Birds of Paradise 1.03 "A Pirate's Life for Me"

[Casi]

Title: A Pirate's Life for me
Rating: FR-R for violence
Betas: Special thanks to Andrew for this one, who randomly got shanghighed into reading this in the middle of the night.
Feedback: A feedback thread is coming soon!
Setting: This piece is set in the year 1716, near the end of the Golden Age of Piracy. This story is based heavily on fact and many of the places and people you meet are based on real parts of history.

Previously: Sarah Jenkins, having grown up in a brothel on the island of Tortuga, grew tired of her lot in life. To escape the dim prospects of whoring, she developed a daring plan for escape. However, on the very evening her plan was to set her free, Jonathan Colvin arrived in town. He informed Sarah that she was the Slayer, the one girl capable of fighting the vampires and demons of the world. Assuming him to be a mad man, Sarah made good her escape, disguising herself as Edmund, a young boy in search of work on a pirate ship.

[Casi]

One week. That was all. And in one week, Sarah Jenkins had learned more about living than she had in the first fifteen years of her life. She’d lived up to her promise of being a fast learner, managing to pick up a great many small tasks aboard Captain Alexander Morgan’s ship which always greatly needed doing, and yet often got forgotten. She rarely slept, for fear that a man would stumble upon her in the close quarters below deck, but she did not hurt from it. She seemed to need less sleep than all the others and, since she never drank the putrid rum the other men seemed to like so much, the crew began to think of her as something like a natural disaster of cleaning, tying, and prodding. But she was a welcome one, making all their lives easier.

And, thus far, not a single one of them had even the slightest suspicion that she really was a girl.

Sarah sat in the crow’s nest, waiting for the dawn to come. This was her favorite time of day and she supposed that no small part of that was because, until now, she had rarely seen the sun rising. The brothel had opened its doors late in the evening and run into the early hours of morning, meaning that if Sarah was awake for the dawn, she had little energy with which to drag herself down to the docks to see it.

The air at this hour was sweet. The heat of the day was far off yet, and a gentle mist hung low over the water, barely visible in the half light that preceded the dawn. Everything was quiet, and yet so full of sound, Sarah marveled that the others could sleep at all. Below her, she heard the gentle flapping of the sail in the mild breeze. To her left, a pulley squeaked rhythmically as it swayed back and forth. The ship creaked all around as it rose and fell and, beneath it all was the steady lapping of water against wood. Sarah drank it in like wine, saying a private thankyou to whatever god had finally answered her prayers and given her this life.

"There," she thought, a smile creeping across her face as the first rays of sunlight edged over the horizon. A puffy layer of clouds hung just over the horizon, lighting up in a nimbus of white light that was almost too beautiful for Sarah to stand. The water burned like molten gold as Sarah sat, head in her hands, and watched the glory of the dawn.

“Edmund… that you up there?” Morgan stood at the base of the main mast, squinting up its length to where a dim figure leaned on the cuff of the crows nest. “Come down here for a moment, I have a job for you.” And with that, the Captain turned his back and headed for his cabin. These days, he was rarely seen outside his private quarters, leaving most of the on-deck work to his first mate. For him to come seek her personally was unheard of, and Sarah felt a small thrill of pride run through her. Taking one last, good look at the morning before her, Sarah sighed happily and prepared to descend.

There were really only two ways to get out of the crows nest. The first was a long and tortuously slow descent down the cargo net and rope ladders that stretched down behind the sails. Sarah had not yet quite gotten the speed that the other men seemed to have. She often saw them swarming up and down the rigging as though they were more comfortable on the ropes than they were on the deck itself… which may very well have been true. But what she lacked in speed, she made up for in daring. The second way down to the deck was one only used by the others in extreme emergencies, since few of them had the coordination or, to be frank, the balls to do it. Sarah grinned.

Whipping the bandana from her head, she tied it smartly around both hands, leaving about six inches of slack between them. Then, with an intake of breath to still the butterflies that always rose in her stomach before she descended, Sarah grabbed onto the main line and jumped.

The first few feet of the fall were lost in exhilaration. The next few seemed to rush past, forcing the air from Sarah’s lungs. Thank goodness she was used to it, or she might have let go, as she almost had the first time she had tried the jump. But she knew that she couldn’t give in to the fall, or else it would end far too quickly. With her mouth set in a grimace of effort, she tightened her grip and swung her legs around, creating as much wind resistance as possible. Almost immediately, she began to slow. The wind whipped the ragged edges of her hair, freed from its bandana, into her eyes, but she ignored the irritation. The ground always seemed to come up so much faster than Sarah expected.

With a loud impact, completely at odds with her quiet, early morning surroundings, Sarah landed on the deck. The sudden noise jolted many of the drunken sailors sleeping on deck into wakefulness. But, seeing what had caused the sudden disruption, many of them waved hands in her general direction, dismissing her antics entirely. She didn’t mind, really. Mostly, she was just pleased that she could do it. For a moment, she stood still, letting her knees stop shaking a bit before trying to walk. Lest the others notice the moment of weakness, something she could not afford, Sarah covered her moment of rest by making quite of show of retying her bandana. It was still hot in places from the slide down the rope, and she could feel the small threads still clinging to it against her scalp, making it mildly itchy. It could be worse though… at least she knew where the itch came from. For the time being, she was still blessedly free of lice.

