We were quickly approaching Sierra Leone, and it was only a matter of time before England captured his first ship. I was ready to stand on firm land again. I would never get used to this life. Not after knowing what luxuries would eventually exist. I longed for my worn pajamas, my big pillow-top mattress, my coffee maker, my So You Think You Can Dance and nightly dose of CNN. I missed my little girl so much my chest ached every time I thought of her. I missed my estranged husband and his annoying habits – how he always dropped his clothes on the floor and left his dirty dishes in the sink, joking that a little “dish fairy” would come and clean up. What I wouldn’t do to be his dish fairy right now.

I reached for my knapsack, swaying from side to side as I leaned from the hammock. I had kept everything from my backpack, even my useless Blackberry and iPod, holding them now like they were relics. They were relics of my past and yet somehow, also of the future. Tanya’s makeup bag, the little toothbrush and nearly empty tube of toothpaste; the bathing suits and cover-ups, the wallets filled with credit cards and money that were of no value; Sky’s romance novel, now missing a good twenty pages from a critical love scene (ahem).

I sighed, pulling Sky’s other book, Rovers of the Sea, from its plastic bag. Why couldn’t she have brought something else along, like Confessions of a Shopaholic or something? Why did it have to be about damn pirates? I’d had it up to here with pirates. But I was sick, hammock-ridden, and wanted to read something, so this would have to do. I flipped through it, humming to myself, when it occurred to me that this was not a novel – it was non-fiction. I turned to the table of contents, my heart-rate accelerating. The Golden Age of Piracy… 1680-1730… Famous Pirates of the Era…

Oh my God. Oh my God.

I frantically skimmed the index: Bellamy… Blackbeard… Bonnet… the E’s… England, Capt. Edward, pirate career of, 222-230. He was here. With trembling fingers, I opened the book to page 222.

“The Merciful Pirate”…Irishman Edward England, a successful New Providence pirate who, unlike Charles Vane and Blackbeard, set off for the coast of Africa… a good-natured man, who was not avaricious and against the abuse of prisoners…

I couldn’t read fast enough. I turned to the last page – I had to know the ending first:

…When England refused to have Captain Macrae killed, he made many enemies among the crew… they decided he was unfit to command…left him on the shores of Madagascar to live out the rest of his days in poverty…living off of the handouts of others…a beggar and a drunk…

Oh my God.

I swallowed. On a whim, I looked up Charles Vane: …March 29, 1721, was hanged in Jamaica…his body hung from a gibbet…

Calico Jack Rackam: …March 29, 1721, also hanged in Jamaica… his body hung across the harbor from Vane’s…

I couldn’t decide which fate was worse, Vane and Rackam’s, or England’s. As I went back to read the rest of England’s entry, I heard the cry, “A sail! A sail!” and the thumping of feet running on deck. I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, so I dog-eared my page, tucked the book in my knapsack, and flipped out of the hammock in a highly inelegant fashion. As I came up on deck, I spotted England on the quarterdeck, peering through a spyglass. I hurried up to him, past the pirates as they prepared for the chase.

“What’s happening?” I asked, breathless, my head throbbing from both my cold and my new revelations. I looked at England as though for the first time, a lump in my throat.

“I’ve just set her by the compass,” England replied, nodding out toward the horizon. “She’s to leeward, so we’re letting out all our sails, bearing down on her.”

I glanced around at the frenzied preparations. “Will Griffith be needing me?” I asked.

He looked at me. “Not yet. Ye have time yet, lass. Get some rest.”

I galloped back down into the cabin and grabbed the book. Would it reveal what was about to happen? I flopped down on the floor and scanned the first few pages about England for something regarding the ships he captured, but could only find vague references. The only entry of interest in this period of his life involved the merchantman Cadogan, which was significant because England’s crew brutally tortured and killed its captain, a guy named Skinner, and because England gifted the Cadogan to its first mate, another dude named Howel Davis…

I stopped reading. My eyes blurred over the words “brutally tortured and killed.” Those were not words I associated with England, not my Captain England. But then, neither were the words “a beggar and a drunk.” Maybe this author got it wrong? I went back to read about Charles Vane. Yep, it was all there – the arrival of Woodes Rogers in Nassau, his exchange with Vane, and the fire-ship. Then maybe the book was right. Other than the night I was nearly raped, I had never seen England as a cutthroat pirate. Maybe he was brutal, and his kindness only extended to me…

The ship lurched, and I became nervous. Would this be the Cadogan? I hid the book in its plastic bag and stuffed it into my knapsack, then went back up to the deck. “Clear the ship for engaging!” England cried. The black flag had been raised, the gun ports opened, the cannons pushed loose.  I realized that I should probably already be in the powder room.

“Sabrina!” Jameson roared from amidst the frenzy. “Get you below!”

I stumbled as I ran, practically falling down the hatch. I didn’t want to be down there. I wanted to be on the deck to better see what was happening. Luckily, Griffith had me packing cartridges and running them onto the deck almost immediately. The Royal James fired across the merchantman’s bow and the vessel lowered its flag in a show of submission. It was a smaller ship with far fewer guns, so surrendering was, in my humble opinion, a prudent decision. Even so, the pirates fired their muskets into the sails, banged their cutlasses against the gunwales, and let out blood-curdling war cries. I crouched against the bulwark and covered my ears, terrified. I couldn’t imagine what the men aboard the merchantman were thinking.

The ships were alongside now, and the pirates, still howling like animals, threw their grappling hooks onto the prey, as well as grenades and fireworks so that they could board under the cover of smoke. From the forecastle, the pirates leaped onto the merchantman, armed with pistols, cutlasses, and boarding axes. I peeked over the gunwale at the chaos, fascinated. It was one big game of intimidation, since the pirates didn’t want to engage in battle any more than the prey.

I stood, possessed by a sudden urge to join the pirates on the captured ship. In the many weeks that had passed, I had learned a lot about sailing, ships, weapons, and battle. I had, by some miracle, acquired my sea legs, and was fairly confident in my abilities to handle a pistol. Plus, I didn’t want to be left behind on the pirate ship by myself.

Had I been on cold medicine, I would have blamed it for this irrational, ludicrous impulse. With my heart pulsing in my ears, I drew my pistol, cocked it, and ran up to the forecastle. I paused only long enough to assess the distance between the ships and, without thinking about the consequences, jumped over the space.

I made it – barely. I plunged headfirst onto the deck, unable to see because of the smoke that swirled aboard the merchant ship. As I landed, my pistol went off. I lay on the deck, disoriented, when I realized I was covered in blood. It wasn’t until I felt the searing pain in my left arm that I realized the blood was my own.

I had just shot myself.

Major fail, Sabrina.

