*I must first thank my good readers for bearing with me while I made them wait and wait for the last couple installments of TNP. I have been in a veritable sh*tstorm of preschool illnesses, toddler catastrophes, and caffeine withdrawal. As a token of my appreciation, I give you the final chapter of Cavalier Prince of Pirates. It is short, but so is the wait. *

I was silent, horrified, as Taylor crumpled, his face purple, his eyes locked on me. After what felt like an excruciatingly long time, Taylor stopped struggling and slumped to the floor. Blaine released his grip and stood, looking no more put out than if he had killed a mosquito. He lifted Sophie’s photo from the ground and dusted it off, then squinted at me. “Ye see what ye had me do, lass? Now, why’d ye have to go and do that?”

“I don’t have the time or the energy to banter with you,” I replied, a bead of sweat running down my nose, my eyes fixed on the corpse that was, just moments ago, Ned Taylor.  “They’ll hang you for sure now.”

Blaine smiled — an ugly, sinister smile if ever I saw one. “I’ve enough allegiance from Taylor’s men that I can take the fort.” He considered for a moment. “But then, you would know that it ain’t me time yet, eh? The Devil will have me soul, but not yet.”

Here was my chance. “Jack Blaine,” I said, leaning against the wall, trying to stand. “If you spare Howel Davis, I will tell you your future. If you don’t, I will die with him, and my knowledge with me.”

He crossed his arms on his chest. “How will I know what ye say is truth?”

“How will I know you won’t kill Howel?” I retorted.

Blaine was silent, absently nudging at Taylor’s body with his foot. I winced. “Aye, then,” he said. “Ye have me word I’ll spare Davies. I’ve nothing against ‘im — ‘twas Taylor that wanted ‘im dead.”

I tried to think, rubbing my eyes with my filthy palms, the fever sounding a high-pitched alarm in my ears. Did I have a choice, at this point? I only had one card to play, and I wasn’t certain Blaine wouldn’t kill me as well after I had given him the advantage. “I want to know he’s still alive before I tell you anything.”

“He’s alive,” Blaine said, his eyes twinkling with malice. “Ye have me word –”

“Your word is shit,” I hissed. “You know it, and I know it. And I don’t know as much as you seem to think I know.”

“I want more than the date of me death from you,” he said. “I want everything ye are. If sparing Davis’ll keep ye alive, then so be it.”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “You will be captured in March of 1720, hung and gibbeted in Jamaica.”

Blaine smiled as if none of this was surprising to him, as if he’d prepared himself for it. “And tell me, lass, is Davies to die on this day? Ye would know it better than me, ‘tis certain, that.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him dully. “Not if you keep your word,” I said, unconvinced. I would die trying to change history, even though I no longer thought it could be done.

Blaine tucked the rope he’d used to kill Taylor into the waist of his breeches. He’d heard my doubt. “Aye, of course.” He smiled. “I’ll be off, then.” Blaine glanced at Taylor’s body a last time. “I’ll leave Ned here to keep ye company for a time.”

I heard the door slam shut and Blaine’s laugh echo eerily down the hall. As I glanced fearfully at Ned Taylor’s blank, staring eyes and contorted body, I became grateful that the fever would send me, once again, into oblivion.

For if it didn’t, this most certainly would.

  Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010

Voices in my head screamed at me, laughed wildly at me. I was on Prince Island, the place of Howel Davis’s death. I was the reason he would come here, the reason he would die. I had been desperately trying to prevent this, and here I was, the very cause of it. How utterly ironic. How so very “Greek tragedy.” If it wasn’t so tragic, I might be able to cry.

I had been written into history, unbeknownst to me. For nearly a year I had wondered if I could change history, when, in fact, I’d been a part of it all along. Our fates were set, and struggle as we might, we were merely along for the ride.

At some point while I moaned and rocked, nearly insensible, I was placed on a straw-filled mattress and covered with a blanket. I began having lucid moments, moments in which I felt the need to get up, get out, stop what was happening. I would look around and beg for help, for mercy, for Howel Davis’s life. During one such moment of clarity, Ned Taylor came to me. At first I thought I was imagining him, but his smell — the smell of fear — told me this was real. Murderous hatred filled me, and though I knew I was too febrile to do anything, I used the only weapon at my disposal and spoke: “You will pay for this, Ned Taylor. If you hurt Howel Davis, you will pay with your life.”

He was dressed as finely as when I had seen him last, not a hair out of place. He smiled malevolently at me, but glanced over his shoulder just the same before saying, “Who are you, that you think you can threaten me? I hold your life — and the life of your lover — in my hands.” He opened and closed his fists, as though he were crushing us. “I merely came to inform you that within a glass, Howel Davis will be dead.”

Then he was still alive. Then there was still a chance, albeit a small one, to save him. I swallowed. No one knew about Howel’s Rovers of the Sea fate except the two of us. Why hadn’t I told Sam? Then someone else could stop him… I twisted my head from side to side in anguish, and I could see Taylor smiling, enjoying every second of his pending victory.

I uttered, “You will pay with your life, you son of a bitch!”

Taylor stepped closer, laughed. “I hear you can tell a man’s fortune, that you are from the future. I hear ‘tis the reason Blaine desires you so. What an ass he is, believing such foolishness! You are nothing but a — ”

He stopped, tilted his head warily, looking at my hand, which I held outstretched to him. I had torn the threads binding the now worn, crumpled photo from my breeches and showed it to him: My final, desperate attempt at stopping him. He stepped forward and took Sophie’s picture from me, bringing it close to his face, examining it. I watched his eyes widen with wonder, then fear.

“You will believe me now, Ned Taylor,” I said. “I will warn you again. Touch a hair on Howel’s head and you will die.”

“‘Tis nothing but trickery,” Taylor growled, but I saw the doubt in his face, lurking behind his haughty facade.

The door to the cell was opening behind Taylor, slowly. I blinked, tried to sit up, to no avail. I could feel the fever returning, the fire consuming me again. As Ned Taylor inspected the photo, his high brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing, Jack Blaine had stepped in and was coming up softly behind him.

A part of me thought Blaine was just going to catch Taylor off guard, to bully him into keeping his mouth shut. Perhaps it was the fever that led me to this naïve conclusion, perhaps it was that I had underestimated Jack Blaine’s savagery. But before I had a chance to muster up the energy to say anything, much less warn Taylor of Blaine’s presence, Blaine had looped a rope around Taylor’s neck. Taylor jerked, his eyes suddenly bulging in his face, his hands at the rope that choked him. Sophie’s photo fluttered to the floor, and as the two men struggled fiercely, it became lost underfoot in the straw.

I breathed hard, watching as Blaine slowly killed Taylor. My body was wrapped in pulsing heat, my thoughts occurring to me at a sluggish pace. My brain was like that piece of crap Packard Bell from the early ‘90s that my parents still owned. Think, Sabrina. If I manage to scream, Blaine will be stopped. If I keep quiet, Taylor will die. If Taylor dies, maybe, just maybe, I can convince Blaine to spare Howel Davis.

