Captain England (Post 9)

Far too quickly, we found ourselves standing beneath a canvas tarpaulin, surrounded by extravagantly-dressed men who were sitting on stools around tables and casks, drinking and smoking. Women, their faces painted and powdered with a heavy hand, pranced between the men, refilling mugs and cups and goblets, swinging their hips as they walked. Funny, how I knew I was in a pub without being told. Some things, apparently, do not change with time. The raw smell of unwashed bodies wafted at me with the breeze, and I found that, slowly, I was becoming used to it. While it still had the potential to knock me senseless, I had stopped gagging every time I smelled it.

One man in particular seemed to be the focal point, as all bodies were partially turned toward him. He, like many of the others, was adorned with every imaginable luxurious cloth and embellishment: a scarlet broadcloth coat, a cravat of silver lace, a flowered velvet sash, fine black hose and shiny buckled shoes. Everywhere I looked, I saw Persian silk ruffles and taffeta and gold buttons… It was as though they had all these gentlemen’s clothes but no real occasion to wear them. All dressed up with nowhere to go. For a second I felt, again, as though I were on a movie set, as though this was just one big game. That feeling quickly dissipated as the men began to turn and look at us, their eyes curious and – when looking at me – rapacious. I knew to be afraid of that look. Nothing like hanging out with 18th century prostitutes to make a woman feel gorgeous, let me tell you. If a pirate here decided he wanted me, there was no one but England to stop him. The pirates were the law in Nassau – for now, at least. England’s esteem among his peers, and then his own skill and strength as a fighter, were the only two things I had going for me.

The man at the center of the attention wore a large cocked hat with a feather plume on top of his wig, and he sat back leisurely, leaning against a cask, swinging a fine gold watch on a chain from his forefinger. He looked up at England from across the outdoor pub and nodded acknowledgment at him, smiling slightly. Then his dark eyes shifted to me and stayed there as he continued to swing his delicately engraved pocket watch. Kat suddenly materialized next to him, wrapping an arm across his chest and nuzzling his ear, but he brushed her away, his eyes never leaving me. I looked at England, but if he felt anger or betrayal, he showed none of it.

Charles Vane caught the watch in the palm of his hand and signaled to England. England put his hand on the small of my back, encouraging me forward with him. Oh, no. I wasn’t ready for this. What would I say? How was I supposed to behave? I looked to England, panicked, and heard him mumble under his breath, “Let me do the talking, lass. Just sit and look yer pretty self.”

All eyes were on us as we sat with Vane and his companions. Vane smiled at me, saying, “Well, Edward, what have we here? Lovely, simply lovely.” A London dialect, and I knew enough to guess he wasn’t “upper class.”

England’s hand moved up to my shoulder, then to the nape of my neck. “Sabrina. We found her afloat, and she has no memory of what happened to her.” He shrugged and smiled, as if that explained everything. The absurdity of the situation struck me – here I was, an Ivy League educated attorney, barely a year shy of making partner, and I was being treated like a piece of meat, like a prostitute from the London gutters who couldn’t speak for herself. I felt the rage sweep through my veins, the hot blood boiling. England must have sensed it too, because he gently but firmly pressed at my skin. It was just enough to startle me from my fury.

Vane was still smiling, but his eyes went cold. “That’s not what I hear,” he said. “I hear she’s a mad one, saying she’s from the future and dancing in the rain.”

England laughed. “And who would have told ye that?” He looked meaningfully at Kat, who was pretending to chat with the other women. “Yer not taking the word of a faithless baggage, are ye, Charlie?”

Vane grinned wolfishly, the shadow of a goatee darkening the skin around his mouth. I could see the cunning ruthlessness in that hawkish face. He relaxed a bit, leaning back against the cask once more and setting that damn watch swinging again. “No, Eddie, course not. And if you fancy her – ”

“Aye,” England said loudly, firmly, his fingers tight on the back of my neck. “That I do.”

Vane’s eyes flickered from me to England, assessing us carefully. “What is she, then? For all the world, she looks to have exotic blood in her.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but England was quicker, his fingers pressing again. “Possibly. I think she may have fallen from a trader bound for Jamestown. It matters little, in the end, since she’s happy here, with me.” Again, that possessive tone. I suddenly felt the need to show some sort of affection to England, to play my part, so I leaned toward him, smiling, and wrapped my arms around one of his. I felt him shudder slightly. “And now, we must discuss more pertinent matters,” he continued. “What of Blackbeard?”

Blackbeard! I knew that name. He was a famous pirate. As I was trying to remember what it was I knew about Blackbeard – which, incidentally, was virtually nothing – Vane growled, “Fuck Blackbeard! He’s in bed with the governor of North Carolina. He’s made his choice, and he’s not coming back. He knows Nassau is doomed.” Vane took a swig from his mug, the dark liquid trickling down his chin, which he wiped with the back of his hand.

England took a deep breath and nodded, removing his hand from my neck. He examined his knuckles absently. “Then we’re ready to fly?”

Vane nodded slowly, clearly put out by the situation. He looked like he was getting quite drunk, and his eyelids drooped slightly. “That son of a whore Rogers will be here in a fortnight, I wager. That’ll give us a bit more time to load the cannons onto the Ranger and make sure we’re ready for the voyage to Brazil.”

I blinked. Brazil?

“We’ll not leave without a fight, damn both Woodes Rogers and King George to bloody hell!” We looked up at the slurring speaker, a rosy-cheeked man in bright, flashy clothes, his arm around a giggling woman, a bottle in his hand. He looked a lot like a guy I’d dated in college, a lacrosse player who spent all of his free time playing video games and all of our dates talking about how he wanted to be a fighter pilot. A real winner, as you could imagine. With the devil-may-care attitude and flower-print shirt, this pirate would have been right at home on a booze cruise in 2009. Until, of course, he killed someone.