Dignity intact and legs once more sturdy, Sarah gave an elaborate stretch and yawn before walking purposely towards the Captain’s cabin. The door stood ajar waiting for her and she allowed a smirk to creep onto her face. Few of the others were extended the honor of visiting Captain Morgan in his private quarters. The ship rolled beneath her feet but she was used to it by now and only the slightest stutter implied that she felt the movement at all. In one week, she’d managed to find more comfort on the ever moving surface of the ocean than she ever had on solid ground. No first timer’s sea sickness had struck her down, though she had, unfortunately, been forced to vomit profusely the first time she came into contact with the stench that always persisted below deck. Unwashed male bodies, sea salt, piss, and other much more unspeakable scents pervaded the air to such an extent that Sarah often felt like she was trying to breathe under water. Understandably, she spent as little time in the bowls of the ship as she possibly could.

“Goin’ somewhere, Ed?” a husky voice rose from the lump she had mistaken for a sleeping pirate.

“Nicholas… I-I thought you were asleep.”

“Clearly.” The man had been resting against the wall just outside the Captain’s door. It was, after all, one of the choice sleeping spots above deck, being far away from the edges and the inevitable sea spray. And Nicholas… he had earned his spot. He placed one massive hand against the wall to push himself into a standing position, the effects of last night’s drinking still evident in his scuffling rise. It was somewhat less than intimidating, on the whole, but then, he didn’t really need to do anything to add to his impressiveness.

Sarah had learned very quickly that, among pirates, there is a hierarchy of leadership that, although unofficial, was adhered to with almost religious reverence. The Captain was often a man who not only knew how to sail, but had earned his place through blood. Captain Morgan himself had risen to his position after a mutiny, though Sarah had not yet bothered to ask what the details might be. She wasn’t sure she really wanted to know. Up until now, she had found Morgan to be a gruff but kind individual; intelligent, witty, and cunning.

Nicholas however… he was not the stuff of leadership. He didn’t have the head for a captain’s position, nor had he ever wanted one. He enjoyed his rum and women and little else in life. But he was strong. As he towered above her, Sarah was, as always, fascinated by the sheer bulk of him. At six feet and three inches, he towered above every other man on the ship, and made Sarah seem almost dwarfish. She was tall for her age, it was true… but her slight frame could not compare with the seemingly impossible muscle mass across his entire body. He was bald and wore great gold earrings in each ear, only adding to the overall image. His clothes always seemed as though at any moment he might bust right out of them. Sarah supposed they just didn’t make clothes big enough for a man his size. More often than not… particularly when she saw him below deck, Sarah thought he looked simply too large to be permitted.

“I asked ya a question, kid,” Nicholas said disdainfully. Sarah resented being called kid, but she knew better than to argue that particular point.

“Captain wants to see me,” she said simply,
hoping it would be enough.

“The Cap’n wants ta see you,” he repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Well tha’s just dandy, ain’t it?”

Sarah shrugged, as nonchalant as possible. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Listen ‘ere, whelp,” Nicholas took a menacing step towards Sarah and jabbed her smartly in the shoulder with two meaty fingers. “Some of us, we don’t like how chummy you and the Cap’n been gettin’.” He smirked, exposing several missing teeth.

Sarah felt movement at her back and turned just far enough to see Luic, a swarthy young man, formerly of the French navy, standing behind her. A knot of tension began to form in her stomach.

The blow came unexpectedly. In retrospect, Sarah supposed she should have seen it coming. The rational side of her brain which seemed to operating quite independently of her body whispered that, all in all, she probably had it coming. She’d been working harder than any other man and, quite frankly, she was making them look bad. That was acceptable most of the time, since few of them were ever sober enough to really care. But the Captain’s favor clearly had not gone unnoticed. Sarah supposed this attack was two-pronged; meant not only to remind her of her place, but also to take out some of the building animosity.

Sarah’s mouth had formed an involuntary “O” of surprise as Nicholas’s meaty fist forced the air from her body. The world seemed to move in slow motion as she looked down at his muscled forearm, still extended to her abdomen. He had not even retracted for a second blow, knowing he wouldn’t need one. She felt Luic at her back, itching to take his aggression out as well and, out of the corners of her eyes, she saw the others gather. Wildly, she thought of the Captain. Surely he would hear and save her from the beating. But no, that wasn’t the way. If he did come, it would only be a delay, not a rescue.

Nicholas’ arms were covered in coarse black hair. His breath was foul as it wafted into her face. A second fist, presumably from Luic, connected with her lower back. This time, pain was immediate. And something inside her broke free.

