them had had pirates for fathers, it was not uncommon for many of them to have had no “official” homes to speak of, having likely been moved often in their youth. The task that befell Stenton then was not merely to leave his crewmembers in some errant town that they’d once frequented, but rather, to specifically return them to the area from whence Anchortooth and their fathers had taken them. This important condition, added in with the understanding that Stenton did in fact complete his task in full, requires at least one of the following assumptions be made: that Stenton must have received substantial cooperation from his crew in pinpointing such areas, or that he was blessed with an extraordinary memory, as well as the sense of direction necessary to not only locate such areas, but also, to properly instruct the crew on how to reach them. While it is certainly possible that both of these assumptions are true to some extent, it is the latter that actually is more often proposed by the crewmembers themselves, many of whom admitted that, when taking direction from their ostensible leader, they often had not realized that they were escorting one of their own to shore. We know of at least two separate occasions where, as hinted earlier, a crewmember attempted to defy their extrication, and in both cases, it is said, Stenton did not kill the objectors, but rather left them marooned on sandbars as close to their designated extraction points as possible. Given that Stenton seemed to be knowledgeable enough of such general territories that he was capable of releasing such dissidents in this manner, it has been proposed that he may have been the first to have been abducted by Anchortooth, and had thus bore witness to all subsequent kidnappings, though this notion is not well supported outside of the logic of its proposal. While questions of why Stenton chose to disengage, rather than kill in these cases is not the primary concern of this tale (nor is there necessarily a good explanation for it) there is perhaps a bold inference that can be made from such actions. The meticulous, almost pedantic nature of how Stenton removed his childhood crewmates from his services, coupled with his unwillingness to kill them, gives credence to the notion that the famous pirate, in perhaps his greatest dissenting characteristic from Anchortooth, kept to a code, and one that may have consumed him in its allure. It is almost as if Stenton, far from wishing ill against those who he’d grown and learned alongside, felt compelled to remove himself from them as a means of attaining some personal satisfaction, or perhaps even some idealized notion of completion. As has been stated already, however, Stenton, from the day that he was taken, never once left—nor seems to have wanted to leave—the ship that would sail last under the name of The Rusted Cutlass. And so while we may never know why he craved such separation, it is very possible, then, that however arduous an ordeal it must have been, Stenton’s actions were the only way possible that he could achieve such true severance from the others. Certainly, it would be sufficient to end Stenton’s tale here; to offer this incident as an emblem of his character and to allow those interested to deliberate on the reasonings offered above. To do so, however, would dilute the informational merit of his entry, reducing it in nature to those same children’s fables that have already been discussed as serving the more superficial task of exculpating Stenton from the very rich history that surrounds his life. While ending this chronicle prematurely might aid in its appeal more broadly, readers who seek full edification will find that an abrupt resolution of this kind would serve to remove several events of note; chiefly, the nature of Stenton’s death, the deaths of dozens of others, and, by extension, how the name "Madstrom" came to be. The exact date of Stenton’s demise is unknown, though an estimate may be discerned due to our knowledge of other events in that timeframe; perhaps most notably, we know the Cutlass to have been present during the Wicke Trials. In regards to Stenton, we can similarly adduce that he was between the ages of fifty and fifty-five, had extricated the last of his fellow childhood abductees over seven years prior, and that his new fleet—which had slowly been assembled during this aforementioned process—was less than two years removed from one of its most profitable raids, the semi-infamous Sack of Cape Loren. These facts combine to offer the perspective that, whatever day may have been his last, it was almost certainly an otherwise unremarkable one, and thus the reason for his final act has no temporal logic to it. All that is known is that Stenton Morris met his end at the hands of the sea in which he spent his entire adult life, having been swept into the vortex of a massive maelstrom, apparently of his own volition. Before delving into the specifics of this action, there are other areas—physical geography among them—that require some expounding upon for the uninitiated. First, it should immediately be noted that maelstroms, contrary to their depiction in fiction, are seldom powerful enough to sink a proper ship, especially one of such grandeur as is the focus here; indeed, one would we be unlikely to be corrected were they to posit that The Rusted Cutlass is the largest ever to meet its end in such a way. What follows then is the understanding it would have required true acuity—one might even say skill—to manage such a feat. This is not to suggest, of course, that the maelstrom in question was of a lesser kind however. The whirlpool that Stenton steered his ship directly into is well known to sailors, situated near the southern end of the Lockheed Strait, always churning and, on occasion during severe storms, known for sinking smaller crafts such as fisherman boats. It is precisely for this reason, however, that we know Stenton’s actions to have been deliberate, for it did storm that night, and while the maelstrom in question is regarded as a potent and dangerous one, that night it was not so dangerous that two nearby vessels, during their routine exporting of spices, were themselves not destroyed, despite having been close enough to witness the Cutlass’ final moments. These eyewitness accounts tell of the devastation with visceral uniformity. As it is told, the storm was not quite as it apex in severity, though the maelstrom was both visible and intimidating, enough so that it had deterred a naval ship earlier in the morning from passing through the Strait. According to these witnesses, which comprised of seven men in total across two boats, the Cutlass was actually sailing perpendicular to the Strait when first seen, and had nearly passed it before changing course at some distance, at which point its speed increased exponentially, on course directly for the swirling waters. The Cutlass entered into the whirlpool as fearlessly as one can imagine, at which point it then, rather than trying to embrace the stronger tide to propel itself through, slowed and allowed itself to be drawn in, eventually