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My services as a “doctor” had been called on a few times: I’d used aloe and honey on a burn, basil on a rash; tea tree oil for lesions, fungus, and scabies; white willow bark for fevers, aches, and inflammations. While my remedies worked, in several instances I suspected I only eased the symptoms of a greater ill – syphilis. I lamented my lack of antibiotics, and wondered what kind of risk I’d be taking if I had the afflicted pirates eat moldy bread. I knew from my grandfather that it would be a pretty bad idea, as nasty stuff grew on the bread as well as penicillin. So I listened as several sailors described nasty chancres in places they would not reveal, and I could only sigh and tell them that my remedies could ease their discomfort, but would not cure them if it was the “great pox.”

I dreaded the day when a sailor would come to me with a gory wound or a partially detached limb. I would direct him to the carpenter, I suppose, after loading him up with rum.

As I tended to some of the men, I noticed that a few of them eyed me hungrily. Perhaps it was because I tended to their ailments in a gentle, motherly fashion. In any case, it made me nervous, and I could see that it made England nervous as well. He could punish a man for violating me, but short of staying with me at all times, he could not always prevent it from happening. He and Jameson both had warned the men of horrible punishments should one of them merely look at me askance, but there was no guarantee.

As a result, England insisted I learn how to fire a pistol, and that I carry both pistol and knife on my person. He showed me how to load it with two balls and swan shot from a horn that hung, along with my pistol, on a ribbon that slung across my chest. He told me to fire at close range, when the aggressor was just a couple yards away, to ensure that “he’d not live to see a good day afterwards.”

He also had me try my hand with a cutlass, showing me some basic thrusts, cuts and parries. I was a sorry sight, holding my weapons “like a girl.” England was a patient, if highly amused, teacher, and everywhere I looked I saw a pirate grinning from ear to ear, watching as I accidentally dropped the cutlass no fewer than five times. God help me should I ever need to use it.

“What do I do, when, er, you know…” I rubbed my arm uncomfortably. “When you finally… see a ship worth attacking?”

England smiled wryly. “Get yerself in the cabin and stay there ’til I say ye can come out.”

My anger flared. “Forget that!” I cried. “Give me something to do, to help. You know how much I hate going belowdecks, where I can’t see the horizon.”

Before England could retort, Jameson stepped in. “She could be of use to the gunner, Cap’n. He’s in need of a powder monkey.”

“I’m sorry, a what?” I asked, imagining a baboon with a powder compact.

The two men were silent for a moment, looking at each other. I was acutely aware of the power struggle between captain and quartermaster as they surveyed each other, a crackling tension in the air. Jameson wanted me to be useful, England wanted me to stay out of the way. England finally answered, “Ye’ll be running the cartridges to the guns on deck.”

“I will?” I wasn’t thrilled with the title, but it sounded like a job I could do.

Jameson took me to the master gunner, a man with a cleft palate called Griffith. He in turn showed me the gunpowder room, where the charges were made and kept ready. I was to help make the powder charges, which were hand-sewn bags of gunpowder. I had never sewn anything in my life, and said so to Griffith, who snorted with contempt. “Well, ye better learn, and quickly!” he growled at me. “If the bags ain’t sewn proper, the powder’ll leak and we’ll all of us be blown straight to hell!”

I was also to make sure each gun had enough charges during the heat of battle, so that the gunners would not be forced to use loose powder in the cannons – something that could cause a fire and, in worst case scenarios, explosions.

It was a chore a monkey could do, but I nervously wondered if I’d have the presence of mind to perform it when the time came.

It was a chore a monkey could do, but I nervously wondered if I’d have the presence of mind to perform it when the time came.

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We managed to escape – narrowly, by the look on Charles Vane’s face. The governor’s sloops had been in hot pursuit for a moment there, and I thought the pirates – and I – were done for. Then the pirate sloop began to sail away from the wind, and it quickly left the Royal Navy behind. I saw Vane wipe the beads of sweat from his brow and blow out his breath. He would live to cruise again.

England would too. The sloop dropped us off at Abaco, where the Royal James awaited us, hidden in a cove, careened, stocked, and ready to fly. And so England and Vane parted ways, and I knew England was not sorry to see him go. The pirate republic had been all but destroyed, and while Vane swore he would continue to try and reestablish it, England was done with Nassau, set on plundering ships off the Slave Coast.

As soon as the Royal James set sail into the open sea, I popped my first pill. I was terrified of this journey, but I was also determined to prove I could be of help to even these hardened men. The brigantine, much to my relief, was much cleaner and smelled much less rank than it had before.  I learned what a “brigantine” actually was: a two-masted vessel with  square rigging on the foremast, but with fore-and-aft sails on the mainmast. In other words, square sails on the front big pole that were aligned perpendicular to the deck, and triangular sails on the back big pole that were set parallel to the deck. Let me tell you, life sucks without the Internet at hand – took me forever to figure that one out.

I watched with fascination as the crew went about their work, an endless list of tasks that sounded both tedious and dangerous: the younger, stronger seamen climbed up into the rigging to set and furl sails, sling yards, strike the topmasts, and generally risked falling from immense heights as the ship pitched from side to side. They were often barefoot, gripping the spars with their feet and toes. They wore tarred breeches and jackets, their hair tied back and also tarred, or “clubbed,” for safety.

On the deck, seamen hoisted sails, swabbed decks, cleaned the head, kept the caulking tight… There were duties for each role – the boatswain, the master gunner, the first mate, the carpenter (who was also, much to my dismay, the surgeon). Jameson, as quartermaster, did most of the ordering around and supervising, while England navigated and was the definitive authority in battle. I had yet to see him in the latter role, but I knew without a doubt that he had the courage and decisiveness to lead when the occasion presented itself.

The first several days of the journey were far easier than I had feared. I spent most of my time observing the men at work, trying to teach my body the movement of the ship. I can’t count the number of times I stumbled, tripped over my own feet, and fell, land-lubber that I was. The pirates always had a good laugh at my expense.

I slept on the deck under the stars like the others, England at my side, separating me from the men. I used a chamber pot to relieve myself, unlike the pirates, who used holes in the head to defecate directly into the sea, or who just stood on platforms along the ship’s side to urinate into the water.

I watched curiously as the cook, a one-legged chap with a paunch, worked over a small hearth and kettle,  getting his fresh meat and milk from the pigs and goats that wandered about freely on deck, as well as the chickens cooped belowdecks. I helped Tim mend some sails, listened as England tried to teach me the rudimentaries of seamanship, and mainly focused on getting through the day.

One night, as I lay on deck amidst the snoring pirates, watching the sails and masts sway beneath the stars, I marveled that I was able to sleep like this, on a rocking ship, without puking my guts out. I marveled that this was the very same sky under which Jake and Sophie would lay nearly three-hundred years from now. Or was it? Every time I thought about time travel and all those paradoxes, my head hurt. I sucked at physics. And philosophy. But I’d seen Back To The Future, where Michael J. Fox visits the past, meets his parents and changes them, then jumps into a parallel universe where he has a better future than the first. I’d also read The Time Traveler’s Wife, where the characters couldn’t change history, no matter how hard they tried. I made a silent prayer right then, that my actions now, in the past, would not affect Jake or Sophie negatively in the future. Let them stay safe, tucked away in 2009.