For days, Sarah would think back on the fight and wonder what had happened. She thought maybe, after spending so much time in the brothel, maybe she’d simply had enough of men, and snapped all together. Maybe… But whatever the reason, the effect was undeniable. The blow to her back had knocked Sarah to her knees, where she fell forward, hands placed firmly on the deck, gasping for breath. The men laughed over her head. To her left, she saw a booted foot rear back to kick her, and her fingers had curled into fists. When the booth made contact, she rolled, clinging to the man’s foot like a leech, casting him off balance. He had fallen across her, legs splayed open, and Sarah had hardly thought as she jerked her knee upwards to catch him in his most sensitive area as he fell. The combined impact of his own body weight and Sarah’s determination carried sufficient strength to leave the man prostrate on the deck, surrounded by his shocked comrades.

Sarah rose slowly and deliberately to her feet. Her hair rose up in comical spikes all over her head as her bandana dangled from her right shoulder, having been pulled free in her scuffle. With exaggerated care, she picked it up and wrapped it around her right fist. It dangled, like a red flag, for nearly a foot beneath her clutched fingers, but the sign was clear. She stood with her feet apart and her knees bent, unconsciously imitating the natural stance of the men. Many of them had adopted the habit of walking in a permanent fighter’s stance out of necessity, and the natural inclination to find as firm a footing as could be had on a constantly moving deck.

Nicholas was the first man to step forward to the challenge. He no longer smiled with superiority. Instead, he looked almost wary. Clearly neither he, nor anyone else really, had anticipated that she might fight back.

“Wha’s this, Ed? Thinkin’ a standin’ up wi’ the big boys, are ye?” Nicholas’ jovial tone was belied by the clenching of his fists. He was waiting for an opening.

Sarah felt detached. She didn’t know what she was doing, and she had no hope of winning. But she knew if she stopped now, she’d be a lot worse off than if she just took her beating without a fight. Almost imperceptibly, she bent her knees a fraction farther. Nicholas was too damn tall for his own good.

“A’ least you’ll take yer beatin’ like a man, an’ not cry like a wee lit’l girl,” he jibed to the general amusement of the men surrounding him.

Sarah’s leap caught him off guard. She seemed to spring out of nowhere, though she stood directly in front of him. Her weight crashed against his chest like a ton of bricks as she drove her fist into his jaw. For one precarious moment, Sarah seemed to hang in midair, one foot pressed firmly against Nicholas’ chest, stabilising her as she grabbed hold of his shirt with her left hand. She hit him again, and then again, each punch coming in quick succession until even the bandana wrapped tight around her hand could not prevent injury. She felt the flesh of one knuckle split with a violent shot of pain through her fingers and she released her hold. Sarah felt as though she slid down the tall man’s body, her knee pressed into her chest as she fought to keep her balance, lest she not find her footing when she reached the deck. It was there, despite the rolling waves so far below. Her feet hit the ground as lightly as a cat's, and she landed in a half crouch, clutching her wounded hand to her chest. Nicholas fell before her. He did not fall to his knees, or collapse as one might when taken by surprise in an attack. He fell dead away, crashing to the deck with the weight of a mountain, making the floorboards jump beneath Sarah’s feet. He had been knocked out cold.

Silence reigned. Even the waves and the salt breeze seemed to still as Sarah crouched motionless between the prone forms of the two pirates, the first of which seemed to at last be regaining the use of his legs. Sarah could see his face in her peripheral vision and she almost laughed; such a mixture of anxiety and confusion made the man look entirely ridiculous. He seemed to wish greatly to scrabble away from her, but was loathe to make any sort of movement while she sat so close at hand. Slowly, Sarah stood.

The crowd around her seemed to draw back without moving a single muscle between the lot of them. She realized, quite suddenly, how very small she was. But she didn’t care. She felt infinitely deadly. She could feel the impressions of the blows done to her as though they were permanently etched into her flesh. This thought flickering through her mind, she turned her head very suddenly to glare over her shoulder. Luic stood there, clearly at a loss, and rather uncomfortable that her attention was now turned to him. A hand or two gripped him by arm or shoulder, drawing him back ever so slightly. But Sarah did not strike.

“What’s all this, then?” Captain Alexander Morgan stood in the doorway to his private quarters, leaning nonchalantly against the doorjamb and looking down at his fallen sailor with some disdain. He sounded weary and annoyed but not, Sarah was glad to note, angry.

No one said a word, but every eye turned slowly to Sarah. Her hands felt like lead at her sides and she found herself strangely unwilling to meet her Captain’s eyes.

“It was my fault, Sir,” she said quietly, but did not offer any words of explanation for defense. She knew that the others would remember this moment almost as clearly as the fight itself. They would remember that she had every right to rat on them all, but that she didn’t. She supposed it would save her from other such confrontations for the foreseeable future.

“I’m sure,” the Captain replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Ed, you may be a top notch sailor, but I’ll have to teach you a thing or two about dishonesty. Your face is like a bloody open book, do you think I’m a fool?” Now he sounded angry. His voice was clipped with irritation and Sarah involuntarily cringed away from the sound. The Captain’s next remark seemed to be made to the crowd in general.

“You all know the code. You all signed it. If I ever see such an unruly display on my ship again, I’ll beach every last one of you.” He leaned forward menacingly. “Even you, lad.”

