The Noble Pirates (22 page)

He grinned – a devilish, depraved showing of teeth – his cheek red from the slap, his eyes hooded from the alcohol. He said, “I would have taken you right here, against the bulkhead, and dispelled whatever whimsical notions you have of me.”

In spite of my anger, I shivered with delight at the thought. That would’ve been hot. “What notions?” I pressed.

“Ha!” Howel cried, finally rubbing his sore cheek. “That I am anything of a gentleman, a hero, a noble soul. I am none of those things. I am a selfish fiend who uses deceit to survive, and who cannot afford to have anyone depend on him. I will die like the brigand that I am, and there will be no glory in it.” He was tired now, spent. He looked at me and said softly, “You’d do well to stay away from me, Sabrina.”

I slumped. “So you keep telling me. When will you figure out that I’m not leaving you?”

He shut his eyes. “Even after what I nearly did to you?”

I looked at him, and I knew he could see the love in my face. It was liberating, being able to show it. I said, “You wouldn’t have done it.” I didn’t add that I probably would have blissfully let him, in any case.

“The hell I wouldn’t have!” he retorted, gnashing his teeth. “There is nothing that separates me from those free-booters out there, with their evil ways, pillaging without a second thought for human life.”

I sighed impatiently. “Oh, stop being so melodramatic. You know you’re not like them.”

Howel looked at me for a long moment. “Why do you think so highly of me, Sabrina? It’s… it’s maddening!”

I returned his gaze, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. “You set the bar, not me.”

“That must be one of your 2011 expressions,” he replied. “But I get the meaning. And I did no such thing. You perceived that I did something honorable, when, in fact, I was simply using me wit to survive.”

“Not so. You defended Skinner when Edward England and his crew were torturing him,” I reminded him.

He scowled. “I wanted to fight the pirate. I’m an upstart.”

“Liar!” I cried. “How about when you protected me from your crew before you knew I was a woman?”

He grinned. “I knew you was a lass. I wanted to keep the spoils to meself.”

“Liar,” I said again. “And what about the slaves? Why did you treat them so well?”

“I’d no desire to make enemies of the slaves while I was captain,” he said firmly. “I was just watching out for meself, yet again.”

I shook my head slowly. “I don’t believe you, Howel Davis. If all you say is true, then why didn’t you just join England’s crew to begin with? It would have saved you a hell of a lot of trouble.”

Howel pulled off his boots, tossed them in a corner, then removed his brace of pistols and cutlass, dropping them with a thud on the wooden floor. From one of the holsters he took a single pistol and, with it in hand, he crawled into the bunk, his eyes heavy. “‘Aye, ‘tis a fair point,” he replied, tucking the pistol beneath the stuffed mattress. “So I am a fool on top of it all.” As he pulled the plush blanket over himself, he grinned drowsily in my direction and patted the mattress beside him. “Come and lie with me, lass, and I’ll show you what a black-hearted scoundrel I am…”

Before I had time to answer, he was snoring, deeply asleep. I watched him for what felt like an eternity, his face relaxed in his slumber, his body curled, his arm hanging over the side of the bunk. He looked more like a little boy than a dangerous brigand. I shook my head. A black-hearted scoundrel, indeed. My heart heavy, I stood, blew him a quiet kiss, and left him to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Howel captured his second prize the very next day, in much the same manner as the first.

  It was also a large French ship, but this time Howel was even craftier.

He awoke that morning with boundless energy. He behaved as though nothing had been said between us, like I was once again merely a ship’s boy. As though he’d never heartlessly fooled me into believing he wanted me, tricked me into professing my love for him. And I? I went about my chores as usual, a roiling tempestuousness within me, barely contained. I wanted to unleash it on Howel Davis – the ire I felt, the passion. He had toyed with me, and now that he knew I loved him, he had the upper hand. I was burning, suffering.

Perhaps he wouldn’t remember what had happened. Perhaps he’d been too drunk. Please, God, let him have been too drunk to remember!