The future may be set in stone, but I was compelled to act. Even though I knew that every choice I made would inevitably lead to Howel’s death, I did not know what those choices were, and I could not let that stop me from doing something. Now, my choice was hardly an easy one — Jack Blaine or Ned Taylor. Pick your poison, Sabrina.

And quickly.

  Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010

*As you will notice, I am not posting again for two weeks. As always, I can be convinced to knock a few days off the countdown timer with your wonderful thoughts and comments. Also, a recommendation: Prepare yourself a stiff drink before starting to read. Enjoy!*

A jumble of sounds and sensations followed as I was lifted from the boat, placed in a carriage, and, after a brief ride, hauled into a warm, damp room. The space was dark and smelled of rat droppings. It echoed with voices that spoke in both English and Portuguese, and I could both feel and hear the straw against stone beneath my feet. I was let go and immediately crumpled to the floor, lacking the energy to do much of anything.

My hands were unbound and a cup was pressed against my lips, a voice coaxing me to drink. My stomach did somersaults as I swallowed the ale with noisy gulps, afraid the bitter liquid would not stay down. When a piece of crusty bread was placed in my hands, I shook my head, trying to hand it back. There was no way I’d be able to eat feeling the way I did.

“Get the cap’n in here,” a voice said. “She’s refusing to eat.”

I heard clanging, shuffling, and muffled voices before Blaine spoke. “Take the bloody blindfold off her,” he said.

Blurred shapes moved before my eyes as I blinked and rubbed and blinked some more. I saw now that I was in what looked like a prison cell, with its damp stone walls and small, high window. Blaine squatted before me, minus the fancy clothes and parrot. His jaw jutted out and his one-eyed gaze was fierce. He looked very much like the nasty sailor he’d been aboard the Cadogan.

“Now see here, Sabrina,” he said, his voice low and ominous. “Ye’ll be eating some food, or by me blood, Davies will pay with his life.”

I tried to speak and coughed. When it finally came, my voice sounded foreign to me. “I can’t,” I rasped. “My stomach… I’ll be sick.”

As Blaine’s gaze roamed my face suspiciously, there was a clank and the heavy wooden door creaked open. A man, flanked by two armed Portuguese soldiers, stepped inside. My vision shimmered and blurred as I took in the elegant coat, the feathered tricorn hat, the ruffled cravat, the gleaming buttons and buckles. I began to shiver as I took in the visitor’s clean-shaven face and the vile expression upon it.

“Well done, Blaine,” Ned Taylor said, taking in the sight of my misery with relish. “I knew you’d get the job done.”

The feelings that rushed through me at that moment were enhanced by my physical ailments. My heart plummeted to my feet, but part of me was not at all surprised. First Jack Blaine, now Ned Taylor. We were coming full circle. I returned Taylor’s victorious gaze with a feverish one. From within the haze, the words of Sky’s book came back to me:

Taylor went on to pursue an honorable career as a pirate hunter for the new governor of the Bahamas, Woodes Rogers… He was killed when, Jack Blaine, a former shipmate-turned-pirate, captured his ship.

What was happening? God, if only I could snap out of it…

“So you were right,” Taylor continued, his eyes never leaving my face. “Davis took her for his whore. Why he would take her abroad with him is beyond me, however…” He stroked his chin, narrowing his eyes at me. “Nevertheless, we have her now, and if Davis cares for her as much as you say he does, he’ll come for her. And then, my friend, Howel Davis is ours.”

Blaine touched my forehead tentatively, perplexed. I didn’t have the strength to move away. Blaine said, “She’s not eating. She’s nearly insensible. Me thinks she may be suffering from the ague.”

Taylor shrugged. “So? Let Davis come for a corpse for all I care.”

Blaine suddenly turned on Taylor, a murderous look in his eye. “Our agreement, Cap’n Taylor, was that I would help ye lure Davis here and, in return, ye’d not interfere with me piratical endeavors and, as importantly, I got the woman. The lass is mine, and I want her alive.”

I saw Taylor swallow nervously, his throat working under that lacy cravat. He was still scared of Jack Blaine, for all his superiority. He replied, “The woman is not my problem, Blaine, she’s yours. If you desire to keep her alive, then do so, but I haven’t the time for her.”

Blaine still glared at Taylor. “Ye’ll provide me with yer surgeon, if he’s a good one,” he growled.

Taylor cleared his throat. “Fine, I’ll have him called straight away.” Then he narrowed his eyes, his thin eyebrows coming together in puzzlement. “Your fervor for the woman does confound me, Blaine. She’s a fine-looking jade when she’s cleaned up, certainly, but not worth all of this… effort. What do you and Davis find so enchanting in this one?”

Blaine’s muscles tensed, his fists clenched, and his voice became lower. “‘Tis none of yer affair, me interest in the woman. I fancy her for me strumpet, perhaps, and ye’ll keep yer pointy nose out of me business, Ned Taylor.”

Taylor took a step back, and I could see he was battling within himself on how to react — on the one hand, he was, from all appearances, a pirate hunter and had the law on his side; on the other hand, he was terrified of Jack Blaine, his former shipmate, for he knew all too well what Blaine was capable of.

“Very well,” Taylor said, trying to sound haughty. He turned to leave, and the soldiers stepped aside to let him out.

Blaine turned back to me angrily. “Ye’ll not die on me, lass, not until ye’ve told me what I need to know,” he muttered. “I’ll fetch the surgeon and be back.”

Then I was alone, huddled in a corner and shivering, my teeth chattering. The fever gave me the sensation of still being on a ship, of waves rolling beneath me. I could feel the delirium taking over me, and a whimper escaped my lips. Of course I would get sick now of all times, when having my wits about me was critical. As the fever washed over me, my mind focused on only a single image, a single face, a single pair of laughing blue eyes.

Howel Davis was in danger, and I had put him there.

Time escaped me as I lay in that dark cell, my face pressed against the dirty stone floor, my bones aching and my flesh crawling. I didn’t even have the energy to wave away a fly when it landed on my face, or to move away when a rat scurried past my head, its little feet scraping against the stones. But as I listened to indistinct sounds and voices and wondered if they were real or imagined, my fever-addled brain began to piece things together. Thoughts floated through my mind, thoughts that I had dismissed before in frustration. Sky’s book… time travel… changing history… parallel universes… A ball of dread was building in my gut as the thoughts finally made sense, as the concepts were finally linked together by a single thread.

Me.

I suddenly felt sharp pain, and returned to reality in a hurry. I hadn’t sensed the surgeon enter, but there he was, kneeling beside me, a lancet in his hand. A tourniquet had been tied around my arm, and my blood was trickling from me. “No!” I said as fiercely as I could muster. I tried to move, but the mere pressing of the surgeon’s arm kept me from going anywhere, I was so weak.

