Chapter One - Ideas of Sin - by R. Cooper
“Ship!”
James snapped his head up from the carefully smoothed pages of the small book in his lap as the excited cry flew down from somewhere above. Glancing toward the source of the sound, he saw a raggedly clothed sailor of about his age sliding easily down the many ropes that dropped from the tall masts until the man suddenly jumped free of the twisted hemp and fell the last few feet to the deck. James went tense as the man seemed to be risking his life for a matter of yards, but the man landed about the same time that someone else let out a similar call, gesturing to one side of the ship.
For a moment, almost distractedly, James admired the graceful way the
sailors moved as they appeared from varied places about the ship and ran over
to the port side. He still had not mastered their way of walking, not after
this month and six days at sea on his voyage to the
Some of the other men’s excitement caught him, and he craned his head for a better view, searching most thoroughly for some sign through the gathering mass of bodied on the other side of the ship. But there was only the green sea, and he sighed heavily.
‘Twas the same empty, stretching
mossy green sea he’d been seeing for as many days
back as he could count, taking him farther and farther away from home and
nearer and nearer to
He had taken his coat and collar off in the heat, and quickly slipped both back on so as not to risk being seen in his state of dishabille. He tied his wide collar at the back of his neck so that it fell over his coat, then glanced about and observed a few more of the crew. They were straining to look in the ship’s direction but were being ordered to remain at their work by the two officers standing at the stern. The good mariners seemed to resent it, scowling most fiercely, but did not disobey and James flinched away from the thought of the marks on their back the officers had probably given them before, the real reason for their compliance.
“Necessary,” Lord Cavendish had told him after seeing James’ stare as they had watched a mariner being flogged some weeks ago. The plump, older man had given him a knowing, scornful look as he had said it, as if aware the James did not approve of the punishment, and as if he condemned his weak stomach as something below his station. James had had to fight the urge to answer; his stomach turning as much as it had the one time his friends had taken him to watch the bear-bait.
It was not the blood that had sickened him though Peter and Jack had teased him relentlessly that he was like a young maid, swooning at trifles. The blood had been plentiful enough, that was certain, but it was looking out into the screaming mob around the pit that had given him the desire to purge himself. But after the Fire, mayhap their exuberance was well deserved; at least that was what he told himself.
Smiling a little at the sailors now to let them know that he would go look and tell them what he had seen, James carefully pressed the ribbon between the halves of the slim volume and pocketed it in the folds of his coat before pushing himself against the barrel of ale he had been using to prop himself up. Then he raised himself to his feet and crossed slowly across the deck to the other side, taking care to keep his stride slow on the softly rolling deck.
A speck of darkness appeared on the horizon as he approached and James quickly yanked off his spectacles, wiping them on the upper part of his sleeve before replacing them and squinting through the smeared glass. A ship, he repeated silently in amazement, and then turned back to the sailors behind him, nodding in confirmation before he could forget. Neither man smiled, or indeed even looked at him, only continuing to stare at the view beyond his head, something about their manner almost fearful.
Spinning back around, James peered easily over the heads of most of men gathered near him and looked again at the ship in the distance. The men were nearly silent, only the occasional expression of interest or doubt from someone just walking up. And then the call came again, from someone else up on the masts, or perhaps from somewhere else entirely; the sea sometimes played tricks upon a man, sending sounds and echoes from all directions.
“Ship, sir! Port side!”
A booming shout answered it, making the men around James back up slowly, though all kept their eyes on the other vessel. He was the only one to tear his eyes away and watch as the Captain emerged from his cabin, fastening the silver buttons on his frayed, stained pants as he marched up the stairs to look out over the water with his spyglass.
“What colours does she fly?” Captain Carter shouted so impatiently that from where he stood, James could see the man’s spittle fly overboard. The air around James seemed to thicken at the question, and he frowned worriedly.
“English, sir! Royal colours!” The answer made James smile in sudden relief, until he noticed that the tension in the broad shoulders around him did not ease.
“Dinnae mean much at all,” a thin voice chimed in behind him and James turned to see his young friend Ben staring up at him seriously.
The cabin boy had yet to grow hair on his face, but looked man enough now when he turned from James to stare out into the water just as the Captain had done, his brown eyes distant. He was holding his patched trousers up with one hand absently and chewed on his full bottom lip before he spoke again. “Anyone can change a flag, Master James,” he explained slowly, as if James were lacking a brain, and James felt himself flush slightly in response, as he had at his first meeting with his employer. Then his frown returned and he too turned to study the sea.
Pirates, James realized finally, his heart suddenly beating
like ten drums in his chest. The robbers of the
The few officers followed them, ordering them to be ready and making sure the men kept their voices low. James still heard their words however, blinking dryly as they penetrated his mind.
If they acted peaceably, the pirates might let them go, unharmed but without their cargo. If they fought…there James faltered, flinging himself away from the water to study the officers, and the elegant swords hanging from their belts. For a moment he wished he had one, though he did not know how to use the thing should the need arise.
The other ship was approaching fast; he could hear the crewmen marking its swiftness with admiration in their voices that barked commands from the officers did little to stop. If they fought, his mind circled back to that thought, if they fought, the pirates would most likely kill the lot of them, mayhap torturing them first, or leave them in a ruined ship, drifting aimlessly until they all died anyway. That was what the stories all said, he had heard sailors tell the tale often enough back in his father’s favorite alehouse. They were cruel and merciless in their search for gold, and were deaf to any cries for pity.
Other passengers were racing up onto the deck for a look now; James tensely swung around at the sound of their shouts and then straightened automatically when Lord Cavendish appeared. His employer was red in the face and panting for air but only spared James a glance before marching up to the Captain on the quarterdeck and yelling at him. Too far away to hear what was being said, James just stood there, still unable to move. He half expected someone to give him an order as well but he was ignored for the most part. Just a passenger, and a lowly clerk at that, whatever his position’s title. No good for battle.
Inevitably, he had to look back at the ship. He could see the flag now, the
faded red and yellow seemed brilliant next to dull white sails, and he studied
it with a strange fascination. It was odd to see the colours
of their beloved
“They would kill us all for…” James whispered to himself slowly, but could
not finish. Theirs was not even a treasure ship, but rather a diplomatic one.
Taking the new secretary governor to
“Greedy dogs!” A man huffed loudly behind him, and James turned to stare into the furious face of Lord Cavendish.
“My lord?” he questioned without thinking and then realized that the other man must have heard him talking to himself. Lord Cavendish snapped his thick eyebrows together in a frown and James recalled the man’s lectures on maintaining the appearance of a gentleman when in the company of his inferiors. Even now, his employer was wearing one of his best Persian brocade coats and had his hair tied back and away from his face. He had not found time to put on his large, flowing wig, but still glared at James until James recalled that he had not buttoned his coat or kept his collar straight. His feet were bare as well, and he flushed with embarrassment though he could not do anything about it now.