Sarah didn’t state the obvious. The other men might know the code, but Sarah… well… the Captain had said he wouldn’t ask her to sign it until he was certain she could live by it. Being that she was so young, he thought it would be best to wait a bit before making the commitment. Privately she wondered just what sort of rules a pirate was expected to follow. Every experience she had ever had with them, including the past week aboard the Hellion had told her that pirates not only did whatever they wanted whenever they wanted, but they appeared to go out of their way do exactly the opposite of what was proper or decent. What rules could govern such men?

The Captain nudged Nicholas’ inert form with the toe of his boot and grunted in an aggravated fashion. The big man snuffled slightly but he did not rise.

“Roll him up to the bow,” Morgan said with authority. “If the spray and the bouncin’ don’t wake him up nothing will.” He sighed heavily and turned to Sarah.

“Edmund, into my cabin. Now.” He glared at Sarah as she jerked roughly to attention. Her eyes had been riveted to Nicholas’ still frame, her mind replaying the scene in her head. She felt the impact of her fist against his fragile form… and it really did seem fragile to her now. Despite the corded muscle across his entire body, and the general thickness of his frame, she couldn’t help but see the weaknesses. She supposed if she’d hit him a little higher she might have only had to strike once to knock him out. The bloody patch on her knuckle had already stopped tingling and seemed fine enough to her. But, over all, she just couldn’t understand what had possessed her to do such a thing. She was lucky they hadn’t killed her.

And now she had to deal with the Captain’s displeasure. Sheepishly, she lowered her head, not bothering to retie her bandana let alone attempt to smooth her hair, and shuffled into the darkness of the Captain’s private quarters.


***

[Casi]

Jonathon Colvin was seasick. He was not seasick in that any normal person, adjusting to life aboard a ship might be. No, Jonathon Colvin not only looked green, but he felt it. He couldn’t eat, could barely drink, and he lived his life between the few flatly calm moments the ship experienced every once in a great while. The last one had been several hours earlier, and as the waves grew choppier, John supposed his next moment of solace was quite a ways off.

“You’d be better off below deck,” Cecelia stated matter-of-factly from somewhere to his left. “You feel the rocking less if you don’t have any basis for comparison.”

“Yes, well,” John said between gulps of air laden with sea water, “I prefer the added rocking to the stench of that pit.”

“You’d think,” Cecelia continued, as though nothing at all were amiss. Indeed, one would have thought her companion was not leaning far over the side of a rocking ship, losing what precious little food he’d been able to force in to the curling waves below. “You’d think,” she said again, “that with most of your life lived here in the Caribbean, you would have at least grown accustomed to sea voyages over time.”

“Oh no,” John replied thickly, “I intend to be the first man ever to die of seasickness. Be sure to take note.”

“Yes, duly noted,” she said absently. “But, all things considered, I would think you’d be too preoccupied to even allow yourself to waste such time on sickness.”

“Believe me,” John answered, icily. “If I had any choice in the matter… at all… I would definitely prefer to not spend most of my day pondering the side of the boat.” His cheek was, at that very moment, pressed smartly against the rail which ran the entire circumference of the ship. Clearly, he had spent many hours in just such a position, clinging to the damp wood for dear life, it seemed.

“Pish posh,” Cecelia said archly. “Mind over matter, young man, mind over matter.”

“Listen, I’m glad you find this so terribly amusing,” John sighed, “but if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to be sick in private at the moment.”

“Then you shouldn’t be on deck,” she replied, barely letting him finish his sentence.

“Oh, and I suppose if I go below deck, you will argue that as we share a cabin, I can scarcely expect you to not be there, is that about right?” John was losing his patience. However, as he had precious little energy these days, losing his patience rarely amounted to much more than an added bit of crankiness. Cecelia had caught onto that rather quickly, and used it to her advantage at every turn. She could be terribly trying at times.

“Precisely.”

John didn’t have to look at her to know she was smiling. He’d known Cecelia too long to be truly angry at her teasing, but still… Couldn’t she see he was in misery?

“Of course I can see that,” she answered his thoughts without pause. “But in the past five minutes, you haven’t retched once, have you? If I can’t ease your suffering, the least I can do is distract you from it.” She patted John’s arm gently and, at last, he raised his eyes to look at her.

“It’s not polite to read my mind without my permission, you know,” he said a little testily. He was tired and sick and feeling altogether far too irritable.

“I don’t need to read your mind,” Cecelia replied simply. “The self-pity is rolling off you in waves.” As though reminded of their duty by the sound of their name, small waves rocked the boat very suddenly underneath Cecelia’s feet. She only barely made it out of the way as she felt John fling his head over the railing to be sick once more.

A few moments passed as Cecelia leaned over the poor man, smoothing his hair and patting his back in a comforting sort of way until the fit passed.

“How is it that you always seem to make me feel like I’m a child again?” he asked her, his voice even, and she smiled.

“That I can’t say.” Cecelia settled herself down, with her back pressed against the railing. “Come on then. Sit down young man, and rest your head.”

Jonathan Edward Colvin asked the dignity of his 37 years on earth if he could accept such a comfort. And, before he even realized what he was doing, he sank to the damp wood of the deck and rested his head against Cecelia’s shoulder, finding it both surprisingly yielding and yet strong.

