Cavalier Prince of Pirates (Post 1)

*So, it turns out that I am posting early more for myself than for you, beloved readers. This is one of my favorite parts of the story, and I wanted to post it before 2010. So Happy New Year, guys, and please let me know what you think!*

Ned Taylor was chief mate of the Buck.

It had taken me some time to piece this together, asking various sailors until I found someone who knew, but there it was. The man who had led the mutiny against Howel aboard the Cadogan and accused him of piracy, who had essentially destroyed Howel’s reputation and probably tortured him on top of it all, was now his superior aboard the Buck.

I knew men well enough to know that this would not fly with Howel Davis. If anything could cause him to go on the account, this was it. Even with all of my warnings, it would happen anyway. Oh, God. What was Ned Taylor doing as a first mate of a sloop-of-war? I thought back on his biography. He becomes a pirate hunter, but the book never said when or why.  Was it possible that Howel Davis was the reason? I suddenly felt sick. Here we were, all of us, just pawns in this game of life, plodding along the paths ordained by fate…

Panic seized me. Had I truly tried to change things? I still didn’t know if it was possible. I had told Howel about his fate, but I had not truly tried to prevent anything as yet. Had I? I gritted my teeth. Fine, the details be damned. I couldn’t stop Ned Taylor from being the first mate on the Buck, nor would I likely be able to prevent Howel Davis from becoming a pirate.

But I would be damned if I didn’t try to stop Howel from dying.

I didn’t have long to wait for things to start happening, as it turned out — Howel was not going to submit to Ned Taylor any longer than absolutely necessary. We had just anchored off the coast of Hispaniola, and as night fell, I prepared to take my rest on the deck. I had managed to escape notice aboard the Mumvil Trader for the few days we’d been at sea by keeping my mouth shut, my eyes down, and my hands busy. So long as I wasn’t told to climb aloft, they’d hear no protest from me.

Needless to say, I was exhausted. My thirty-one-year-old body ached for lack of a mattress to sleep on at night. I was getting too old for this shit. I draped my worn wool blanket over my head, thinking about Howel’s infectious smile, those gorgeous blue eyes of his… As my eyelids fluttered shut, I dreamed I heard him speak: “Get up, you men! We’re taking the sloops, both of ‘em, and you’ll either submit or suffer!”

My eyes popped open and I rolled over to my side, pulling the blanket from my face. There he was, in the flesh, using the flat of a cutlass to smack a sailor awake, a pistol tucked in his breeches. Beside him stood several young men, armed in kind, grinning menacingly. Next to them were the two captains, their wrists tied behind their backs, and a terrified Ned Taylor, bound and gagged.

The crew of the Mumvil Trader stirred awake, most of them apparently thrilled by this turn of events. They cheered Howel and his fellow mutineers, clearly ready and willing to join. My heart raced as I watched Howel prowl the deck, cutlass in hand, his teeth bared in a defiant scowl. This was not the Howel I knew. This Howel Davis was like an injured animal, snarling and vengeful. He was hatless and his hair was unbound, for once. It blew about his face in thick black waves.

“See here, you men!” he cried, turning to gaze at the faces lit by firelight around him. I thought he looked straight at me and I cowered, but he continued on, not seeing me. “Those of you who wish to join us, make your way aboard the Buck. Those of you cowardly whelps who’d rather sneak after the arseholes of such villains for employment,” at this, Howel moved behind Ned Taylor and prodded him with his cutlass, “then here aboard the Mumvil Trader you should stay, to allow your superiors to kick you about the deck at their pleasure!”

A cheer went up as most of the men rushed to clamber aboard the Buck. I stood, watching as Howel and the other leading mutineers surrounded the captains and Ned Taylor. One of them, a fair-haired fellow with a boyish face, said to Howel, “Let’s make an example of ‘em, Davies.”

“The only one,” Howel replied, “I’ve any interest in making an example of is Mr. Taylor here.” He grinned devilishly at Ned Taylor’s wide eyes, pressing the edge of his cutlass against Taylor’s throat ever so gently. “How’ve you been, Ned? Fancy meeting you here, so soon after you left me for dead in Barbados!” He laughed contemptuously. “Life is funny, ain’t it? You’ll wish you’d killed me when you had the chance.”

The fair-haired mutineer leaned toward Howel. “Let’s teach ‘im a lesson, Davies.”

Howel seemed to consider, then said, “We haven’t the time, Walter. Let’s strip ‘im of his fine clothes and dispatch the sloop back to New Providence.” Howel brought his face close to Taylor’s and sneered. “I should kill you, but then, if I did, I’d rob Jack Blaine of the pleasure.”

Taylor looked utterly terrified, as well as utterly confused. Then, without warning, Howel backhanded Taylor with all of his strength, causing Taylor’s head to snap back. “And that,” Howel snarled, “was for hitting Sabrina, you son of a bitch.”

I gaped in disbelief. Did he just hit Ned Taylor for me? Taylor had all but killed him, and he was hitting Ned Taylor for me? I felt weightless, dizzy, euphoric.