It had been bloody hot, even on deck with the breeze hitting him, and none of the sailors had minded his undress. Oftentimes they worked without shirts, and no one, not even the officers, commented. A spark of anger made him frown at that, at being reprimanded for this, now, when it did not matter to anyone. But Lord Cavendish did not comment on that, only scowled behind him at the water. He pulled a square piece of cloth from his pocket and wiped his scarlet, sweating face as he did.
“Greedy dogs,” he said again and then made a sound in his throat and spit onto the deck. “Pirates are whoreson thieves, boy, stealing for no other reason than greed.”
James nodded, knowing that he was expected to and watched as the other man raised one hand absently and stroked the gold lining of his crimson coloured coat.
“We’ll not let them have us, our honour won’t allow it,” he went on tightly and James jumped in place, a jagged bolt of alarm running through him.
“My lord?” he asked blankly and saw the outlines of the crew dashing about behind him. They would die if they resisted, protecting nothing.
A low boom somewhere far away seemed to echo inside him at the thought. But Lord Cavendish must have seen his shock, because he scowled and lifted his chin.
“A man, a gentlemen, does not allow himself to be taken, James, whatever the cost.” He looked almost pitying, as if James was a low class fool and a blockhead for not knowing this and James could not stop his mouth from opening, needing to argue that. The lord only stepped away, gesturing for James to follow him.
Still furious, but remembering his position, James took one step after him and then ducked without thinking when something whistled sharply through the air over his head. A moment later he was tossed to the ground as a something landed on the deck, tearing through the boards and shooting spikes of wood in all directions.
A ringing filled his ears, and James shook himself absently before lifting his head. He was facedown on the deck he realized distantly and then looked up with a frown. In front of his eyes was a gray haze. Smoke, that thought came slowly, though the horrid smell, now mixed with brimstone, was only too well known to him. He sucked in a breath and then choked with the acrid fumes burned his nose and mouth. His eyes dried too, and he closed them before shuffling backwards blindly and then jumping to his feet.
He blinked several times hastily and then opened his eyes wide. Looking around, he saw only figures running, the smoke seemed to shade them, keeping them darkened and he tossed his head impatiently. What in God’s name? he asked himself and then jumped as another explosion nearly knocked him from his feet. Reaching out, his hands found what felt like the railing, and he clung to it tightly.
For a moment even the ringing left him and there was only silence and smoke. He put a hand to his stomach and tried to hide the fear that was making him ill. His body was shaking and the ship under him seemed to be moaning, shrieking silently. Reverberations filled his chest, tearing his body apart. His head was spinning, and he took his hand from his stomach to press against his forehead. Something thick and wet warmed his fingertips, but he paid it scant attention, straining to hear anything at all.
He needed to hear something, or see anything, but the world remained blank and empty and he was a stranger in a desolate, undiscovered country where he stood alone and lost, without even the comfort of light. His heart seemed to seize as the panic overtook him and the hand on his head spasmed, smearing the warm mess over his forehead. Feeling it there only made his fear greater and he dropped his shaking hand before opening his mouth and screaming, wanting to at least know that he was not dead with the sounds of his agony.
And then abruptly loud cries suddenly burst on him from all directions, men screaming for life as he was. He sagged against the rail in surprise, inhaling the clouded air as if it were a long forgotten countryside breeze, and then took one step forward before stopping, unable to focus enough to do even that. Smoke cleared, blown away, and colours and blurs appeared. Voices begged attention from all sides, some calling for help, others urging men to stand their ground. And one rose above the others, quivering with open fear.
“Pirates!”
James turned toward the sound in time to see the black, round shape of a cannonball smash through the wall of the Captain’s cabin. The impact seemed to move the ship like a strong wave would have, and James lost his balance and fell back. His ankles hit something and he tumbled back onto the deck, on his arse this time. He barely felt the new pain, too intent on the smoking hole in the wooden wall so many yards away.
The pirates were firing upon them, James registered at last, and looked out in the direction of the water. Masts and sails were visible over the top of the rail, and he felt his heart seize in his chest to see them. The ship was close, impossibly close. Some sort of demon, he thought slowly, his thoughts seemingly as thick as mud. Nothing of this earth moved with such speed, this had to be the work of Lucifer himself.
Heart racing, James moved back and then raised himself up, not daring to take his eyes off the other ship. This was not truly happening, he assured himself and then blinked at the sight of the flag flying boldly atop the ship’s bowsprit now. Instead of familiar glorious red and yellow it was a plane of black, relieved only by the pointed head of a grinning devil, its eyes as red as fire. The malevolent face seemed to confirm his terrified thoughts and James felt his muscles clench so tightly that they began to shake and tremble as if with fever.
His feet took him several steps back without his notice. Only the feel of a sturdy mast at his back made him stop and then he leaned into it, hoping its strength would somehow be shared with him. Keeping his arms low, he gripped the wood firmly so that he would not fall again and then made himself take a deep breath, ignoring how the lingering smoke still burned through his chest.
Tearing his eyes away from the doom that surely awaited him and everyone else on board, James looked around. He took in the panicked state of the men quickly, seeing some running for weapons and others merely standing there and staring as he was doing, making him wonder for a moment if they were as frightened as he was. He could not see any of the officers, nor the Captain though his loud voice was somewhere, echoing from the sea itself.
Readying to fight, James thought the orders were, though few of the men seemed to be responding. His belly turned sickeningly as his mind cleared at last and he imagined the disastrous consequences of the order to resist, especially if only a handful obeyed it.
A man does not allow himself to be taken. James remembered his lordship’s words with a surge of anger. But not all aboard were men yet. Thinking of the child Ben, and the few men younger than himself who numbered among the passengers, James’ anger grew, consuming even his fear. Spinning around to look in the other direction and squinting through the haze, he could just make out a retreating figure in red, and then swung around the mast to better see the rest of the deck.
Most of the wood was in pieces, scattered around the gaping craters the small cannonballs had left. Some men were down, sprawled out limply in awkward positions at each scene of destruction. James had only a heartbeat to guess at whether they were dead or merely battered before he saw Ben and jumped forward. The cabin boy was crouched against one of the fallen men, scratching at the man’s waist with his hands and it was only when James was a footstep away that he could see clearly that the boy was tugging at the belt there.
It was an officer, Lieutenant
Ben looked up at him with eyes as round as barrel lids as he came closer, but James just frowned and looked up to the quarterdeck to where he could actually see Captain Carter now, blustering at something and waving his sword in the air. James’ stomach churned to see that, but he followed the Captain’s gaze and twisted his neck around sharply.
The loud smack of wood onto wood sounded over the din as narrow planks suddenly appeared at the low gaps in the railing, and James went still, watching in disbelief as a man appeared at the top of one of them. The billowing sails of the ship at his back seemed to mark him, a black outline on white, the reverse of that dreadful flag. He was slender, more so with the gray smoke dimming his figure to barely a shadow, but the sight of him nearly caused James to loose his bowels with fright.