“There, there young one. Try to breath through your mouth instead of your nose. If you can’t smell the salt, it will cut down on your nausea.” She stroked John’s wigless head, smoothing his hair away from his sweaty forehead. “You say I make you feel like a child, and perhaps that’s the answer. I’ll tell you a story.”

John chuckled. “You haven’t done that since I was a little boy.”

“Just so,” she smiled. “Perhaps it will do you good. Any stories you want to hear in particular.”

“Yes,” John said on a whim. “Tell me about my mother.” The aged shoulder beneath his cheek seemed to stiffen, but John wasn’t entirely sure whether or not he had imaged it.

“There’s not much to tell…” she said with a one sided shrug, not wishing to disrupt John’s comfort. He had asked her for the story of his mother only once when he was little but, finding little romance or exceptionality to his boyish liking, he had never asked for it again. Still… it was a story she knew well, and it had not grown dusty with disuse.

“Your mother,” she said, affecting the confident tone of the long time story teller, “was a dear friend of mine. Of course that was all ages ago, before I was a true Seer. Oh I had the Sight, it was true. But I did little with it beyond seek my own fortunes. And that was how we met. She was a good woman, with a friendly face and a firm hand.” Cecelia paused, momentarily, seeing in her mind the thin young woman as she had first known her. “I was part of a traveling fair… gypsies. She asked me to read her palm. It was strange… a young woman, obviously with some bit of money, coming to a fair like ours. And alone on top of all that. I supposed she had her reasons, and, well, money was money. So I did.

“As I looked at her hand, I felt a tension that I couldn’t quite explain. She was so young, and so obviously worked up. And then she started to talk. Babble really, is what she did. She seemed to be spilling out things she must have kept pent up for months. Her father had arranged a marriage for her, to a rich noble almost twice her age, whom she had never met nor even seen. Her request was simple. She asked if she would love him, and if she would bear children.

“The answer was not simple. Palm reading is not a science… the hand changes as the person does, and though I tried to tell her that any answer I gave her would be a speculation at best, she seemed to need my opinion so very badly. I told her, as plainly as I could, what I saw in her palm.

‘I’m afraid you have some very unhappy days ahead of you. You will marry this man, but you will not love him. And you will bear a son, but will die in childbirth.’ She looked at me so grim, as if it were no more than she expected. Then she thanked me, put an extra coin in my cup, and sort of smiled at me.

‘I think you’re wrong,’ she said. And then, without another word, she left, and I didn’t think about her again.

One year later, the gypsies and I returned to that same little town. And there she was, stepping into my tent as though she had only been there the day before. She sat down, held out her palm and asked me the same questions. Her hand had not changed much, and my answers remained the same. ‘You will marry, but you will not love. You will die in childbirth.’ Then she thanked me and left.

“The following year, I started to receive letters from her. All were addressed to ‘Madame Psychic.’ As mail is so frequently unreliable, I rarely knew when to expect one, but spent every day in the hope that one would come. Through the year, we built what I hesitantly called a friendship. My first, in point of fact.

“When the fair returned to her town, she greeted me with a warmth I had not expected, but took great joy in. This time, we spent an entire day in conversation. But, with night drawing on, she extended her hand, and bid me to read it. My answers to her questions did not change, though now it grieved me greatly to have to tell her.

“As she stood to leave, so looked at me sadly. ‘I am pregnant,’ was all she said, and then she left me all alone.

“I did not leave with the fair that year. I stayed behind. Some force compelled me to stay by this woman, who was truly little more than a stranger. But she had reached out to me, and I could hardly keep myself from reaching back.”

Cecelia stopped speaking. It had been a long time since she’d retraced her own story. John patted her comfortingly on her hand, seeming to sense her reluctance.

“It’s okay. I’m feeling much better. You can leave of being my nursemaid for the time being.”

But Cecelia shook her head and smiled, a little wanly. “Now, child, what sort of storyteller would I be to stop now?” She took John’s hand in her own, feeling the warmth of his comparatively young flesh beneath her brittle appendages.

“It was a difficult pregnancy,” she said with a sigh. “Your mother was such a small woman… no one had high hopes. But in the seven months that I stayed with her, I grew to love her more and more. She was truly a magnificent woman. She loved to read and play the piano. She was kind to everyone she met. I’ve never met her equal. Your father, of course, was not at all happy having me in the house, but he allowed it because it pleased his wife. I could tell he thought of me as little more than gypsy trash, and maybe he was right.

“On the day you were born, I sat in the room with your mother and the midwife, holding her hand through each of the pains until they passed. Every moment, I prayed that what I had Seen in her hand was false… a mistake on my part, or perhaps on the part of whatever powers had given me my gift. But the longer the pain lasted, the more certain I became, and it was all I could do not to weep as I sat beside her.

“When you at last emerged into the world, your mother was quickly slipping out of it. She squeezed my hand with what strength she had left as she watched the midwife clean you and wrap you in a blanket. As she placed you in your mother’s arms, the young woman I had come to think of as my closest friend in all the world looked up at me and smiled. She said, ‘I told you that you were wrong.’

