Howel Davis (Post 1)

Two strong hands seized me before I had time to assess how badly I was hurt, and I turned to see England’s face. Concern and fury fought in his expression. He carried me with purpose, taking long strides through the smoke, as though he knew where he was going. He burst into the captain’s cabin – a more luxurious place than the cabin aboard England’s ship, for sure – and set me on the pillowed bunk. He tore the sleeve of my shirt from the wound, then wrapped the cloth around my arm in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Then he drew his weapons and left.

I tried to sit up, tried to look at the wound in my shoulder. I was getting dizzy, and found that looking at my injury was making me feel faint. The door to the cabin flew open, and in walked an ashen-faced man carrying a chest, England behind him, holding his pistol firmly against the man’s back. England ordered, “Clean yer fucking hands and get the ball out of the lad’s arm.” He looked at me. “Tell him what to do, so he doesn’t butcher ye.” Then he left again.

The man shook as he opened his chest, bafflement and fear on his face. I was breathing hard. “What ship is this?”

The man, presumably the doctor or surgeon of the merchantman, stammered, “’Tis the snow Cadogan from Bristol.”

This was it. “Do you have water and soap?” I asked, in a hurry to get this over with, the pain choking me. He nodded, and I directed him to scrub his hands clean, and to disinfect his instruments with soap, water, and alcohol before using them. He seemed puzzled by my demands but did not object. Once done, he unwrapped my makeshift bandage and examined the wound.

“’Tis just a flesh wound. But I’ll have to get the ball out,” he said. “This will hurt quite a bit, so be a good lad, now.”

I felt the sweat roll down the back of my neck and bead on my brow. Oh, why didn’t I just keep my happy ass on the pirate ship? I bit my own torn shirt as he used forceps to extract the ball, which hurt like a son of a bitch but didn’t take as long as I thought it would. Or maybe it was because I temporarily passed out. I opened my eyes to see the doctor holding smelling salts beneath my nose, my arm throbbing but wrapped in clean linen.

He offered me a drink from a bottle of wine, which I happily took. He had a strange expression on his face as I drank deeply, as if seeing me for the first time. “You’re a woman,” he said, wonderment in his voice. While I wanted to ask him how he came about that revelation – maybe he’d peeked in my shirt while I was out, the dirty bastard – I was more concerned with the whole “brutally tortured and killed” thing that was supposed to happen any moment now.

“What’s happening on deck?” I asked weakly, hearing the angry cries of the pirates.

The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know, but we should, perhaps, stay here…” He was terrified.

I stood unsteadily, my head reeling. “You can stay, then,” I replied. “I’m going up.”

The doctor made no move as I struggled up and out of the cabin, my left arm hanging limply at my side. The wine was beginning to work. As I entered the waist of the ship, I leaned heavily against the bulwark, going unnoticed by the men gathered there. The smoke had dissipated some, and I could see that the pirates had surrounded a well-dressed man, apparently the captain. He was a stocky fellow with a mean, pock-marked face, and he looked utterly mortified, sweating like a pig. Behind him, his crew stood weaponless, watching the proceedings silently. I noticed that, apart from the occasional flashy sash or waistcoat, there was little to distinguish the crew of the merchantmen from that of the pirate ship. If anything, the pirates looked to be in better shape. Hmm. Make that much better shape.

Jameson pushed past the crew to stand before the captain, his large jaw thrust forward, his face livid with rage. I had never seen the man so angry before. England stood behind him, his eyes darting from his quartermaster to the merchant captain. Suddenly Jameson threw his head back and laughed aloud. “Ah, Captain Skinner! Is it you?” he said, approaching the cowering captain. Jameson poked himself in the chest with his forefinger. “It’s me! Thomas Jameson. Yer old boatswain. Remember? I am much in yer debt, and now I shall pay ye all in yer own coin.” Jameson then approached England and spoke softly to him. England nodded, then stepped before the miserable crew of the Cadogan.

“Tell us true, ye men!” he said loudly. “Is this Captain Skinner worthy of living? Or does he treat ye like the dregs of society? Ye be the deciders of this man’s fate. If he’s a fair captain, he lives. If not, he dies.”