I felt that damn ache in my throat and rolled over to face England, where he lay on his side, his back to me. I could tell he wasn’t sleeping – his breathing lacked that rhythm. I poked him in the shoulder blade and whispered, “Edward?”

He rolled over to look at me, an eyebrow raised. “Aye?”

I had to keep my mind off of Sophie, off of Jake. “Tell me a story,” I said.

England smiled. “A bedtime story? Having trouble sleeping, lass?”

I chuckled. “Yeah. I’m trying to keep my mind off… my family.”

His smile faded, his eyes grew sad. “You miss them very much. I never had much ‘o family, and certainly no children ‘o my own, but I can imagine, ye know.”

“How did you… become a pirate?” I asked, pushing myself up onto an elbow.

“I was pressed by a pirate named Christopher Winter.” He seemed uncomfortable, like he didn’t want to talk about himself. “And what sort of things does a woman like yerself do in 2009?”

I smiled at him. “I was a lawyer.”

His eyes widened. “A lawyer! Damn me!” he muttered. “I knew ye were educated, to be sure…”

“Women are just as educated as men in 2009,” I said, enjoying the look of shock on his face. “We are doctors, lawyers, leaders…”

England shook his head. “Tell me no more,” he insisted firmly, his voice low. “I’ve not come to grips with what ye are, Sabrina, and I’ve no time to contemplate it.”

“I’ve had to contemplate it,” I said. “You don’t think it’s mind-boggling for me? You don’t think I want to scream and cry and carry on every time I think about it?”

“Ye’ve no choice, lass,” he replied. “I have.” He saw the desperate look on my face and softened. “Here now. Buck up. Survival is yer main concern now. And I’ll be damned if I ever understand why ye came with me, when ye could have stayed and tried to go back to yer home, or at the very least, had a chance at a civilized sort of life.” He shook his head. “As though ye have a death wish.”

I sat up, crossing my arms, my voice several octaves higher than it should have been. “Why are you so against having me here?”

“Because yer a walkin’ piece ‘o temptation, and he wants to sport with ye!” a voice called out, and several pirates howled with laughter.

England shook his head, a crooked smile on his face, then met my eyes sheepishly, only the hint of a blush on his cheeks. “Oh, sod off, all of ye, filthy dogs,” he muttered, lying back down flat on his back and pulling his hat over his eyes. “G’night, Sabrina.”

I lay down once more, curling on my side under my wool blanket, and sighed. “Goodnight, Eddie.”

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I set aside my fine aquamarine gown and petticoats and went back to wearing the worn sailor’s clothes England had given me on board his ship, shortly after finding me. The linen shirt and navy breeches were so much more practical, it amazed me that all the women in Nassau didn’t wear them. I suppose it was the same reason why Tanya wore stilettos to work – fashion and all that. I also managed to come by a pair of boots, which were a lifesaver while trudging through the underbrush, looking for my medicinal herbs. I wore a wide-brimmed hat and lopped three inches off of my long black hair, which I tied back in a queue with string.

I have always had a slight figure, thin and flat-chested, and the girls at Nan’s joked that I was a “good-looking lad,” one they’d happily fight over as a customer.  I took to spending more time at Nan’s brothel, if only because I felt welcome there after saving Nel’s life – more welcome there than at England’s.

Edward England had been quietly disapproving when his crew had voted to take me with them to cruise abroad. I couldn’t understand why he was so against it. Was he so averse to having a woman aboard that he’d risk the health of his crew? Or was there something I was missing? Since then, I’d spent more time at the bawdy house than at his house, and we’d only spoken in passing. He kept his eyes averted when we spoke, his tone cold and brisk. I was, needless to say, distraught by this development, but was not going to let the pirate leave Nassau without me. He’d come around.

The night Woodes Rogers arrived, I sat on a stool in Nel’s room, sorting my herbs, when I became aware of a cry in the streets. Nel hurried to her window and leaned out, her long dark hair swept over one shoulder. “You there! What’s doing?” she called down. She suddenly jerked erect, turning breathless toward me. “It’s Woodes Rogers, it is! Royal Navy sails been seen off Hog Island!”

I jumped up. This was it. Would there be a battle? Surely Charlie Vane wasn’t planning on fighting?  Adrenaline pulsed through my veins as I gathered my belongings – my medicine chest, the items from my backpack (in a less conspicuous sack) – and rushed down the rickety stairs, out the door. I blew kisses up to Nan’s girls as I hurried down the street, tilting my head back to grin at the prostitutes as they leaned from the windows. I saw Kat wiggle her fingers in a reluctant wave as Nan called playfully, “Take care ‘o yourself, lad!”

I was terrified. It had been getting easier, living in 1718 Nassau. In the couple weeks that had passed, I’d figured some things out, gotten into a groove, so to speak. And now, I was going to board a ship –  me, seasickness-prone Sabrina – for a voyage to the shores of Africa. With pirates. In the world of bad ideas, this was probably one of the worst ever. But I simply couldn’t imagine what I would do if England left me here, to fend for myself. I couldn’t imagine having to start over.

Plus, I’d grown attached to the solemn, gallant pirate, despite the fact that he’d barely spoken to me in the past several days.

I found the pirates aboard Vane’s huge French galley-rigged ship, a 250-ton vessel with some thirty guns. England, Vane, Rackam and some others stood on the quarterdeck, looking across the harbor through spyglasses at something my naked eyes couldn’t see. I waited until England noticed me and came over.

The excitement of the royal governor’s arrival glowed in England’s face. He was wound tightly, every muscle in his body tensed, moving like a beast of prey on the hunt. Edward England was not a handsome man, but what he was – a pirate, a man of action, a courageous, enlightened hero – made him utterly attractive. That much I had to admit to myself, and the suddenness of this realization made me feel awkward and embarrassed. I wondered how much of my soul I had bared to him, me and my twenty-first century sensibilities, and how much scorn or pity I elicited from him for having done so.

He pointed to one of the many sloops anchored around the ship. “Get on board that one and don’t move,” he instructed. He looked over his shoulder at his peers. “I don’t know what the night may bring, lass, but I need ye to stay put, am I explicit?” I nodded as he rubbed his chin, considering something. “Also… Keep the lad’s clothes on, will ye? We’ll let people think ye’re a boy, and it’ll perhaps keep the crew from… succumbing to temptation.” He put his hand on my head as though I were, indeed, a lad, and smiled at me. The smile, however, left little doubt as to what he thought I was – and that most certainly wasn’t a lad. I was the one to blush this time, for a change.

I did as I was told, sitting on the deck of the small sloop with some others of England’s crew. I wouldn’t pop a nausea pill yet – I had ten of them, so I needed to use them wisely. So long as I could see land, I was good. I wrapped myself in a wool blanket, watching the sun set and the sails of the Royal Navy frigate shimmer against a pink sky.