It was strange how it was barely midday yet, James reflected, his thoughts in the air as he watched the light glint off the short, wide sword the slight man held in one hand. In his other was a flintlock pistol, and that did not seem to reflect the light at all.
“Master James?” Ben asked from behind him, his voice quavering, and James shook his head, movement returning to his body at last as that man leapt forward onto the deck and swung his sword at the same moment as more men began to surge forward over the planks of the wood. They came up behind him with cries and yells, screaming like children rolling stones in the street.
Unable to take anymore, James yanked himself back around and hurriedly knelt
beside the fallen man, not wanting to look at Ben as he shifted the heavy body
lying between them. One look at the still, surprised face was enough to affirm
that
“You must hide.” The words came from somewhere, nearly drowned out by startled shouts from behind him and his own pounding heart. Ben nodded seriously, jerking up and then back down in one quick motion. Tossing his head in a stubborn gesture, he bent down again and tugged at the Lieutenant’s belt sharply. James focused his dry eyes on the action, following the leather belt around the blue material until it came to the oiled scabbard propped crookedly under one arm. The Lieutenant had not even had time to draw it.
Ben gave up on the belt and wrapped his hands around the sword hilt. One strong pull and he fell backwards, his thin arms shaking with the effort to hold the blade aloft. James stared at him in blank shock for a long moment and then leaned forward to yank the boy to his feet. Then he shoved the boy forward roughly, grasping the sword hilt at the same time. He pulled it away easily and then pushed Ben so hard the boy nearly fell. He complained about that with a burst of coarse language.
“Go!” James shouted hoarsely, some small part of him shocked at himself. But Ben immediately ran, skipping over dead men as if they were only horse turds in the street and then ducking down the stairs leading to the private quarters. James watched him disappear before he looked down at the weapon in his hands. The unfamiliar weight nearly undid him, his breath quickening. He tensed, arching over the blade for a moment as if wanting to hide the thing and flicked a helpless look back at the chaos around him.
There were no words for the terror surging inside of him, ripping him up with the need to scream, and he clamped his teeth into his lip to keep the sound inside, trying to concentrate on what needed to be done in his last few moments of life.
A small explosion sounded, followed by a strange fizzing, whistling noise and then a sharp bellow. James squinted and saw the slender man leaping up to the quarterdeck, where the Captain stood. His pistol was gone, and his sword no longer glinted, dulled by a crimson liquid. The Captain was alone and unguarded though his sword was drawn. His blade too, was bloodied. Furious and scared all at once, James stumbled to his feet and then swung his head back in the other direction at a cry from below deck that somehow carried above the din.
With one last look at the Captain, James tripped over Lieutenant Berry’s form and then dashed after Ben, hoping to at least save one person from this madness.
The stairs were dark, despite the
His Lordship’s cabin was ahead, just a small door leading to a smaller room where James had his rough pallet on the floor. His Lordship’s dislike of carrying his own chamber pot the reason he had not been sent down to the hold.
He stopped outside the door, wondering if this was where Lord Cavendish had run to, and why, and then stilled at the sound of a number of footsteps growing louder. Gulping air as if it were mouthfuls of ale, he flung open the door and leapt inside, abruptly halting at the sight of Lord Cavendish advancing on young Ben, who had a slim blade held tightly in one hand.
Lord Cavendish turned to face him with wide eyes when the door opened and James got a good view of his Lordship’s disheveled, dirty appearance. The man was covered in splinters of wood and gray powder and though James could not fathom the reason, had put on his wig. It was sliding to one side however, hanging from the top of his head limply. In one hand he held his wig curler and James frowned, lost as to why his Lordship held it now.
“My Lord?” James heard himself asking in a low voice, his ears pricking at the sounds coming from above, and then glanced at Ben. Ben scowled fiercely, but did not move from his place in front of a large opened chest on the floor against the nearest wall.
“I’m hiding here!” Ben yelled insistently, a trace of fear in his voice, and flourished what James dimly recognized as the knife he used to sharpen quills. Lord Cavendish stopped at that, but only for a moment, drawing himself up until he towered over the boy and lifted one heavy hand threateningly. Rage darkened his face to purple.
James felt the sword in his hand being raised before he could think better of it. He held it out with arms that barely trembled and abstractly made sure that the point of the blade was straight before him, as he had seen others do in moments of combat. He was as careful about the unfamiliar move as he was in blotting out mistakes in his letters. Then he swallowed dryly once, nearly choking on the panic. It felt like laughter in his throat and that was more shocking than his treason now.
Lord Cavendish met his gaze with a look of surprise and disbelief that echoed in James’ stomach. Jesu, what have I done? James wondered dizzily and closed his eyes for the barest moment, feeling the sick, tight tension sinking into him from the air itself, twisting inside his belly and clouding his mind, leaving him shocked and still. Above deck was death and below was more madness.
It was laughter gathering inside him. Absurd, insane, mad. He looked quickly from the boy to the man and struggled not to let his bubbling panic show. Ben’s eyes suddenly grew in size as he watched and James felt something behind him shift, moving air teasing the hair stuck to the back of his neck.
With a startled shout he spun around, swinging the sword out wide in front of him and then stopping so abruptly that the sword wavered for a moment before ceasing.
A body was in front of him, a man, standing in the doorway holding himself so still that he scarcely seemed real. It was a smaller man, a slightly shorter figure, he noticed, somewhere, and then swept his gaze down over the bloodied sword held in one of the slender hands, and then back up, to where his own sword was poised to kill. Hairsbreadths away from another man’s throat, James realized in renewed shock as he panted for air, and then belatedly looked up into the face of the man he had at the end of his blade.
Black, furious eyes stared back at him, so dark and intent that James could not see the rest of the man’s features, and even the whole of the world around him seemed to darken to nothing. He could feel himself tensing with fear though he had the advantage, his fingers curling around the hilt more to remind himself that it was there than to use it.
He could not use it; his body would not move. It was scarcely drawing breath, but his could hear the low rush of air fighting to get in and then out of his mouth—the only sound in the room, for the other man did not seem to breathe at all.
That snapped James from his dreaming and he broke away from the dark gaze and dropped his eyes to the man’s chest, nearly jumping in surprise to see that it rose and fell slightly. A plain white shirt covered it, several splashes of red soaking quickly into the cloth, and James returned his eyes to the other man’s face quickly, abruptly realizing that he was looking at that first demon pirate that had boarded their ship, and that he had him at the end of his sword.
Lieutenant
Dark eyes acknowledged the fact, one thin brow arching upward almost impatiently. But the unholy fury in his gaze remained, and James swallowed, bringing up his sword another degree without truly being aware, letting it press into the skin until it showed white.