I saw the faces of some of the crew light up, and others lift their heads with interest. They murmured among themselves, and one man stepped forward. A burly sailor with a nose that had been broken a number of times, he had a murderous glint in his eyes. He said, “He’s as big a son of ‘o bitch as ever lived, and he deserves to die!”

This was met with fervent cheers, from both crews. Only a few Cadogan men hung back, their mouths shut. Captain Skinner began pleading as they ripped his shirt and jacket from him and tied him to the windlass. The brutal captain was gone, replaced by a groveling, desperate sailor. My palms grew moist and I felt ill, but I could not drag my eyes away from the scene. Jameson pulled out his cat ‘o nine tails – a whip with nine knotted tips – as the men began throwing bottles at Skinner, his cries lost in the wind.  Jameson then ordered the pelting to stop, and he began to lash the captain mercilessly.

The cheers and curses continued, became more heated. Jameson threw his entire body into the flogging, laying the whip across the bleeding man’s back, again and again and again… I finally looked away, afraid I would faint.

“Stop! I beseech you, pirate, stop!”

I looked up. A Cadogan sailor had made his way to the front and was speaking to England, his hands balled into fists. He wore a Monmouth cap over his black hair, a stringy tail hanging from the back. He was dressed in tatters – a frayed linen shirt and patched breeches, a waistcoat that had seen far better days. His feet were bare. He would have been quite a sorry sight, if not for his straight, fearless posture and fiery eyes.

England signaled to Jameson to stop, and he did. Skinner’s head hung limply, his back in bloody shreds. England looked at the sailor with interest. “And who are you, dog, to tell me my business?” he asked gruffly.

The sailor looked England straight in the eyes, never faltering. “I be Howel Davis, first mate of the Cadogan. And you said you’d kill him, not torture him. Skinner is ruthless scum, to be sure, but there be no need for this inhuman treatment, for the pleasure of sick men!”

Howel Davis. This was the guy England would gift the Cadogan to. From where I stood, I could just see his profile, the square set of his shoulders, the tense muscles in his back. England’s gaze was piercing. “Do ye call me a sick man?” he asked, his voice dangerous.

Davis grinned. “Aye, I do. You and your kind.” And with that, he spat on the deck at England’s feet. Holy God, this guy had a death wish. England continued to stare as the pirates grew restless, grumbling and brandishing their weapons in Davis’ direction. England then looked at Jameson and, with a brisk nod, ended Skinner’s life. Jameson pulled a pistol from his sash and shot the Cadogan captain in the head.

I clapped my hand to my mouth to keep from screaming, squeezing my eyes shut at the gory sight. As I tried to compose myself, Skinner’s body was thrown overboard, the blood mopped up quickly. All the while, Davis and England stood assessing each other unflinchingly.

“What ho, Cap’n?” Jameson asked, looking daggers at Davis. “Shall we lay ‘im open?”

England smiled. “Nay. This kind of mettle is rare. I’d have ‘im join us.” He grinned at Davis. “What say ye, Howel Davis? Will ye sign the articles?”

Davis bared his teeth. “I’d sooner be shot to death.” He gestured at the cutlass on England’s hip. “And since you’d make sport of me anyhow, you may as well give me a weapon and fight me, pirate.”

England laughed aloud. “Ye are mad, sailor, to challenge a pirate to a fight! Jameson, give the man a cutlass, will ye? We’ll see if he’s a fighting man, or just full ‘o bluster.”

Jameson flipped a cutlass in the air, and Davis caught it adeptly by the hilt. England said, “A student of the sword, are ye, sailor?”

Davis clasped both hands around the grip, the curved blade glinting in the daylight. He replied, “Ha! Me? Not likely. But I’m awful good with a cudgel.” He grinned insolently.

England moved suddenly, and the duel began in earnest, cold steel clashing together. England clearly was the more educated swordsman – he moved the way I’d seen Olympic fencers move, and he skillfully controlled Davis’ blade while cutting and thrusting. Davis, on the other hand, moved like a Highlander, wielding the cutlass like a Scottish broadsword. While I knew that neither man would die – not unless the book was wrong – I still found myself pressing my knuckles against my teeth in anticipation.

