The Noble Pirates (14 page)

Over the course of the next couple weeks, Davis showed us how to haul a line and secure it, to help hoist a sail, to ease out a bit of line in a controlled manner. He encouraged us to learn the thirty-two points of a compass, and he taught us how to make various knots – reefline, bow knot, all the different hitches.

As we sat together eating one pleasant evening, Davis said, “Since your arm is a bit better, I’ll show you how to lay aloft on the morrow.”

We were sitting on the deck, drinking coffee, watching the sun set into the sea. I knew what “aloft” meant – it was any area above the deck. But I wasn’t sure what the “lay” part meant. I looked at Davis over the brim of my cup. “Who and the where and the what now?” I asked.

Davis rolled his eyes. “You have a funny way o’ saying things sometimes, Will,” he commented. Then he said, “Lay aloft – climb the rigging.”

The hot coffee, although nothing like the venti skinny vanilla latte I used to have at Starbucks every morning, was warm and comforting. As it slipped down my throat, I wondered if telling Davis that I was afraid of heights was appropriate. Would it undermine my “masculinity”? I looked up into the sails and shuddered. I’d been too afraid to climb Sophie’s treehouse in 2011, which was just a couple yards off the ground and stationary. How would I manage this without plummeting to my death?

Davis saw the fear in my eyes and smiled. “Not a seafaring man, are you, Will? How be it that you came into the company of pirates?”

I met his gaze. “I thought you weren’t asking questions.”

His smile turned roguish. “Is that how it be, then?” He reached for a piece of hardtack and tore a bite from it with his teeth. Between chews, he said, “Well, let’s see. I’d say you’re about fifteen or sixteen, a bookish lad, very learned and all that. You haven’t an ounce of muscle on you, and your hands are soft like a maid’s. You talk like an American colonist, more or less, but you have some queer expressions I never heard before. I’ve kept an eye on you, and you like to be clean, to wash your hands, and you do it often.” I had lowered my head so that he couldn’t see my face under the brim of my hat. I poured myself another cup of coffee just to keep my hands busy. Davis considered for a second, then said, “You ain’t the pirate’s nephew, that’s for certain. I’d wager you were kidnapped to serve aboard the rovers’ ship, maybe because you know a thing or two about physic or reading and writing, or maybe because you look like a lass.”

I looked up sharply to find Davis still smiling, and relief washed over me as I realized he was trying to get my goat – he didn’t necessarily think I was a woman. I feigned anger. “A lass! Why, you… you… sod!” I chucked a piece of the heavy biscuit at him, which he caught easily.

He laughed and tapped his forehead with the chunk of hardtack I had thrown. “Egad! We should have just slung our food at the pirates to keep ‘em away.”

I laughed, but a seed of doubt had been planted in my mind, and I resolved to be “tougher” before Davis to ensure he didn’t start digging deeper into my story.

The next day, I boldly reminded Davis that he was to show me how to “lay aloft.” I had prepped myself all morning, watching the seamen clamber deftly up the ratlines and inch out along the footropes hanging beneath the yards. I fortified myself with lots of rum (I wondered at my increasing tolerance for alcohol – me, the woman who used to be such a lightweight in college) and followed Davis to the shrouds at the mainmast. Davis indicated the platform about one-third up the mast. “That’s where we’ll stop,” he said.

“We’re not going all the way up?” I asked, hopeful.

“Nay,” Davis replied, then smiled. “Not unless you want to.”

“No, that’s fine,” I said quickly. I observed that Sam sat mending a sail nearby, watching me with keen interest. He had been aloft already, moving like a panther high above the deck, confident and fearless. He was a natural. My eyes met his, and he almost smiled, lowering his eyes and returning to his work, his enormous hands working more nimbly than I thought possible.

Davis made a short, mocking bow. “Shall we, milady?”

I shot him a dirty look and began climbing the ratlines, keeping my eyes on the rope in front of me. Why was I doing this? Oh, right- respect. I wasn’t sure I would earn any if I fell. My arm still ached quite a bit, although I was able to use it now. Davis climbed behind me, grinning like the Devil every time I looked down at him. The rocking became increasingly pronounced, and my palms began to sweat. How far up was that top, anyhow? I looked up. Just too far. I began to press my body against the rope, freezing with fear. My injured shoulder throbbed, the pain shooting through my arm, to my fingers.