“I didn’t have the slightest idea what she meant, and my confusion must have shown on my face. She laughed, a thin airy sound that seemed to echo through the room. She looked at you, and then she looked at me, and she said, ‘My days have not been unhappy.’”

Cecelia lapsed into silence. He knew the end of the story as well as she, and therefore she did not continue. It wasn’t an uncommon tale, after all. So many women died in childbirth that it scarce seemed sensible to conceive at all, in Cecelia’s opinion. Perhaps that was why she had never had children of her own. But, what with John, she’d always felt she had one.

“When did you give up your sight?” John asked quietly.

“Two days later,” she answered, her voice steady though she thought, by all rights, she should be allowed the small quaver that built in her throat. “After your father threw me out of the house, I gave up my eyes to the powers. I knew that if I was going to watch over you, I’d have to do it from afar. All in all, I suppose I was lucky. Your father believed I was a witch and that I was responsible for his wife’s death. I’m surprised he didn’t have me hung that very day.”

“Father never liked hangings,” John answered matter-of-factly. “He thought it was a travesty that public executions were such entertainment for the common folk.”

“That makes sense I suppose. Whatever else he was, your father was a gentle man.”

“Tell me about the vision you had. The one that brought you looking for me,” he asked gently, wanting the tale to continue. The distraction did wonders for his nausea, and a loss of focus, he was sure, would bring his sickness rushing back.

“Not much to tell really,” Cecelia answered. “I woke in a cold sweat, with the knowledge that there were demons in your future. Little else. I took it as a sign that it was time for me to return. You were eight, I do believe. Isn’t that about right?”

“I think so,” John said, counting backwards mentally. “Maybe seven…”

“Maybe,” she sighed. “It’s been a long time, young man.”

“That it has,” he said with a smile.

Cecelia smiled in return, but her attention suddenly turned elsewhere. John saw her tilt her head, as though listening to something he could not hear. He was used to these moments, but he had to wonder if the news would be good or bad. By the look of Cecelia’s suddenly grim countenance, it was bad.

“We need to change our heading,” she said with a sudden haste that John did not like at all.

“Why? Where are we heading?” John asked, rising to his feet and fighting the urge to vomit once more.

“There’s going to be a storm.” Cecelia turned her sightless gaze on him, her distress evident. “We must go to Nombre de Dious.”

Cecelia didn’t need eyes to see the look of horror that flickered across Jonathan’s face.


***

[Casi]

The Captain’s quarters: a confused jumbling of papers, maps, navigational instruments, and general clutter that seemed to cave in on all sides without actually falling in. Sarah looked about and marveled at the obvious lack of organization, and yet she was certain if she moved even so much as on scrap of paper, the Captain would know. Though no logical order could be seen, there was a kind of coherence to the room that Sarah couldn’t quite put her finger on. It was, for lack of any better way to describe it, simply amazing. The glass window at the back of the room, long since grimed over with salt spray, let little to no light into the space. Instead, the area was lit with small, flickering lamps which, in Sarah’s opinion, was rather unsafe to say the least.

“That was quite a display,” Captain Morgan said coldly, stepping rather abruptly from behind a support column liberally covered with hooks bearing the bulk of the Captain’s wardrobe.

“I know sir… I’m… I’m s-so sorry,” Sarah stammered.

“We have rules on this ship, Edmund. I trust you know that.” The Captain’s back was ramrod straight as he regarded her levelly over his right shoulder. The slight movements of the deck beneath his feet hardly seemed to affect his posture in the slightest. Sarah found herself rather ashamed of the slight alterations in her body positioning she made as the ship rocked. Small as they were, she had the absurd and possibly accurate feeling that not only did the Captain see each one, but he took careful note.

“I do know that sir…” Sarah cast her eyes about the floor, looking for a blank spot to lock her eyes onto. Even the floor seemed to be littered with objects, though these bore even less order than those on the desk and shelves. They had the distinct look of objects that had rolled free of their actual positioning, or perhaps been tossed aside by an angry hand.

The Captain turned and regarded her calmly. “Aye, you know. Well, I think it’s time you knew them a bit better.”

“Sir?” Sarah asked blankly.

“Our code is to be strictly followed,” Morgan said loudly, with an authority he seldom used when not on deck. “Every man knows it. Every man knows the penalties should he break it.” The Captain crossed the short distance to his desk and reached for a paper seemingly at random, sending several others shuffling onto the floor. These he disregarded all together as he stepped behind his desk, taking his seat with a flourish. He held the large piece of parchment he had chosen gingerly, and waved Sarah forward with his free hand. “Each man on my ship has made his mark. You’re hardly a man, young Edmund, but you’ve proven enough of an asset that I’d like to keep you on.”

Sarah’s eyes sprang from the back of the parchment, which she had desperately been attempting to read through, up to the Captain’s eyes. There was a slight smile there, and Sarah’s heart began to beat a little faster.

“You want me… to join your crew… permanently?” she asked, a slight tremor in her voice nearly causing her to squeak.

