The Captain wears a shiny blue-black coat.  His voice is harsh and hoarse.  Often he is to be found in the crow’s nest, despite this being a job for a lowly deckhand.  The crew bend to their duties as he stalks the decks, hands clasped behind his back, turning his head here and there to keep a bright eye on their work.  They complain that he’s always sticking his sharp nose into their business, and some mutter that he has been seen at first light in a storm wind, perched in the rigging, hanging it seems by only his toes from a stay and shouting at the dawn.  Of course there are always rumours and legends on board a ship, and many of the men laugh off these tales, told over rationed rum of an evening.  But then none of the crew have ever seen the Captain’s toes, for he always wears broad black boots below his ragged and baggy black trousers. 

Captain Rook is rarely heard to talk among the recent crew, taken on in Port Royal and Tortuga where the ship was being fitted out, her predecessor having been lost in circumstances of some mystery.  Only five crew remained from the old ship, and with these the Captain kept close council: the gaunt and taciturn Helmsman; a brisk and energetic First Mate, Mr Dawes; the Ship’s Cook, seldom seen outside his galley; the deck boss Bosun Crowson; and little Bob Sparrer who served as Cabin Boy to the Captain.  

Indeed none but these has ever seen the inside of the Captain’s cabin, where all his meals are brought straight from the galley by little Bob, on fine china beneath a silver cover.  They run a tight ship, Captain Rook and his deputies, and though the discipline may be strict the takings from Spanish and Dutch ships are good, and the provisioning generous.  However there are a few men on board who find the Captain aloof, and have had more than one beating from the swift and hard Bosun for careless work, and who give more credit to the late night rumours than most.  One uneasy night off Antigua, as they ride a following-quarter swell looking for anchorage, a contraband bottle of jenever is passed around belowdecks, and these mutterers become bold, talking each other up to courage beyond their own individual daring. 

At a certain point some resolution is reached, no-one quite sure who has begun this rash march to the Captain’s cabin.  The door is forced amid much shouting, none of the red-faced men wanting to be first inside, but all straining to see through the narrow doorway.  As one they push through into the cabin, and find the Captain perched at his chart desk.  His boots lie on the floor, in one grey-black foot he holds a chicken leg.  His glossy jacket is thrown across the other chair, and in the unsteady lantern light they see through his open shirt – feathers, bright and black, fanning out from elbow to ribcage.  Before he can reach for flintlock or knife the rabble have him, pinioned between two fierce buccaneers from Stavanger, and they drag Rook – strangely light – along the companionway and up onto the main deck. 
“Leave your posts, one and all, and see what we have for a captain!” cries one of the boldest, and soon a rank and sweating crowd is gathered around Rook, who stands without a fight, his beak thrust forward, among them. 
“Mutiny” is all he croaks.

Abaft by the wheel stand the loyalists, midships the crew with the Captain before them.  The sails hang slack, the ship moving only with the swell and the weak ebb tide between the islands.  Shouts spill out from the sudden bunch of mutineers: that such a monster can only lead them ill, that this demon must be cast into the sea.  And other shouts: that to mutiny is a sin, that the Captain has done right by them.  Voices rise into the heavy night, and Rook stands stock still between the Norsemen, the First Mate speaking up for his part, promising clemency if the crew pull back from this madness.

As the pirates dispute the wind turns, and freshening fills the sails.  The ship heels over to run with the growing gale and the crew take a step to steady themselves, and make reflex moves towards windlasses and sheets.  But there is confusion, no orders are shouted by Bosun or Mate, and the mutineers do not yet have a sense of their own authority.  Water begins to wash the leeward rail, and the ship pitches down off the crest of the swell, the next wave breaking over the bow.  The stout sons of Stavanger lose their footing on the deck, and are swept towards the hungry sea, already imagining the merciless sharks that feed on the shoals of baitfish following the ship.  Unencumbered by his coat the Captain springs to their aid, seizing their salt-stiff collars with his clawed and scaly feet.  Bosun Crowsun swoops down from the poop, assisting Captain Rook as the sailors are pulled to safety.  They then scramble up the rigging and reef the mainsail, while all below them is still confusion.  The ship rights itself some and starts to come about as Helmsman Corax takes charge of the wheel.   The sudden weather is driving them onto shoals off Devil’s Bridge but with less sail up they are able to clear the point on a straight run towards St. Kitts, where they will find safe harbour, or wait for the storm to blow itself out.

Begrudging and wary the crew step back from their stations, they fear the punishment of their unearthly Captain.  But the Captain – Flaptain Rook – says not a word to them, and returns to his cabin, where little Bob Sparrer is hard at work repairing the door.  Few words pass among the crew on the run to Basseterre, and few of those at the front of the mutinous group wish to show their faces, ashamed and fearful.  Yet all aboard know now that they must live with their strange shipmates, or leave without word, and that their feathered Flaptain and his deputies will see them through any ill luck they may meet on the restless sea.