As I walked through Nassau, I felt a thrill surge through me. I would not be on the same ship as Howel, but I would be with him. He didn’t want me, but I had a mission, and that mission was nothing less than preventing the man I loved from dying. Before I left New Providence, however, there was one more thing I had to do.

I found Ruth in her hut, sitting in that dark, smoky corner. I wondered, for a second, if she had even moved since I’d seen her last. “Ruth?” I said. “It’s me, Sabrina.”

Ruth stared at me, the hint of a smile on her lips. Unlike the first time, she was not surprised to see me today. As if she had been expecting me at that very moment. I blinked, my eyes tearing and my nose burning from the powerful scent of spice as she stood and murmured something in her native language. She turned her back to me, going about her business, and said, “I have been waiting for you.”

God, this chick made me nervous. “I see that,” I replied. “Uh, so… How have you been?”

Ruth turned to me abruptly, her good eye flashing, her scar livid. Clearly, there was going to be no small-talk with her. “The spirits favor you, Sabrina,” she said.

“Ha,” I said dryly. “That’s funny. Because I thought they were pissed at me.”

Ruth didn’t crack a smile, her dark face fixated on mine. I felt the flesh on my arms crawl as her eyes glazed over and she went somewhere far, far away. It must have gotten several degrees cooler in the small, dark hut, and I swore I felt a breeze, even though there wasn’t a window or a door open. The urge to run out struck me, but before I could act on it Ruth said, “You can go back… one who got here like you, he know how… he… black pirate…”

I was afraid to speak, to break her trance, but no fewer than a hundred questions popped into my head. I felt nauseous, dumbstruck. A way back? One who got here the same way I did?

A black pirate, who got here the same way I did, knew the way back.

Holy shit.

Then Ruth looked at me, finally seeing me. The air grew warmer, her eyelids drooped. She turned back to what she’d been doing before going into her trance. “You want coffee? I put rum in it.”

“No,” I said, shaken. “Ruth… What you just told me… Who is this black pirate?”

She shrugged, stirred the dark liquid, presumably rum-spiked coffee, in her mug. No wonder she was having visions — that was one serious drink. “Not know,” she replied simply.

“Is he from the future?”

“Not know.”

Oh, Christ. The trance was over, and I wouldn’t be able to get another word out of her. I flopped down on a stool, cradling my head in my hands and groaning. “God, Ruth, tell me more! Please! How do I find him?”

Ruth looked at me, the pink color returned to her scar, a crooked smile on her lips. “He come to you, Sabrina.”

“Oh,” I replied. I thought for a second. “But I’m leaving Nassau tomorrow…”

Ruth laughed. It was the first time I had ever heard her laugh, and it was, quite frankly, terrifying. Not the laugh itself — it was quite a beautiful laugh, actually — but the unexpectedness of it that was frightening. I jumped. “What? What’s so funny?”

She offered me a mug and took a sip from hers. Her eye twinkled. I stared for a moment, then took the mug. Rum-spiked coffee sounded good right about now. I asked, “So do I go back?”

Ruth rolled her good eye and sighed. “Not know.”

Of course.

I shuffled back to Nan’s, feeling both buzzed and hyper. I wasn’t changing my plans. Ruth said this black pirate would find me. But was my fate within my control? Could any of us — Howel Davis, Edward England — change our fates? If, for instance, I decided to stay in Nassau rather than follow Howel, would the pirate still find me? It was all so confusing. While I vibrated with excitement (and too much caffeine) at the the thought of returning to Sophie and Jake, I simply dreaded the thought of leaving Howel. If I had to choose between preventing Howel’s death and going back to 2009… I shut my eyes and took a deep breath — I’d cross that road when I got to it. One step at a time, Sabrina.

But then, who said I had to leave him? Maybe he could go back with me. I stopped suddenly in the middle of the road as people and carts and horses milled by me, and doubled over with laughter. Just the thought of Howel in 2009 was so absurd. What in God’s name would an 18th century sailor and potential pirate do in 2009? Get a nine-to-five desk job? And what, exactly, would I tell Jake? Yeah, Jake, um, this is my friend Howel Davis… I’m madly in love with him and couldn’t stand to leave him in 1718, so… Maybe we can make this work?

I stopped laughing and instantly became somber, ignoring the strange looks I was getting from passers-by. He would never go back with me — he didn’t even love me.

The next day I hugged Nan and her girls good-bye once again and, with my little knapsack slung over my shoulder, made my way to the sloop Mumvil Trader. Beside it, the Buck bobbed in the harbor, its crew amassed on deck. My heart leaped — somewhere in that crowd was Howel Davis.

The crews of the two sloops were a colorful lot; mostly pardoned pirates, with a few sailors fresh from England sprinkled in. It was a dangerous game Rogers was playing, hiring a bunch of ex-pirates to sail these heavily armed sloops. I looked at their faces: hardened sailors, criminals, most of them, who’d tasted the good life of that “sweet trade” and were hungry to go back. No, I couldn’t say this looked good for Woodes Rogers.

The captain of the Buck, one Jonathan Bass, stood on the quarterdeck of the sloop-of-war and addressed his crew. I climbed into the shrouds of the Mumvil Trader to get a better look at the deck of its sister ship, scanning it for the face of Howel Davis. It wasn’t difficult, since he shined like a beacon to me, his handsome face fierce with concentration, his blue eyes blazing. I blinked. Something was wrong.

Captain Bass was talking, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I squinted, trying to see what Howel was glowering at. I finally looked at the man standing beside Bass, an air of authority about him in his nice new jacket and shiny leather boots.

It was none other than Ned Taylor.

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As we entered Nassau Harbor, I saw the changes Woodes Rogers had made on the pirate haven: Much of the foliage had been cleared from the town, and the beaches had been rid of the pirate camps; the fort was being repaired, the Union Jack flying overhead; and four Royal Navy vessels, their guns clearly visible, guarded the emerald waters of New Providence.

Walking into the town itself was a strange experience — the carefree, idle ambience of the place had been replaced with a buzzing tension, as if the wildness had been barely restrained and was on the verge of bursting free. To my relief, Nan’s bawdy house was still there, and still very much a seedy place. I told Howel to meet me there after he’d finished looking for work, and he agreed.

I was greeted as boisterously by Nan and her girls as Howel had been by the women of the Black Dog Inn — minus the sexual tension, of course. They squealed and threw their arms around me, talking all at once, asking questions in rapid succession. They hurried me to a chair and brought me some rum, sitting around me, their eyes bright with excitement, waiting to hear my story. So I told them everything, forgetting that they may not have known I was from the future, not caring if I sounded crazy. These women, prostitutes though they were, were far more willing to accept me and my fantastical origins than any of the men of 1718 had been. Perhaps it was their lack of education, their inclination to believe in magic; or maybe it was that they were, on some level, freer spirits than everyone else. They clasped their hands and gasped as I told them how I shot myself, about the Cadogan and Howel Davis, about the slaves and the mutiny, about the threats from Jack Blaine.

Nel piped up. “Sabrina, what will you do, then?”

I sighed. “I don’t know. I would like to visit Ruth… Is she still here?”

Nan nodded. “Aye, she’s here. The same.” Then something maternal crossed her face — strange, since Nan couldn’t have been more than ten years older than me — and she asked, “So what of this Howel Davis? You speak of him as though he were something special.”

