Captain England (Post 3)

The ground was solid beneath me.

I opened my eyes, my muscles tense, waiting for the rocking to begin. But it never did. My mind swam as I tried to remember what had happened to me in the last twenty-four hours. It came back to me slowly, in broken pieces, like a bad dream. The booze cruise. The pirate re-enactors. The brigantine. The unending nausea. The Irish captain. Nassau. Dear God, Nassau. The panic was returning as I became increasingly cognizant of my surroundings –  I heard muffled music and voices, smelled stewing meat and the ever-present reek of human sweat. I looked around slowly, almost afraid of what I’d see. What next? Vikings? Knights? Scottish warriors? I was in a small, humid room with rough timber walls. As I turned my head someone breathed sharply, and I saw the woman sitting next to my cot, watching me warily. She stood and rushed to the open door, calling out, “Cap’n! She’s come to!”

My nausea was wearing off, but my throat was dry and I felt lightheaded. “Where am I?” I croaked.

The woman approached me once more, carefully. She was short and plump, with long dirty-blond hair that was most obviously graying around her temples. Her face was dark from the sun, her skin like leather. In striking contrast, her clothes were worn but fine: she wore a pink brocaded silk gown, with a petticoat and stays that were laced so tight her breasts exploded into gelatinous heaps at her collarbone.  She was not shy about eying me; she looked me up and down as she replied in a thick Cockney accent, “Nassau, New Providence. But surely you knew that? Cap’n said you ‘ad friends ‘ere…” The look in her eyes could only be described as “smug.”

The Irishman suddenly walked in, gliding on land the same way he did at sea. He removed his hat, and I saw that he was balding at the crown. He stood stiffly at my bedside as he said, “Ye’ll want to eat and drink something, lass. It’s been a while since ye’ve eaten anything.” He nodded at the woman, and she stood and bustled out in a huff, clearly put out by having to serve me. The captain reached for a tankard that sat on a wooden table nearby and held it out to me.

I was parched. I took it, flashing him a glance before drinking. “It’s not rum, is it?”

He smiled. “Water. It’s what ye’ll be needing, eh?” He watched as I drained the tankard and held it out to him. It was, in fact, fresh water – unchlorinated, pure, and some of the tastiest stuff I’d ever had. “More?” he asked, amused.

I nodded. “Yes, please.” At that moment, the woman came back in, carrying a bowl. She slapped it down on the table, the stew barely slopping out, and, shooting me a sharp look, left again in a hurry. As the captain passed the bowl to me, I asked, “What’s her problem? Wait. You know what? Forget I asked. I have a more pressing question.” I paused, and the captain pointed to the stew.

“Eat,” he commanded. “All yer questions will be answered in good time. Ye need to eat, now. I don’t need ye fainting again, not on my watch.” Under normal circumstances, I would have argued. It was in my nature to be contrary. But the stew smelled damned good, either because it was good, or because I was famished. I slurped it down greedily, not minding that there were unidentified floating objects in it.

“Chicken?” I asked, as I chewed on a piece of white meat.

“Turtle,” he replied.

I didn’t pause. Eh. Well, it’s always good to try new things. And damn, was that turtle tasty. I wouldn’t have thought pirates knew how to cook good food. I quickly emptied the bowl as the captain pulled out a long-stemmed clay pipe, filled it with tobacco, and reached for the brass lantern on the table. He carefully removed the candle and lit his pipe. I set the bowl on my lap, feeling somewhat sated, my blood sugar back under control. The captain and I stared at each other as he puffed at his pipe, filling the air with coils of smoke.

“So,” I said, taking a deep breath. “First of all. Who are you? I never thanked you for saving my life…”

The Irishman pulled the stem from his lips, his eyes narrowed. “I’m Edward England, captain of The Royal James. And you are?”

My mind was finally clearing, finally working properly. “Sabrina Granger.” I examined his face before asking, “So is piracy your day job?”

“How now?” He looked genuinely perplexed. “Aye, I’m on the account. It’s no secret, that. The question is, what are you?”

I shook my head. “The year is 2009, right? Why is everyone acting like it’s the 1700’s?”

Edward England leaned forward, blowing a thin stream of smoke from his mouth. His eyes were penetrating. “What did ye say? What year did ye say it was?”

I blinked. I spoke slowly, as if to a child. A retarded child. “Two. Zero. Zero. Nine. You did know that, right?”

He looked at me for what felt like a long time before saying softly, “Lass, ’tis the year of grace 1718.”

I’m not sure what I felt right at that moment. Annoyance? Impatience? Fear? Panic? A little bit of all of them, I’d say. I mumbled, “Stop bullshitting me!” Then, taking stock of England’s expression, said in a weaker voice, “When I fell of the boat, it was – is – 2009. I was on vacation with my friends.” I hesitated, the panic blossoming. “One of us is crazy, dude, and it sure as fuck isn’t me!” My voice became shriller, and the captain sensed my panic. He held his hands up.

“Easy, cailin.” His voice was soothing. “Certainly, there’s been a misunderstanding. Now, it’s not that I don’t believe ye. It’s that, should it get out what’s in yer mind, you’d be strung up for a witch, ye see?” He looked back at the door, then at me. His thin lips were pressed into a line, the creases on his brow pronounced. “Yer not in the friendliest of company here in Nassau. I don’t know what happened to ye, but I can tell ye that this isn’t the Nassau ye’ll remember. This here is home to the Flying Gang.”

My breath quickened, my mind unable and unwilling to accept a single word. “What’s that?”

Captain England smiled a little, a wry smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “The Flying Gang’s the most fearsome group of pirates that ever lived.”