“We must rid your body of corrupt humors,” the surgeon said firmly. “Hold still.”

Sweet Jesus. I was going to bleed to death. I gazed blankly up at the stained ceiling. I suspected I had malaria, but how would I explain to this guy what I needed? Chances were he didn’t have any Cinchona bark on him, and even if he had access to some, he would hardly take medical advice from a filthy woman locked up in some prison…

I swallowed dust, my mouth parched and foul-tasting, and turned my head toward the surgeon. His stern face blurred before my eyes, and I could feel myself fading quickly. I swallowed again and asked hoarsely, “Where am I?”

The surgeon’s eyes darted nervously to the cell’s door and back. He was young, probably no older than twenty-one, and his English was a bit more schooled, a bit higher class. “I do not believe you are to be privy to that information,” he said, his voice hushed.

“Please,” I managed to say. “I’ll be dead soon anyway.”

He paused, blinked, and nodded quickly. “Ponta da Mina, in Santo António.”

I was struggling now, trying to process the surgeon’s words. “Santo António?” I echoed, what little blood I had left in my body pulsing in my ears, faster and faster.

“Yes,” he replied. “The main town of Príncipe.”

I knew what he would say before he said it, and I heard someone scream, someone… me. Everything shattered into fragments, perfectly symmetrical pieces of colored light, and then dissolved to black.

  Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010

And run I did. I slammed past the people in the pub, indifferent to their shouts and curses, my heart hammering away all other sounds. I scampered blindly out into the street, not knowing if Blaine was chasing me, and headed for the beach. My legs pumped hard, my now-callused soles barely feeling the pinch of the tough leather shoes I wore. Somewhere behind the frantic whirl in my mind, a voice spoke: Jack Blaine. The man who had helped Ned Taylor lead a mutiny against Howel Davis aboard the Cadogan. The sailor who had sworn he would find me when the time came because he believed — and rightly so — that I knew his fate.

I had almost forgotten all about him, I had been so caught up with Howel’s notoriety as a pirate, his pending death, and now the revelation regarding John Roberts. Blaine’s threat had come to seem so insignificant compared to these things.

But now…

Although I had arrived at the beach and had only to look for Withers, I felt this overwhelming desire to hide. Pulling my pistol from my belt and cocking it, I dove into a patch of trees and underbrush, pressing my back against the trunk of a palm. I felt sharp branches scratch at my face, legs, hands, and heard the mosquitoes as they hovered near my ears. I sat as still as possible for several minutes, trying not to pant. My flesh crawled as I listened to the sounds all around me, the rustling and buzzing and crunching. When my breathing finally slowed and my frenzy subsided some, I wiped my palms on my breeches and slowly began to stand.

I had to get back to the ship. I would be safe there. Dammit, what was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I have just waited for Howel and Roberts to return? I was so impulsive. I –

“Sabrina, the Charmed Woman, is it?”

The voice was the same, maybe a bit more threatening, a trace more abrasive. I spun around, my pistol gripped tightly in my hands, and fired at the man behind me. Had the pistol not been a flintlock, I’m certain I would have shot Jack Blaine right between the eyes. The pistol went off with a bang and a coil of smoke escaped from the barrel, but the main charge was not ignited.

My pistol had misfired.

Blaine grabbed my arm and pried the pistol from my hands, cackling. “A flash in the pan,” he said mirthfully. “What a fateful turn of events, eh, lass?”

Fateful indeed.

“To think I was looking for ye, and ye came stumbling straight into me arms!” He laughed with abandon, his head back. “Now,” he murmured, bringing my face close to his. I could smell the tobacco, the rum, the days-old sweat. “I needn’t tell ye how ye’ll suffer if so much as a whimper leaves yer lips, do I?”

“You won’t hurt me,” I said, trying to sound brave but feeling nothing but despair and panic. “I’m too valuable to you.”

Blaine squinted his bad eye at me and grinned diabolically, showing his blackened teeth. “Ye are mistaken, milady. I’d not kill ye, ‘tis true. But hurt ye? I’ve no qualms with that.” To drive his point home, he tightened his grip on my arm and dragged me through the sand, not stopping when I tripped and fell.

Bound and gagged, I was taken aboard Blaine’s ship, the Delivery. I was locked up in the hold, which smelled strongly of human excrement. In all my time in the 18th century, I had never suffered poor treatment, and counted myself very fortunate for it. Now, I saw my luck had run out. I was amongst real pirates, and I would now be treated as a real captive. Fear oozed from every pore, causing me to whimper from behind the dirty rag that gagged me and great big tears to roll down my cheeks.

No one came to me for what felt like days, although it was probably merely hours. I could tell we had set sail, and now, without food or water, nor a way to gaze at the horizon, my seasickness returned. I needed to relieve myself, but had no way to do it. As time crawled on, I found myself sinking into a personal hell, wishing myself dead. The rope dug into the flesh of my wrists, the gag dug into the sides of my mouth. Nausea overwhelmed me, making my head spin and my breath come in ragged gasps. When, finally, I heard the anchor drop, tears began to rush down my cheeks and into my gag. This was all my fault.

Please, God, keep Howel Davis safe. Don’t punish him for my mistakes.

Finally the hatch opened and down came Blaine. I didn’t look up, I was so plunged in misery. But I knew it was him.

“Ye stink, lass,” he said, somewhat mirthfully.

I couldn’t answer but I gave him a glassy-eyed look. Had I been able to speak, I probably would have retorted with “You’re one to talk.” I didn’t doubt that I stank — I had thrown up multiple times against the gag, which forced me to swallow most of the vomit back down. I was more nauseous now than I had been those first dismal hours aboard England’s ship.

Blaine laughed contemptuously. “I doubt Davies’ll want ye now!” One of his crew had come down the hatch, and now Blaine turned to him and said, “Blindfold her and take her up. And ye’re not to touch a hair on her pretty little head, ye hear me, lad?”

Blindfold me? Had my other senses not been confused enough? I didn’t have the strength to struggle as another dirty rag was tied over my eyes and I was carried — a pirate hand under each arm — up the hatch and onto the deck. I felt the warmth of the sun on my clammy skin, and the fresh air filled my lungs, easing my nausea a bit. I was limp with pain and weak with dehydration. The men handled me like a ragdoll, tossing me into a boat and rowing me to shore as I lay on the dirty wood planks. Despite the heat and humidity, I shivered under the sweat and seawater that beaded my skin.

I had no idea where I was being taken. I heard Blaine’s voice issuing orders to his men, smelled Africa in the thick air about me. I tasted blood in my mouth and heard the waves slapping against the boat beneath my head. What was happening to me? While I could not think clearly to save myself, I felt the terror swell within my chest. My God, what had I done? Would Howel really come for me? How would he manage to convince his crew I was worth it? And if he was unable to convince them, would he come alone?

My God, what had I done?

  Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010

The sky darkened, and Sam and I sat together on the deck, drinking and listening to the distant playing of music. Few pirates had remained aboard the ship, as most had wanted to partake in the revelry on shore. Only the hands who had been designated the watch for the evening had stayed, and they drank as well, watching the flickering warm lights ashore sullenly.

Sam began to sing a native song to himself, whittling some wood with a knife, while I sat back, a mug between my legs, gazing up at the stars. My mind wandered for a bit, then I began to listen to the conversation of the pirates who sat drinking nearby.

“What think you o’ John Roberts?” one of the men asked the other.

“Hmm,” the second, an older pirate with graying hair, replied. “I cain’t says. He’s a hard one to read.”

The third man in the group spoke up. “He knows a hell of a lot about everything. He’s a brilliant seaman. An’ not afraid o’ nothing, that man. Fearless, he is.”

The second pirate, the older one, rumbled in disapproval again. “A Black Celt, that Roberts, with those jet black eyes an’ swarthy skin. An’ he ain’t just black on the outside — ye can see he’s black on the inside as well. Dark an’ brooding, thinking things not a one of us knows, smiling from time to time like the Devil himself. Black through an’ through.”

I had all but stopped breathing. I suddenly tingled from head to foot, feeling slightly light-headed. Black through an’ through.

Oh my God!

John Roberts. Suddenly things began to fall into place, things that had seemed off about the man — his unbelievably white, straight teeth. His knowledge of things that no one else knew. His reclusiveness, the way he stood apart from the other men. The fact that everyone was struck by him, struck by the same magic that had struck them about me…. John Roberts was from the future, I was certain of it. Could he also be my black pirate? I had automatically assumed “black” had meant “African.” I hadn’t thought to interpret the word differently. Black… dark… maybe even evil…

Sam looked at me. “Nwanyi, you look pale. Is something wrong?”

I stood. “Sam, I need some privacy. Er… nwanyi troubles have begun, I believe…”

Sam winced and held up a palm. “Please, say no more. Men do not want to hear about such things. Do what you need to do.”

I hurried to the forecastle, my mind reeling. I suppose normally I would have gone to the head to take care of things, but instead I crouched in the shadow of the foremast. Who was John Roberts? And what did he want with Howel Davis? It was possible that he had found himself here unexpectedly, like me, but… Something in his gaze, in his smile, made me believe he knew what he was doing, that he had motives. And if he was, in fact, “black” in the “evil” sense, then Howel Davis was in danger.

It hit me like a lightening bolt: Could John Roberts be the cause of Howel Davis’s death?

Oh my God. I had to find Howel. I had to warn him. I knew that this “pirate business” could take a while, and I wasn’t just about to wait for them to come back. I had… to find them. This couldn’t wait.

But how would I get off the ship? I could explain to Sam what was happening, and maybe he would help me. Or maybe he would think I was a crazy nwanyi and insist that we follow Howel’s orders. I didn’t have time to explain, and I couldn’t take the chance that Sam wouldn’t go along with me… No, I had to find Howel as quickly as possible. I sat wondering how I was going to get to shore without drawing Sam’s attention when one of the pirates walked by me, not seeing me. I hissed at him. “You! Come here!”

He turned, puzzled, a hand on his pistol, when his eyes finally focused on me. “The pirate lad, is it?” he said.

“Be quiet,” I instructed. “I need to go ashore. And I need Sam –” I jerked my head in the direction of the big African “– to not know about it.”

As the pirate began to shake his head, for there wasn’t a man among them who didn’t fear Sam, I pulled a small sack of coins from my sash. As part of the crew, I’d received my portions of the booty, and since I’d had no real need for them, I’d simply saved them. Now, the sack was heavy as the coins clinked together, a most beautiful sound to a pirate.

“This is all yours, if you can supply me with a boat and keep Sam from noticing I’ve left,” I said.

The pirate looked at the bag of coins for a moment, then met my eyes and asked, “Can you row quietly?” When I shrugged, he said, “I’ll have Withers row you to shore. He be stealthy.”

It was all done quickly and smoothly, with hardly the sound of an errant splash. These were, after all, pirates. My heart pounded against my chest as I looked back at the ship, afraid I would see or hear Sam bellowing curses at me. But I had been wise, telling him I’d been having female troubles, for there was no sign of him, not even when we reached the shore. I’m sorry, Sam, I thought as I climbed out of the boat and dragged my feet impatiently through the surf. Hopefully he would forgive me for deceiving him when he realized why I had done it.

“I’ll wait for ye here,” Withers said to me. He clearly did not want to be on the ship when Sam realized I was missing.

Armed with both a pistol and a knife, I set out to look for Howel Davis and John Roberts. I was running on pure adrenaline, and a feeling of imminent doom. There was only one place I knew to look, and it was in the nameless pub I had gone to with Sam earlier that day. The town was not very big, so there were only so many places they could be, right? I would find them. And even though Howel would be angry with me, I would quickly soothe his anger with my discovery.

The town was active with merry sailors and laughing women, despite the late hour. Trained monkeys performed tricks for passers-by and vendors beckoned, trying to sell wide-brimmed hats made of straw. Chickens and dirty-faced children ran freely in the streets, and little boys tossed a lopsided ball to one another.

The pub was where I remembered it was, and I pushed past two drunken sailors to get inside the open door. It was warmly lit and crowded, smelling strongly of sweaty bodies and stewing fish. I stood on my tip-toes, trying to peer through the crowd. John Roberts was hard to miss, and I knew that I could recognize Howel even in the most difficult situations. I made my way through the pub, glancing at the sun-burned faces around me, and once I was fairly certain the men I sought weren’t there, I turned toward the entrance of the place, feeling a stab of disappointment. As I gently squeezed past two hot bodies, I stumbled and fell, landing against a pair of sturdy legs.

“Here, now, ye little clod! Watch where ye be going!” A hand reached down, pulled me up by my shirt, and shoved me away.

“Well, I’m sorry,” I mumbled, adjusting my hat and looking into the face of the man I’d offended. “I didn’t mean to — ”

My mouth was open, but words no longer came out. The sounds around me faded into the background, and all I heard was a humming in my ears and my own heartbeat, which slowed to a near stop. He’d been colored by the African sun and had a gold hoop in one ear. He wore the typical pirate mix of fine gentleman’s clothes and sailor’s slops — a long, forest-green coat with gold buttons over worn canvas breeches. A giant parrot was perched on his shoulder, its head tilted to the side.

The parrot whistled and peered through one eye at me, looking exactly like the man on whose shoulder it sat — the pirate Jack Blaine.

  Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010

This time, Howel was disguising his ship as an English man-of-war hunting pirates, flying the Royal Navy flags and once again dressing his crew down as common sailors. So long as they were careful, the authorities were unlikely to question them too much, since they were bringing much-needed business. He told me, “São Tomé and Príncipe are islands of disrepute. The Portuguese send their prisoners there to man the garrison, and there isn’t a local who’d hesitate before swiping the hat from your head or the coins from your purse. Only a fool would set foot on those islands without a weapon at the ready.”