turning on its side briefly before being pulled under into the chilly depths. If Stenton’s death did indeed occur as it is described—and there is little reason to suggest that it did not—then it would be a great injustice to the purpose of this account to not succinctly set the stage for why his final act is so integral to our analyses of the human condition via its telling. Immediately, three distinct units of information must be extracted from this event to allow it to be interpreted correctly. First, Stenton could hardly have sailed the Cutlass into the maelstrom on his own; it would have required, as was the case when forcefully depositing his childhood companions, exceptional command of the crew. Second, it should be restated that not a single member of the the Cutlass’ crew at this time had been with Stenton originally, and so invoking such as an explanation not only bears no merit, but also raises an important question of how Stenton could have condemned his crew to such a fate without having any (known) prior conflicts with them. And third, it should again be acknowledged that there is no likely impetus of an extenuating sort to justify this act; the Cutlass had never been more prosperous, Stenton had achieved modest fame and did not seem to eschew it, and he had no enemies of note speak of, or at least, none that could be considered a viable threat given his considerable power. Why then, did he steer his ship directly into the maelstrom? Several theories have been put forth, though often, their feasibility requires one apply larger leaps of logic to Stenton’s circumstances than to merely dismiss his actions as lunacy, as it most accepted. It has been proposed that the Cutlass may have been steered awry due to a mutiny; others have offered the interpretation that Stenton felt compelled to demonstrate his ability, and simply underestimated the force of the maelstrom. Both, however, seem inconsistent with what we know of both Stenton’s command of his ship as well as his sailing ability. The remaining considerations, then, are of the sort that provide historical events their legendary status; there is something to Stenton’s decision--of which cannot be reiterated enough is said to be one of sound mind--that compels us to ponder its rationale. Stenton’s last moments at sea and in life, when framed appropriately, give rise to the collection of questions so often asked inwardly that we as a people rarely feel required to ask them aloud: Is it possible to hate an object? Not merely for its association to some living thing, or as a symbolic gesture of resentment, but to truly, deeply, loathe something inanimate, to wish to inflict pain on something that can feel no such sensation, let alone anything at all? As must be restated, there were no ties to the Cutlass aboard the ship at the time of its destruction, bar Stenton and the ship itself. Anchortooth was long dead, all members of the crew that Stenton had grown alongside were either dead or had been returned to shore, and there is no record of any significant disputes with rival pirates or naval officers, ongoing or recent, that might have contributed to such a bizarre resolution. It would seem likely, then, though perhaps not especially probable, that the Cutlass’ destruction was not only very much intentional, but that the ship’s end was indeed the purpose of the catastrophe, in and of itself. This explanation, while unfalsifiable by any proper measure, feeds into the second and more eerily modern question—why then? Why any time? What could have happened on that day, during that moment, what actions could the Cutlass have taken against its seasoned master, differently from any other day, to invoke such ire? What could spark such rage that the intelligent and reasonably scrupulous (for a pirate) Stenton Morris took care to end his life as well as that of a few dozen others as a means of retribution? Or could it be the case that the crew, as an act of solidarity, united with Stenton, and steered that vessel that they’d all come to call home into the depths of the ocean, as vengeance for it having affronted merely one among them? These questions have no real answers, but they are the natural product of a sequence of events as horrifying as they are intriguing, which rouse us to evaluate our own ethical and emotional thresholds, and stir to call into question conventional understandings of why we behave as we do, as well as what forms of behaviors we celebrate and censure. The story of Stenton “Madstrom” Morris, as well as his ship, comes to a close with these contemplations, but not before prodding at a seemingly unrelated concern, but one that nearly forces its way into any reasonably detailed discussion on the matter. If we can truly hate objects—can feel anything for them, independent of other living beings—can we leave ourselves to them, in the same way we leave one another memories of our time with them? This passage offers no stance on matters of the supernatural, aside from the acknowledgement that such phenomena have no place in historical analyses, but it would be remiss to not concede that Madstrom’s final days remain a source of puzzlement not merely for his own actions, but also in respect to the accounts provided by those who saw him just prior to his death, including, but not limited to, those eyewitnesses who had seen the devastation of the maelstrom. Nearly all who had encountered the Cutlass in that timeframe, limited though the interactions may have been, recall seeing someone aboard the ship believed to have not been there even a year prior, and one that had definitely not been present at the aforementioned Loren sacking. The man, who very strangely was sometimes observed near the ship’s helm, has been described repeatedly as hulking, balding or hairless completely, and having a pensive, yet listless expression that seemed convey both tedium and anger simultaneously. Obviously, such descriptions recall the imagery of Anchortooth, and so it has been proposed, by the less scholarly, that Madstrom’s death may have been orchestrated by forces not of this world, commonly, some manifestation of Anchortooth that would rather see his ship sink than permit his mutinous protege tarnish its reputation as the most feared galleon in all the seas. Others, of the more empirical variety, contend that such testimonies are in fact the result of a tendency to conflate the timelines in which Anchortooth and Madstrom both sailed, and that such distorted apparitions, which resemble Anchortooth partially but not fully, come from the expectation of seeing him, given Madstrom’s reclusive nature. Whatever the case, that such controversies exist at all solidifies Madstrom’s tale as one of deepest importance in our examinations of the period, demonstrating how the scenarios so often compacted into cautionary tales about the age of piracy can extend into ruminations about not only the complexities of human nature, but moreover, why we select the interpretations that we do, and how this effect shapes our perception of history.
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