The girls looked at Nan, then at me, and I couldn’t help it: Blood rushed to my face. There was no hiding this reaction from prostitutes, for goodness sake. They began whistling and hooting and clapping their hands. “She’s sweet on ‘im, she is!” they cried gleefully.

I covered my face. “Please, he can’t know… I would die…”

“Ye’ve no need to worry, lass,” Nan reassured me. She shot her girls a look. “We’ll keep our mouths shut.” Then she looked anxiously at me. “And what will you do about ‘im, this noble sailor? Here in Nassau… The pirates still be fighting. He’d be hard pressed not to join ‘em.”

I nodded slowly. “I know.”

She shook her head. “You play a dangerous game, my puss. Letting your heart belong to a sailor so… completely.”

Truer words had never been spoken. Except, maybe, letting your heart belong to a pirate.

When Howel arrived, looking about him curiously, I noticed the change in his face immediately — there was a heightened color to his cheeks, a luster to his eyes. I grinned widely at him. “You found something.”

He grinned back. “Aye. ‘Pon my soul, me past is spotless compared to these poor bastards! Real rovers, some ‘o them. Like your Cap’n England.”

I skipped over to him, delighted. I wanted to hug him, but thought better of it and, at the last moment, held my hand up in a “high five.” Howel raised his eyebrows at me in puzzlement, and I quickly lowered my hand and cleared my throat. “Howel Davis, these are my friends…” I turned to Nan and the girls, who were watching the proceedings with avid interest, like a group of housewives watching a soap opera.

“Ladies, at your service,” Howel said with utter panache, sweeping off his hat and bowing deeply.

The girls giggled and batted their eyelashes at him, clearly surprised by his good looks and chivalrous greeting. Yes, Howel Davis was, without a doubt, a ladies’ man. I felt the green-eyed monster within me stir.  I changed the subject quickly. “So tell me the details about this job.”

“‘Tis aboard the sloop-’o-war, the Buck,” he replied. “Woodes Rogers intends to send her and another sloop, the Mumvil Trader, to exchange goods with the French and Spaniards in Martinico and Cuba. The lading’s valuable, I hear. Rogers hired mostly pardoned pirates. I’ll be just a regular hand, but ‘tis better than nothing.”

“They’ll be needing boys, too, won’t they?” I asked excitedly. “I could go over this afternoon –”

“Sabrina,” Howel said, his smile fading. “‘Tis not a good idea, this. You should stay here, with your friends, and see if you can get back to your family.”

Oh, no. It was my experience with Edward England all over again. I said, “But you agreed… back in Barbados… You said I could come with you.”

Howel scratched his head. “Sabrina, it makes little sense. To risk your life, your future… I’ve no choice. But you? You still have a chance.” He smiled. “Your fate ain’t set in stone.”

“We don’t know that yours is either,” I said through gritted teeth.

Howel placed his hat back on his head, his expression grim. “The sloops leave in two days. I’ve met a fellow from Wapping, one Walter Kennedy, and a few other sailors who’ve offered me boarding with them at an inn. I’ll be staying with them.”

Oh my God. Was he saying good-bye? I studied his face intently as Nan and the girls moved away, pretending not listen, but fully aware of the situation. He avoided my gaze intentionally, pressing his lips together. I said, “You need me.” He looked at me suddenly, surprised. I flushed, felt the need to rephrase. “I mean, I can be an asset to you. I know so much about the future in general. Maybe not specifics, but I can help you…” I trailed off. Jesus, I was turning into one of those chicks I scorned, following a man around like a loyal puppy, hoping he’d realize he was in love with me. Pathetic. He’s just not that into you, dumbass.

I could clearly see regret in his eyes. He looked around to make sure that the girls had made themselves scarce, then said in a low voice, “Sabrina…” I loved hearing him say my name in that Welsh accent, rolling the “r” and lengthening the “i” so that it was a beautiful, sing-song Sabrrreeenah. He swallowed, and I watched his Adam’s apple slide up and down his throat. It was the first time I’d ever seen him like this, whatever “this” was. Nervous? Sad? He continued, “It’s no good. I promised England I’d make sure you’re safe before I set sail again. I’d not be keeping my promise by taking you aboard a sloop packed with former rovers, that’s for sure. I’d worry about you every second, and I’ve meself to worry about. You’re safe here, you have friends here.” He smiled dimly. “Even if you never go back to your husband and child, I’m certain England will send for you, if not come back for you himself.”

I blinked. I said automatically, “England? Why do you keep bringing England into this?”

“Why indeed?” Howel replied, rolling his eyes to look at the ceiling.

“Howel,” I said urgently. “Howel, don’t give in to the temptation to turn pirate. Please. And whatever you do, never, ever set foot on Prince Island. It’ll mean certain death for you…”

Howel smiled slightly, his eyes crinkled at their corners. “No worries, lass. I’ve no intention to go a-roving. And I certainly ain’t going to the place ‘o me death.” He paused, and for a moment we simply looked at each other. Then he said, “I must go now.” He quickly took my hand and brought my fingers to his lips, looking at me as he did so. He may as well have set me on fire. He said, “I fare you well, my pretty little lad.” He hesitated for a moment — just a moment — then he turned, adjusted his hat so it sat lower over his face, and walked out the door.

I stared after him until Nan gently patted my back and said, “”Tis for the best, lass…”

I spun around to look at her, perplexed. “What are you talking about? I need someone to take me to the Mumvil Trader. Now.” I laughed harshly. “He doesn’t have to know, but there’s no way in hell he’s leaving me behind.”

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I sat on a stoop, watching as Howel Davis made his way through the crowded street towards me. It was a hot day, dusty and bright, and the road smelled of horse manure and smoke. My heart always skipped a beat when he approached me, those gorgeous eyes scanning the crowd for me from under his battered cocked hat. Today, however, he looked particularly downcast, a deep crease between his brows.

I knew he had been unsuccessful, yet again.

“How did it go?” I asked with a hopeful smile.

He rubbed the sweat from the side of his face with his shoulder and shook his head. “They’ll not sign me on, not with this suspicion of piracy hanging about me neck.”

“But you were cleared of those charges!” I cried. “They have no proof — ”

“Sabrina, a notorious pirate gave me a prize,” he said. “How do they make sense of that? Particularly when me shipmates claim I was in league with England?” He inhaled sharply. “Nay, I’ve been outlawed.”

I felt the fury rise up within me. What else was a poor sailor to do, when his very livelihood was at stake? Howel Davis had not even been officially charged with piracy, but he couldn’t get a job as a lowly deck hand on a miserable slave-ship. How did the monarchy — or whoever the hell was in charge around here — expect men not to turn to piracy as a means to an end, especially when life as a pirate was so much better?

I looked at him anxiously, and I could tell his thoughts were similar to mine. I said, “There must be someone who will hire you. We have to keep looking.”

“I can’t expect any employment here, in Barbados,” he replied, squinting into the sun. “I’ll have to go to Nassau, the only place for a pardoned brigand to find honest work.”

I looked up. “You’re going to Nassau?”

“I’ve no choice,” he said. Then he smiled wanly. “Works out well, don’t it? You can mayhaps find a way back home.”