“Up we go, lad,” Davis encouraged, his voice faint in the wind.

“I can’t!” I cried, stealing a look down at him.

“Try, Will,” Davis insisted. I took a deep breath and, prying my hands from the ratlines, continued to climb, trying to move with the ship. I was almost there. I could see the “lubber’s hole” at the end of the ratlines, could almost reach it…

The ship lurched, and my foot slipped. With a horrified cry, I clung to the ratlines tightly, dangling, trying to get a foothold. Davis’ hand was suddenly on my rear, lifting me. My foot touched a line, and as I started climbing again, my injured arm gave out. I slipped again, this time certain I would fall. Then Davis was behind me, around me, his body holding mine up. I felt the tight muscles of his thighs against mine, his body like a rock beneath me. He wrapped one powerful arm around my waist and pushed me back on to the ratlines. Pressed against me as he was, I could smell him – the perspiration mingling with an odor that was uniquely him – and feel his warmth.

His voice was in my ear: “Have you got a grip now?” I nodded mutely, panting, and felt him push me gently, encouraging me up. I don’t know where I found the strength to climb up through the hole and onto the platform, but I did. I scooted to the mast and wrapped my arms around it, weaving my arms through various lines, desperate not to fall. Davis didn’t even bother with the lubber’s hole, climbing swiftly into the futtock shrouds and hopping easily onto the top, where I sat in a petrified ball.

Davis squatted before me and said, “Handsomely done, lad! Except for the last bit, there.” He flashed me that disarming grin, his cheeks ruddy in the wind.

“How do we get down?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

Davis lifted an eyebrow. “The same way we come up.”

I shut my eyes and whimpered. Davis was going to have a hell of a time prying me off the mast.

I managed to make my way back down to the deck, shaking and covered with a film of cold sweat. I wasn’t sure what had agitated me more, my near-death experience or my encounter with Davis. Not even the laughter and gibes of the crew drew me out of my haze as I mumbled something to Davis and hurried into the cabin where some slave women gathered, cleaning rice. They looked at me curiously as I rushed in, sitting quietly in a corner.

I had to calm down. I sat, trying to breathe evenly, trying to refocus. What was bothering me so much? That I had made an ass of myself? That far from earning the crew’s respect, I had probably earned more of their scorn? I listened to the creaking of the snow, feeling its now-familiar movements. Yes, all those things had bothered me, I suppose. But there was something else, something that overshadowed the rest: my heightened awareness of Howel Davis’ touch, of his presence. Some four weeks had passed since that fateful day England had captured the
Cadogan
, and with each day I found that my mood improved, my desire to survive in this strange place renewed. This was in spite of the hateful sailors and the terrified slaves. It was in spite of my dire situation, in spite of everything that had happened to me. There was only one reasonable explanation, only one way I could feel so alive when I had so little to live for…

I was falling for Howel Davis.

Chapter Seventeen

What an idiot I was.

  I moved about the ship, doing the tasks I was assigned and treating the sick, unscathed by the harsh, vulgar comments made to me or about me by the crew, dusting myself off and going about my business when a surly seaman would trip me purposefully. My eyes followed Davis, watching him as he commanded the
Cadogan
with complete confidence. I would not be brought down from my high. An entire miserable day was made good when Davis would smile at me, commend my hard work, or simply tease me.

I was not the only person covertly watching Davis. Like the sneaking puppy Davis had said he was, Ned Taylor kept an envious eye on his new captain. I began to watch Taylor almost as closely as I watched Davis, becoming increasingly convinced that he was up to no good. When the men took their meals, Taylor sat alone, quietly, those dark eyes flickering over the men, over the slaves, over me, over Davis, as though he were plotting. Occasionally Blaine would keep him company, and I could have sworn I saw knowing looks pass between them.