The Captain chuckled. “That I do. You’re smart; I’ve seen that well enough. And you don’t drink, which puts you a notch above the sods I’ve got now. And, whatever else, I can use a sober man on deck.” Morgan slapped his palm down on the desk, laying the parchment out for Sarah to see.

“This is our code,” he said with reverence. “You’ll sign it, or you’ll be put off at our next port. And Edmund… another incident like today after you sign this paper will get you marooned faster than that.” He snapped his fingers under Sarah’s nose and the hair rose on the back of her neck. “Can you read?” he asked.

“Yeah, I can read well enough,” Sarah answered, already trying to skim the close handwriting at the top of the page.

“Read it, then sign it,” he said simply, pulling a ragged quill from the debris of his desk. Sarah bent her head over the paper, giving it her full attention.


The Code of the Brethren of Captain Alexander Morgan And Crew


[INDENT]I. Every man has a vote in affairs of moment; has equal title to the fresh provisions, or strong liquors, at any time seized, and may use them at pleasure, unless a scarcity makes it necessary, for the good of all, to vote a retrenchment.

II. Every man to be called fairly in turn, by list, on board of prizes because, (over and above their proper share) they were on those occasions allowed a shift of clothes: but if they defrauded the company to the value of a dollar in plate, jewels or money, marooning is their punishment. If the robbery was only betwixt one another, they content themselves with slitting the ears and nose of him that was guilty, and set him on shore, not in an uninhabited place, but somewhere, where he is sure to encounter hardships.

III. No person is game at cards or dice for money.

IV. The lights and candles to be put out at eight o’clock at night: if any of the crew, after that hour still remains inclined for drinking, they are to do it on the open deck.

V. To keep their piece, pistols, and cutlass clean and fit for service.

VI. No boy or woman to be allowed amongst them. If any man is to be found seducing any of the latter sex, and carried her to sea, disguised, he is to suffer death.

VII. To desert the ship or their quarters in battle, is punished with death or marooning.

VIII. No striking one another on board, but every man’s quarrels to be ended on shore, at sword and pistol.

IX. No man to talk of breaking up their way of living, till each had shared ₤1,000. If in order to this, any man should lose a limb, or become a cripple in their service, he is to have ₤800, out of the public stock, and for lesser hurts, proportionately.

X. The Captain and quartermaster to receive two shares of a prize: the master, boatswain, and gunner, one share and a half, and other officers one and a quarter.[/INDENT]


Sarah felt her throat constrict, first at the mention of women on board, and then again at the rule against fighting. That was two rules broken already and the punishment for at least one of them was very clear. Sarah swallowed forcibly and reached for the Captain’s quill.

“Before you sign,” he said, jerking it just past her grip, “I want you to understand just what this is. When you sign your name here you sign a pirate’s contract. And there is no going back from that. Not in the land of the living at any rate.”

Sarah met the man’s eyes and, for the briefest moment, took stock of him. He was aging, but he was not old. And he had a cunning that Sarah hoped she would never be tested by. That much was evident in the clearness of his eyes, and the way he looked at her now. Without pause, she snatched the quill from his fingers and tried not to shake as she signed her name. A small part of her was pleased to note that hers was one of only a few names. Most men, unable to write properly, had simply left large X’s at the bottom of the page. Some had even pressed their thumb in ink and left their mark that way.

“That’s my boy,” Morgan said exuberantly, giving Sarah a good strong thump on the shoulder. “You’re a pirate now, lad! Welcome to my crew.” The Captain’s teeth flashed and Sarah grinned idiotically in return.

So caught up was she in the affairs of the moment, Sarah was rather unprepared when the wood beneath her feet gave a very sudden lurch. As a matter of fact, she toppled right over. The Captain himself nearly fell, sea legs notwithstanding, and only saved himself from embarrassment at the last moment by grabbing wilding for the edge of his desk with one flailing hand.

“What the bloody hell was that?” he exhaled in bewilderment.

A loud pounding on the door seemed to be his answer. As Sarah picked herself up off the floor, scraping together what dignity she could, the door to the cabin flew open and Luic, the swarthy little Frenchman, practically tumbled into the room.

“Sir!” he exclaimed, his French accent becoming more pronounced than normal in his obvious agitation. “Iz a storm, Sir. It came from novere. Ze sails are ripping from ze masts!”

“Well drop canvas, ya idiot!” the Captain barked, pushing past Sarah and heading for the deck. “You lot can’t figure that out on your own?” He shoved Luic out the door ahead of him as Sarah scrambled to follow.

The deck lurched beneath her feet again and Sarah grabbed for the doorframe to stop from falling. The Captain stood on the deck before her, as immovable as a boulder, barking orders into the din. And din it most certainly was. Men ran every which way, shouting to one another, while the waves roared against the sides of the ship. The sails snapped back and forth as men scurried up the rigging to untie them. And behind all that…

Sarah’s jaw dropped. She had seen storms roll off the sea before to crash with deadly ferocity against the docks of Tortuga, but she’d never seen anything like this. Clouds rolled in across the sky from all directions, as though the winds of north, south, east, and west were all converging on that point to do some terrible battle. They were black clouds… clouds of doom, with crackles of lightening flickering in their depths. And the wind… Sarah had never heard anything quite like it.