I considered. Nassau was where Howel would become a pirate, so I felt the need to talk him out of it. But for me, Nassau was quite convenient, actually. I could visit Ruth, see if maybe she’d had any more visions. I could visit Nan and the girls. Weird — I’d grown somewhat attached to the place, and was relieved to be going back. Of course, the main reason Nassau had grown on me — Edward England — would not be there.

But I would have Howel Davis. I would be fine so long as I was with him.

What in God’s name had gotten into me?

We found a merchantman bound for Nassau, and, with the little money Howel had left with Meg for safekeeping, we journeyed as passengers back to New Providence. Howel brooded much of the time, staring out across the sea and whittling pieces of wood with his knife. I, in turn, watched Howel, wishing I could lift the burden from his shoulders. I knew how great the temptation to go on the account must have been for him, and I often wondered what kept him from just giving in. Was he so righteous, so conscientious? Or did my prophecy have anything to do with it, that maybe he wanted to prove fate wrong?

It was hard to know, since he didn’t confide in me. Oh, he was his warm, friendly self with me, jesting and teasing as usual. But he wasn’t letting me in. And it wasn’t for my lack of trying. I tried and tried to bring back that sweet, playful sailor I had first met aboard the Cadogan, to no avail. I would see the wall come down, the eyes harden. Life had done a number on him, and he wasn’t going to forget it.

It did not pay to be good in this world of kings and slaves, of dog-eat-dog and an eye for an eye.

On the eve of our arrival in Nassau’s harbor, I could not stand it any longer. I approached Howel and, with my arms crossed on my chest, said, “Why aren’t you telling me what you’re thinking? Why don’t you talk to me?”

Howel had been sitting on the deck under the stars, his knees drawn up and his arms slung over them, staring at nothing, a frown on his face. Now, he looked at me in surprise. “How now?” He grinned slightly, his teeth glistening in the moonlight. “What would you have me tell you?”

I sighed, flopping down next to him. “What you’re thinking. Why you look so sad.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you really need me to tell you that?”

“No,” I replied, sounding like a spoiled child used to getting her way. “But you could share your thoughts, tell me what you want, how you feel about what I’ve told you regarding your future.”

I looked straight ahead, but I could feel him next to me, gazing at my profile. After a moment he asked, “Why would you want me to do that? Haven’t you enough to worry about without me worries heaped on you as well?”

I felt a blush creeping into my cheeks. I still didn’t look at him. “But aren’t we friends? Friends support each other.”

“A man and a woman, friends? Mayhaps in 2009 such things are possible, but in 1718, if a man and a woman reveal such confidences, they enter the realm of lovers.”

I felt as though I’d been zapped. Was it just my overactive imagination, or did his voice get lower, huskier as he said the word lovers? Get a grip, Sabrina. You’re a married woman. It took me a second, but I finally said, “No, it’s not so different in 2009. We try and tell ourselves that it’s different, that because men and women are equals, close friendships — without the romance — are possible.”

“Ah,” he said softly. “Then ‘twould be a bad idea, you and me getting too close.”

I still couldn’t look at him. My nerves strummed like guitar strings. I wanted to ask, Why would it be a bad idea? Because I’m married, or because you aren’t attracted to me? I finally stole a glance at him, finding that he watched me with interest, the hint of a smile on his mouth. Damn him! He was accustomed to women wanting him. A playboy in 1718 was just like a playboy in 2009. Human nature didn’t change with time. I was suddenly furious. So he thought I wanted him, then, and that he was letting me down gently? I’d show him.

Without thinking, the next words out of my mouth were, “It wouldn’t matter. You’re not my type, anyway.”

Howel laughed. It was a gleeful laugh, like that of a naughty boy. It was wonderful to hear him laugh so, with such abandon. He said, “Aye, I don’t doubt it. A sailor with no berth and no money at all, and a criminal record to boot.”

“It has nothing to do with that,” I said quickly.

“Oh,” he said, his expression puckish. “I see. You’ve a dislike for me personage, is that it? You prefer the stockier, lighter-haired gentlemen. A man more like…. Edward England.”

“Edward England?” I repeated incredulously. “What…”

“‘Tis best,” he said, waving his hand glibly, “as I prefer the more buxom, golden-haired maidens meself.”

I was at a loss for words. I couldn’t believe he’d just said that. I stared at him, my mouth slightly open, and he stared back, those blue eyes taunting me. He was trying to get a rise out of me, the jerk! I bit my tongue, forcing myself to look away. Don’t take the bait, Sabrina. I said as calmly as I could muster, “Good. Then let’s just pretend I’m the boy Will. Can you do that?”

“Aye,” he replied, sniffing and looking back out into the horizon. “‘Tis settled, then.”

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I didn’t want to get out of the tub, it was so wonderful. As promised, Meg had provided us with tubs, clean water, and soap. I sank into the hot water with a sigh of delight. I scrubbed my skin raw and lathered up my hair no fewer than three times. I considered using a straight razor to shave my legs and armpits — which, I am unhappy to report, resembled those of a sixteen-year-old boy — but decided against it, since I still planned to masquerade as a boy.

But before I went back into my boy’s clothes, I wanted to put Meg and all those other floozies in their places. I may not have had their impressive racks, but I had good genes and the benefits of twenty-first century health and beauty care. I slipped into the aquamarine gown and laced myself up as best I could without assistance. It was rumpled and beginning to smell, but it would have to do. I gazed at my reflection in a metal plate — mirrors were a luxury in the 18th century, and only the very rich had them — and was relieved to see that I didn’t look as bad as I had feared. I still had the bruise on my cheek, and my eyebrows were unruly, but my skin, oddly enough, had never looked so… luminescent. My eyes were bright, my cheeks and lips had a natural rosiness to them, and I looked… good. How so very odd.

I walked out of my room and noticed that Howel’s door was open and his room empty, so I went down the stairs where some patrons were dining. I spotted Howel sitting with Meg in a corner, and she was leaning into him, her thick hair over one shoulder. He sat naturally, that ever-present good nature in his eyes, and I wondered if he had ever had an awkward social moment in his life. He’d bathed and shaved, and even though his face was a bit thinner than when I first met him, I was struck by how well he cleaned up.

As I approached, they both turned to look at me. I suddenly realized that neither one of them recognized me; Howel stared like a man appreciating an attractive woman he’d never seen before, and Meg stared like a woman suspiciously eyeing her competition. I stopped at their table and grinned. “Good morning,” I said.

Howel’s eyes widened, his mouth fell open. A delicious warmth crept through me, flushing my cheeks. He said, “Sabrina?” I must have been grinning like an idiot at this point, but I couldn’t stop. He muttered, “Holy Jesus.”

Meg looked from me to him, confused and becoming increasingly angry. “Who’s Sabrina?” Then, the realization of who I was finally dawning on her, she stood and said, “I don’t know what you two are about, but it’s sick!” She stormed off, leaving us to gaze at each other.

Howel rose and gestured to the chair Meg had been sitting in. “Will you have some tea?” We sat and as he poured me some tea, I gazed at him from under my eyelashes. A smile pulled at his lips as he said, “You were a pretty lad, but you’re a beauty of a woman!” I felt the heat flood my face and the air leave my lungs. The way he said it, though — like a man admiring a piece of art, not like one overcome by desire. It bothered me.