“She’s turned into the wind and dropped anchor, just inside the harbor,” a voice said beside me. Tim was one of the young pirates I had saved with the quinine, and it was not an exaggeration to say that he worshiped me. He was lithe, tow-headed, and looked so much younger than his seventeen years. Whether he had been pressed into piracy or gone willingly, I didn’t know; he seemed so happy to be alive after suffering from “the ague” that little else mattered to him. Now, he sat cross-legged next to me, nursing a bottle of what smelled like rum. He offered some to me, and I shook my head.

“What is Vane planning?” I asked.

Tim shrugged and grinned. “To get piss drunk, for one,” he replied, taking a swig from his bottle. “And to welcome that whore-son Rogers proper.”

“So he intends to fight?”

“I don’t know. Rogers’ come early. Vane’s trying to figure a way to get the Ranger out of the harbor, but he don’t see how. I think he’s trying to buy some time, figure a way out.”

I bit my lip. “The Ranger‘s big. Can’t she take that frigate?”

“Mayhaps, she could,” Tim replied, squinting into the setting sun and gesturing with his hand. “But not with those ten-gun sloops-o-war and that twenty-gun ship guarding her.”

I turned, squinting in the direction of the Royal Navy frigate. I saw them now, the heavily armed sloops and ship anchored just in front of the frigate. The butterflies in my stomach batted their wings furiously, and I swallowed. This would get ugly. I looked nervously at Tim. “He won’t be able to get that ship out. He’s trapped.”

Tim nodded. “Aye, by the looks of it.” Then he grinned again, clearly tipsy. “Are you sure you’ll not have some rum?”

I considered. These pirates might be on to something. I accepted the bottle and drank as Tim hummed a tune. I handed the bottle back to him and was about to speak when an explosion deafened me. I covered my head with my arms and then looked in the direction of the Ranger‘s stern cannon, which was enveloped in thick smoke. It fired twice more, and I braced myself for the Royal Navy ships to answer, but they never did.

“Rogers raised the white flag of truce,” Tim told me after asking around.  We sat together with some others of the crew, most of them excited and buzzed. Every pirate predicted Vane would tell Rogers to eat shit, and after what seemed like an eternity, we found we’d been right: Rogers sent a messenger to inquire as to why the pirates were being so hostile when Rogers brought a Royal pardon for them all. Vane replied that “he would use his utmost endeavor to burn them and all the vessels in the harbor” unless he could keep the Ranger and his loot.

The pirates hooted and cheered, making obscene gestures and shouting curses at the Royal Navy ships in the distance. I cowered, wondering if we were all going to get blown to hell. Almost immediately, the men were called to the Ranger to begin unloading the ship, all but its cannons. I was left alone on the deck of the sloop, watching the lit lanterns of the various ships bob with the movement of the sea in the darkness, wondering what Vane was planning to do. I felt my eyelids droop in spite of everything, and I dozed for a while, my head lolling to the side.

I was awakened suddenly, aware that we were moving. The sloop was quietly making its way behind Potters Cay to drop anchor.  I waved Tim over to ask him what was happening. He very nearly vibrated with excitement. “Rogers never answered Cap’n Vane. We’re escaping! The sloop’s shallow-drafted enough to pass over the sandbar.”

“So they’ve left the Ranger behind?” I asked, trying to stand.

In response, Tim grinned into the darkness and pointed. “Behold, the Ranger!” The harbor was lit orange from the fire that consumed the great ship. The flames climbed up the masts and engulfed the sails as the vessel moved across the harbor, approaching the Royal Navy ships. Tim grasped the rail beside me. “They drenched its decks and rigging in pitch and tar, and double-loaded every gun,” he said.

I stole a glance at his profile. “But… doesn’t that mean…” In answer, a great eruption, and then another, and another, illuminated the sky and filled it with smoke. The Ranger exploded as the Royal Navy ships cut their cables and turned toward the open sea, trying to move out of the fire-ship’s path. The pirates cheered, and England interrupted their celebration by ordering them to their posts, his fierce face half-lit by the hellfire in the harbor.

Vane looked victorious, silently drinking from a bottle as he watched the drama play out before him. I watched those dark eyes flicker in the light of the flames, and I wondered what sinister thoughts were going through the pirate’s head as he watched the King’s ships flee.

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I smiled at Nel, a small woman in her early twenties. She smiled back, her eyes shining. I felt a lump in my throat. This little prostitute had indeed been on the brink of death when I’d arrived at the bawdy house, looking for Kat. My frigid reception had been forgotten when I’d told her I could help Nel and the other women afflicted with the illness. I’d done nothing fancy: I’d boiled water and added a bit of salt and sugar to it. Then I’d made them drink it. And drink some more.

That was it.

In return, Nan, the “madam” of the place, had taken me to Ruth.

Her hut was on the fringe of Nassau, a decrepit place with a thatch roof. She was an escaped slave and the wife of a pirate. She was also, according to the women of the brothel, a witch doctor. Nonetheless, she’d taken care of their unwanted pregnancies, and thus they trusted her quite a bit. The aroma of herbs and burning incense filled the air of her dark, gloomy hut. She sat in a corner, drinking from a mug, not the least bit surprised to see us, a whore and and a strange woman. A large scar seamed her face from hairline to chin, and she was missing an eye. No eye patch, no fake eye, nothing. Just an empty eye socket. A scarf was tied around her head and her threadbare skirts hung in tatters about her dark legs.

“Ruth,” Nan said, and I could tell she was fearful of the woman. “Sabrina ‘ere wanted to see you.” She looked at me and nodded, then whispered, “I’ll wait for you outside.” Nan wanted to spend as little time in that hut as possible, and I couldn’t blame her. The heady odor compared favorably to the other scents of Nassau, but was still quite dizzying. The vertigo only increased as Ruth stood and squinted her one good eye, trying to peer at me through the dimness.

“What you have?” she asked in a gravelly voice. “No want baby, eh?” I stepped into a shaft of light that filtered in from a hole in the roof so that she could see my face. She gasped, swore, and the mug she was holding clattered to the floor. To my astonishment, she put a hand to her scarred cheek and uttered, “Sabrina!”

I nearly fell over backwards trying to inch my way out of the hut. “Shit!” I hissed, steadying myself, breathing hard. What was it with Voodoo sorceresses knowing my name?

Before I recovered from my shock, she said, “I know you come. I know it. I see you.”

The parallels between Ruth and Miryam Dieujuste were uncanny. Her English was bad, but she was going to give me an explanation, dammit. I took two long strides to stand before her, then I grabbed her by the shoulders and said, “How do you know my name?” She shook her head, speaking in her native African tongue under her breath, a look of fear in her good eye. I gave her shoulders a firm shake. “How do I get back? How? Tell me!”

She shook her head, apparently more afraid of me than I was of her. “Not know! Know only to give you this.” She extricated herself from my grip, rushed into the darkness and emerged seconds later carrying a small tin box. I opened it to find several chunks of brown bark. She knew what I had come for before I’d even asked.