Howel hadn’t wanted me to set foot on the island at all, but I was not going to be left behind — not when we were so close to Prince Island and to what Rovers of the Sea had revealed was the end of Howel Davis. The Portuguese officials who rowed out to the ship to greet us accepted Howel’s story without question, and after inviting Howel and his officers to the house of the governor, they sent word to the fort, which fired a salute in honor of its Royal Navy guests. Howel had the Royal Rover return the salute, and soon we were anchoring in the harbor and coming ashore. As Howel, Walter, and Thomas were escorted to the governor’s residence, the rest of the crew went into the town. I did so as well, with Sam beside me like a shadow. Under Howel’s protection, Sam had abandoned Levasseur’s crew and was now Howel’s boatswain and one of his most trusted men. As such, one of his unspoken duties was to keep an eye on me, which he did all too well, in my opinion. Sneaking after Howel was not an option with Sam around.

Clapboard houses with lattice windows and large balconies neatly lined the main streets of the town. The locals were a colorful lot — African, European, and a large number of Brazilian slaves. They sold their wares in the streets, including brilliantly-colored parrots that cried “Sod off!” at passers-by and and trained monkeys wearing hats. That São Tomé was an island of disrepute was clear, as prostitutes brazenly approached the men of the Royal Rover and every other man looked suspiciously like a pirate to me. Sam and I followed the rest of the crew into a nameless pub, where we sat and had some rum and a freshly-cooked meal. The men were in high spirits, gambling their stolen coins in games of passage, enjoying the company of the whores, and filling their bellies with good food.

Even though I knew how well Howel played this game, I sat in my chair uneasily, drumming my fingertips on the table, my knee bouncing with nervous tension. I had taken to biting my fingernails again, something I had quit doing after law school. It was an even nastier habit to have now, considering how filthy they got. Sam looked at me from time to time from across the table, chewing his food slowly. At some point he asked, “Do you already know what will happen?”

I was silent for a long time, watching Sam eat, before answering softly, “I am hoping I can change things.”

Sam didn’t look up from his meal. “Nothing good can come of that, nwanyi. You cannot control one’s destiny.”

I clenched my jaw. “I have to try, Sam. I have to try.”

We returned to the ship early that evening to find Howel and his officers celebrating their success at deceiving the governor. “I suspect he doesn’t truly want to know what we are, and he is all the more the willing to accept what we tell him, so long as it is somewhat acceptable,” Howel said. “That we are in quest of pirates and have received intelligence that there are some upon this coast seemed quite enough for him.”

“Indeed!” Walter said with a laugh. “But Davies, you are far too modest. You played the part of the King’s man so convincingly, ‘twas easy for him to believe it.” Walter had lost the boyishness about him and was now as tough, jaded a pirate as I had ever seen, with a stubble on his sun-scorched face and gold ring in his ear. He beamed at us. “Thanks to Davies’s performance, His Excellency is supplying us with everything we should need on our journey abroad.”

“Gentlemen, we must show the good town of São Tomé how grateful we are by gracing them with our presence,” Howel said to his officers, grinning, his voice loud, his gestures playful. I could tell he was drunk, even though he was a master at hiding it when he wanted to. “Let us go and befriend the locals, shall we?”

Walter and Thomas were talking over each other jovially, patting each other on the back, when Howel turned and spoke to a man sitting alone in the shadows on the deck. “Roberts, would you care to accompany us?”

This was, if not surprising, then certainly noteworthy to the men, as they became quiet and turned to look at the intimidating newcomer. John Roberts lifted his head, his eyes lit in his swarthy face. After a moment of silence, he stood. “Aye.”

I watched in puzzlement as Howel and Walter offered Roberts a fine coat to wear, speaking in low voices to him with subtle smiles on their faces. Was John Roberts being promoted or something?

Before the men left the ship, Howel pulled Sam and me aside. He looked straight at me, seeming entirely sober for a moment. “Sabrina, this is pirate business. I need you to stay aboard the Royal Rover this night, am I explicit?”

“What’s going on with John Roberts?” I asked.

Howel smiled. “We fancy him for an officer and are courting him, so to speak.” His smile disappeared. “But you did not answer me question.”

I sighed. “Yes, I’ll stay on the ship.” Howel looked at Sam, and Sam nodded once. I became angry. “You don’t need to have Sam keep an eye on me!” I cried. “I can take care of myself.”

Howel reached out and stroked my face, a warmth in his voice, his eyes. “Aye, I know you can. It’s more for me peace of mind, lass. Because you are me heart.”

I was stunned. It was the closest thing Howel had come to telling me he loved me. You are me heart. “Be careful,” I replied.

With a grim expression on his face, he turned and strode back to his officers. Howel’s House of Lords then climbed into a boat to go ashore, John Roberts looking as unperturbed and austere as ever. I heard Sam sigh deeply.

“Howel Davis has a big weakness,” he said, looking solemnly down at me. “You, nwanyi.”

  Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010

Howel would not stop raving about John Roberts. It was starting to get on my nerves. “He’s brilliant, Sabrina,” Howel said, lying on his back in a state of near nakedness, a hand thrust behind his head and his chest glistening with perspiration. “The man knows a tremendous amount about sailing rigs, courses, currents, longitude… A real bit o’ luck, getting ahold of him.”

“How can you trust him?” I asked. “How do you know he’s not trying to trick you?”

Howel smiled. “Sabrina. You’ve been with pirates long enough to know the answer to that. What good would that do him? If a pirate is a rebellious dog that defies authority, then the common sailor is a beaten bitch that’s too weak to utter a whimper. No, Roberts is too strong for that. He knows the best course for him is to stick with us and aid us in any way he can. This is his lot too, now.”

I leaned over him, trying — but failing — to hide the concern from my face. “I’m through talking about Roberts. I want to know what you plan on doing about the fact that it is now June, and that we are a stone’s throw away from Prince Island.”

Howel shrugged, as though it were a small matter that could be easily dealt with. “I plan on living me life as I have before, placing me faith in the luck that brought me here.”

I could barely contain my frustration. “How can you be so cavalier about this? How can you do nothing to try and prevent it?”

Howel sat up. “Such things are out of our hands, Sabrina. I have thought on it long and hard. We do not know what will happen, regardless of what your book revealed. So many things we do not know, we cannot know… Perhaps the book is wrong. Perhaps your existence here and now have so changed events that it simply has no relevance anymore.” He reached for me, gently caressing my hot, moist skin with his fingertips. “You are sending yourself into a frenzy over nothing, me love. We must live our lives and hope for the best.”

I shook my head frantically, pulling away from his touch. “No. It’s not enough. I need more reassurance. I need… I need you to do more.”

He sighed. “What would you have me do? Me path is set. There’s no leaving this life of piracy for me — I’ve no choice.”

“No. You always have a choice. I want you to have your crew vote on going elsewhere,” I replied. “Going back west. Surely there are places that are ripe for plundering that aren’t near Prince Island.”