He tilted his head to the side, considering me. “What do you plan to do now, lass?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I have nowhere to go. I suppose I could go back to Nassau, try and find a way back to 2009, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it would be in vain. There’s no reasonable way for me to ever get back.” I didn’t say that my plans were, without a doubt, to follow him to the ends of the earth. I added, “There’s also the minor issue of Jack Blaine. He knows who I am, and has threatened to hunt me down when the time came.”

I said this casually, as if addressing the weather, and Howel startled. “Jack Blaine? He knows you’re a woman?”

“Yeah. I was trying to sneak some food into the hold for you, and I was caught. Taylor and Blaine ripped off my shirt, and, well…” I shrugged sheepishly. “It was kind of apparent that I was a woman. When Blaine found out my name was Sabrina, he made the connection. He kinda bullied me a bit, trying to find out what I knew, but I didn’t tell him a thing.”

Howel became very still, and the expression on his face was one I had never seen before, not on him. It was deadly. He said slowly, “Did they put their hands on you?”

I was thrilled by his reaction. “No. Honestly, they didn’t.”

Howel studied my face. He touched my chin and tilted my head toward him, his expression dark. “What happened to your face, then?”

“Oh, Taylor hit me, but that was before he knew… he still thought I was a boy then,” I answered, the words tumbling hurriedly from my lips, my heart racing. I didn’t want his fingers to leave my skin.

All good things must come to an end. He mumbled, “Son of a bitch,” and moved his hand away. Then he said, “Blaine heard the Igbo woman say Sabrina the Charmed Woman knew our fates, and then he discovered that Will, the pirate lad, was a woman named Sabrina.”

I nodded. “That’s right.”

“He’ll hunt you down, he said? Tell me then, Sabrina the Charmed Woman, what becomes of Jack Blaine?”

“He becomes a pirate,” I replied. “A cruel, sadistic one who loves to torture his victims. He will be captured and hanged in 1720.” I thought for a second. “Oh, and he kills Ned Taylor.”

“Ned Taylor? Why would he do that? I thought he and Ned were fellows,” he growled.

I leaned forward. “Because Ned Taylor becomes a pirate hunter. The book didn’t elaborate, but I would guess that Taylor will be on the Slave Coast trying to hunt down Blaine himself. He’ll be defeated and killed.”

Howel’s blue eyes were piercing. “Blaine hasn’t decided to go on the account yet, so he hasn’t discovered how valuable you are to him. Once he realizes what path his life will take, he will come looking for you.”

He was right. We stared at each other, letting it all sink in. Finally Howel said, “Go back, Sabrina. Go back to your time.”

I shook my head. “I told you, I don’t know how! It would be impossible.”

Howel leaned back in his chair. “Blaine will come for you, lass, mark my word.”

I replied, “I know he will.”

Howel studied his hands, the welts around his wrists. After a moment, he said, “I’d tell you to stay with me, that I’d protect you, but I’ve got to find employment. I haven’t a farthing to my name.”

“That’s okay,” I said quickly. “I can still stay with you. I’ve been masquerading as a boy for a while now. I’m quite good at it.”

Howel frowned. “How then? Will you try to find employ with me?”

“Yeah. Aren’t ships always looking for boys to do menial jobs?” I asked.

“Oh, noooooo,” Howel said with a laugh. “I’ll not have you following me onto slave-ships, a pretty little lad who draws troubles like flies ‘round a sugar bowl.”

“I’ll follow you anyway,” I said stubbornly.

Howel sighed. “If you haven’t anywhere to go, and nobody to help you, I suppose it’ll have to be that way.” He smiled. “I promised the pirate England, after all.”

I didn’t like the way he said it, as though I were a burden. I frowned and looked down. “I can be of help to you, too, you know. I’ve told you your future, after all.”

He snorted. “Aye, and little good it does me, if I can’t change it after all.”

I was quiet for a moment, then said, “You can try.”

He smiled. “Aye. And you, Sabrina? What does your future hold?”

I tried to smile. “I have no idea, Howel. No idea.”

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“Will, this is Bess,” Meg said by way of introduction. The girl had a pert nose and a splash of freckles on her cheeks, and she smiled at me, her arm around my neck. My food was definitely not going to stay down. I looked at Davis in desperation to find that Meg had made herself comfortable on his lap, nuzzling his ear. Davis himself, however, still looked at me, as if waiting for something.

Bess slipped her hand into the collar of my shirt, and that did it. “Stop!” I hissed, pushing her from me abruptly. Both Meg and Bess looked at me in surprise, but Davis merely smiled wickedly.

“What ho, lad? Do you not find Bess acceptable?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise.

He knows.

I glared at Davis. “You… What…” I sputtered, enraged.

Davis turned calmly to the startled women. “If you please, ladies, I’d like a word with Will here.”

The women moved away, looking over their shoulders at me in puzzlement. I straightened my shirt and returned Davis’ gaze, flustered. “How did you know?”

Davis took a drink from his mug casually. “An Igbo woman in the hold was raving about Sabrina, the Charmed Woman, who knew our fates. I thought… I suspected you were a woman, and when I heard this… I thought it may be you she meant.”

My God, there were voodoo sorceresses running rampant around 1718. The Igbo woman must have been how Blaine knew as well, then. I asked, “Your fates? Jack Blaine’s fate as well?”

“Yes. He was in the hold flaying the ever-loving Christ out of us with his whips when she blurted it.” He looked at me curiously. “Who are you?”

I closed my eyes. “You won’t believe me.”

“Mayhaps I’ll surprise you.”

I took a deep breath and stared at a mildew stain on the wall straight ahead. “Edward England found me in the sea near New Providence. I had been on a boat that hit a bad storm, and I fell overboard. The year was… 2009.” I slowly turned toward Davis, finding that he leaned forward, watching me intently.

“How now?” he said, his brow furrowed.

I shook my head. “You don’t believe me.”

“No, no,” he said. “Tell me again.” He grinned disarmingly. “Go slowly, now, me brains ain’t working proper yet.”

So I told him the whole story. We must have sat there for over an hour as I tried to explain to him what had happened. He interrupted often with questions and I could see that, like England, he was humoring me even if he didn’t completely believe what I was saying.

“So this book of your friend’s,” he said. “It reveals me fate?”

I knew it would come down to this. I nodded.

“And the fates of England and Taylor and Blaine? Can you tell me what kind of book this be?”

To hell with it, I thought. If I could keep Davis from dying, it would be worth it. Consequences be damned. “It was a book about pirates.” He digested this piece of information, turning the mug between his fingers. I knew I had to convince him that I was from the future, and how better to do it than predict something before it happened? I had prepared myself for this. I leaned forward, whispering. “You’ve heard of Stede Bonnet, the pirate?” Davis nodded. I continued, “It’s the month of October, right? Bonnet will be ambushed on November 8th. He will be found guilty of piracy on November 12. He will beg the governor of Charleston for his life, and his execution will be delayed seven times. Then on December 10th, he will hang at White Point.” Before Davis could speak, I added hurriedly, “And the infamous Blackbeard? He will be killed on November 22, in hand-to-hand combat. His head will be cut off and hung from the bow of his ship.”

Davis stopped playing with the mug and looked at me, a line of concentration between his eyebrows. He was filthy, beaten, and starved, and yet, as I looked at his face, I swear he was the most beautiful man I had ever seen.