Before I realized what was happening, Davis had been backed into a corner. He dropped his cutlass with a clatter and opened his arms, panting. “Run me through, then, pirate, and I’ll see you in hell!” he hissed.

England pressed the tip of his cutlass against Davis’ chest threateningly, then smiled and lowered his arm. “Ye’re a brave man, Howel Davis, if a crazy one. I give the Cadogan to you, then, to divide the plunder among yer men.”

Davis blinked at England in astonishment. “How now? I told you I weren’t no pirate.”

England considered, rubbing his chin. “A clean man, are ye? Then take yer ship to its proper port in Barbados and continue to submit to the laws that rich men have made for their own security. Ye’ll always be but the scum of the earth to them, but ’tis you who serves them, who allows them this advantage.” England then turned to the pirates. “Let’s be off, you men!”

As the pirates reluctantly made their way back onto the Royal James, England spotted me crouching against the bulwark and came over, signaling for Davis to follow him. Davis, still stunned by England’s generosity, followed mutely. I straightened as they came to stand before me, and England said to Davis, “I have one request of ye, sailor. Take this injured lad back to Barbados with ye, and be sure he’s safe before ye set sail again.”

“What!” I cried, my arm throbbing furiously. “No! I’m staying with you!”

Davis looked at me then at England. “I’ll take him back, if he’ll come.”

England said, “His name is Will, and he’s my nephew, see? His safety is of utmost importance to me.”

Davis met England’s eyes. “I’ve no words, pirate. I thankee for giving me the Cadogan, and will do my utmost to keep Will safe.”

“No,” I said again. Then I looked at England desperately. “Can I speak with you privately?”

Davis took the cue and left to perform his new duties as captain, leaving me with England. “Why are you doing this?” I asked, choked.

England brought his face close to mine. “Look at ye, Sabrina. Ye shot yerself! And this being yer first capture! I told ye once ye’d not last a moment in this life, and ye’re proving me right.”

I blushed. “Yes, but…” I had nothing to say. “You’d discard of me so quickly? Because I’m a liability to you? I thought you… cared for me.”

England looked bewildered, and was silent for a second. In a voice that was thick with emotion, he said, “Cailin, I want ye off my ship because I care for ye! Care for ye too much…” He stopped suddenly, clenching his jaw. “Davis is an honest man, a brave man. I don’t doubt he’ll be true to his word. Go back with him, Sabrina, and mayhaps find a way back to yer daughter.”

“Your crew has to vote,” I insisted. “They won’t like that they’re losing their doctor.”

England smiled slightly. “We voted before, agreeing that if ye became burdensome, it was in my authority to send ye back on a prize.”

I slumped in resignation. I’d become burdensome, apparently. My arm hurt. I was tired. And buzzed. And traumatized. “My knapsack… and medicine chest…”

England’s face softened. “I’ll bring them to ye.”

I looked at him. “The Jesuit bark. Take it. For the ague…”

He nodded, squinting into the horizon. He acted as if he wanted to say more, pursing his lips and shifting his weight from leg to leg, and when he eventually looked me in the face, I understood: He loved me. How daft was I, not to have seen it? We stood staring at each other, our eyes doing the talking. My eyes told him what he needed to know – that I cared for him like I would a brother. Disappointment flashed across his face, and he looked away quickly. His expression suddenly neutral, he said, “Take care of yerself, now. Stay away from pirates.” With that, he strode to the forecastle and leaped easily onto his ship.

I stared after him, my vision blurring. That was it? I still had to say so many things, ask so many things… Edward England, my sole protector and friend, had left me. I wanted to cry, to curl into a ball and just die. What would I do now? Who were these men, these common sailors, who were now in control of the ship?

“Will,” Davis said. He was looking at me kindly, holding a bottle out to me. “It’ll numb you, if nothing else,” he said, grinning. “Take a rest in the captain’s quarters.”

I took the bottle and shuffled back to the cabin, then I flopped on the bunk and slept fitfully.

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