A sudden increase in pressure and he would take another man’s life, as simply as that. A man who undoubtedly deserved his death, though it would do no good in sparing their lives with the other pirates. They would all die at the hands of base thieves and murderers, but…his mind tripped back and forth furiously, if he killed now, he would die with blood on his hands. Was there more honour in that, in not being taken without a fight?
This man would fight. James had the queer thought even as he noticed just how still and expectant the man was, as if calmly awaiting his death blow. It was his eyes that belied his stance, and when James met the pirate’s gaze he felt the blade in his hands fall just a fraction at the realization that this man would not even understand anyone who would not fight.
In less time than it took to blink, James felt the sword being knocked from his hands. It clattered to the floor just as a cold, wet point dug sharply into the skin of neck. He pulled in one stunned breath, or tried to, and then turned his eyes to the silver and red cutlass at the end of the pirate’s steady arm. What precisely had just happened his mind refused to comprehend, so he stared into eyes that were suddenly cool and waited, wanting to close his own eyes against the sight but unable to.
With a slight twist of the pirate’s hand, the sword tip ground into the skin of his neck and James sucked in a breath at the pain. It had pierced the skin and would bleed. But the pain was fleeting, and when it was gone James felt it replaced by a burst of anger that he could not explain, but which still drew his brows together sharply.
His frown was as short lived as the pain however, melting into complete, open-mouthed surprise when the pirate pulled the sword away a small degree and eased it up from that torn spot, scraping the bloodied point slowly up the course of the vein in James’ throat and then over his jaw to his cheek, stopping wherever it pleased him and letting the tip rest against James’ shivering flesh. Unholy eyes lit up at that, and then the man smiled faintly, curving his lips the barest amount at James’ careful swallow.
“Someone should show you what your sword is for,” he remarked, his voice so low it was nearly a whisper. James blinked at the odd words, and then shook his head distractedly, trying to ignore the implied threat and face his last moments with dignity. A Frenchman, the man’s accent marked him plain enough. A bloody French corsaire.
“Are you going to kill him or not, dog?” Lord Cavendish’s demand jerked the corsaire’s eyes from his face, and James watched the cold amusement in the other man’s eyes intensify. It seemed so much worse than his previous anger that James turned his head as much as he could, still wary of the sword, wanting to see what about Lord Cavendish had made him react that way. Then what his employer was saying was fully realized and he turned his head more, forgetting the blade for the moment.
“I can give you anything you please, if you spare my life,” the older man went on in a stiff, proud voice and James felt his mouth gape.
“You Sassenach bastard!” Ben shouted furiously and James watched tensely as the corsaire’s attention swung to the lad, and then down to the chest behind him. The sword slid away from his throat a moment later and then a slender hand grabbed him by his collar and shoved him aside. James was stumbling to regain his feet when the pirate smoothly picked up the fallen rapier and flipped it in his left hand so that he now had two swords at the ready.
Ben was glaring at Lord Cavendish, but when the pirate extended the slim blade to gesture at him, he looked up with round eyes. His knuckles were as white as a dead man’s on the knife but he held it readily enough, James noticed with a vague envy before straightening up warily. He touched two fingers to his bleeding throat as the corsaire strode forward smoothly, forcing Lord Cavendish back though the man said not a word.
From behind, James could see that the smoke had dirtied the pirate’s shirt as well, and there were slashes in the cloth near the top that his long dark hair did not hide. But there was not a scratch on him to be seen. It was doubtful that the Captain remained, or most of the crew, if the others had attacked like this man. They three might be the only ones left on board alive.
The man walked to the opened chest much like a tomcat in an alley and with as much care, then stopped, peering inside seriously. When he raised his head, the tight line of his brows indicted his displeasure and James felt his heart pound with a new fear.
“Not even the tiniest drop of medicine.” He bit the words out. “Or one of your shining guineas,” he added a moment later in tones of disgust, and then flicked a look back at him. James knew his eyes widened at being addressed when Lord Cavendish was present, and tried not to look at his employer, though he could sense his anger at being ignored. But there was a clear, furious questioning in the pirate’s gaze that pinned him to the spot.
“We…we only carry p…passengers,” he managed to get out and saw the other man’s eyebrows lift with disbelieving scorn. But then he glanced away and James sighed in relief to not be under his scrutiny any longer. At last the other man had turned to Lord Cavendish. At any other time, James would have taken a wicked pleasure seeing the sweat drip down his employer’s face the way it was now, soaking the costly Flemish lace of his collar with the evidence of his terror.
“Wealthy passengers,” the Frenchman commented and then swept the rapier up swiftly, slicing the buttons neatly, and, James guessed, narrowly missing his Lordship’s chest, and only then because Lord Cavendish pulled in his belly with a powerful intake of breath. “I like your coat,” he declared simply as the satin covered buttons dropped to the floor.
There was silence above deck now, and James shivered violently, fearing what that could portend. Quiet reigned down in the little room as well, for what felt like forever though in fact it could not have been that. The whole attack itself had been only moments, moments stretched out like the strands of wool in a loom. He darted a look at Ben and saw the cabin boy watching the whole scene intently, seemingly forgetting the fate that had undoubtedly befallen on the rest of his shipmates.
Lord Cavendish nodded once, unsteadily, and then ripped his costly garment from his shoulders, holding it out in a hand as pale as his face. James blinked several times, squinting through his smeared lenses to see the coat so easily relinquished, and then tried not to stare when the Frenchman stabbed the rapier into the floor in order to take it. Tossing the shorter sword from one hand and then to the other, the pirate slipped the coat on and then adjusting the way it fell as if he had not a care in the world.
“Marechal,” the man spoke abruptly, raising his eyes to the doorway. James spun around quickly in time to see the large figure settle in the door, jumping to think that such a large man had not made a sound. The man was taller than he, a rare thing in itself, but wide as well. His massive shoulders and chest blocked all view of the hall outside and he was forced to turn his head up to look into the man’s face.
A splotch of blood marred one cheek, though in truth the cheek already had a few pale scars crossing it, not hidden by the few days’ growth of beard. The man’s eyes didn’t seem to see him at all, but stared ahead at the other pirate, his attitude that of brooding patience. James twisted back around to watch the other man as well. He was stroking the lining much as Lord Cavendish had as he spoke.
“Do you like my new coat?” That trace of amusement crept back into the man’s voice as he asked, though Marechal only grunted for an answer. James looked at his Lordship and noticed the blank look on Lord Cavendish’s face, realizing only now that the man had asked the question in his native tongue. Lord Cavendish’s weakness in language was one of the main reasons for James’ employment.
James let his eyes fall back to the garment without thinking, deciding with a trace of anger that the large coat looked foolish on the slighter man, and then returned his gaze studiously upward.
The man’s demon gaze trapped him the moment he did, shining with a new knowledge.