“How of it, Davies?” Meg stood at the table, her arms crossed, eyes on me.

Davis smiled at her, pulling himself from his reverie. “Meg, if it’d be no trouble to you, we’ll take the bath, the shave, and the bed.” He winked. “We’ll hold off on the company for another time.”

It was clear that she was disappointed. And judging by the way she looked at me, she held me fully responsible for Davis’ change of heart. I couldn’t help it: I smiled victoriously at her. She said through her teeth, “Nay, no trouble at all.” In a final attempt to sway him, she ran a hand along the back of his neck as she walked away, but he had already forgotten about her, focusing once more on what I’d told him.

Quietly, he said, “I become a pirate, eh?” He mulled this over for a moment, then looked at me. “And what happens if, knowing this, I choose not to go on the account? I still have free will, don’t I?”

I shook my head. “You’re asking me if we can change the future? I have no idea. But I plan to try.”

The corner of his mouth lifted in a lopsided smile. “Aye? And what do you plan to change?”

I swallowed. “Your fate.” I couldn’t look him in the eyes. “You will become a pirate and… less than a year later… you will be ambushed on Prince Island, off the West African coast. You will be shot and killed.”

When I finally looked at Davis, he was waving Meg over. She rushed to his side, her pretty face hopeful, and he said, “Meg, me love, can we bother you for some strong liquors? I’ll need quite a bit, if you please.” He then looked at me and grinned. “A man cain’t hear ‘bout his death without being three sheets in the wind.” His tone was light-hearted, but I saw the sweat glisten on his neck, at the base of his throat.

We both drank — and drank, and drank. Until neither one of us could really stand without swaying, without leaning against something. Our conversation turned to lighter subjects: His childhood in Milford Haven, my childhood in Haiti; the sister he’d adored and lost to smallpox, the grandfather I’d considered a father; the girl he’d thought he’d marry when he was a boy, the husband and daughter I had left behind in 2009.

The last bit seemed to rouse a keen interest in him. “So you’re married, then? With a child?”

I fished the picture of Sophie from my breeches, pulling it free of the thread. I showed it to him. “This is my little girl.”

Davis shook his head, trying to clear it, as he examined the picture. “Damn me eyes,” he muttered. After a long while, he handed it back to me and said, “Begging your pardon, Sabrina, but I think I’ve had all I can handle this night.” He smiled, but it was clear that he’d shut down. I had thrown a bit too much at him at once. I couldn’t help it — I wanted him to know. I wanted him to prevent it — all of it.

Thrilled at hearing the sound of my name on his lips, I nodded mutely. We rose and stumbled up the stairs of the inn to our respective rooms. Before bidding him good-night, I said, “Howel, I have one last question.”

Davis turned and looked at me, his eyes unable to focus. “Aye, if I can answer it,” he slurred.

“You said you knew I was a woman before… before the Igbo woman told you.” I made a fist, my fingernails digging into the flesh of my palms as I asked, “How… When did you realize…?”

Davis whistled playfully, leaning against the doorframe. “In the shrouds. When you nearly fell.” He grinned widely. “I thought either you were a lass, or I was a buggerer.”

All I remember after that exchange was that I floated into the room and blissfully sank into the most wonderful sleep I’d had in a long, long time.

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*Ok, guys. Because, to your good fortune, I happen to be an “instant gratification” type of chick, I give you Howel Davis (Post 11), and it’s nice and long. However, I absolutely cannot post for at least another week. Unless, of course, you can convince me otherwise… Go ahead, sweet talk me… *

Bridgetown’s harbor was so very different than Nassau’s. Of course, Nassau was the only town I had to compare Bridgetown to, and I’m not sure it was considered “civilization,” even in 1718. Bridgetown was what I had imagined an American colony looked like (not that I’d ever really taken the time to think about it): Cobblestone roads, busy docks, two-story frame houses with large balconies and tile roofs, people – lots of people – who were neither whores nor pirates. I knew that beyond them lay the vast sugar plantations with their numerous slaves. To my eyes, the island of Barbados seemed an unusual backdrop to this scene of 18th century colonial drudgery, what with its shimmering blue waters, lush green foliage, and enormous bougainvillea flowers.

We anchored at dusk amidst the numerous ships in the harbor. Merchants and planters came aboard to inspect the cargo, and the slaves were brought on to the deck. I held my breath, waiting for Davis to emerge, but he didn’t. They were going to keep him in the hold until the very last minute.

I was dying to be off the ship and away from Blaine, but I simply couldn’t leave until I was certain Davis was okay. I watched with horror as the prospective buyers inspected the slaves, telling them to open their mouths and jump. I turned away when two sisters were separated, wailing in anguish, their arms outstretched to touch each other. Blaine brought the whip down across their bare shoulders and back, but they continued to call to each other, to weep profusely. I found myself sobbing quietly into the sleeve of my shirt.

I watched as Sam, tall and dignified, was bought by a wealthy planter and was led away. I squeezed my eyes shut, making a desperate mental prayer for him and the rest of the slaves. I wasn’t sure I believed in God, ever had, but I had to believe that something was controlling this magic, this curse, this surreal existence. Perhaps it could be merciful.

When finally the robust slaves had been sold, I realized I had to make myself scarce or face Blaine again. I took a few things out of my trunk — the white willow bark, the ginger, the silk gown England had given me in Nassau — and bundled them in a sack. Then, when I thought no one was paying attention, I made my way off of the Cadogan.

I had no where to go, of course. I considered lurking around the piers to wait for Davis to be brought off the ship, but beggars and stray dogs and enormous rats convinced me otherwise. I asked an old sailor smoking his pipe where I could find the prison, deciding I would wait there for Davis to be brought. For surely that’s where they were taking him.

The prison, or “gaol,” was a substantial brick building, dark and forbidding, with soldiers guarding the doors. Here, prisoners would await trial in the Law Courts, and convicts would await branding, whipping or hanging — whatever their sentence called for. It was dark now, and I had a plan. I sought refuge at an Anglican church not far from the gaol, where I was given some bread and water. The following morning, I used the water to wash myself as well as could be expected (which, incidentally, wasn’t well at all), and slipped into the fine aquamarine gown. I piled my stringy, unwashed hair on my head and hoped I looked something like a respectable colonial woman. I had a sneaking suspicion I looked more like a prostitute, but it would have to work.

I marched into the loathsome building, aware of the curious eyes that followed me. Upon entering I asked for the bailiff, who wore a long, fine coat of silk and a sour expression on his face. He looked at me without interest, as if he’d seen far more unusual things in his day. I was certain he had.

“Has one Howel Davis been brought in this morning?” I asked.

The bailiff rummaged though his records, making phlegm-rattling snorting sounds through his nose. “Yes, one Davis is here on the charges of piracy. Brought in from the Cadogan.”

“What evidence was provided against him?” I demanded.

The bailiff yawned and then answered, “The accounts of his crew members.”

“Who is the prosecutor? The magistrate? I must have a word with them,” I said urgently.

“You needn’t waste your breath,” the bailiff replied. “The charges will most likely be dismissed for lack of evidence.”