“You are placing too much importance on Prince Island,” Howel said softly.

“Howel, please,” I begged, grabbing his face between my hands. “Please. For me.”

His cheeks were prickly with hair against my fingers, and he exhaled. “You are determined to keep me from death, are you, lass?”

I ran my thumbs along his cheekbones, his eyebrows. “Yes. If it kills me.”

“Hmph.” He curled his hands around my wrists and brought my fingers to his lips, kissing them. “I don’t like that at all.” After a pause, he added, “Very well, then. I will speak to the crew. But you must promise that you will calm yourself on me account.” He poked me in the ribs, making me squeal. “You’ve gotten overly thin, lass. You haven’t been eating. Promise me — ”

“I promise,” I replied. “I’ll chill out.”

Howel frowned at me. “I will hold you to it. You will… chill out.”

The words sounded so foreign coming from him that I giggled, finally feeling a bit of the tension leave my body.

The pirates gathered the following night to decide on their course of action. Sitting cross-legged on a beach lit by bonfires, Howel’s men were in high spirits, drinking and eating and laughing. I should make a comment about male behavior at this point: Pirates of the 18th century or frat boys of the 21st, men are all the same. I watched as they whaled on each other playfully, full of bonhomie and boyish cockiness, like an undefeated high school football team. They knew they were a powerful lot, and as such displayed a ridiculous amount of arrogance together. I found myself rolling my eyes on a number of occasions, wishing they would get over themselves already.

Only John Roberts sat to the side, alone, drinking something from a pewter mug and watching his comrades with an expression that teetered between scorn and amusement.

“We must decide where we will go from here,” Howel said, addressing his crew after calling them to attention.

“The coast of Africa is ours,” Walter Kennedy said, rubbing his hands together, a greedy smile on his face. “The Royal Navy cannot afford to send their warships here. We can take what we want and expect little, if any, resistance.”

Howel looked down, his hands on his hips. “That may be so,” he replied, “but the Company’s forts will be on the watch for pirates, expecting us. Moreover, our competition — Cocklyn and La Buse, among others — have already helped in causing such mischief on the Guinea Coast that fewer ships will be putting out to sea. I ain’t sure the plunder be worth the risk.”

“What do you propose, then?” Walter asked, looking expectantly at Howel.

“Brazil,” Howel replied. “It is said that 27 tons of gold are dispatched to Lisbon each year. That is a lot of gold, me friends.”

They discussed the issue for a while longer, then voted. The crew was sold on Brazil. As I sat there, relief washing over me, Walter said, “We can load up on provisions for the long trip abroad at São Tomé or Príncipe.”

I jumped, gasping audibly. Príncipe — Prince Island. Howel glanced quickly in my direction and said, “Perhaps São Tomé is the better choice, since it is the larger of the two.”

Walter shrugged. “Very well, then.”

When I was once again alone with Howel, I asked, “Is São Tomé close to Príncipe?”

He didn’t look at me, busying himself with cleaning his pistols. “About half a day’s cruise,” he replied. I stood before him, silent. He looked up at me then, a crease of annoyance between his eyebrows. “It’s the best I can do, Sabrina. Suggesting we go elsewhere for provisions would not be practicable, as São Tomé and Príncipe are thriving Portuguese colonies and often used as final ports o’ call for ships preparing to sail abroad. If I suggested anywhere else, the men would think me wit was getting dull.”

I put my hands behind my back, bit my lip. “How long will we be there?”

“Just long enough to stock up, lass,” he muttered, turning away from me. “Remember, Sabrina. You promised that if I spoke to the crew and convinced them to leave Africa you would… chill out. I have yet to see evidence of it.”

I sighed, turned and began to walk out of the tent, but suddenly stopped to look back at him. “Howel,” I said, my voice cracking a bit.

He looked at me, wary. “Aye?”

“I love you,” I said softly.

To my dismay, he reacted to my words by scowling. “You do so overmuch,” he said gruffly, tossing a dirty rag to the ground. “I ain’t deserving of it, and nothing good can come of it.”

That was not the reaction I had hoped for. I said, “You don’t mean that.”

He looked me directly in the face, his eyes like blue ice. “Oh, but I do. Watch out for yourself, lass, because I cain’t do it.”

I left then, my heart aching. He didn’t mean it. Did he? He had never told me he loved me. I hadn’t read too much into it, since he clearly cared for me. Besides, maybe the words didn’t carry the same significance back in 1719 that they did in 2009. But Howel had been particularly moody in the last few days, and now I wondered. Even if he did love me, the impact of knowing his supposed death was just around the corner must have had a profound effect on his psyche, regardless of whether he showed it. Maybe distancing himself from me emotionally was the way he was dealing with it.

I rubbed my temples. Shit, I was a regular Sigmund Freud.  I flopped down on the beach and watched the pirates as they began loading the cargo back onto the Royal Rover, which was now careened and ready to go. I spotted John Roberts in the distance as he lifted a hogshead and carried it several feet to deposit it in a boat. He was shirtless and barefoot, a red kerchief tied about his head, and he barely strained beneath the weight of the large cask, his massive muscles gliding with ease beneath the glistening brown skin. He turned to retrieve another hogshead, the silver dragon flashing on his bare chest. He saw me watching him and his eyes lingered on me, for just a second, before moving on.

Although he was too far for me to know for sure, I could have sworn I saw him smile that haughty, mysterious smile of his.

  Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010

Thirty-four men joined Howel’s crew that day, and although there was some ambiguity as to whether the captains of the slavers were favored by their crews, Howel spared them. He then gave his Dutch Marquis del Campo prisoners the slave-ship Morrice and set them free.

Riding the coastal current, we sailed toward the Bight of Benin and into the Gulf of Guinea. That afternoon, the new crew members signed the Articles, including John Roberts. Of all of them, he was the only one I truly felt was disinclined to go on the account. I watched as he scribbled his name, the corners of his mouth downturned in a frown, his eyes giving nothing away.

It was true that the man had an aura about him. And it wasn’t simply his imposing physical presence, either; he was obviously at home on the sea, and moved with an ease, a confidence that was remarkable. It was hard to peg his age, but he looked to be in his late thirties, which was fairly old for a pirate. He had a broad, sculpted face that was not handsome, but Roberts nonetheless struck me as the sort of man that women found attractive, if only for his cool self-possession. He spoke to hardly anyone, preferring to keep to himself, but he watched his new crewmates — particularly his new captain — carefully, his dark eyes shifting astutely from face to face. At one point, I looked up to find his eyes resting on me, and I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. Our eyes met for a split second, and he gave me what seemed to be a contemptuous smile, exposing a set of very white, very straight teeth. He had no reason to believe I was other than what I seemed — that is, a simple cabin boy — but I shuddered nonetheless.

He was a shrewd observer, that Roberts, and something troubling lurked in the depths of those black, arrogant eyes. It frightened me.

