Howel Davis (Post 7)

What an idiot I was.

I moved about the ship, doing the tasks I was assigned and treating the sick, unscathed by the harsh, vulgar comments made to me or about me by the crew, dusting myself off and going about my business when a surly seaman would trip me purposefully. My eyes followed Davis, watching him as he commanded the Cadogan with complete confidence. I would not be brought down from my high. An entire miserable day was made good when Davis would smile at me, commend my hard work, or simply tease me.

I was not the only person covertly watching Davis. Like the sneaking puppy Davis had said he was, Ned Taylor kept an envious eye on his new captain. I began to watch Taylor almost as closely as I watched Davis, becoming increasingly convinced that he was up to no good. When the men took their meals, Taylor sat alone, quietly, those dark eyes flickering over the men, over the slaves, over me, over Davis, as though he were plotting. Occasionally Blaine would keep him company, and I could have sworn I saw knowing looks pass between them.

Wondering if I was simply being my overly sensitive twenty-first century female self, I said nothing of my suspicions to Davis. And before I knew it, it was too late.

One cloudy afternoon, Davis was issuing some routine orders to several members of the crew, but found that they stood idly by. He repeated his orders, but the crew simply amassed on deck in a crowd, once again disregarding his orders. Davis became livid. “What are you curs about, then? Do you seek a good flogging, the lot of you?” he cried.

Ned Taylor then came forward, saying he had something of “utmost importance” to say. He stood amidst the crew, looking at Davis. “See here, Davies! When we get to Barbados, there’ll be trouble for us. We’ll be charged with mutiny, we will, and we’ll have to prove our innocence. You ain’t concerned about such matters, sayin’ that the pirate lad’ll witness for us.” There was a murmur of disapproval as Taylor pointed at me in disgust, and I stifled the urge to stick my tongue out at him. “I don’t know about the men, but I have no faith in the li’l milksop! ‘Tis a wonder you don’t worry more about the situation.”

The murmuring grew louder, and as Davis opened his mouth to speak, Taylor continued, nearly yelling with urgency, turning now to look at the faces of the crew. “Are you men not concerned at how Davis accepted the pirate’s gift to him? How he runs this ship as though it were a rover? Look, now, how relaxed he is with his discipline, how he lets the slaves wander by their own free will as though they weren’t somebody else’s property! How he portions out items from the cargo itself, as if it were plunder!”

My heart was racing. Davis had been so good to the crew, so fair. Surely they wouldn’t turn against him now? But most of the Cadogan crew had participated in the torturing of Skinner, cheering Jameson on and pelting the captain with glass bottles. Now, their only witness was a boy they’d mercilessly tormented for several weeks, and there was no telling what that “boy” would tell the authorities once in Barbados. No, the situation was not looking good for the men of the Cadogan, and they knew it. Taylor’s meaning had not been missed: Accuse Davis of trying to turn pirate, and escape the charges of mutiny that were bound to arise.

Blaine, who’d been standing in the back, spoke, his cheek bulging with tobacco. “I’m with ye, Taylor,” he said, his big, hairy arms crossed on his chest. “I hear’d Davies talking about going on the account a number ‘o times, I did.”

Davis remained calm, but his voice was low and threatening. “You’re both full of shit, and you know it,” he said.

Taylor ignored him, appealing to the crew.  “Who else knows of Davis’ piratical intentions? Surely there are more witnesses.”

I was amazed to watch as one after the other, the men ganged up against Davis – he’d plundered the cargo, had been heard talking about sailing to Port Royal in Jamaica, had been ordered by England to sail to Brazil and sell the booty. As I watched Davis’ face, I began to wonder how many of the stories were true. Surely Davis hadn’t really been thinking about turning pirate? Not that I would blame him: The life of a pirate seemed far better than this. Anything was better than this.

Ned Taylor’s dark eyes looked at Davis, a malicious glint in them. “Clap ‘im in irons!” he cried.