I took a deep breath, relieved. I knew this would happen, but I thought I could possibly expedite the process. “Well, please put me on record as having said that the charges were purely fabricated…” The bailiff dutifully, if grudgingly, took down my words, and filed them away in Davis’ records. He assured me that the situation would be addressed shortly, then seemed relieved to see me leave.

Now all I had to do was wait. And needless to say, it was agonizing. The parish priest, realizing I was a woman, allowed me to stay sheltered at his church for several days, knowing that I was awaiting a man to be released from the gaol. In return, I scrubbed the floors and did some menial tasks to earn my keep, so to speak. Every morning, I went to the prison and asked the annoyed bailiff about Davis. I wouldn’t be surprised if Davis was released only to get me off the bailiff’s back.

Then, on the fourth morning in Barbados, I walked into the prison and the bailiff, seeing me, immediately said, “He’s being released this day, in the afternoon, I’d wager.” I could tell he was thrilled at this development, because it meant I would stop harassing him.

I rushed back to the church to change back into my boy’s clothes — I did not want Davis to know I was a woman. I had thought about it since Davis had been put in the hold of the Cadogan, and I had my reasons: Davis knew Will, but he did not know Sabrina. I wanted to be a familiar face to him, not another shock to his system. Also, I was afraid. I was afraid that should Davis learn I was a woman, I would not be able to follow him in whatever he may pursue, whether it be piracy or anything else. I wanted to have the freedom associated with being a boy.

Finally, I was terrified of rejection. What would I do if Davis’ kindness and playfulness only extended to Will, and not to Sabrina? What if, upon realizing I was a woman, he promptly ditched me? I wasn’t sure I could deal with that — especially after England had done just that.

I waited outside the gaol for hours, the butterflies at work in my stomach. I was so nervous I thought I might vomit. Then, in the late afternoon, Howel Davis emerged, blinking in the sunlight. Actually, the man who emerged was a mere shadow of the Howel Davis I had known aboard the Cadogan. He was gaunt and pale, his clothes filthy and shredded. He had a full beard and dark circles around his eyes. And yet, I knew it was him, the smiling Howel Davis, from the fire in his eyes which, while subdued, was still very much there.

They hadn’t broken him. Thank God.

I watched him cross the street, approaching me, and as he looked in my direction I waved. “Howel,” I said, unsure of what to call him. “Howel Davis.”

He stopped and looked at me, recognition flickering across his face. “Why, ‘allo, Will,” he said. He paused and I looked him over. God, he looked haggard.

“Are you… well?” I asked.

“Ha!” he said without humor. “Been better, that’s for certain. I could use a meal and some drink.”

“Can I come?” I said quickly.

He looked at me carefully, just a glimmer of good humor returning to his eyes. “Aye. I know a place… Just down White’s Alley.”

We walked in silence, and I noticed the gashes in his wrists from the manacles, the cuts on his neck and face, the bruise at his temple. I felt this sudden urge to take care of him, to clean his wounds, feed him, find him a good place to sleep. I couldn’t imagine what he and the slaves had suffered in the hold, and I was afraid to ask.

Davis broke the silence by asking, “So did you find the pirate’s friend, then?”

I shook my head, not looking at him. “No. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

He chuckled. “You an’ me both.”

As in Nassau, there was no shortage of pubs and taverns in Bridgetown. The one Davis led me to was called the “Black Dog Inn.” It was full of people, and I marveled that anything ever got done when people were drinking all day. Maybe it was the only way anything got done to begin with. A woman, who looked like she was wearing a 2009 “beer wench” slutty Halloween costume, gasped and cried out when she saw Davis. She was very attractive — long auburn hair, wide blue eyes, porcelain skin, and a nice figure. She rushed over and threw her arms around his neck, careless of the scandalized onlookers.

“Howel! Howel Davies! Let me look at you!” She held him at arm’s length and clicked her tongue. “What ‘appened to you? You look like ‘ell!”

Davis grinned that beautiful smile of his. “‘Allo, Meg, me love,” he said tiredly. “Was put in the gaol for a little while, is all. Nothing to fret about.”

It was clear from her expression that she didn’t believe him, but she let it go. “You need a hot meal and some good rum. Sit down an‘ I’ll fetch it for you.”

It seemed as though every woman in the place squealed and rushed to Davis the instant they saw him, fretting over him, touching him. Meg stood at his side the whole time, her arms wrapped possessively around one of his. It seemed like an eternity before they let him be and Meg went to get the food she’d promised.

We sat at a table and Davis rubbed his face with his hands. I still felt that urgent need to take care of him, but there was something else, now, too… Jealousy. I tried to focus on Davis and what he’d been through, clearing my mind of the voluptuous beauty who’d done something I’d been dying to do for weeks: wrap my arms around him.

I looked at Davis and asked softly, “Was it so horrible, in the hold?”

He looked at me briefly, then focused on his mangled wrists. “‘Twas worse,” he replied huskily. “Ned Taylor and Jack Blaine are cruel men, worse than even Skinner himself.” And that was it. I wouldn’t press him for the details — I didn’t want to know them. I saw it now, an expression that I’d never seen before on his face. He hadn’t been broken, but he’d been hardened. That sweet wistfulness I had loved so much about him was gone.

“‘Ere we go!” Meg set a platter piled high with food before each of us, along with enormous mugs filled to the brim with rum. She smiled, her hands on her hips. “Now you ‘ad better eat every last crumb,” she said playfully, winking at me, and, as I hoped she would bustle off and do whatever it was she did, she pulled up a chair and plopped down between us.

Great.

I was distracted suddenly by the smell of the food. My stomach growled loudly as I helped myself to the onion pie, roast beef, fish stew, and fried potatoes. Food had never, ever tasted so good. Davis dug in as well, starved as he was. Meg watched us, amused, and once in while reminded Davis to slow down. “You don’t want it coming right back up, now, do you?” she’d say with a gentle smile, touching his arm. I’d pause only long enough to glare at the physical contact between them, then would return back to my meal.

When we finally let up our merciless attack on the food, sitting back in our chairs, sated, Meg asked, “So now, Davies, who be the lad?”

Davis sighed contentedly.  He looked at me now, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. God, I had missed that look. “His name is Will.” He gave Meg an abbreviated version of what happened, and she stared at us, her eyes like saucers.

“Sweet Jesus! Well, those bastards Taylor and Blaine better not come ‘round ‘ere, I’ll say that much!” She turned her attention to me, her eyes scanning my face. I looked down, trying to hide under the brim of my hat. Women were so much more perceptive than men, and her studious gaze made me nervous.

“Well, gentlemen, can I interest you in a bath, a shave, and some beds to sleep in?” There was a saucy note to her voice, a flirty look in her big blue eyes. “Maybe some company to keep ‘em warm?”

I looked up, wondering if I was hearing correctly. Was she suggesting we…? Both Davis and Meg were looking at me. Meg asked, “How old are you, Will?”

“Sixteen,” I replied in barely a whisper.

She looked back at Davis and fluttered her eyelashes. “What do you say, Davies?”

Davis’s eyes never left my face. He grinned. “Aye, a good idea, Meg. What think you, Will?”

I managed to spit out, “I don’t have any money…”

Meg waved her hands. “‘Tis on the house!” she said.

Davis stretched, his arms over his head. “Nothing like the company of a comely lass to make you forget your troubles, eh, lad?”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. I was in a pickle. Was this inn also a whorehouse? Nice.