The morning immediately after the capture of the three slave-ships, Howel Davis captured another Dutch ship — and this time, he hit the jackpot.

The Dutch ship showed her heels the instant it spotted the black flag, but the Royal Rover was much faster. After a brief chase, the Royal Rover sailed up next to the prey and fired a broad-side. That ended the chase, as the Dutch ship struck its colors and asked for quarter. Howel Davis, being the merciful pirate that he was, always gave his surrendering prisoners quarter. He then sent a boarding party to assess the prize, and was astounded when the pirates returned, revealing that the Governor of Accra was on board, and the ship carried £15,000 in cash.

“Holy Christ!” Howel cried upon hearing the news, his eyes widening, his grin stretching from ear to ear. He then looked at me, and I could tell he wanted to swoop me up into his arms. I pursed my lips, unable to hide the smile in my eyes.

Walter, as quartermaster, set about dividing up the loot, and while Howel, Walter, and the other pirate “officers” got larger cuts, the regular hands each got £100, an enormous amount compared to the salary of a slave-ship sailor, which was a measly £2 per month. The new recruits did not share in the booty, since they had been with the crew for just one day. They watched hungrily as the pirates sorted the coins into individual piles, drinking their newly acquired liquor and laughing amongst themselves.

Only John Roberts surveyed the proceedings with interest rather than longing. He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes, listening intently as a dispute between two crew members was set to a vote. I could see the wheels turning in that head of his as he learned the pirate system of democratically divided power. He must have been surprised, as I had been, to see that beneath the facade of lawlessness, there was an egalitarianism enforced by a strict set of rules.

The crew voted to put into Cameroon and careen their ships, the Royal Rover and the leaking King James. They finished converting the Royal Rover into a pirate ship by tearing down any remaining bulkheads and clearing the deck of clutter. The King James was a different matter — the hull was badly damaged, and required considerable timber for repair. As Howel, Walter and the crew debated what to do, Howel unexpectedly turned to John Roberts and asked, “Roberts, what think you?”

Roberts had been leaning against a stack of timber in the shadows, his arms crossed on his chest, listening to the proceedings impassively. Now, upon being addressed, his eyes flickered to Howel. “The hull’s too damaged,” Roberts answered after a pause, the sound of his deep voice causing heads to turn in his direction. “She’ll spring another leak in time, holding you back. I say strip her and leave her.”

A vote revealed the majority agreed with Roberts, and afterwards he approached Howel. He pointed to the Royal Rover, which lay beached on her side as Howel’s men cleaned her. “She’s quite a ship,” he said.

Howel turned, surprised by Roberts’s apparent desire to converse. “Aye, that she is,” he replied. “She’s more than a match for any ship that wants to fight her.”

Roberts slowly ran his eyes over the large hull before saying, “We can make her even faster, stronger. That is, if you’re willing to make some changes.”

Shading his eyes from the sun to better see Roberts, Howel asked, “Aye? What sorts of changes?”

Roberts smiled enigmatically, and that was when he began speaking in Welsh. The two Welshmen retreated beneath the palms, speaking in their native tongue of things that I would not have understood had they been said in English. Howel’s eyes were bright as they spoke, and I felt just a hint of jealously at being unable to bring such a look to his face. He may have been a notorious pirate with the most fearsome pirate crew on the Guinea Coast, but as Howel Davis spoke with John Roberts, he could not hide the homesick longing from his countenance.

  Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010

I have never seen a more disturbing sight than Anomabu. What would have been a veritable paradise in 2009 was a scene from hell in 1719. The beauty of the blue waters, golden sand beaches, and emerald thickets of palmettos was lost in a scene of human suffering: Long lines of naked, shackled natives trudged on the beach, the more reluctant of them receiving the sharp lashes of the slavers’ whips and canes. The waves were crowded with canoes and periaguas, themselves crammed with slaves, as they were rowed by African boatmen to the ships. The steady beating of native drums carried hauntingly in the thick, wet breeze. A cloud of mosquitoes hovered in the haze above our heads, and the ominous shadows of sharks cut through the waters below our feet. A sad little settlement of wood houses, mud huts, and a decaying fort sat in the hills beyond the beach, barely peeking out from a jungle that threatened to swallow it.

Howel didn’t even bother boarding the ships at first, forcing them to send a boat of representatives to him. A boat of six wary, dirty, unhealthy-looking men was sent from the Princess, and Howel welcomed them aboard the Royal Rover with his usual warmth.

“Greetings, gentlemen,” Howel said with a smile, standing with his legs apart and his hands behind his back. “Since I realize I have already wasted a good amount of your precious time, I will get to the point.”

“We ain’t got nothing but slaves,” one of the fellows grumbled, his brow furrowed, his eyes on the floor.

Howel’s smile broadened. “Ah, is that so?” He looked at Walter. “I think we’ll look for ourselves, just in case you are mistaken, my good man.”

Walter and nine others rowed to the Princess to loot it while Howel spoke amicably with the slavers. “I am afraid that I lost several men recently, and am therefore looking for replacements for me crew,” he told them with an apologetic smile. “Should there not be enough volunteers, I will have to force some of you. Men I want and men I will have, for I intend to fight a piracy that gives no quarter.” As I watched the men’s faces, I suspected that this was not an altogether disappointing — or shocking — bit of information to them. Their eyes shifted from Howel to their ship in the distance, where the looting was taking place in earnest. The Princess was being stripped of everything and anything of value — its liquor, arms, carpentry tools, doctor’s chest, and meat.

It came as a great surprise to all aboard the Royal Rover when suddenly the sails of the Princess began to rise and shudder, filling slowly with wind. Cries could be heard aboard the slaver as it began to move through the water, heading towards the fort.

The Princess was being retaken from the pirates, and it was slowly being sailed closer to the fort, so as to be under the protection of its guns.

Howel was not frantic in his orders, simply firm and slightly bemused. More of Howel’s men were sent quickly to the Princess, and with a brief struggle and no lives lost, the pirates regained control of the slave-ship.

“Bring those bold rebels to me,” Howel ordered, his eyes alight with interest.

The crew of the Princess was duly brought aboard the Royal Rover, and two bound men were thrust in the forefront. The rebels — the men who had taken the Princess and tried to run it into the protection of the fort.

“This one,” Walter told Howel, pointing to the bigger of the two men, “was the brains behind it, Cap’n. John Roberts, is his name. He’s third mate ‘o the Princess, and from what I hear, he’s a skilled seaman. The men respect ‘im.”

Howel stepped forward, taking his time as he looked the two men over carefully. Both men were big — bigger than most. Unlike their emaciated and poxed shipmates, these two were brawny fellows with defiant looks in their eyes.

“What are you called?” Howel asked the first man, a red-faced Scot with a missing front tooth.

“John Stewart,” the Scot growled, eyeing Howel suspiciously.