Wondering if I was simply being my overly sensitive twenty-first century female self, I said nothing of my suspicions to Davis. And before I knew it, it was too late.

One cloudy afternoon, Davis was issuing some routine orders to several members of the crew, but found that they stood idly by. He repeated his orders, but the crew simply amassed on deck in a crowd, once again disregarding his orders. Davis became livid. “What are you curs about, then? Do you seek a good flogging, the lot of you?” he cried.

Ned Taylor then came forward, saying he had something of “utmost importance” to say. He stood amidst the crew, looking at Davis. “See here, Davies! When we get to Barbados, there’ll be trouble for us. We’ll be charged with mutiny, we will, and we’ll have to prove our innocence. You ain’t concerned about such matters, sayin’ that the pirate lad’ll witness for us.” There was a murmur of disapproval as Taylor pointed at me in disgust, and I stifled the urge to stick my tongue out at him. “I don’t know about the men, but I have no faith in the li’l milksop! ‘Tis a wonder you don’t worry more about the situation.”

The murmuring grew louder, and as Davis opened his mouth to speak, Taylor continued, nearly yelling with urgency, turning now to look at the faces of the crew. “Are you men not concerned at how Davis accepted the pirate’s gift to him? How he runs this ship as though it were a rover? Look, now, how relaxed he is with his discipline, how he lets the slaves wander by their own free will as though they weren’t somebody else’s property! How he portions out items from the cargo itself, as if it were plunder!”

My heart was racing. Davis had been so good to the crew, so fair. Surely they wouldn’t turn against him now? But most of the
Cadogan
crew had participated in the torturing of Skinner, cheering Jameson on and pelting the captain with glass bottles. Now, their only witness was a boy they’d mercilessly tormented for several weeks, and there was no telling what that “boy” would tell the authorities once in Barbados. No, the situation was not looking good for the men of the
Cadogan
, and they knew it. Taylor’s meaning had not been missed: accuse Davis of trying to turn pirate, and escape the charges of mutiny that were bound to arise.

Blaine, who’d been standing in the back, spoke, his cheek bulging with tobacco. “I’m with ye, Taylor,” he said, his big, hairy arms crossed on his chest. “I hear’d Davies talking about going on the account a number o’times, I did.”

Davis remained calm, but his voice was low and threatening. “You’re both full of shit, and you know it,” he said.

Taylor ignored him, appealing to the crew. “Who else knows of Davis’ piratical intentions? Surely there are more witnesses.”

I was amazed to watch as one after the other, the men ganged up against Davis – he’d plundered the cargo, had been heard talking about sailing to Port Royal in Jamaica, had been ordered by England to sail to Brazil and sell the booty. As I watched Davis’ face, I began to wonder how many of the stories were true. Surely Davis hadn’t really been thinking about turning pirate? Not that I would blame him: the life of a pirate seemed far better than this. Anything was better than this.

Ned Taylor’s dark eyes looked at Davis, a malicious glint in them. “Clap ‘im in irons!” he cried.

“No!” I yelled involuntarily, jumping up, but I went unnoticed as the shouting men grabbed at Davis. He would not go without a fight: As the crew cornered him, Davis took advantage of his last moments of freedom to slug Ned Taylor in the mouth.

As they took Davis down, Taylor kicked him sharply in the ribs, cursing, “You son of a whore! I’ll bash your pretty face in…” Blaine held Taylor back, muttering something in Taylor’s ear that seemed to calm him.

I panicked as they took Davis down into the hold, looking frantically around for an ally, someone who would stand up for Davis with me. I noticed that the crew had thought ahead, quietly and quickly locking the bigger, more dangerous slaves back up before confronting Davis.

Think, Sabrina, think! All I wanted to do was throw myself at them, insisting that they lock me up with Davis. I was sure they’d be more than happy to oblige. But that wouldn’t help anything.

I had been forgotten for the moment as the crew shackled the remaining slaves and forced them back down into the hold. I stood stock still, wishing I knew what to do. I felt impotent with rage. How dare the crew accuse Davis of piracy when he’d been so good to them? When he’d saved them from the pirates? Davis would never… Or would he?