“Yes,” I said, and sighed. “This is what I came for.”

In the end, Ruth could tell me nothing, even though I grilled her for a good twenty minutes. Perhaps she knew something that she wouldn’t share, or she truly knew nothing. She said the words “not know” at least three hundred times. Eventually I gave up. Black magic, time warps… It was all so fantastic and beyond anything I could, or would, accept… I simply couldn’t dwell on it. I was going to put one foot in front of the other and focus on getting through the moment.

I had no choice but to go with the flow.

Now, as I sat before Nel, who was greedily slurping down the rehydration solution I’d made for her, I turned to look at England, my expression reserved. “This infection,” I said. “I hear that many of the residents are immune – I mean, invulnerable – to it. That most of the people afflicted are the newcomers. Is that true?”

England nodded, his eyes wary. He seemed to know where I was going with this line of questioning. “Aye, but what ails them is a fever, the sweats, and rigor, not intestine commotions.”

I nodded and stood. “Take me to them.”

Perhaps driven by curiosity, England took me to a sailcloth tent on the beach where two young sailors-turned-pirate lay, shivering and feverish. They were, by all accounts, new to the sweet trade, fresh off merchantmen from Europe. I had already prepared my decoction, pouring boiling water over ground pieces of the bark, and it had been in the process of steeping when England had arrived. I now poured the infusion into a pewter cup and, with shaking hands, ordered the seamen to drink.

I was taking a risk, I realized. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I’d watched my grandfather do this several times but had never paid enough attention. I was fairly certain these men had malaria, and I knew that the bark of the Cinchona tree contained quinine. I also knew that by the late 17th century, it had been used as treatment for various ailments. I thought perhaps a native “medicine man” of the West Indies would have heard of it, if not used it himself.

But my knowledge ended there. I didn’t know how much, how often, for how long. I knew too much quinine could be fatal. But I figured that since these guys were pretty much done for without treatment…

Why did I go to law school? A corporate attorney was entirely worthless in 1718. I should have followed in my grandfather’s footsteps and gone to medical school. Dammit.

England and I walked back to the house afterward, neither one of speaking for a long while. Then I said, “You told me pirates were democratic, right? Equality and all that? And the crews vote on major decisions?”

England stared at the ground as we walked. “Aye.” He glanced quickly at me through the corner of his eye. “Ye’ll want the crew to vote for yer presence on board ship?”

“Yes,” I replied. “If these men get well… Let your crew take a vote. And if you don’t agree, I’ll go to them myself and plead my case.”

We had arrived, and we stood at the door looking at each other. I smiled slightly, mischievously, and saw admiration flicker across his face. He quickly looked away and replied coldly, “It’s settled then.”

In under two days, the young pirates began to recover. I went to them several times a day, to ensure that they drank the quinine. One of them, a blond, baby-faced youth, called me his “sweet angel” and held my hand to his whiskered cheek with adoration.

Word spread quickly. I began treating the other afflicted individuals, and in the meantime approached Jameson with my plea. He was surprisingly receptive, gazing at me with nothing short of awe. Doctors were desperately needed aboard pirate ships, so much so that they were forced to serve in many instances. I may have been a woman, but I was clearly invaluable to a crew on its way to the disease-ridden shores of Africa.

The crew voted.

I was going to Africa.

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I sighed. “I know. But you have to believe me.” I stood up and started to pace. “The privies – they’re a major problem. You can’t let waste get into the drinking water. That causes cholera, dysentery, typhoid fever…”

“And boiling the water kills these invisible culprits, ye say?” he asked, looking up at me from where he sat at the table.

“Most of them. You need to start boiling the water you drink. And since I don’t know how to store disinfected water, you’ll have to do it often. You’ll need to take lots of fruit on your ship to prevent scurvy – lemons, limes, oranges, apples. And be sure to load lots of garlic and vinegar. Also, any soap that you’ve got. Your men need to start washing their hands before they eat and – ” I stopped, seeing the expression on England’s face. “What is it? You believe me, don’t you? You have to believe me!”

He was silent, staring pensively at nothing, and so I walked over and kneeled before him, taking his hand. He sat up, surprised, as I said, “Edward, listen to me. I know you don’t really believe that I’m from the future, but I swear to you, I am. And I swear that if you take me with you, I’ll try my best to keep you and your men healthy with what I know.”

England’s expression hardened, his red eyebrows coming together. “I can’t take ye with me, lass. There be no women aboard pirate ships. And you’d not last a moment in that kind of life.”

“But then what will happen to me?” I cried, letting go of his hand.

“Nassau will become a proper Crown colony once the King’s governor arrives,” England said, trying to soothe me. “I’ll be sure to leave ye in the hands of a trustworthy man, a clean man, who’ll settle ye here in Nassau with a proper home – ”

“No!” I yelled, standing up.

“Sabrina,” England said firmly, “I’m going to Africa, to cruise abroad. If ye come with me, ye’ll never get back to where ye came from. Ye’ll get sick, and ye’ll probably die, if not from some malady then by the hand of a brigand with no nation and, very likely, no soul.”

The panic threatened to choke me. “You’re the only hope I have in this place,” I said softly, my voice high with despair. “There’s nowhere for me to go, no way for me to get home. I can help you. Please, Edward!”

“No,” he replied calmly, but his blue eyes were bright with choler. He then stood and stormed out of the house, leaving me alone and on the brink of tears.

I sat and sobbed for several minutes, wallowing in my anguish. I could hear voices out in the street, the singing of tropical birds, the buzz of the crickets. The smell of rot floated in through the door, which England had left open. I lifted my skirt to my nose, breathing through my mouth. God, I hated this filthy, disease-ridden place. I just hated it…

I looked up, the aquamarine material, still fine and clean, falling from my hand.

I had a plan.

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I sat up suddenly, my head spinning. Where was I? As my eyes focused, I remembered. As with every time I had awakened in 1718, I still wondered if I was dreaming, still experienced that plummeting feeling in my gut every time I realized that this was, in fact, not a dream.

I was in 1718.

I stumbled through the house, looking for England. On the table, I found a pitcher of water, pieces of fruit and a hunk of cheese on a plate, and a note tucked carefully under a pewter cup of ale:

Loading the ship. Infection abound, stay in the house.
Edward

Infection? Great. Just great. All I needed right now was to get sick. Immediately, I washed my hands and face, creating as much lather as possible with the bit of lye soap I’d been given. I peeled and ate an orange while I opened the shutters of a window to let in some fresh air. The stench that wafted in was beyond anything I had ever smelled before, and I found myself slamming the window shut in a hurry. Only once had I smelled anything so bad, and that was when a raccoon had died in the wall of my house. Was anyone surprised that “infection abound” when the air smelled like rotting flesh?

I sat down and put my head in my hands. A green fly buzzed through the room, settling on the cheese. What was I going to do? I needed to speak to England, ask him what his plans were. What with the pirates losing Nassau, he was going to Africa, that much was clear. But what was I going to do? On the one hand, I didn’t want to be separated from England. He was, as he had so aptly put it, my protection. I wouldn’t survive a second on my own in this place.