He had seen that he had understood him, James realized on the instant, wondering if only death would be the end to his fear this day. Surely his understanding of French was no threat to the man. The sweat prickled along his neck and back at the thought.
But the pirate was smoothly picking up the abandoned rapier and addressing the man Marechal in streaming French that James could not translate without difficulty. Purposefully, he was quite sure now. Orders to search the ship, however, he managed to distill from the speech, and then questions about the crew, his crew. His tone was of master there, most possessive. Was he the captain? James had a moment to consider that, and if it would do good to plead to him for mercy, at least for the boy, before the pirate captain strode past him and out into the hallway without even a nod in his direction, as if he had already been dismissed and forgotten.
One last order, casually tossed out as his voice and footsteps faded away proved that idea true and worked in James’ mind like a spark to a keg of black powder.
“And bring them up top with the others.”
Others? James questioned silently with the first feelings of real hope that he had had in the long moments since he had first spotted that ship approaching.
“Fitzroy!”
“Master James?” Ben and Lord Cavendish both demanded his attention just as a large hand pressed into his shoulder close to his neck, hard enough to make him wince. Before he could turn, he was yanked around and forward by the man-mountain, Marechal, until looking up, he could spy and count the hairs in the other man’s nose. It was then that Marechal smiled, a gaping, toothless grin that only increased the queasy anxiety in James’ belly.
“You will come, little Englishman,” he said clearly, though his English was broken, and James nodded eagerly to show that he understood and would obey. “You also,” the big man continued as he released him and James pulled away gratefully, only to be pushed into the hall in the next moment. Quick footsteps sounded and then Ben was close behind him as they walked through the darkness toward the light up the stairs, to where the other pirate would soon decide their fate. If he had not already.
Lord Cavendish was somewhere beyond, his steps sounding as firm and
resolved as his behavior had not been when the ship had been fired upon and
then boarded. But James tried not to think about that for the moment, and
instead, for no other reason than to occupy his hands, straightened his collar,
knocked askew by Marechal’s handling. He moved up the
narrow, creaking steps at the same time, blinking once again at the
Mayhap the bit of cloth had helped halt the flow of blood, but James felt his stomach twist to see it though that pain was forgotten now. His unease only increased when he raised his eyes and saw the black flag of the Devil himself seeming to fly higher than even the sun.
Dear God in Heaven, save your poor servants, he prayed without true awareness of the words. Oh Lord, we await thy mercy.
For still, long moments it was that flag and all that it promised that held James motionless, even at Marechal’s rough prodding. And then the sound of someone calling his name broke into his thoughts and he pulled his gaze away from the lofty heights and tried to focus on the world in front of him.
“James, you’re alive.” The hoarse sound of Michael Pym’s voice could not hide his relief, and James smiled slightly to hear the other man and know that at least one other was still living. Shaking his head, James let himself be pulled away from the pirate Marechal and then finally directed a clear look at the man supporting him.
Aside from a few pox-marks from another disease of his childhood which had made the bonded servant so repugnant to Lord Cavendish upon seeing him board the ship a month ago, there was no sign that anything was amiss with Michael Pym. Just as there were no signs of the dreaded malady that had nearly claimed the man two years ago, James thought with something like awe.
But even knowing their cause, those few scars were a welcome sight to James now. It would have been a true tragedy for a man who had actually survived so much, even the Plague itself, to die at the hands of these thieves. It gave James hope that even this could be lived through.
James clapped the other man on the shoulder as a greeting and to let him know that he could stand on his own now. Pym released him hastily and then looked back over the ship from their position near the portside railing. James did as well, noticing in surprise and vague hope that most of the passengers were in fact alive, seated or standing near them, blank, weary looks on all their faces but for when they looked out beyond themselves.
Their faces made him shiver, remembering traveling back to
Following their gazes, James saw Lieutenant Berry’s corpse laid out across the ship, alongside one other officer whose visage James could not see.
There were no other bodies where he had been expecting to see a heap for the charnel house but his heart was still saddened to see those two. The second man had been stabbed, or run through. James studied the bloodied hole in the back of the man’s waistcoat closely, letting out one short breath to realize that his death at least had been no accident, and that he had been knifed in the back. Only one man slain intentionally, and only two bloodied swords that he had seen, though he knew well enough which one had done the killing.
Startled, he turned to look over the deck more closely, expecting to see the man with the dark eyes again. Twenty or so of the sea robbers were standing guard over them, though most were moving from place to place, seemingly searching for something, treasure he assumed. Neither Marechal nor their leader numbered among them.
“What has happened?” he asked softly so as not to disturb the silence above deck but Pym shook his head and did not answer. His head did turn toward the Captain, who was separate from the rest of the prisoners, standing near his cabin with a dirty corsair leaning over him, sword at the ready.
Captain Carter was as slovenly dressed as Lord Cavendish had been elegant, his usual habit, but James could only wonder why the man was alive at all, when he had given the order to fight. He had had his sword drawn, in those first few moments, though there was no sign of it now. Perhaps he had forgotten his honour as well.
Lord Cavendish’s lack of courage during the short battle came to mind at that thought, and James licked his lips, which were dry and coated in a bitter dust that nearly made him choke.
“Talk of courage to protect naught but goods for the settlers and my Lord’s costume, and now we shall all die,” James whispered, trying to wet his throat.
Summoning his fury did little good however, since its force did not compare to the terror inside him tearing its way slowly out. His narrow glance fell on first the Captain, and then his noble employer, forgetting their captors entirely as he imagined what horrors would befall his fellow passengers because of men like them. Cruelty was the one trait certain to appear in all the tales of the strange boucaniers of the Spanish West Indies; he had known it, and so surely must have they when they had demanded action.
Again, the bear-bait came to mind, the diversion seemingly as odd a thing to think about at this time as his Lordship and his wig, but James curled his fingers into his palm, surprised to find himself wishing to be holding the sword again.
Pym did not seem to hear his quiet words; he was staring between the rest of the passengers and the men guarding them. His expression seemed watchful and patient, though surely he could not be calm at a moment like this. Yet his entire body seemed still, his posture that of someone prepared to wait and see, until a loud crash made his shoulders jerk tensely.
James jumped at the noise, as did many others, and shifted enough to notice Ben and Lord Cavendish on the other side of him. Ben was curled onto his knees and seemingly unafraid, as at ease as Pym had appeared to be, though his small, pointed face was pale. His Lordship was standing stiffly, awkwardly holding onto his slightly torn waistcoat, the curled locks of his wig shining in the sunshine. He did not even glance at James.
“Where is Deniau?” The impatient inquiry was followed by a burst of several French phrases unfamiliar to James. But he turned his head swiftly to watch the pirate leader appear out of the stairs leading below the deck, pushing a heavy-looking wooden box forward as he did. The moment he came into sight, his man Marechal seemed to glide to stand next to him, picking up the chest without a word and carrying it to a nearby barrel top. Had he found some treasure after all? James wondered, his rage surging again until he had to clench both hands tightly. Enough to be worth all of their lives?