“No!” I yelled involuntarily, jumping up, but I went unnoticed as the shouting men grabbed at Davis. He would not go without a fight: As the crew cornered him, Davis took advantage of his last moments of freedom to slug Ned Taylor in the mouth.

As they took Davis down, Taylor kicked him sharply in the ribs, cursing, “You son of a whore! I’ll bash your pretty face in…” Blaine held Taylor back, muttering something in Taylor’s ear that seemed to calm him.

I panicked as they took Davis down into the hold, looking frantically around for an ally, someone who would stand up for Davis with me. I noticed that the crew had thought ahead, quietly and quickly locking the bigger, more dangerous slaves back up before confronting Davis.

Think, Sabrina, think! All I wanted to do was throw myself at them, insisting that they lock me up with Davis. I was sure they’d be more than happy to oblige. But that wouldn’t help anything.

I had been forgotten for the moment as the crew shackled the remaining slaves and forced them back down into the hold. I stood stock still, wishing I knew what to do. I felt impotent with rage. How dare the crew accuse Davis of piracy when he’d been so good to them? When he’d saved them from the pirates? Davis would never… Or would he?

My mouth fell open. Sky’s book. Why hadn’t I thought to look before? Had I been so caught up in everything that I’d forgotten about it? Davis had been so vehemently opposed to piracy, I’d just assumed my book about pirates had ceased to be of use to me. But if Davis did become a pirate, at least a somewhat successful one, the book might, just might, say something about it…

I wanted to run, but instead walked as inconspicuously as I could back to the cabin where my knapsack lay hidden beneath the bunk. I tore Rovers of the Sea out and flipped to the index: Davis, Howel, first mate of the Cadogan, 225… career as pirate, 352-353…

One page? That’s it? Oh, God. This had been under my nose this whole time and I hadn’t thought to look for it. The process of time travel must have killed a few brain cells. I found myself shaking as I opened the book to page 352, afraid of what I would find there. I forced myself to read:

The Cavalier Prince of Pirates… A charming, cunning pirate with a thrilling but brief career, Davis tried to join the pirates after Edward England gave him the Cadogan, but his law-abiding crew refused…

Bullshit, I thought. “Law-abiding crew” my ass. History is kind to those who write it. I continued reading:

He was imprisoned briefly, after which he went to Nassau in the hopes of finding a pirate crew…he was elected captain by the pirates… known for using deception rather than brute force to capture his prizes in the Caribbean and off the West African coast…

I thought my heart would stop beating when I reached the end of page 353:

Davis was ambushed at the island of Principe, where he “dyed like a game Cock”, shooting two Portuguese as he fell. He was succeeded by Bartholomew Roberts, the most successful Golden Age pirate.

I slowly became aware that tears were streaming heedlessly down my face. I had been alive nearly thirty-two years, and I swear I cried more since arriving in 1718 than I had my whole life. What I wouldn’t give for some good old 2009 anti-depressants. I wiped the tears and snot from my face with my sleeve, angry at myself for letting these men, these pirates, get under my skin. I reminded myself that they’d been dead for a long time, that they were simply following the paths that fate had laid out for them. For some reason, this made little difference in how I felt. England and Davis were alive now, this very moment, and if it was in my power to change their fates, why shouldn’t I try?

I thought about Sophie and Jake. I wondered if it wasn’t better to leave the past untouched, and to just focus on getting back to my family. But hadn’t I already touched the past? Didn’t my very presence in 1718 affect everything anyway?

I squeezed my eyes shut and tilted my head back. God help me, I was helpless in my desire to follow Howel Davis, to try and save him from his premature death. Me, a married woman, a mother, and an attorney, who’d long given up any thoughts of romance and living in the moment and letting my emotions rule me. I should have been ashamed of myself.

But I wasn’t. I carefully hid my knapsack and stood, clearing my throat. I was throwing caution to the wind. My reason for living in 2009 should have been my little girl and my patient, loving husband. My reason for living in 1718 was shackled in the hold of this slave-ship, punished for being a good man in a merciless world.

I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

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