Cavalier Prince of Pirates (Post 7)

The next morning, just as dawn broke, I dressed myself for the role of English merchant’s wife in the main cabin as the men worked on deck, preparing the Buck for its arrival in the Cape Verde Islands. I washed myself as well as I could in the fresh water Howel had given me, and then anointed my body with the perfumes that had been in the looted trunks.

As I fiddled with the heavy silk gown, stomacher, and petticoats, I wondered at not having encountered a gentlewoman of the time. The only women I had dealt with were prostitutes and tavern wenches, and some of them were both. I suppose when one kept the company of pirates… But I wasn’t entirely sure how gentlewomen acted, or what was proper etiquette in 1719 for a woman of noble birth. I mean, was I supposed to curtsy or something? Offer my hand to kiss? I was like Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, except my teacher was a damn pirate. I resolved to generally keep my mouth shut, my back straight, and my eyes down.

There was some white powder and rouge — presumably makeup, probably made of questionable ingredients — amongst the chest of gowns, and I coughed as I applied it, trying to hide my sun-burned cheeks behind a layer of chalky white. Jesus, I felt like a clown. I dabbed at my face, trying to lighten its stark effects. The end result was not terrible, as the rouge made my cheeks and lips rosy. Drat my lack of modern makeup. I couldn’t possibly look as good as I wanted to look. I’d blow these guys away with a bit of foundation and mascara, dammit. As I finished haphazardly pinning up my damp hair, Howel banged on the door.

I threw open the door, slightly flustered by my inability to make myself look as good as I’d like, and said gruffly to Howel, who was standing in the open doorway, “You’ll have to learn to knock like a gentleman too, apparently.”

His eyes darted down and then back up, and he smiled, not speaking for a second. I could tell he liked what he saw. He said evenly, “And you’ll have to learn to answer doors with a bit more delicacy, not like a sullen pirate boy.” He fixed his eyes on mine, fairly scorching me with his gaze. “Darling wife, ‘tis time for me to dress according to my station, so if you would be so kind as to let me get my things…”

If Howel made it a habit of looking at me like that, I was going to drench this pretty gown with sweat in no time. I stepped aside to let him in, saying, “Should I leave and let you perform your… er… toilet in private?”

Howel piled some apparel into his arms and grinned at me. “Nay, I can do it elsewhere. Besides, while the crew knows that you are a woman now, there be no need to tempt them unnecessarily. You should stay here for the time being, and only mingle with the men when dressed as a boy.”

He left to dress belowdecks, and I sat in the cabin, nervously watching as the Cape Verde Islands came into sight. Everything was in place: Howel had hoisted the English colors and prepared the goods — much of the loot from his French prizes — for trading. I tapped my foot nervously, my toes pinched in my ribboned shoes. Howel had made my sex known to the crew, and although they had been wary and disapproving at first — women were thought to be bad luck at sea — Howel had convinced them that my presence was of utmost importance to their cause. After he explained to them his plan and what my role would be, the crew voted to keep me.

Soon, we were sailing into the harbor at São Nicolau, and I grew tired of hiding in the cabin. I had become accustomed to watching the action, if not partaking in it myself. Surely an honest English merchant who brought his wife along on such a voyage did not expect her to remain locked behind doors the entire time. Right?

I walked out to find that only a few deck hands worked on deck; Howel must have hidden the rest of the men in the hold. Howel, as master of the ship, and two of his officers — Walter Kennedy and an ambitious pirate from Somerset named Thomas Anstis — stood on the quarterdeck, fully visible to anyone who might be watching from the shore. They were dressed the part of gentlemen, and I nearly gasped as Howel turned to greet me.

“Ah!” he said in that uppity accent, holding his hand out to me, “Sabrina, my lovely wife! Please, join us. The air is most refreshing, the view most pleasing.” What a dashing figure Howel Davis cut, very nearly taking my breath away. He wore a maroon, gold-embroidered, knee-length coat that looked like it had been made for him, fitting his torso perfectly and flaring slightly at the bottom. It had wide, folded sleeves, a short standing collar, and gold buttons. Beneath it, he wore a matching waistcoat, breeches, black hose, and square-toed shoes with small buckles. It was tasteful but masculine, perfect for him. He had no wig, but wore his own hair loose, to his shoulders, beneath a high tricorn hat. He was clean-shaven, and as finishing touches, had a smallsword at his hip and cane in his hand.

As our hands touched, he smiled waggishly, reminding me that he was, for all his fancy clothes, still the sweet, vivacious Howel Davis. He’d been hardened, had become more cynical, there was no doubt. He was angry with this world for giving him little choice, for forcing his hand. He no doubt felt that, by becoming a pirate, he’d betrayed someone or something — perhaps the boy who’d been raised by honest cattle farmers, perhaps God Himself. Whatever he thought and felt, he’d set it aside to play this game, to “enlist in the service of the Devil,” as I’d heard his crew call it.