On the other hand, I had to stay here. What if the sea around Nassau, around the Bahamas, was the key to my returning home? The idea had come to me in a dream: I had been thinking about my last moments in 2009, the storm, Bryan shouting something about the compass not working… Was there some link to the Bermuda Triangle? I remember watching a special on TV once about time warps and the Bermuda Triangle. What channel had that been on? Not the Sci-Fi Channel, I hoped. Jake had made fun of me for watching it, but I’d been procrastinating at the time and anything, including pro wrestling, was better than working.

How else could I explain what had happened to me?

A time warp. Micro-wormholes or something. Jesus, what a horrible nightmare. If this was, in fact, the way I’d gotten here, then leaving the Bahamas was a bad idea, right? But then, what would I do? Set myself adrift on a boat and wait for something to happen? Hope to stumble on another time portal? I felt my eyes fill with tears. There was no reasonable way out of this. I had to focus on simply surviving at this point. And the key to my survival in this strange and volatile world was Edward England.

But while I clearly needed him, he most certainly did not need me; if anything, I weighed on him, a woman who claimed to be from the future, a woman who knew nothing about anything and wouldn’t stop passing out or throwing up. I couldn’t think of a bigger pain in the ass for the average person, let alone a pirate. A man who was defying king and country and losing his home base had put his own needs aside to help me, to take care of me. Maybe he’d felt something for me, maybe he’d thought I was cute. Maybe I reminded him of his mother. Who knew? But at some point, he was going to have to ditch the extra baggage. The last thing an outlaw needed was a weak, confused woman holding him back.

I had to convince England that he needed me. The question was, how?

I pulled out the cropped picture of Sophie that I kept tucked in a secret pocket in the front of my corset. I remember hearing somewhere that this pocket was used to hide small fragrant sacks of perfume (you know, to mask the stench of their unwashed bodies). I used it to keep Sophie close to my heart. As I examined the worn photograph, wishing that radiant smile had been for me and not Jake, my stomach rumbled.

I grimaced, tucking the photo away. I knew the time would come when I would have to… relieve myself, but I’d tried my best to hold it in. Using a “piss-pot” that I had later dumped out into the street had been repulsive enough; but having to actually go to the privy, which was little more than a hole over a cesspit? I shuddered. If the alternative was a stomach ache, then so be it. But what I was feeling was more than just a tummy ache from “holding it in” – it was, without a doubt, caused by eating and drinking in 1718.

Using the privy, at this point, was no longer an option. It was a necessity.

I rummaged though my backpack, desperate to find something I could use as toilet paper. I settled on a few pages out of Sky’s romance, and almost smiled at the irony. I would use my reading material to wipe my ass afterward.

After emerging from the nightmare that was the privy, I scrubbed my hands with soap until they were raw. I felt queasy, gutted. It was that damn water, I was certain. Any water I drank would have to be boiled, plain and simple. It would be good for England to learn about water sanitation, in any case. He and his pirates had to learn simple hygiene, for God’s sake, if they wanted to live long enough to…

That was it. That was how I would convince England to keep me around.

My grandfather had been a missionary doctor in Haiti, and had tried to teach me a thing or two despite my unwillingness to learn. Hopefully some of it had stuck. In any case, I knew as much as any educated person of the twenty-first century – washing hands with soap and water, boiling the drinking water, using alcohol as an antiseptic and citrus fruit for scurvy… Those things alone should be enough for most of these guys to start worshiping me. Or, in the unfavorable alternative, to burn me at the stake.

I began to look around the house, near the hearth, at which hung a big kettle. I found a tinder box easily enough, but was puzzled by its contents. A ring of steel, a piece of flint, and some pieces of charcloth for tinder. Jesus. When the hell were modern matches invented? Oh, what I would have put in my backpack on the fateful morning of that booze cruise, if only I had known…

England returned later that afternoon to find me sitting before the hearth, my head buried in my arms, my knees drawn to my chest. “Lass, what are ye about?” he asked, squatting down next to me.

I looked up at him, knowing I had dark circles around my eyes. “I’ve been trying to light a fucking fire. I can’t do it.”

He wiped his brow and took the firesteel and flint from my hands. In under five minutes, he had a fire going under the kettle. He smiled at me. “Are ye cooking, then?”

I shook my head. “No. I’m boiling water.” I leveled a look at him. “We need to have a chat, Eddie.”

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One man in particular seemed to be the focal point, as all bodies were partially turned toward him. He, like many of the others, was adorned with every imaginable luxurious cloth and embellishment: a scarlet broadcloth coat, a cravat of silver lace, a flowered velvet sash, fine black hose and shiny buckled shoes. Everywhere I looked, I saw Persian silk ruffles and taffeta and gold buttons… It was as though they had all these gentlemen’s clothes but no real occasion to wear them. All dressed up with nowhere to go. For a second I felt, again, as though I were on a movie set, as though this was just one big game. That feeling quickly dissipated as the men began to turn and look at us, their eyes curious and – when looking at me – rapacious. I knew to be afraid of that look. Nothing like hanging out with 18th century prostitutes to make a woman feel gorgeous, let me tell you. If a pirate here decided he wanted me, there was no one but England to stop him. The pirates were the law in Nassau – for now, at least. England’s esteem among his peers, and then his own skill and strength as a fighter, were the only two things I had going for me.

The man at the center of the attention wore a large cocked hat with a feather plume on top of his wig, and he sat back leisurely, leaning against a cask, swinging a fine gold watch on a chain from his forefinger. He looked up at England from across the outdoor pub and nodded acknowledgment at him, smiling slightly. Then his dark eyes shifted to me and stayed there as he continued to swing his delicately engraved pocket watch. Kat suddenly materialized next to him, wrapping an arm across his chest and nuzzling his ear, but he brushed her away, his eyes never leaving me. I looked at England, but if he felt anger or betrayal, he showed none of it.

Charles Vane caught the watch in the palm of his hand and signaled to England. England put his hand on the small of my back, encouraging me forward with him. Oh, no. I wasn’t ready for this. What would I say? How was I supposed to behave? I looked to England, panicked, and heard him mumble under his breath, “Let me do the talking, lass. Just sit and look yer pretty self.”

All eyes were on us as we sat with Vane and his companions. Vane smiled at me, saying, “Well, Edward, what have we here? Lovely, simply lovely.” A London dialect, and I knew enough to guess he wasn’t “upper class.”

England’s hand moved up to my shoulder, then to the nape of my neck. “Sabrina. We found her afloat, and she has no memory of what happened to her.” He shrugged and smiled, as if that explained everything. The absurdity of the situation struck me – here I was, an Ivy League educated attorney, barely a year shy of making partner, and I was being treated like a piece of meat, like a prostitute from the London gutters who couldn’t speak for herself. I felt the rage sweep through my veins, the hot blood boiling. England must have sensed it too, because he gently but firmly pressed at my skin. It was just enough to startle me from my fury.