Whatever the case, Howel was in top form that day, not like a man who’d been drinking heavily the night before. The instant the prey was spotted, he sprang into action. He ordered that the prisoners be brought on the deck of the French prize. He turned to the pirates. “Find them some white shirts and give a couple of ‘em cutlasses,” he said, “so that they look like pirates and can be seen clearly from the prey.” He grabbed another dirty tarpaulin and looked at Walter Kennedy, his quartermaster. “We’ll raise this so they think this is a rogue ship. Our consort, as it were.” The two men grinned at each other mischievously.

Save for a a few well-armed pirates, Howel and his crew went back to the
Buck
to prepare for the attack. When the
Buck
drew near the prey, the exchange between the French captain and Howel Davis was nearly identical to the one prior to Howel’s first capture, except this time, when Howel ordered a broad-side, it came from his French prize, which was slowly coming up behind the
Buck
.

Howel called out to the stunned Frenchmen aboard the prey, “I will keep you in play until our consort arrives, and they will deal with you quickly and mercilessly. Strike to me immediately, or you shall have but bad quarters!” He then signaled for the French prize to fire another broad-side as the
Buck
was lashed to the prey. The pirates on board the
Buck
fired their muskets and threw their grenades, preparing to board. From where I stood on the forecastle of the
Buck
, Howel’s French prize indeed looked like a more powerful pirate ship, with its French prisoners on the deck, playing the parts of the brigands.

It was deliciously clever, more fantastic than fiction, and I couldn’t help but smile when the prey lowered its flags.

Howel had done it again.

Boy was on a roll.

Howel was nowhere near celebrating yet. He had the guns, small arms, and ammunition transferred from the first French prize to the second one, ensuring that the first prize was completely defenseless. He had the majority of the prisoners put on board the first prize, then clapped the remaining prisoners on board the second prize in irons. He was taking no chances, since the prisoners far outnumbered the pirates at this point. He went from one ship to the other, carefully securing his control over both, giving each pirate clear instructions regarding their duties.

Having consolidated his authority, Howel set sail, the
Buck
leading the way, the two French prizes following in her wake. He and Walter Kennedy then went about dividing up the loot, which consisted mainly of fine clothes and liquors, firearms, iron, and tools. It was all very valuable stuff, of course, but not the gold and silver of pirate dreams. With the booty of the two ships, Howel was able to replenish his stock of food, liquor and ammunition, and granted his men new clothes and weapons.

His was a band of happy pirates.

But Howel remained pensive, scheming. As his crew reveled in their good fortune – they had a cunning leader, two rich prizes, and a life of abundant wine and merriment – Howel plotted his next move, scanning the horizon like a hawk seeking its next quarry. He never relaxed, and I could see the tension in his shoulders, his jaw, the way he tightened his eyes. He was taking his new vocation seriously.

Two days passed uneventfully. I forced myself not to look at him, not to meet his eyes. I forced myself to play the part of the pirate boy, drinking with the men when they drank, laughing heartily at their suggestive jokes, partaking in the salty language. Part of it was so that I didn’t feel so alone, so isolated. But the other part was for Howel’s attention: I wanted to shock him, to catch him off guard, to compel him to look at me.

I had to make him love me, or in the alternative, hate me. I couldn’t stand this indifference. It was killing me.

One night, as the men drank and enjoyed the frantic playing of the French musicians, Walter Kennedy, who had taken something of a liking to me, draped his arm around my shoulders and asked, “Can you fight, lad?”

I had been drinking a
sangria
made of Madeira wine, sugar, lime juice, cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, and toasted bread, and was feeling up for anything. My blood ran warm that night, and it grew even warmer when I noticed Howel was pretending not to listen to our conversation. I said, “I can fire a pistol. Really, if you knew what I know, you wouldn’t bother with blades anymore.”

Walter grinned, not catching my meaning. I could tell by the way Howel’s eyes suddenly darted in my direction that he, on the other hand, had gotten my meaning. But Kennedy was tipsy, and my vague references to the future escaped him. “As a pirate, my boy, you need to know how to cut and rip!” he said jovially.