Meg stood. “I’ll arrange things, then,” she said, and ran her fingers along Davis’ jaw. As she sauntered off, I tried to keep my food from coming back up. I wasn’t sure which poor girl was going to be given to me, but she was in for an unpleasant surprise. As for Howel Davis… I was fairly certain Meg would see to him herself.

Oh, no. Over my dead body.

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The blasted “Middle Passage” had taken forever, every hour dragging by as I consciously avoided Jack Blaine, surrounding myself with the crew at every opportunity to ensure that I was rarely alone.

Every time Sam was brought on deck to “exercise,” I would ask him about Davis, nearly frantic with worry. Sam would look at me, his scarred face fierce, his expression impenetrable.  At first, he would simply answer, “He is alive.”

As this was not enough to satisfy me as the days passed, Sam finally looked me in the eyes and said softly, “He has much ike, strength. He will not die. Not yet.”

I had to be satisfied with this answer, although it did little to ease my worry. I could do nothing, though, except wait with bated breath for Blaine to approach me, for the Cadogan to reach Barbados.

They happened quickly, nearly simultaneously. Just as the lookout excitedly shouted that Barbados was within sight, Taylor called me to his cabin. Inside, both Blaine and Taylor awaited me, their faces expectant.

“You say you have friends here?” Taylor inquired frigidly, his arms crossed on his chest. “How do you intend to meet with them?”

I shifted nervously. “England told me where to find them.”

Taylor seemed satisfied with this answer, ready to be done with me. “Godspeed, then.” As I turned to leave, he added, “Oh, and Blaine would have a word with you.”

Shit. I reluctantly turned to face Blaine, who was chewing on a toothpick and leaning against a table, his eyes fixed on me. He waited calmly for Taylor to leave before saying, “Charmed Woman Sabrina. What are ye, a witch?”

I stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you everything.”

Blaine stood, pulling the toothpick from his lips and squinting one eye at me. “Ye know fates of men, do ye? She said ye’d know me fate, the fate ‘o the world.”

“Who’s she?” I asked hoarsely, stepping back as Blaine approached. I looked at Blaine now, knowing what I’d recently learned about him, and noticed the lantern jaw, the flattened nose, the blond, sun-bleached hair, the weathered face. He couldn’t have been older than me, and his stocky form consisted of mostly muscle. He was a terrifying bear of a man, and he would no doubt be even more terrifying a pirate.

Blaine ignored my question. “What of me fate, then? If ye know so much, what of Kidd’s treasure? Of Spanish gold?”

Was he mocking me? “I — I don’t know,” I stammered.

Blaine grabbed my face with his dirty, callused hand and held it close to his. I could smell his breath, a nauseating blend of ale and tobacco and rotting teeth. I could see the fog in his left eye, the one he always squinted. He said, “I’ve a mind to force ye, lass, if ye know something ye ain’t telling.”

I tried to twist away. “I know nothing. Now let me go before I scream.”

He held my face for a moment longer, long enough for it to hurt, and then abruptly let go. He grinned. “I don’t know where ye plan on running to, but there ain’t many places for ye to hide, a lass with no kin to protect ye. Be assured that I’ll find ye when the time comes.”

“I told you, I don’t know anything,” I repeated. “And I’ll report you to the authorities –”

Blaine laughed harshly. “Aye, report me, will ye? I’ll still hunt ye down and get it outta ye.” He walked to the cabin door and opened it, then bowed deeply, irreverently. “Milady?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

I rushed out, my heart pounding in my chest, and resolved to find myself a pistol once we’d reached solid land. I would rather shoot myself again than land in the hands of either Jack Blaine the sailor or Jack Blaine the pirate.

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I had no time to kiss my things good-bye. I had the most important thing among them — the picture of Sophie — stitched securely on the inside of my breeches. I took out Rovers of the Sea and tucked it under my arm. I wasn’t ready to get rid of the book. Not yet. Before I had a chance to talk myself out of it, I dropped my knapsack over the side of the ship. A sob escaped my lips as the canvas sack disappeared in the waves.

Then I turned my attention to Sky’s book, forcing my thoughts away from the fact that I was quickly losing the tenuous link to my past. I knew the passages about England and Davis by heart, since they were fairly short. The author hadn’t dwelled on them. I shook my head in disgust — apparently, the sinister pirates were far more interesting. I flipped to the index and nervously looked up Taylor.

Taylor, Edmund, 350. Edmund… Was Ned a nickname for Edmund? I flipped to page 350:

Taylor had a humble beginning aboard slavers, but his competency as a seaman was quickly realized. 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.

Oh, man. I should have guessed. I then looked up Jack Blaine:

Blaine was a former London thief and gambler who found honest work aboard Bristol slavers before deciding to pursue piracy. He became one of the more notorious Golden Age pirates, quickly developing a taste for cruelty… plundered in the Caribbean and off the African coast… “gratified with the cries and groans of his prisoners…often murdered a man from the excess of good humor, as out of passion and resentment… danger lurked in his very smile…”

I found that I was holding my breath as I read. Fabulous. Just what I needed. My luck really couldn’t get any worse. Was I being punished for something? I finished reading Blaine’s entry in a hurry:

…captured the pirate hunter Edmund Taylor’s ship and killed Taylor, a former slaver-ship captain… Blaine was finally captured in 1720… hanged and gibbeted in Jamaica…

“Who goes?”

I shoved the book into my jacket and spun around, exhaling upon seeing the cook, an unhappy little man with patchy facial hair. The discovery that I was a woman made the entire crew uncomfortable — while they’d mercilessly harangued the boy Will, they had no idea what to do with the woman Sabrina. So they settled on avoiding me when possible, which was the best thing that had happened to me in a long time. I began to wish I’d revealed myself several weeks ago.

The cook’s eyes darted about, trying not to look me in the face. “Er… I thinks I hear’d rats… They gets into the flour, ye know…” With that, he went about his business, trying his damnedest to pretend I wasn’t standing there.

I traced the outline of the book under the faded canvas. In the wrong hands, this book was dangerous. While I still had no idea whether the future could truly be changed, simply the knowledge of when and where… I thought of Blaine, of how he was bound to seek me out again. How much did he know? I simply couldn’t risk his getting ahold of it. All I needed to know was safely in my head.

In a single movement, I flung Rovers of the Sea into the air and watched, my eyes watering from the wind, as my last tie to Jake and Sophie was swallowed by the sea.

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http://www.thenoblepirates.com/?p=211 They would not let me into the hold of the ship. Taylor was fairly clear on the matter, saying, “If you go into the hold, it’ll be as a prisoner, not a sailor, you worthless little shit. I have half a mind to lock you up too, pirate buggerer that you are.” Rima\'s pirates

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I moved about the ship, doing the tasks I was assigned and treating the sick, unscathed by the harsh, vulgar comments made to me or about me by the crew, dusting myself off and going about my business when a surly seaman would trip me purposefully. My eyes followed Davis, watching him as he commanded the Cadogan with complete confidence. I would not be brought down from my high. An entire miserable day was made good when Davis would smile at me, commend my hard work, or simply tease me.