But the chest was carved, and locked, and James barely had a moment to recognize it as an apothecary’s box of potions before it was rudely opened and the many compartments opened.
Frowning to see how the full, brightly coloured casks and bottles seemed to please both men, James tried to imagine what their interest in the box was. Their leader, the small man of the black eyes, even smiled to see them, though in truth ‘twas only a bare, quick show of teeth and not a real expression of joy. Such a smile would have been blasphemous, James thought furiously, this time not at all shocked by his fury.
The box was put back in order smoothly and then handed to Marechal who in turn handed it to another man who carried it back across the planks of wood to the other ship. Another order was barked at his back from their captain, ensuring that this Deniau would be served.
An ill man? James tried not to openly show his disbelief, though he could recall the man’s words upon looking into his Lordship’s baggage. If they had wanted medicines, they had had only to ask. They would have been helped, surely even Captain Carter would not have refused such a request.
He looked to the Captain just as the corsair did the same, stepping away from the barrel only to stop in front of the man. From where he stood, James could see the arrogance in the smaller man’s attitude as he looked over the Carter, sweeping his gaze from his crown to his toes and then back up. A moment later he shrugged one shoulder, the action somehow bringing to attention the new red coat he wore, before sliding past the Captain to the door of his quarters.
There he spoke quietly, his words directed at someone inside the room. It was too soft to hear at his distance, excepting the last few words, which rose to a high, angry pitch, sharp enough to make even Pym twitch with fear. Outrage at something the Captain had done, and then a swift vow of revenge following it, something that caused Marechal, yards away from the smaller man, to laugh shortly as if it were not serious.
His mirth should have been calming, reassuring James that the promise to extract blood had only been in jest. Instead the quiet sound of Marechal’s laughter made the bile rise in his throat and his stomach churn until he was sure he would be sick.
“Your ship carries only passengers,” the slender corsaire broke into English again before he had turned back around and James was startled into a gasp though the pirate seemed to have forgotten him. He was clearly addressing the Captain, though Carter did not seem to know how to answer. In truth it was more of a demand than a question.
The Captain twisted his head to watch the other man circle him and then shuddered, his fit body suddenly an image of a beggar’s in the wintertime upon seeing a magistrate approach. Finally he nodded, glancing toward the group of them, huddled together near the rail around the remaining crewmembers. The corsaire did not follow his look, or even seem to react to the admission at all. He merely stood there, one hand on the hilt of his sword. It was sheathed now, but that did not matter. James was certain that it was still soaked in blood.
He focused on that hand, hearing the vow for revenge in his mind, and remembering that though the man had asked for physick, he had also wanted gold.
“You fought?” This was a question, scorn the only emotion keeping the words from freezing over. Beside him, James saw Pym turn to await the Captain’s response, barely breathing so that he would not miss it. So did the others. Even James could hardly make himself move, somehow aware that the coldly voiced question was vital to all of them.
Carter did not speak. His former bluster and calls for bravery were gone as if never existing and for a moment, James felt sympathy for the man, knowing that when those dark eyes had been trained upon him, he had not been able to speak either.
“You fought?” A hiss seemed to slither from someone near James when the boucanier repeated his words. One tap of a slender finger to the thick cutlass, and Carter finally nodded again, his eyes getting so large that James could see the fear in them though the man did keep his head up. “Did you think to earn my mercy by defying me?” the corsaire went on, his voice lowering and yet carrying over the ship at the same time. Mayhap it was the taut silence that allowed it to travel so.
Marechal laughed again and James swung his head in that direction, though his eyes seemed to stretch so as not to lose the sight of the pirate captain.
Was there to be mercy? James prayed for it over his madly pounding
heart, wanting to believe it. The man had boarded them to seek medicine after
all, had he not? Though had not saved the man lying next to
“…Die before I see my ship in your hands,” the Captain managed to say in a mumble, some of the terror in his eyes replaced with defiance and James knew his eyes widened with amazement to hear it. He wondered if he could remain so defiant at his moment of truth.
“You value nothing,” the other man declared in the same icy tones before had even finished, his accent growing thicker. It was much like the way a Puritan man condemned those in the street for their frivolousness, though this man was nothing like the black-clad preachers hated by so many. A wave of his hand and a man stepped out of the Captain’s destroyed cabin, many sheets of vellum filling his arms, some rolled up carefully, others wrinkled. A few had pieces missing, smudged with black and curled as if they had been set afire.
James felt his brows draw together at the puzzle of that, though the papers were clearly maps and of great value to sailors. The corsaire holding them began expressing his disgust over the burn marks as if to prove that, holding the pages up and gesturing excitedly until the other man stepped forward to handle the charts.
His hands smoothed over the pages with obvious pleasure, and then he exchanged some quiet words with the other man, flipping through the maps with another flash of a smile. Behind them, Carter paled, though again why was a puzzle.
Still looking over the charts as if they were a thousand times better than any treasure, though how that could be James did not know, the slender man suddenly jerked his head towards the Captain.
“Tie him to the mast,” he ordered in clear, ringing English and the man standing guard over Carter had him by the shoulders before the man had time to protest. “And keep the rest of them down.”
Horrified, James barely heard the second order. He remained standing until Pym’s hand on his shoulder forced him to bend his knees before their captors could get close. He could feel the wood underneath him and from the corner of his eyes saw Ben look over to him, but did not take his eyes away from Captain Carter as he struggled feebly with the men twisting his arms back around the wood.
The Captain was a big man, so much so that he seemed to tower over Ben whenever James happened to see him near the cabin boy. But now his size did him little good. He was dwarfed by the trunk of the mast, and helpless once his hands were lashed. James was sure it was painful, for the man grunted when the sailors had finished, and his coat gaped widely, stretched to the point of tearing.
It was at the edge of the piece of filthy cloth that a flower of crisp, clean scarlet caught James’ attention, and he stared with unblinking eyes as the flower of red grew larger, sinking into the linen shirt thread by thread.
More red appeared in front of his eyes, until it was all he could see, and it took the span of several beats of his rushing heart to realize that it was Lord Cavendish’s prized coat, and that he was looking at the pirate captain’s back as he stood in front of Carter.
Closing his eyes at last, James murmured another prayer, that all of this was only a fitful dream brought on by the ship’s tossing or the bad food. That it could not be real, and that the man tied to the mast was in no danger.
“Dogs!” the Captain spit the word, expelling it in one rasping breath, and James had barely opened his eyes before he had to close them again, wincing at the blazing sun reflected off the small, thin dagger in the corsaire’s hand. It was still before him, the menacing image it had made, as menacing as an inked etching of a martyr at the stake, and he clasped his hands together tightly for strength and comfort though he could not bow his head, not with that man in front of him. “I am a captain in His Majesty’s service, and I will not be treated so!” That seemed to take the last of the Captain’s breath, or his courage, for he fell silent afterward and did not speak again.