Walter Kennedy had served in the Royal Navy during the War of the Spanish Succession, and as such was a skilled swordsman. I shrugged bashfully. “I’m not very strong,” I said. “I’m not sure I’d be any good with an edged weapon if faced with a big guy…”

Walter brushed my concern aside with a wave of his hand. “Makes no difference, that,” he said. “You needn’t be strong to wield a blade, merely skilled.” He retrieved two cutlasses and handed one to me with a devilish smile. “Would you like me to teach you?”

I smiled back at him. “Yes!” I said, delighted. I took the cutlass from him, grinning, inebriated, and waving the weapon as though it were a miniature Fourth of July flag.

Walter leaned back and laughed. “Easy there, lad! You cain’t just start swinging it about. See here.” He grasped the hilt over my hand, and I saw it – Howel looked over suddenly and stiffened. Ha! Jealous? Or just worried Walter would discover I was a woman? Hmph. Probably the latter. “There be two main parts: the blade and the hilt.”

I widened my eyes mockingly at him. “No
shit
, Walter!”

Walter shoved me playfully. “I’m not done, you little rascal.” He ran his forefinger along the top half of the elegantly upswept blade, closest to the hilt. “This here is the
forte
, the part o’ the blade you’ll use to hack at your attacker and parry his blows.” He then pointed to the second half of the blade, leading to the tip. “This here’s the
foible
, with which you’ll be stabbing and running your attacker through.”

I hiccuped and smiled crookedly. “Lovely.”

Walter laughed again. “When it’s a matter o’ your death, you’ll certainly think so. Now. This is how you’ll hold it, with your fingers round the grip, lightly, just so, and your thumb along the back. And you’ll stand on guard, your feet positioned just so…”

I imitated him, feeling light and giddy. I knew Howel watched us, even though he was speaking to others, his torso partially turned away from us. “Like this?” I asked.

“Very good,” Walter said. “Now I’ll show you how to attack, six cuts together called a
moulinet
, and you should practice it to strengthen those scrawny wrists of yours.”

Once I’d clumsily gotten a hang of it, Walter showed me how to parry the different cuts, and finally, what to do if an opponent was all up in my grill: drop the tip of my cutlass over my left shoulder, with the grip near my cheek, and smash the pummel of the cutlass into my attacker’s face.

We fenced for a bit, until I became weary. Ready to quit, I playfully charged Walter, and he easily parried my pathetic attempt at an attack, jokingly saying something about my ending up “as good as pork.”

I dropped my arms to my sides and laughed with abandon, throwing my head back. When I finally looked again at Walter, he had a peculiar expression on his face, a sudden alertness in his posture. My laugh had been a bit too girlish, my body language far too feminine.

Oops.

“Walter, a word with you,” Howel said abruptly, standing.

I watched them retreat to a corner, Walter glancing back at me in wonder. I shuffled over to my beverage and dropped the cutlass, feeling the warm buzz dissipate. So not only would Howel Davis ignore me, but he’d prevent me from making friends, as well. I pouted, drained my cup, and found myself a dark spot on the deck to sleep.

I lay against the bulwark, watching the stars slip in and out of the wispy clouds above, wallowing in self-pity until sleep overcame me, the laughter of the pirates and rocking of the sloop blending into vivid dreams.

The next day, Howel decided to free both his prizes. “They’re far too slow to be useful rovers,” he told his crew. “They’ll simply hinder us. We’ll give them back to the Frenchmen and let them be on their way.” The crew agreed, and Howel cheerfully restored the ships – looted of their cargo and arms, of course – back to their captains and crew.

The French captains, almost even more distraught by this development than they were with having been captured by deceit, tried to throw themselves overboard, so humiliated were they at being outwitted by the pirate Howel Davis. Their crews stopped them from killing themselves. One of the captains, the portly gentleman with the long wig, even insisted that Howel kill him for the sake of honor. Howel demurred, shaking his head and muttering something about “the crazy French.”