And he would do it well, by his own code of honor.

His hand was rough and dry and warm against mine, and I found that I was holding my breath, so focused on the sensation I was. I was sad when he finally let go, turning to oversee the dropping of the anchor. I was suddenly aware of the mountains, the jagged, barren cliffs before me. At their bases sat Ribeira Brava, the main town, with its primitive houses, lush vegetation, and black sand beaches. The Portuguese fort sat nestled behind the town, its flags flapping in the wind, its cannons perched cautiously over earth ramparts.

To say I was nervous as Howel, his “officers” Walter and Thomas, and I were rowed ashore by two more honest-looking pirates would be an understatement. But Howel was cool, confident, talking cheerfully to his men, and twirling his cane between his hands. He was clearly in his element.

A well-dressed Portuguese officer awaited us on the beach with an escort of soldiers, his face fierce, his eyes probing. His eyes fell on me and I saw him instantly relax. I must have looked convincing as a gentlewoman. As we got out of the boat, I realized Howel was waiting for the officer to say something first, implying that he, Howel, was a social superior. The officer took the hint.

“Greetings, Sir,” he said in his thick Portuguese accent. He removed his hat and bowed to me. “Madam, your servant.”

Howel nodded, smiling warmly. “Good day, Friend. I am Captain Charles Reed. We come in peace, in the name of King George, to offer our fine goods to the people of São Nicolau. If you would be so kind as to grant us an audience with the governor, we would be much obliged.”

I saw the remnants of doubt dissipate from the officer’s face as he registered Howel’s tone and appearance. He’d bought our story. “Of course, Sir. If you would be so kind as to follow me…”

We were taken to the governor’s home, a large, tile-roofed villa, in a carriage that bumped down the rugged roads. The governor, a fellow named Agostinho, was a squat man with greasy skin and a wide mouth that was permanently fixed in a smile. He eyed me appreciatively, lavishing compliments upon Howel on my account. Howel smiled genially, his eyes sparkling. Using me as a prop had been a boon, and he knew it.

“Madam,” Agostinho said to me, “I am quite amazed by your beauty! Are you certain you have no Portuguese blood?”

I smiled nervously, looking down. “Quite certain, kind sir,” I replied softly, moving subconsciously closer to Howel.

“You must dine with me,” the governor said decisively. “We will discuss what merchandise you bring over some roast suckling pig.”

Howel nodded. “Your humble servant, Sir.” Then he smiled. “And I would be honored if Your Excellency would share in some French wines I have brought.”

The governor’s eyes lit up. “I would be most honored, Captain Reed!”

We were treated like royalty by Governor Agostinho and the gentry of São Nicolau that night, dining in a grand hall with no fewer than fifteen noble men and women. I covertly watched the Portuguese women as they fluttered their fans and picked at their food. They wore lacy mantilla veils over their ringlets, and whitened their naturally dark skin with thick layers of powder. What was considered beautiful in this era was so very odd to me: the ghastly white powder made their teeth look all the more yellow. One woman in particular, a dark-eyed lady with delicate features and a heart-shaped beauty patch near her mouth, made eyes at the handsome English Captain Reed, and I felt my appetite for suckling pig wane. I found myself hoping there was lots of lead in her makeup. That would teach her to look at my husband like that. Walter played the part of laconic English gentleman, and Thomas convincingly held his own as an officer of an English merchantman.

I stole a glance to my side, at Howel’s profile. He dominated the conversation, talking about London as though he knew it well, about its noble class as though he truly were a part of it. Everyone at the table listened to him with avid interest, or, at the very least watched him with avid interest, since many of them probably didn’t speak English. And Howel was one to watch, regardless of what language he spoke. He flourished under the attention, his cheeks flushed from the wine and good food, and he peppered his conversation with Portuguese words he knew, causing the women to titter from behind their fans. As the governor and his company laughed at something witty Howel had said, Howel looked at me, our eyes meeting. I smiled shyly, he winked at me.

Governor Agostinho cleared his throat, and when we turned our attention back to him, he said archly, “Am I wrong in my assumption that the good Captain is newly wed?”

“Ah,” Howel replied. “No, Your Excellency, you would be correct. We have been married just recently.”

The governor smiled at me knowingly, making me quite uncomfortable. He said, “I shall give one of my finest rooms, then, to the young and charming Captain Charles Reed and his captivating bride.”

Howel smiled graciously. “You are too kind, Your Excellency. Too kind.” He looked at me, his expression utterly wicked. “Isn’t he, Wife?”

I narrowed my eyes at him but stifled my laugh. “To be sure, Husband, you know these matters better than I.” Howel did not miss the sarcasm in my voice, I was sure of it, as the hint of a smile remained on his lips for a while afterwards.

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