Daring to lift his eyelids once more, James spied the man in the red coat first, though he had changed position slightly so that those on their knees to watch whatever he was about to do had a view of his side. Not knowing what he was going to do made it all the more unbearable, and James interlocked his fingers until only God himself could have separated them.
His whole body felt that tight and knotted and only his clenched teeth kept him from vomiting. Then the corsaire spoke, and the bile burned sourly against his tongue.
“You will be treated how I say. And I piss on your king,” the man pronounced slowly and then flipped the knife once in his hand, until the hilt rested comfortably in his palm. It was then that James noticed how the Captain’s bloodstained shirt had been ripped down the center and pushed aside, so that the pale expanse of his furred chest and belly were visible to all. Blood was already seeping from a wound on his side, a long, open slice that had cleaved the flesh neatly.
Swallowing did little to help him be rid of the sickness in his throat; more rose when the point of the blade was tapped against a small patch of skin, just above the Captain’s hip, where a few drops of blood had already fallen. He focused his attention on the lacy cuffs falling over onto the man’s pale wrist and not the hand and the knife itself, but he could still see both, could not look beyond the wrist to anything other than the silver metal slipping carefully into the Captain’s white skin.
Someone made a low sound at that, a sort of a choked whisper, though who James could not have said. The blade twisted, forming the shape of a rough circle in the cut flesh before blood poured out and covered it. Then the corsaire removed the knife, and James’ eyes followed the weapon as the man lifted it to wave at the other man some distance away, still holding the armful of burnt chart.
“We…” the corsaire paused to tap a space just above the newly bloodied spot with his weapon, deliberately letting the sharpened curve linger there, James had no doubt, and he felt himself twitch when the move brought a whispered curse to the Captain’s mouth. “ . . . are here . . . ici, close to St. Croix.” The man did not acknowledge any of his captors, his audience, or even the Captain, treating the man as if he were in fact a chart he was consulting and nothing more. He only directly addressed the man holding his charts, though he had to translate those words into French after speaking first in English, and James could not quite comprehend his purpose in making them listen as well, or in making them watch.
When that man nodded, almost thoughtfully, the corsaire leader went on, in that same calm, broken, bloody English, making sure his captive audience understood.
“Over here…” Smoothly, he transferred his attention, and his dagger, to the opposite side of Captain Carter’s middle, down near his ribs. James moved his gaze there as well, just as everyone else was surely doing, and watched the Captain pull in a deep breath. For a moment, James flicked his eyes up to the man’s face and saw how he had taken his bottom lip into his mouth and was biting down on it, turning away from the man in front of him.
But James could not, and despite his sudden surge of pity returned his gaze to the bloodied knife as it speared into the Captain’s body again and was slowly, so very slowly, moved in and out in another precisely misshapen oval, cutting shallowly and then deeply, as if the man holding it could not decide how much he wished to hurt.
“. . . Is the Isle of Jamaica,” the pirate captain finished, pausing in his work at the same time to pull the lace away from his wrist with his other hand so that the blood would not stain it. James could feel the bones in his fingers grinding painfully against each other, digging into his skin, but he kept them clasped and tried to breathe slowly through his nose.
A heavy, sickening scent filled his nostrils as he did, the scent of warm blood, and James gagged, turning his head at last as the pirate’s intentions became clear. He had found himself a new map to replace those that were ruined, and it was not Cartology that he wished to demonstrate.
“Near there…” that voice went on unemotionally, droning on in much the way James’ tutors had about Latin and Greek, with the same attention to detail, and James tried not to hear it anymore. Still, the words forced their way into his mind. Hispaniola, Maracaibo, the strange Spanish words filled the air, and with it came the image of the blade pressing in and the sound of another muffled groan from the Captain. Other place names followed, James counted ten before he made himself stop.
There were many islands and towns in the
“Tortue. Tortuga.” The corsaire changed from French to Spanish easily but it was the panting whisper that followed it that caught James’ ear, and made him raise his head to look partways on the scene. Partways was all his stomach could bear; the Captain’s chest was as full of holes and craters as the deck of his ship was, each one leaking blood furiously, gushing in spurts. His heart beating, pushing it out, James thought back distantly to his lessons in physick, his own heart pounding a thousand times faster.
The blood was drenching the Captain’s trousers; it was at his thighs like a river’s watermark, and slowly flowing lower. The cuts were deeper than they appeared, to make him bleed so, not as delicate and exact as they had seemed. His skin, where it was not covered in his own fluids, was white, changing to gray even as they watched.
His eyes left the man’s face at that, recognizing the mark of death with an ease he wished he did not possess. He could see Ben now; the boy had crawled closer to him at some point, for comfort James had no doubt, and did his best to push away his horror at the boy seeing such things, worse even than the hangings in the streets.
Breaking his grip at last, he lifted one hand to the lad’s shoulder, hoping to pull his wide-eyed gaze away from his captain’s torture. But Ben shook his hand away firmly, not even looking at him as he did. His eyes glowed impossibly bright, like with some fever, and about his mouth there was a small smile, as if he were . . . delighting . . . in the scene before him, though that could not be. The smile widened into a full grin when Captain Carter’s broken, hoarse voice cried out in pain.
“Mercy!” Carter echoed James’ prayers in his scream, giving in to the pain at last. Twisting his head from the boy, James looked to the corsaire, still standing over the Captain’s quivering form like a stern schoolmaster. James could hear him breathing, or fancied he did, the even in and out of the man’s breath a counterpoint to the wet, gurgling sounds coming from Carter now.
He leaned forward and further onto his knees, waiting.
“And let us pretend that here would be France,” he continued finally, and a sigh of disappointment that there would be no mercy slipped out of James’ mouth before anger made him narrow his eyes. But the slim hand brought the knife up, resting the point on the skin over the Captain’s heart. There the Frenchman hesitated only a moment before he forcefully pushed it into the skin, sending a spray of blood into the air the moment he pulled the blade back out. It splashed over the Captain and onto the deck, continuing to spurt as the corsair calmly turned away from the sight and handed the soiled knife to the waiting Marechal.
James watched that monstrous act in disbelief and then turned back to Carter, unable to breathe at how the life was pouring from him in front of their eyes.
“Life is pain. Be grateful for mercy,” the corsaire suddenly warned them softly, and James raised his head to see dark eyes passing over all of them without a trace of passion, brushing over James like the hand of the Devil himself.
There was no recognition in their depths but James pulled back regardless, sitting on the backs of his legs and staring at the slim figure in red as it readjusted the length of the laced cuffs, now peeking out from the sleeves of his Lordship’s coat. It was faded, frayed lace James saw without truly caring, though his mind wondered if it too, and the torn shirt, had also belonged to someone else before being taken. But though his stolen lace was clean, it did not cover the hands spotted with blood.