“Edmund!” Captain Morgan shouted at the top of his lungs. He stood only feet from her, and yet his voice sounded oddly distant. “Get up the main mast and help the men. That sail has to come down or we’re done for!”

“Down?!” she screamed in reply. That meant cutting the cables and letting them fall. Most of the time, sails were brought up, not down.

“Aye, down! Now do as I say, lad!” The Captain snapped his attention away as he moved towards wheel and Sarah raced across the open space that separated her from the main mast. The cork twisted under her feet like a cork and a great spray of water arched over one side, drenching her and several others in one fell swoop. The other men kept working as though they had not even felt it, and Sarah took her cue from them.

The ropes were slick beneath her fingers and she nearly fell twice before even reaching the mizzen. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes as the ship took a gut wrenching plunge in the waves. On the deck, the movement was disconcerting. On the mast, Sarah felt at any moment she would be flung free, or else ripped away by the stinging winds. The storm had not broken yet… she shuddered to think what would happen when it did.

As if in answer to her silent fears, the billowing clouds connected over her head and an ominous rumble seemed to crawl along their undersides. For one moment, there was calm. For one moment, the ship seemed to still and the men fell silent, as all eyes turned skyward. For the span of one, shuddering breath, they waited, hearts beating in unison. And then the storm came.

A lightning bolt, more brilliant than anything Sarah had ever seen, struck the waves on the right hand side of the ship. It struck close enough that Sarah could feel the charge of its passing. And then, before its light had even faded, a crack of thunder, like the sound of a thousand ships being ripped asunder, nearly caused Sarah to lose her grip and tumble to the deck.

She wasn’t the only one. Overhead, she heard the slap of palms on wet wood and only instinct saved her. Sarah flung herself to the left and off the mizzen, grabbing wildly at the ropes with one hand as a body tumbled past her. The man’s mouth was open, but she could not hear his scream for help above the winds. Sarah grabbed violently with her freed hand and caught the man his wrist as he toppled past. The brutal jerk of his weight threatened to rip her arm from its socket, but she held on, grunting with the effort. If she could just swing him a little towards herself, he could get his feet into the ropes.

And then the rain came. It came from everywhere at once, slanting sideways with a sting that, if she didn’t know better, Sarah would have thought could draw blood. She could not open her eyes, she could barely breathe, and, worst of all, her grip was slipping. The man’s wrist was drenched in mere seconds, and though he belatedly flailed his free hand to gain better purchase, Sarah knew, with a certain finality, that it didn’t matter. She tightened her grip as his attempt dragged him further from safety rather than closer to it. It, in turned, jerked Sarah’s body and she felt the wet rope beneath her right palm rip through the flesh. Her cry of pain was lost to the winds.

The man in her grip slid another inch through her fingers, the wind pushing his thrashing body even further from the rope ladder that was his only chance. Sarah opened her eyes in mere slits and looks at the man. Something must have shown on her face. The man in her grip shook his head. His mouth formed the word ‘No,” but he never spoke it. The ship rocked dangerously and he was lost to her. A lifetime passed between the moment she lost her grip and the moment he hit the deck. A lifetime of regret, and mourning for a man whose name she couldn’t even remember. He was her shipmate, and she’d been unable to save him. Something in her cried out, but never reached her lips. And then, she turned. He was lost to them all now. And his place on the topmast needed to be refilled.

Sarah felt detached. She no longer felt the stinging rain. She didn’t see the bloody smears left by her right hand. She didn’t feel the ache in her left shoulder. Instead, she joined her fellows on the topsail with a grim determination that she would do what she could to lose no more men today. She did not flinch as she cut ropes, nor did she seem to feel the impact as one tightly wound cable snapped free and lashed across her arm. Some dim part of her mind registered that she would need to tend to that later, but she did not stop.

Fate is not kind. Most sailors say they live and die by the whim of the sea. Sarah had never made such a claim, and she was not ready to die. That, and that alone, may have been all that saved her. A second bolt of lighting struck the deck. Sarah did not see it strike, nor did anyone else. The light was too blinding. When sight returned, most wished it hadn’t. The deck was split asunder and the crew held it’s breath as the wood parted company on either side of the great hole just ahead of the main mast. It did not catch fire, but it didn’t need to. Already water spilled up onto the deck as the ship began to sink.

The main mast gave a sudden lurch as the supports beneath it gave way. It’s own weight seemed to be dragging it down, and Sarah along with it. Men jumped ship left and right, praying to land in the water, but Sarah clung on with a deathlike grip. She wasn’t ready…

The scene slowed before her as the mast fell. Men were sucked into the swirling waters on all sides. Some she knew…some she did not. Each one, she mourned. A weightlessness surrounded her and Sarah knew that the mast had snapped and she was falling, though the world seemed to take no notice. Water had never looked so sharp… or so deadly.

Sarah’s last conscious thought was that the water should have been cold. But it was not. It was warm against her body, like falling into a churning sea of blood.