Howel chuckled. “You’re an angry man, John Stewart. You’ll make a charming pirate.” He then stepped over to the second rebel, a tall, muscular man with ebony hair and a dusky complexion. “And you’re John Roberts, then.”

The second rebel lifted his head and returned Howel’s gaze unflinchingly. He was several inches taller than Howel, than most the men except Sam for that matter, and he had black eyes that were heavily-lidded, giving his face an arrogant, almost bored expression. He surveyed the smiling pirate chieftain coolly, taking his time before answering, “Aye, that I am.”

Howel paused, his eyes focusing on a silver dragon charm that glinted from around John Roberts’s neck. “O ble wyt ti’n dod?” Howel asked in Welsh.

“Casnewydd-Bach,” Roberts replied, his expression unchanging.

“You’re a brave Welshman, John Roberts,” Howel said. “I meself have a weakness for brave Welshmen. Will you sign the Articles?”

Roberts straightened almost indiscernibly. “I will not,” he replied disdainfully.

Howel grinned, pulling a pistol from his baldric and cocking it. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood me, John Roberts,” he said, his fiery blue eyes locking with Roberts’s icy black ones. “You will sign the Articles. I’ve never had to force a man to join me, but I will gladly do the honors for such a respected countryman.”

He stepped back slowly, still staring at Roberts, the pistol held loosely in his hand. Finally breaking the gaze, Howel glanced around at the faces of the slaver’s crew and said, “Which of you will enter with me? For if you do not enter willingly, I promise I will make gentlemen of you all!”

  Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010

Next Post

I was standing on the opposite side of the deck when it happened. I felt the cannonballs hit the King James, my entire body vibrating with each impact. The pirate ship rocked with one explosion after another, and chunks of ship, as well as razor-sharp splinters of wood, flew through the air. I heard petrified shrieks as I was thrown back, my head hitting the hard iron of a cannon’s cascabel with a painful thud. I opened my eyes to see that part of the ship had been blown away. I blinked the grit from my eyes and looked up into the rigging, catching sight of a torn, nearly limbless body as it dangled from shredded sails and tangled rope.

My thoughts raced frantically to Howel. Where was he? I stood and tried to run, but slipped on the blood that coated the deck. I looked at my slick, red palms in horror, then heard Howel issuing frantic orders to return fire, his voice emanating from somewhere above me.  He was okay. I looked at the now ominous-looking Dutch ship, appearing in the distance as the smoke dissipated, and realized with a jolt that she meant to fight, and that could only mean one thing: she was very well-armed. I rushed forward to help man the guns, knowing full well that the King James would need all its hands for this fight.

The Dutch ship was the Marquis del Campo, an East Indiaman with thirty guns, ten more than the King James. It was the early afternoon, and though it was a sunny day, the air was thick and hazy with smoke as the ships engaged, each trying to fire crippling broad-sides while avoiding those of the enemy. The great guns were fired at the Dutch ship’s hull, rigging, and sails. A leak had sprung on the King James, and I went below to help man the pumps, my ears ringing from the blasts. I was too busy to be frightened, too focused on single, frantic actions to worry that we would all die.

But that we would all die was not unlikely. I watched as a man’s arm was ripped off by great shot, as another man’s skull was crushed by a falling spar, as two men were badly burned by fire from a gun vent. I witnessed Walter Kennedy threaten some frightened, injured members of the crew with a brandished pistol to keep them at their posts. Howel Davis rushed about the deck issuing orders and helping to repair badly damaged rigging. The sweat poured down his face, drenching his shirt. The thought that we were finished must have crossed even Howel’s mind as he watched his men die, watched the waves fill the bottom of his ship, but his face showed no signs of fear or doubt, only fierce concentration.

I am convinced that we survived those long thirty-two hours of fighting by Howel’s sheer will alone. Somehow, watching their brave leader tirelessly command and work alongside his crew emboldened the men of the King James, despite their injuries and damaged ship. At nine the next morning, the Marquis del Campo struck its colors, finally surrendering the valiant fight.

The pirates, utterly worn from the battle, were more relieved than triumphant. After the pirates boarded the Dutch ship and took its crew prisoner, I saw Howel Davis exhale and his shoulders slump forward, as though a great weight had been lifted from them. He smiled feebly at me and Walter Kennedy as he sat down, his hands on his knees, his matted hair hanging into his eyes. “I thought we was done for,” he admitted quietly. Then he looked at me. “Are you well, Sabrina?”

“Oh, yes,” I replied, smiling with a confidence I didn’t feel. “Just a couple scrapes and bruises.” Actually, my head was killing me. I was going to have a huge lump. Not to mention the psychological scarring I’d suffered from seeing men die in horrific ways. I was going to be in therapy for the rest of my life, if I ever got back to 2009.

On the upside, of course, I was alive, and had all my limbs. Unlike several of the crew.

Howel grinned at me. “You look like hell.”

I grinned back, happy to see him being his old self again. “You don’t look so hot yourself, babe,” I said, my voice laden with affection.

Howel decided to take the Dutch ship for himself since it was clearly a worthy vessel. Moreover, The King James was in bad shape, what with the leak and damaged rigging. He transferred everything to the Dutch ship and named her the Royal Rover. Including the arms that were brought from the King James, the Royal Rover had thirty-two cannons and twenty-seven swivel guns.

That, my friends, made it a serious pirate ship.

I was glad to see Howel in such good spirits, swaggering confidently, jesting playfully with his crew. But inwardly I was terrified. It was May of 1719, just a month short of day Howel was supposed to die, and we were but a few days’ sail from Prince Island. I tried to bring it up with him a few times, but was met with silence and unresponsiveness from him. He did not want to talk about it, did not want to think about it.

“I ain’t going without a fight,” he often said in response to my anxious entreaties, smiling and winking at me, as though being playful would put me at ease.

But I was not so easily mollified. While I managed to keep myself from haranguing Howel about it every moment we were together, I was becoming increasingly panicked. I slept less, ate less, found myself constantly tense and jumping at every sound. Howel’s pirate career was bound to end badly, even if it didn’t end the way Rovers of the Sea said it would. In my nightmares, I saw the text of the book as it laid out the fates of the pirates I knew — Charles Vane, Jack Rackam, Edward England — its black letters so stark and formal against the white pages: …hanged in Jamaica…hung from a gibbet… a beggar and a drunk… And there were the pirates I didn’t know, such as Stede Bonnet and Blackbeard, whose fates were not any better: …hanged at White Point… his head cut off and hung from the bow of his ship…

The nightmares often ended with the words bleeding a dark red, the blood streaming from the pages and staining my hands like the blood of the dead pirates on the deck of the King James. I would often find myself crying out in my sleep, startling myself awake.

Even if I was able to prevent Howel’s being ambushed and shot at Prince Island, how would I prevent the even more horrific death that awaited him at the hands of the law? For I knew of no pirate who had successfully evaded the law for long.

There was only one solution. I had to find my black pirate, and then I had to convince Howel to go back to the future with me.

  Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010

Next Post