Cavalier Prince of Pirates (Post 6)

It was the beginning of 1719.

The pirates Stede Bonnet and Blackbeard were dead, as I had predicted. The Cape Verde Islands, which the Portuguese controlled, were but days away, and we had just captured an English sloop with hardly any effort at all. Howel was in high spirits when he called his crew together to tell them of his plans once we reached the island of São Nicolau.

He held the English flag in his hands, his brow furrowed with thoughts none of the men could guess. I could guess them, of course. The Cavalier Prince of Pirates… known for using deception rather than brute force… They were things I hadn’t told Howel, things that were occurring to him independently, without my help. I hadn’t wanted to tell him. Why help him take those steps that would inevitably lead to his death? Despite my feeble efforts, things were happening as they were supposed to, and I shuddered to think what that meant.

“When we get to São Nicolau,” Howel told us, “we will not openly show our hand. Nay, we will outsmart those fat Portuguese. We will pose as English merchants, come to trade our goods. Once they have taken us into their arms, we will reveal our true selves.” He grinned at  his men. “Remember, men, ‘tis a game. A glorious game.”

Howel’s crew took to the idea. If Howel could pull it off, as they were certain he could, considering what he’d already done… Howel set about making the Buck look more like a merchantman than a rover, instructing his crew to “dress down,” more like common sailors. They stowed away their fine, looted apparel, their fancy weapons and silk scarves and embroidered waistcoats — for the time being.

Howel called me into his cabin that day, and I nervously entered to find Howel and Walter before an array of beautiful clothing, all brought out from an ornately-carved trunk and draped across the furniture. It was a dazzling display of brocade, damask, gold, silk and lace. It had been so long since I’d seen such things that I sighed with delight, walking over to touch the fine materials. I could not give myself away this time, for both men knew what I was. I relaxed, letting my feminine appreciation for beautiful clothing show in my face.

Howel cleared his throat. “I thought you might like some new clothes,” he said, his hands behind his back, his eyes looking kindly at me. “You’ll still be playing the part of the boy, of course, but… There may come a time when playing the lady will be necessary, no?”

I looked up at him and smiled. “Really?”

He refused to meet my eyes. “Aye. If Walter and I are to be gentlemen…” At this, Walter snorted and grumbled something unintelligible, “…we may need help convincing our prey that we are, in fact, what we claim to be. What better way to do that than have a lovely lady in our midst?”

I nodded excitedly. “I can help you, I know I can.”

Howel made a sweeping gesture toward the gowns among the clothes. “‘Tis yours, then.”

I ran my hands across one in particular, a gorgeous silk, salmon-pink damask mantua, a gown with a coat-like look to it. It bore a tiny floral pattern brocaded in gold and silver thread. It was pleated at the shoulders and fell to the waist, where it was held in place by a gold braided sash. It folded back into a bustle and had, beneath it, a matching petticoat and an intricately embroidered stomacher, complete with lace at the bodice. “It’s beautiful,” I murmured.

“Aye,” Howel agreed solemnly. “‘Twould look… eh… aye, ‘tis lovely.” I looked up at the men to find Walter holding back a smile, Howel fidgeting uncomfortably. Howel pointed to Walter and quickly said, “Now, if only I can find a way to make this lout look and act like a proper gentleman…”

“It ain’t in me,” Walter grumbled sullenly.

“‘Tis not!” Howel corrected. “Not ain’t. Ain’t no gentleman talk like that, you fucking clod.” Walter threw something at Howel, and Howel dodged it, saying, “You’ll just have to hold your clack and let me do the talking.”

I giggled and both men looked at me, as if suddenly remembering I was a woman. They knew they had to treat me like one of the boys in front of the crew, but in private? They didn’t know what to do with themselves. They were like two little boys on a playground, acutely aware that a little girl was watching them. I looked down bashfully and said, “So what should I do when we get to São Nicolau?”

Howel rubbed his hands together, clearly excited by the prospect of “playing pretend.” This was, without a doubt, the same man who’d dressed in Captain Skinner’s clothes my first day aboard the Cadogan. This was the same man who’d challenged Edward England to a fight, who’d won me over with his impish grin and easy manner. “So, me thinks…” He paused, rearranged his features to look haughty, then said in that uppity English accent, “Begging your pardon. I believe I will acquire a new identity, for our, ehm, piratical purposes. As soon as we drop anchor, I will no longer be that rascal, Howel Davis. I will become Captain Charles Reed, an honest English merchant and His Majesty’s loyal servant.” He bowed, smiled, and waggled his eyebrows at me.

I laughed and shook my head. He was so cocky, so infuriatingly charming. “I told you once upon a time that you missed your calling as an actor,” I said. “Looks as though you’ll be able to use your gift after all.”

“And you, milady?” he asked. “How are you at playing the good wife?”

My heart jumped. “I’m playing your wife?”

Howel kept his eyes level with mine, his face unreadable. “What else would you be? An unescorted female passenger? Nay, the most believable story is that we’re newly wed and you are accompanying me on this voyage.” He considered. “But if you’re uncomfortable with this, you can always be the ship’s boy –”

“No,” I said quickly. “Pretending to be your wife is brilliant, actually. It would give them even less reason to suspect you’re a pirate.”

Howel grinned, happy to see I followed his reasoning. “Exactly. So now, we’ll be anchoring in São Nicolau on the morrow, and we’ll have the act down by then. We shall be transformed.”

Howel, Walter and I proceeded to spend the rest of the afternoon drinking two bottles of French claret and practicing our “gentlefolk” accents. I felt like a B-list actress in a bad period movie, but in the end, I was better than Walter, who could not for the life of him shed his class. One moment he sounded Irish. The next moment, God love him, we couldn’t understand a bloody word he said.

“Sweet Jesus, Walter,” Howel cried. “What language are you speaking? Mayhaps you should pose as me dumb manservant instead.”

“Sod it,” Walter grumbled, throwing back yet another glass of wine, his blond hair flopping into his eyes.

I hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time. “The Portuguese aren’t likely to notice my bad accent, are they?” I asked between bursts of laughter.

“Not likely,” Howel replied, grinning and taking a swallow of claret directly from the bottle. “But even a Guinea native who’s never seen a white man before would wonder about Kennedy here.”

I can honestly say that, at that very moment, I was happy. And now, I was to get decked out in 18th century finery and pose as Howel’s wife.

I smiled from behind my glass, watching Howel and Walter banter.

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