I was not the only person covertly watching Davis. Like the sneaking puppy Davis had said he was, Ned Taylor kept an envious eye on his new captain. I began to watch Taylor almost as closely as I watched Davis, becoming increasingly convinced that he was up to no good. When the men took their meals, Taylor sat alone, quietly, those dark eyes flickering over the men, over the slaves, over me, over Davis, as though he were plotting. Occasionally Blaine would keep him company, and I could have sworn I saw knowing looks pass between them.

Wondering if I was simply being my overly sensitive twenty-first century female self, I said nothing of my suspicions to Davis. And before I knew it, it was too late.

One cloudy afternoon, Davis was issuing some routine orders to several members of the crew, but found that they stood idly by. He repeated his orders, but the crew simply amassed on deck in a crowd, once again disregarding his orders. Davis became livid. “What are you curs about, then? Do you seek a good flogging, the lot of you?” he cried.

Ned Taylor then came forward, saying he had something of “utmost importance” to say. He stood amidst the crew, looking at Davis. “See here, Davies! When we get to Barbados, there’ll be trouble for us. We’ll be charged with mutiny, we will, and we’ll have to prove our innocence. You ain’t concerned about such matters, sayin’ that the pirate lad’ll witness for us.” There was a murmur of disapproval as Taylor pointed at me in disgust, and I stifled the urge to stick my tongue out at him. “I don’t know about the men, but I have no faith in the li’l milksop! ‘Tis a wonder you don’t worry more about the situation.”

The murmuring grew louder, and as Davis opened his mouth to speak, Taylor continued, nearly yelling with urgency, turning now to look at the faces of the crew. “Are you men not concerned at how Davis accepted the pirate’s gift to him? How he runs this ship as though it were a rover? Look, now, how relaxed he is with his discipline, how he lets the slaves wander by their own free will as though they weren’t somebody else’s property! How he portions out items from the cargo itself, as if it were plunder!”

My heart was racing. Davis had been so good to the crew, so fair. Surely they wouldn’t turn against him now? But most of the Cadogan crew had participated in the torturing of Skinner, cheering Jameson on and pelting the captain with glass bottles. Now, their only witness was a boy they’d mercilessly tormented for several weeks, and there was no telling what that “boy” would tell the authorities once in Barbados. No, the situation was not looking good for the men of the Cadogan, and they knew it. Taylor’s meaning had not been missed: Accuse Davis of trying to turn pirate, and escape the charges of mutiny that were bound to arise.

Blaine, who’d been standing in the back, spoke, his cheek bulging with tobacco. “I’m with ye, Taylor,” he said, his big, hairy arms crossed on his chest. “I hear’d Davies talking about going on the account a number ‘o times, I did.”

Davis remained calm, but his voice was low and threatening. “You’re both full of shit, and you know it,” he said.

Taylor ignored him, appealing to the crew.  “Who else knows of Davis’ piratical intentions? Surely there are more witnesses.”

I was amazed to watch as one after the other, the men ganged up against Davis – he’d plundered the cargo, had been heard talking about sailing to Port Royal in Jamaica, had been ordered by England to sail to Brazil and sell the booty. As I watched Davis’ face, I began to wonder how many of the stories were true. Surely Davis hadn’t really been thinking about turning pirate? Not that I would blame him: The life of a pirate seemed far better than this. Anything was better than this.

Ned Taylor’s dark eyes looked at Davis, a malicious glint in them. “Clap ‘im in irons!” he cried.

“No!” I yelled involuntarily, jumping up, but I went unnoticed as the shouting men grabbed at Davis. He would not go without a fight: As the crew cornered him, Davis took advantage of his last moments of freedom to slug Ned Taylor in the mouth.

As they took Davis down, Taylor kicked him sharply in the ribs, cursing, “You son of a whore! I’ll bash your pretty face in…” Blaine held Taylor back, muttering something in Taylor’s ear that seemed to calm him.

I panicked as they took Davis down into the hold, looking frantically around for an ally, someone who would stand up for Davis with me. I noticed that the crew had thought ahead, quietly and quickly locking the bigger, more dangerous slaves back up before confronting Davis.

Think, Sabrina, think! All I wanted to do was throw myself at them, insisting that they lock me up with Davis. I was sure they’d be more than happy to oblige. But that wouldn’t help anything.

I had been forgotten for the moment as the crew shackled the remaining slaves and forced them back down into the hold. I stood stock still, wishing I knew what to do. I felt impotent with rage. How dare the crew accuse Davis of piracy when he’d been so good to them? When he’d saved them from the pirates? Davis would never… Or would he?

My mouth fell open. Sky’s book. Why hadn’t I thought to look before? Had I been so caught up in everything that I’d forgotten about it? Davis had been so vehemently opposed to piracy, I’d just assumed my book about pirates had ceased to be of use to me. But if Davis did become a pirate, at least a somewhat successful one, the book might, just might, say something about it…

I wanted to run, but instead walked as inconspicuously as I could back to the cabin where my knapsack lay hidden beneath the bunk. I tore Rovers of the Sea out and flipped to the index: Davis, Howel, first mate of the Cadogan, 225… career as pirate, 352-353…

One page? That’s it? Oh, God. This had been under my nose this whole time and I hadn’t thought to look for it. The process of time travel must have killed a few brain cells. I found myself shaking as I opened the book to page 352, afraid of what I would find there. I forced myself to read:

The Cavalier Prince of Pirates… A charming, cunning pirate with a thrilling but brief career, Davis tried to join the pirates after Edward England gave him the Cadogan, but his law-abiding crew refused…

Bullshit, I thought. “Law-abiding crew” my ass. History is kind to those who write it. I continued reading:

He was imprisoned briefly, after which he went to Nassau in the hopes of finding a pirate crew…he was elected captain by the pirates… known for using deception rather than brute force to capture his prizes in the Caribbean and off the West African coast…

I thought my heart would stop beating when I reached the end of page 353:

Davis was ambushed at the island of Principe, where he “dyed like a game Cock”, shooting two Portuguese as he fell. He was succeeded by Bartholomew Roberts, the most successful Golden Age pirate.

I slowly became aware that tears were streaming heedlessly down my face. I had been alive nearly thirty-two years, and I swear I cried more since arriving in 1718 than I had my whole life. What I wouldn’t give for some good old 2009 anti-depressants. I wiped the tears and snot from my face with my sleeve, angry at myself for letting these men, these pirates, get under my skin. I reminded myself that they’d been dead for a long time, that they were simply following the paths that fate had laid out for them. For some reason, this made little difference in how I felt. England and Davis were alive now, this very moment, and if it was in my power to change their fates, why shouldn’t I try?

I thought about Sophie and Jake. I wondered if it wasn’t better to leave the past untouched, and to just focus on getting back to my family. But hadn’t I already touched the past? Didn’t my very presence in 1718 affect everything anyway?

I squeezed my eyes shut and tilted my head back. God help me, I was helpless in my desire to follow Howel Davis, to try and save him from his premature death. Me, a married woman, a mother, and an attorney, who’d long given up any thoughts of romance and living in the moment and letting my emotions rule me. I should have been ashamed of myself.

But I wasn’t. I carefully hid my knapsack and stood, clearing my throat. I was throwing caution to the wind. My reason for living in 2009 should have been my little girl and my patient, loving husband. My reason for living in 1718 was shackled in the hold of this slave-ship, punished for being a good man in a merciless world.

I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice.

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