Cavalier Prince of Pirates (Post 5)

The next day, Howel decided to free both his prizes. “They’re far too slow to be useful rovers,” he told his crew. “They’ll simply hinder us. We’ll give them back to the Frenchmen and let them be on their way.” The crew agreed, and Howel cheerfully restored the ships — looted of their cargo and arms, of course — back to their captains and crew.

The French captains, almost even more distraught by this development than they were with having been captured by deceit, tried to throw themselves overboard, so humiliated were they from being outwitted by the pirate Howel Davis. Their crews stopped them from killing themselves. One of the captains, the portly gentleman with the long wig, even insisted that Howel kill him for the sake of honor. Howel demurred, shaking his head and muttering something about “the crazy French.”

Once we were a lone pirate sloop again, Howel called a very important meeting, one that would decide our destination. Howel paced the deck, his hands behind his back, chewing on the inside of his cheek between thoughts. “Any riches to be had will be off the Guinea Coast,” he said. “Gold. Ivory. Not to mention, Rogers has got a strangle-hold on Nassau. These waters ain’t good for pirates, not anymore.”

I looked at him in alarm, and he deliberately did not look back. He and I both knew what I was thinking: Prince Island, the predicted place of his death, was off the West African coast, a Portuguese colony and vibrant trading center. As if answering my thoughts, he said, “We’ll stop at Coxon’s Hole, careen the Buck, and then take the trade wind to the Cape Verde Islands.”  The Cape Verde Islands were 300 miles away from the coast of Africa, and that was too damn close for my taste.

But that was where we were going, despite my vote against it.

Coxon’s Hole was on the eastern coast of Cuba, a narrow inlet just big enough for one ship. There, Howel and his crew cleaned the hull of the Buck, getting her in shape for some serious plundering. It was tedious work, this careening business, as everything — including the cannons — had to be lifted off the sloop, then the sloop itself towed onto the beach and tilted to one side, then the other, for cleaning and caulking.

“We must clean the hull of barnacles, seaweed, and those damn worms, that eat away the wood,” Howel explained to me, shading his eyes against the sun to survey the progress. “After we’ve scraped or burned it all off, we have to replace the planks that’ve rotted. A damn hard job,” he grumbled, “as we haven’t a skilled carpenter among us.”

While the pirates wanted to take advantage of their time on land to drink and find themselves some local women, Howel was gently but firmly adamant that they get the work done quickly. He was so popular with his crew that they obeyed him with little complaining, readily doing their smiling, self-effacing captain’s bidding. Howel kicked off his boots and tossed aside his shirt to work alongside his men, singing their shanties and drinking with them, acting every bit the common sailor.

I helped too, scraping away at the nasty crud that had accumulated on the bottom of the sloop, trying not to grimace all the while. Walter Kennedy had carefully avoided me since that night of our fencing lesson, and I didn’t doubt he knew I was a woman. I would have been very alone indeed if I hadn’t been keenly aware of Howel’s consciousness of me. He watched me surreptitiously, feigning indifference, but when we would, by chance, lock eyes, I saw it — a twinge of feeling, something behind the veil of nonchalance.

Perhaps he thought of me like the sister he had loved and lost. In the end, I didn’t know how much or in what way, but I knew that he cared.

And that was enough.

For the time being.

Once the Buck was in fighting form, we set sail for the Cape Verde Islands. It would not take very long to get there, as the Buck was small, fast, and freshly repaired. I was getting into a routine on board the Buck, finding ways to keep myself occupied and for what it was worth, happy. I helped mend sails, cleaned the deck, and nursed the ailing pirates. I had restocked my medicinal herbs while at Coxon’s Hole, and was once again prepared for the diseases of Africa. Maybe this time I’d actually get there. Or maybe now that Howel was a pirate, he’d pull an Edward England and try to send me back on a prize.

I scowled. The thought was not amusing.

One sunny afternoon, shortly before we reached our destination, I practiced the moulinet that Walter had taught me on a makeshift target. Walter saw me and smiled, looked away quickly. I was getting better, I thought proudly. Granted, I had no idea how I would do against an actual opponent. I’d probably drop the cutlass and run, screaming. I chuckled to myself. In the words of Walter Kennedy, I’d be “as good as pork.”

“Would you care for a real adversary?”

I turned to see Howel tossing a cutlass from hand to hand, that playful, mischievous twinkle in his eyes. My heart jumped. The patented Howel Davis look. I nodded and stepped aside. “‘Tis easy to be arrogant when what you’re fighting cain’t fight back. We’ll see if you’ve learned anything at all,” he said, taunting me.

I felt the blood surge through my veins, the desire to whoop Howel’s ass pulse through me as he assumed guard position before me, his lips parted ever so slightly in a smile. This was a perfect way for me to take out all my pent up aggression.

I grinned at him and saluted. He grinned and saluted back. I attacked immediately, and he parried easily, his grin growing broader. He must have sensed the ardor in me. I continued to attack, and he continued to parry, remaining passive. “Not bad,” he said, still smiling, his eyes still shining. He lunged his first attack, cutting at me from above, and as I caught his cutlass with mine, he drew himself near me, pushing my weapon against my chest with his. Over our crossed blades, he muttered, “For a bit ‘o fluff.”

“Bastard!” I hissed, trying to disengage, but before I could see past my rage Howel had slipped his cutlass under mine and held it lightly against my body.

He laughed and said over his shoulder to Walter, “You did well, Walter, teaching Will here. But you need to teach him how to fight like a Whitechapel rough.” He grimaced at me. “Like a dirty pirate.”

With that, he turned his back to me, and as carefully as I could considering how impassioned I felt, I pricked his buttocks with the tip of my blade. He jumped, yelping, and spun around, his eyes round with surprise. “Why you little shit!” he cried in disbelief, rubbing his backside.

As I glared at him, his crew roared with laughter. It wasn’t long before Howel himself was laughing, his blue eyes bright with admiration. I laughed too. I said loudly, “Was that dirty enough for you, Captain Davis?”

“You put a hole in me breeches, dammit,” he said between guffaws. “You drew me blood, you did!”

I couldn’t stop giggling. “Serves you right.” Then feeling bad that I’d hurt him, I said, “I’m sorry.”

He beamed. “You’re  a piece ‘o work.” After a moment, he added softly, “A beautiful piece ‘o work.”

As he walked away, still massaging his derriere, I sagged down to the deck, elated, and accepted a cup of rum from Walter and the pats on the back from the crew.

As the crew sang and drank merrily, I found myself humming Blondie’s “The Tide Is High.” It had been on my iPod (how I missed my iPod), and for some reason was suddenly stuck in my head. I was in high spirits, feeling the urge to dance, and trying to do so without being obvious. The tide is high but I’m holding on… I’m gonna be your number one…

I would win his heart yet.

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