And yet—

Refugees from the navies of a dozen dozen world powers, we have had no power, no rights, no privileges, no protections. We served under the lash, under a stranger sun, chained below decks and beaten above. So: the charter. Our roles and rules laid out in clear language any man Jack can understand, with strict limits on discipline; no tar may be subject to reprisal unless they have stood trial before a jury drawn by lots from among the crew, not the officers. Authority issues from the consent of the crew, and that consent may be withdrawn. Woe betide he who strikes one of us out of season; for him only one day’s share of water, one day’s share of food, and one bullet for his gun.

They hang us, when they take us, but the charter is immortal; for each of us they kill, a hundred more rush to fill our place. For every ship we take we already crew. Throw our lives away in defense of the order than dragged us from our home, our families, to fill the bellies and the purses of those already rich? Or draw our knives and declare ourselves free, bound together by choice, united under a common flag?

Our literature spreads through ports and markets, smuggled aboard and ashore with each landfall. We do not live by theft, for what we take was carved from out our sides in sweat and blood. Let those who wield the lash fear the turning of the tide.