Vane was still smiling, but his eyes went cold. “That’s not what I hear,” he said. “I hear she’s a mad one, saying she’s from the future and dancing in the rain.”

England laughed. “And who would have told ye that?” He looked meaningfully at Kat, who was pretending to chat with the other women. “Yer not taking the word of a faithless baggage, are ye, Charlie?”

Vane grinned wolfishly, the shadow of a goatee darkening the skin around his mouth. I could see the cunning ruthlessness in that hawkish face. He relaxed a bit, leaning back against the cask once more and setting that damn watch swinging again. “No, Eddie, course not. And if you fancy her – ”

“Aye,” England said loudly, firmly, his fingers tight on the back of my neck. “That I do.”

Vane’s eyes flickered from me to England, assessing us carefully. “What is she, then? For all the world, she looks to have exotic blood in her.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but England was quicker, his fingers pressing again. “Possibly. I think she may have fallen from a trader bound for Jamestown. It matters little, in the end, since she’s happy here, with me.” Again, that possessive tone. I suddenly felt the need to show some sort of affection to England, to play my part, so I leaned toward him, smiling, and wrapped my arms around one of his. I felt him shudder slightly. “And now, we must discuss more pertinent matters,” he continued. “What of Blackbeard?”

Blackbeard! I knew that name. He was a famous pirate. As I was trying to remember what it was I knew about Blackbeard – which, incidentally, was virtually nothing – Vane growled, “Fuck Blackbeard! He’s in bed with the governor of North Carolina. He’s made his choice, and he’s not coming back. He knows Nassau is doomed.” Vane took a swig from his mug, the dark liquid trickling down his chin, which he wiped with the back of his hand.

England took a deep breath and nodded, removing his hand from my neck. He examined his knuckles absently. “Then we’re ready to fly?”

Vane nodded slowly, clearly put out by the situation. He looked like he was getting quite drunk, and his eyelids drooped slightly. “That son of a whore Rogers will be here in a fortnight, I wager. That’ll give us a bit more time to load the cannons onto the Ranger and make sure we’re ready for the voyage to Brazil.”

I blinked. Brazil?

“We’ll not leave without a fight, damn both Woodes Rogers and King George to bloody hell!” We looked up at the slurring speaker, a rosy-cheeked man in bright, flashy clothes, his arm around a giggling woman, a bottle in his hand. He looked a lot like a guy I’d dated in college, a lacrosse player who spent all of his free time playing video games and all of our dates talking about how he wanted to be a fighter pilot. A real winner, as you could imagine. With the devil-may-care attitude and flower-print shirt, this pirate would have been right at home on a booze cruise in 2009. Until, of course, he killed someone.

I leaned toward England and whispered, “Who’s that?”

England replied, “Calico Jack Rackam.” He watched as my face lit with recognition. Calico Jack! Another name I’d heard before. This place was a veritable Who’s Who of piracy. A smile slowly spread across England’s face as he mumbled, “Made it into the history books, did he? Hmph. I wonder why?”

Calico Jack swayed a bit as his eyes tried to focus on me, and I observed that he wasn’t a bad-looking guy. As I was assessing Jack Rackam and he stood trying to assess me, England pushed a bowl of zesty-smelling food before me. “Eat,” he ordered, his voice low, his breath on my ear. “I’ve watched ye bring up every blessed thing ye’ve eaten in the past few days. Ye need to eat and keep it down.”

I smiled at him and murmured, “Thanks, Dad.” I then inspected the bowl in front of me: it looked like a bowl of salad toppings. I recognized pieces of meat (probably turtle), fish, and crab; they were garnished with hearts of palm, hard-boiled eggs, and a variety of pickled shrubbery. I smelled garlic and spice and wine, and despite my reluctance, my stomach growled loudly. I glanced around furtively for utensils and noticed that everyone else was using their hands. Fine then. I dug in, scooping up the strange mix with my fingers and slopping it into my mouth. Oh shit, that was spicy.

“Has all the cargo from the St. Martin been conveyed?” England asked Vane, ignoring Rackam as he clumsily plopped down at the table.

“It has,” Vane answered solemnly. He looked at England for a long while then said, “Are you still set on Africa, then?”

England nodded. “I’ll be sending Jameson to Abaco in a few days, where he and some of my men’ll await me.” He smiled wanly at Vane. “I’ve no desire to abandon Nassau. Not yet.”

“Protecting your ship from Rogers, are you? A bit premature, sending it to Abaco so soon, no?” Vane asked.

“I’ll not take the chance,” England replied. “But as I said, I’m here to fight with ye. I’ll not leave until I’m damn sure Nassau is lost to us.”

It occurred to me to ask England, “Africa? Brazil? What about me?” but I was too busy trying to extinguish the fire in my mouth. I grabbed England’s mug, fairly certain that I would not find water in it. Maybe, just maybe, it would be port or beer. Maybe, if I was really lucky, a claret or other fine wine looted from a prize. About that. I drank deeply and then very nearly spewed the fiery concoction all over the pirates who were conversing earnestly at the same table. They stopped to look at me, and almost immediately started laughing. Even England cracked a grin, despite himself.

Rackam spoke first. “A rumfustian virgin!” he cried gleefully as England retrieved a cup of water for me. I felt the heat leave my face as I downed the water, watching over the rim of the cup as Vane wiggled his eyebrows at me and the prostitutes cackled like witches in the background.

“What the hell is rumfustian?” I asked England in a choked voice when he was seated next to me again.

“’Tis a powerful brew, eh?” he said, smiling. “This one’s got raw eggs, gin, beer, sherry, and sugar.”

“There’s no rum in rumfustian,” I said hoarsely, and this caused the pirates to burst out in a fresh round of hearty laughter.

Vane’s humor improved at my expense, and he finally addressed me directly, asking, “How old are you, sweetheart?”

Rackam said, “I’d say a score and five years, at most,” then took and swallow from his bottle. England looked at me with interest.

I sat before the three pirates, thrilled that I knew what a “score” was. Rackham thought I was twenty-five. I smiled at the men and answered, “Actually, I’m thirty-one.”

I relished the looks of surprise on their faces. Vane cried, “Why, you’re as old as that one!” He jerked his thumb back at Kat, who was looking pretty pissed off. Kat easily looked like she was in her late forties. I suddenly felt sorry for her – what must it be like to be a prostitute in 1718? The kind of hard living she had endured, only to be cast aside by these guys, must have been horrible. And she was probably one of the lucky ones, getting a piece of pirate booty. And by booty, I meant “plunder.” I had yet to see a single pirate whose booty a prostitute would be lucky to get.

Rackam suddenly tossed three dice on the table and, with a mischievous grin said, “A game of passage, Eddie?” I was beginning to wilt with fatigue. England noticed almost immediately and replied, “Nay, Jack. I think I’m for bed.”