Carter moaned, a long drawn out sound that raised the fine hairs at the back of James’ neck despite the heat. It was a cry of suffering, and though he had not liked the man, James studied his face as the light left his eyes, not looking away until the large body sagged against its bonds. Then he lifted one hand and made the sign of the cross over his heart, hoping that some grace would go with Carter’s soul.
Beside him, Ben made a choked sound in his throat, and James spared the boy a brief look, hoping he was not harmed by what he had seen. Clear, light eyes met his, still lit by some internal feeling, and James frowned to see the smile still about his lips as well. This smile seemed to be directed at him, and at his gesture.
Uncertain though he could not have said why, James lowered his hand and then faced away from Ben to the corsaire, who continued to stand before them.
“Does anyone else wish to challenge me?” he asked almost warmly, the trace of amusement returning to his voice as if he already knew the answer. James swallowed the sudden torrent of wrathful words in his throat, startled at the force of them. His eyes swept up despite his efforts however, and for the smallest moment met the dark gaze sneering down at all of them. And he would swear to anything that the other man knew his exact thoughts, just as he had known them down below in the doorway to Lord Cavendish’s room. His mouth curled into a faint smile much like the one on the boy’s face just now.
Something small and warm pressed against one of his hands and then curled around it, and James blinked to realize that it was young Ben’s hand. Whether the lad meant it for comfort or apology or simply to help hide his own fears, James could not say, but when his eyes opened again the corsair leader had moved a few steps away.
Expelling a breath after becoming aware that he had forgotten to breathe for several moments, James squeezed the smaller hand, hoping the child was not afraid, and then glanced at Pym. Pym was staring back at him, and when their eyes met he raised his eyebrows once.
His eyes held the same question that occupied James’ mind, now that he was free of the corsaire’s attention and the bloody spectacle was over. Were they to live?
No one had dared answer the men, and he nodded after a moment, the action shaking a few dark strands of hair loose from the scarf holding it back.
“Trés bien. You now serve René Villon until I release you or you die.” That was issued much as James imagined Parliament proclaimed new laws, though a thousand times more fearsome than any new ordinance, for all its simple wording. More even than the contract he had signed to serve his Lordship.
And then someone to his right gasped, and the name itself seemed to thrust into his heart, chilling him. Not the worst of the boucaniers, if the tales were true, but no saint indeed. Ruthless and cunning, James recalled the stories and looked back to Carter’s body. But not without mercy? he questioned and then jumped in place when the Captain’s body suddenly fell onto the deck. Ben did as well, pulling his hand away as he did.
Pirates appeared at his head and his feet and then dragged him away, talking to one another in rapid French as they did. Others were also moving about; the quiet, smooth sounds they made suddenly catching his ear. His fellow passengers on the Queen of Sheba were whispering now too, furtively murmuring to whomever was next to them. René Villon was farther away now, leaving only Marechal to stand guard over them. But the man mountain was more than enough.
The men dragging Carter abruptly stopped in the middle of the deck, and
James’ eyes widened as they yanked free his trousers, leaving him naked as they
argued heatedly about the blood staining them. His gaze instantly skirted away
from the other man’s privates, only to land on the
bodies of
Still others were carrying up boxes and chests from below the deck, dropping them noisily around the cannonballs and smoldering holes, and then rifling through them quickly.
“I like your clothes, Englishman,” Marechal’s unmistakable rumble broke upon them suddenly, and James shuddered as the man crossed his line of vision. But he was not talking to him, but to Lord Cavendish. He stopped in front of him and then lifted him to his feet with one hand. His other traced over the embroidered gold of his waistcoat in a thick-fingered imitation of what his master had done earlier and then tugged on it sharply.
Lord Cavendish was sweating profusely now, spots of colour in his cheeks though the rest of his skin was like snow. But he kept his head up as the waistcoat was ripped from him, reminding James of Carter so much that the sickness again rose in his throat. His Lordship held his tongue as well, even when Marechal’s eyes fell to his trousers covetously.
There James averted his eyes, watching instead as more of the thieves began to parade amongst their captives, or fellow crewmates, he supposed, faintly. Searching among them for anything of value, taking any bit of clothing that struck their fancy. Most of the passengers were indentured servants like Pym, and had nothing to offer them. James could see the anger in the thieves’ faces at that, and when one passed near him he tried not to flinch.
Though bloodstained, the fine new collar he had purchased for his journey was taken, as was his book once discovered, though one glance at the Latin and it was tossed to the floor. He did his best not to show his reaction to that, but he scowled when Sir Thomas More’s great work was trampled on.
Near him, Lord Cavendish was beginning to complain at his treatment, as item after item of his costume was taken from him, even his boots. James eyed his own bare feet with a feeling of relief and then glanced up, mouth falling open to see his Lordship standing there as naked as Adam in the Garden.
He could not help but gawk to see a lord stark naked, his pale, plump body half turned to the rail with obvious horror and humiliation. James felt his own cheeks heat to see the other man’s nakedness, to imagine himself in the same position. Jeers came from everywhere, in both French and English, though who dared among the prisoners James could not guess.
His Lordship’s face was all red now, and tight with anger and shame. But he lifted his chin even higher and James noticed for the first time that his wig was still on, though slowly sliding back and exposing the gray hair underneath.
“The wig,” Villon’s voice cut through the laughter, silencing it. James got to his feet as his Lordship straightened and snatched the wig from his head. He held it in front of him in white hands, managing to cover most of himself at the same time. The wig, James saw, was a rich chestnut brown where the rest of his Lordship’s hair was much darker.
A queer urge to laugh hit James again and he cleared his throat and looked away, ashamed. Hearing Villon again made him look back, but the corsair apparently was not yet through punishing those who defied him. He stalked slowly to Lord Cavendish and then barely paused in front of him before ripping the wig away so fast that his Lordship had no time to hide himself. James jumped at the ferocity of the movement.
“I can use your wig too,” Villon murmured in his own tongue so that his Lordship understood nothing and then wiped his bloodied hands in the fat curls until they appeared clean. When not a trace of blood remained he turned away, carelessly tossing the battered piece of hair over one red shoulder.
James watched the hair sail through the air with a strange fascination, for it seemed to move slowly while everything around him remained the same. It flew through the hands Lord Cavendish raised from his lap to catch it and then sailed over the side of the ship until it was out of view, undoubtedly landing in the sea.
A hand on his shoulder snapped him from his daze, and James turned around instantly only to stare blankly into the face of a pirate he did not know. He blinked to wet his eyes and saw the man’s well-fed but unshaven cheeks curve into a wide smile. And then the thief spoke, and James could only gape dumbly.
“Welcome to the
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