I leaned toward England and whispered, “Who’s that?”

England replied, “Calico Jack Rackam.” He watched as my face lit with recognition. Calico Jack! Another name I’d heard before. This place was a veritable Who’s Who of piracy. A smile slowly spread across England’s face as he mumbled, “Made it into the history books, did he? Hmph. I wonder why?”

Calico Jack swayed a bit as his eyes tried to focus on me, and I observed that he wasn’t a bad-looking guy. As I was assessing Jack Rackam and he stood trying to assess me, England pushed a bowl of zesty-smelling food before me. “Eat,” he ordered, his voice low, his breath on my ear. “I’ve watched ye bring up every blessed thing ye’ve eaten in the past few days. Ye need to eat and keep it down.”

I smiled at him and murmured, “Thanks, Dad.” I then inspected the bowl in front of me: it looked like a bowl of salad toppings. I recognized pieces of meat (probably turtle), fish, and crab; they were garnished with hearts of palm, hard-boiled eggs, and a variety of pickled shrubbery. I smelled garlic and spice and wine, and despite my reluctance, my stomach growled loudly. I glanced around furtively for utensils and noticed that everyone else was using their hands. Fine then. I dug in, scooping up the strange mix with my fingers and slopping it into my mouth. Oh shit, that was spicy.

“Has all the cargo from the St. Martin been conveyed?” England asked Vane, ignoring Rackam as he clumsily plopped down at the table.

“It has,” Vane answered solemnly. He looked at England for a long while then said, “Are you still set on Africa, then?”

England nodded. “I’ll be sending Jameson to Abaco in a few days, where he and some of my men’ll await me.” He smiled wanly at Vane. “I’ve no desire to abandon Nassau. Not yet.”

“Protecting your ship from Rogers, are you? A bit premature, sending it to Abaco so soon, no?” Vane asked.

“I’ll not take the chance,” England replied. “But as I said, I’m here to fight with ye. I’ll not leave until I’m damn sure Nassau is lost to us.”

It occurred to me to ask England, “Africa? Brazil? What about me?” but I was too busy trying to extinguish the fire in my mouth. I grabbed England’s mug, fairly certain that I would not find water in it. Maybe, just maybe, it would be port or beer. Maybe, if I was really lucky, a claret or other fine wine looted from a prize. About that. I drank deeply and then very nearly spewed the fiery concoction all over the pirates who were conversing earnestly at the same table. They stopped to look at me, and almost immediately started laughing. Even England cracked a grin, despite himself.

Rackam spoke first. “A rumfustian virgin!” he cried gleefully as England retrieved a cup of water for me. I felt the heat leave my face as I downed the water, watching over the rim of the cup as Vane wiggled his eyebrows at me and the prostitutes cackled like witches in the background.

“What the hell is rumfustian?” I asked England in a choked voice when he was seated next to me again.

“’Tis a powerful brew, eh?” he said, smiling. “This one’s got raw eggs, gin, beer, sherry, and sugar.”

“There’s no rum in rumfustian,” I said hoarsely, and this caused the pirates to burst out in a fresh round of hearty laughter.

Vane’s humor improved at my expense, and he finally addressed me directly, asking, “How old are you, sweetheart?”

Rackam said, “I’d say a score and five years, at most,” then took and swallow from his bottle. England looked at me with interest.

I sat before the three pirates, thrilled that I knew what a “score” was. Rackham thought I was twenty-five. I smiled at the men and answered, “Actually, I’m thirty-one.”

I relished the looks of surprise on their faces. Vane cried, “Why, you’re as old as that one!” He jerked his thumb back at Kat, who was looking pretty pissed off. Kat easily looked like she was in her late forties. I suddenly felt sorry for her – what must it be like to be a prostitute in 1718? The kind of hard living she had endured, only to be cast aside by these guys, must have been horrible. And she was probably one of the lucky ones, getting a piece of pirate booty. And by booty, I meant “plunder.” I had yet to see a single pirate whose booty a prostitute would be lucky to get.

Rackam suddenly tossed three dice on the table and, with a mischievous grin said, “A game of passage, Eddie?” I was beginning to wilt with fatigue. England noticed almost immediately and replied, “Nay, Jack. I think I’m for bed.”

Vane and Rackam exchanged looks and then leered at me. “I don’t blame you,” Rackam said, baring his teeth in less of a smile and more of a snarl. “Not one bit.”

England led me from the tavern back to the house. We didn’t speak – I had a million questions to ask him, but my brain was too exhausted to articulate them. By the time we got back I could barely keep my eyes open. England bid me goodnight but, before he could leave my small, stuffy room, I said, “Edward?”

He turned to look at me, surprised. “Aye?”

“Don’t leave me,” I pleaded, sounding far too desperate for my taste. But there was no helping it – I was desperate. “Whatever your plans are – Africa, Brazil – just don’t leave me.”

I saw his jaw tighten before he answered, “I swear to ye, lass, I’ll make sure yer safe. Don’t worry yerself over it. Now get to sleep.”

“Why are you doing this for me?” I tried to keep the tears out of my voice, but I was so tired, mentally, emotionally, physically…

England looked at me for a long moment, something tender in his expression. For a second, it looked like he debated something, then, resigned, he said gently, “Ye need to sleep, Sabrina. To bed with ye.”

He left and I kicked off my shoes, curling up on the cot. Something about our exchange was nagging me, something… Before I knew it, I was in a deep, dreamless sleep.