Taylor whined and moaned from behind his gag as the mutineers took his clothes, laughing all the while. Howel wasted no time slipping into Taylor’s apparel, pulling off his threadbare shirt and breeches. I felt the heat rush to my face as I caught sight of Howel’s bare back, his naked ass. And what a mighty fine ass it was. By the time I started breathing again, he was fully dressed, hopping on one foot as he pulled on the second boot.  It was a snug fit — while Howel and Ned Taylor were the same height, Howel was broader in the chest and shoulders. Regardless, it was a great improvement from the rags he’d been wearing all this time. He grinned at the pale, naked Taylor and turned to look at the remaining men, all of five sailors and myself, on the Mumvil Trader. “‘Tis your last chance, you men,” he said.

I stepped forward, my teeth nearly chattering with nervousness. “I’m coming with you,” I said.

“Good lad,” the fair-haired mutineer, Walter, said.

Howel looked at me and his nostrils flared. A stream of shocking expletives suddenly poured from his mouth, and he flung the cutlass he’d been holding point-first into the deck with all his strength. It stuck, vibrating from the force. He then raked his fingers through his hair and looked at me in a fury. “Damnation! What the… Why are you here?”

I had never seen him so angry. I was, justifiably, frightened. He was not happy to see me. “My, my, Howel Davis,” I answered, trying to sound acerbic. “Already cursing like a pirate, I see. You’re a natural.”

Howel approached me slowly, his expression ferocious. If there had been a window of opportunity to prevent Howel from going on the account, I had missed it. The man before me had been a pirate in his heart for a while. Instinctively, I stepped back, more thrilled than afraid. I felt, for a split second, like the heroine in Sky’s Harlequin, minus the blond hair and heaving bosom — this was the part where he grabbed me and kissed me passionately, then thrust me away, because God, he just couldn’t do this, he was running from the law now…

Howel stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “You’re going back to Nassau on the Mumvil Trader.”

So much for his ravaging me Lord Lance style. I snapped back, “The hell I am! I’m going with you.”

“The hell you are!” Howel retorted. “Don’t you realize — ”

“Oh, I realize!” I interrupted. “I realize that if you send me back to New Providence, I’ll end up in Ned Taylor’s hands, and Jack Blaine will be that much closer to finding me!”

Walter stepped towards us, confused. “Davies? It’ll be time…”

Howel growled so that only I could hear him, “Damn me for being whipped by a bit ‘o fluff! And damn you, for being a conniving little bird! We’ll take you aboard until we find a proper port to leave you at.” He grabbed my arm, shoving me roughly in the direction of the Buck. “Go, then!”

Wow. He was mad at me. I made my way onto the Buck, on the verge of tears. What had he called me? A bit of fluff? What nerve. All I was doing was trying to save him, for goodness sake. Talk about being ungrateful. Had I been silly to assume that he would be happy, on some level, to see me again?

Howel, Walter and some others transferred all of the valuable cargo from the Mumvil Trader to the Buck, including spices, silk, tea, and cloth, and stripped it of its guns. Then they untied the four remaining men, a very naked Ned Taylor included, and left them to their devices aboard the anchored Mumvil Trader. As the Buck sailed away, Taylor rushed up to the poop deck, his white body illuminated by the moonlight, shaking his fist and hurling threats at Howel. The mutineers roared with laughter at the sight, but Howel simply stood, arms crossed, a foreboding look on his face.

He should have killed Ned Taylor when he’d had the chance.

The mutineers quickly gathered on deck to elect a captain. They threw together a bowl of punch from the rum, wine, lemon juice and spice they’d found in the cargo and, after each man (and boy, in my case) had been given a generous cup, began their “counsel of war.” Walter Kennedy spoke first. “Listen here, you men! The Buck is now a free ship, and as such, we are free to elect its captain. I’ve heard the stories of Sir Henry Morgan and Henry Avery, and with Howel Davies as our commander, we could be as great as any of those thievish heroes!”

A great cheer went up that nearly jolted me from my seat, making my punch slop out over my lap. The men began chanting his name, but Howel merely sat, his boots propped up, his arms across his chest, his eyes flickering from face to face. The “election” was over before it even started, as every single man aboard the Buck voted for Howel as their commander. Once it became clear that it was unanimous, Howel himself stood and accepted the position. A quiet fell upon the excited crew as they waited anxiously for their new captain to speak.

Howel Davis was silent for a long moment. He held his cup between his hands, peering into its contents, his brow furrowed, his lips downturned ever so slightly. Then he looked up and smiled at the anxious faces around him — a whimsical, impish smile. He said, “The pirate Edward England once told me, in so many words, that I was a fool for submitting to the laws that rich men have made for their own security. He said that we’d always be but the scum ‘o the earth to them, but, in the end, ’twas us who served them, who allowed them this advantage.” Howel looked directly at me for a burning second, then continued to peruse the faces around him. “No more, my brothers. Our lives will be cut short for pursuing the game, don’t doubt it. But when we are hanged, which surely we will be, remember that while they vilify us, the scoundrels, there is only this difference between us and them: They rob the poor under the cover of law, while we plunder the rich under the protection of our own courage. We are free princes now, and we have the authority to make war on the whole world, and this, my conscience tells me, is what we should do.”

I have to admit, even I was roused by his speech. As the men shouted their hearty approval of their pirate captain, I locked eyes with him briefly.

And just like that, Howel Davis the sailor became Howel Davis the pirate.

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