Vane and Rackam exchanged looks and then leered at me. “I don’t blame you,” Rackam said, baring his teeth in less of a smile and more of a snarl. “Not one bit.”

England led me from the tavern back to the house. We didn’t speak – I had a million questions to ask him, but my brain was too exhausted to articulate them. By the time we got back I could barely keep my eyes open. England bid me goodnight but, before he could leave my small, stuffy room, I said, “Edward?”

He turned to look at me, surprised. “Aye?”

“Don’t leave me,” I pleaded, sounding far too desperate for my taste. But there was no helping it – I was desperate. “Whatever your plans are – Africa, Brazil – just don’t leave me.”

I saw his jaw tighten before he answered, “I swear to ye, lass, I’ll make sure yer safe. Don’t worry yerself over it. Now get to sleep.”

“Why are you doing this for me?” I tried to keep the tears out of my voice, but I was so tired, mentally, emotionally, physically…

England looked at me for a long moment, something tender in his expression. For a second, it looked like he debated something, then, resigned, he said gently, “Ye need to sleep, Sabrina. To bed with ye.”

He left and I kicked off my shoes, curling up on the cot. Something about our exchange was nagging me, something… Before I knew it, I was in a deep, dreamless sleep.

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England relayed the story of the dispute that took place among the pirates when word of the king’s pardon reached Nassau: There were the more moderate pirates, forced into piracy through circumstance, who were thrilled to be given a second chance and raised the Union Jack over Fort Nassau – a pathetic, crumbling thing; then there were the pirate rebels, including Vane and England, who rejected the pardon and, angry and armed, tore the Union Jack down and replaced it with the death’s head flag.

England then told me how Vane and some other thirty-odd pirates had pretended to accept the pardon when a Royal Navy frigate, the HMS Phoenix, arrived at Nassau. Vane and his men surrendered long enough to receive their certificates of pardon, then, upon their release and before the Royal Navy’s very eyes, captured several merchant sloops, slowly amassing their pirate company from the crews, and eventually forced the Royal Navy out of Nassau, its tail between its legs. England had never surrendered, although he’d participated in the overt acts of piracy.

With the pirates back in control of the Bahamas, Vane proceeded to terrorize the seas, wreaking havoc on commerce to the islands. He was especially cruel to those he deemed disloyal to the pirates, the merchant-smugglers who had “kissed arse” the moment they’d seen the British flag. England, who had been Vane’s quartermaster at the time, tried talking him out of his cruel treatment of their prey, but found himself overruled by the crew on most occasions.

I wrapped my arms tightly around my waist, captivated by England’s story. “What kind of… treatment are we talking about here?” I asked, morbidly curious.

“Nothing the likes of ye should ever know about, lass,” England replied, his jaw clenched. This was clearly a point of contention for him.

“Tell me,” I insisted. “I may have a weak stomach, but I’m not weak. I’m sure I’ve heard worse.”

He looked at me then, his upper lip curled over his teeth in a snarl. “Ye want to know? Ye want to hear about how the poor sons of bitches were tied to the bowsprit with burning matches in their eyelids? How if they didn’t reveal the location of hidden booty they got their eyeballs burned out and then shot in the face?”

I winced, tightening my arms around myself. “I’ve heard worse,” I said meekly. This Vane guy sounded like a load of fun. The life of the party. I had never been less enthused to meet anyone in my life. Then I looked sharply at England. “Why are you siding with him, a man like this? You’re not brutal.”

He looked back at me, surprised and amused. “Am I not?”

I was adamant. “No, you’re not. If a brutal man finds a strange, raving woman floating in the sea, he has his way with her, passes her on to the crew, and then dumps her off somewhere or kills her. He does not protect her at the risk of his own safety. Am I right?”

England was silent for a moment as we walked, taking our time. He seemed to be enjoying my company, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying his. He was easy to talk to, and had a streak of goodness that couldn’t be denied, pirate or no pirate. “Sabrina,” he said, uttering my name for the first time, “I’m on the account. A pirate. I’m no hero – I’m an outlaw, a thief. I have my reasons, and they have little to do with enjoying mayhem, to be sure, but…” He sighed. “I must deal with those who do.”

I watched my shoes peek out from under my skirts as I walked. “What are your reasons?”

He stopped, turning to look at me. “What do ye know of the politics of the world in 1718? Do ye learn about these things in 2009?” I could see traces of skepticism in his eyes – he didn’t truly believe I was from a different era, but since he couldn’t make sense of me otherwise, was going with it.

I winced. “Well… We’re supposed to learn about these things… And at one time I knew enough to pass a test, but… I can’t say that I know about 1718 politics.”

So England summarized it for me, telling me about James Stuart, the heir to the throne who was denied on account of his being Catholic; the German prince George I who took his place because he was Protestant, even though he spoke very little English; and the Stuart attempts at religious tolerance.

I scratched my head, embarrassed by my lack of knowledge on the subject. What I wouldn’t have given to be able to Google the terms “Jacobite” and “James Stuart.” I needed me some Wikipedia. “So,” I said, “your reasons for being a pirate are political?”

The fire returned to his eyes as he replied, “That’s only part of it. It’s an entire system that needs changing. There’s a good reason why poor seamen and escaped slaves turn to piracy: It’s because under the pirate flag, we are all equals, and any man can achieve a captain’s status with cleverness and skill. Not to mention riches and – most importantly – freedom.” He caught the surprise in my expression and smiled. “Aye, lass. We’re not all of us merely cutthroats and drunks, despite what ye hear.”

“So… you’re for… democracy?” I asked.

He tilted his head. “I know not how you use the word, but I believe in equality and freedom.”

I smiled. “Even for blacks and women?”

He grinned back. “Are ye trying to get me used for musket practice, lass?”

We continued to walk as I bit my lip, deep in thought. Edward England was something of an enlightened man. Without thinking, I blurted out what I did know about history, what had impacted me as a child and made me want to go to law school; the words that still sent chills down my spine: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

England looked at me, that expression – the one I still had a hard time placing – on his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Aye, that’s the gist of it.”

I felt a stab of sadness at the realization that England would probably be long dead before Thomas Jefferson would conceive of the words in 1776. Fifty-some-odd years from now. I’d be dead too, if I didn’t get out of here. Out of here – 1718. If it was true, if I truly had somehow time traveled during the storm, via some time portal in the sea, what were the consequences of my being here? How much of the future should I reveal to England? Could I change history by revealing too much? Too little? I felt that now-familiar panic rising, and I shut my eyes, forcing myself to focus on the moment. I could think about all these things later. Right now, I had to think about meeting Charles Vane, not to mention other possibly unsavory characters. Once again in control, I asked, “Does Vane believe the same things you do?”

He shrugged. “I doubt Charlie Vane’s thoughts go far past his own self-preservation. But he’s been chosen as a leader by the men here, and I’ve no choice but to follow.”

“You’d never consider accepting the King’s pardon?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Nay. A pirate I am, and a pirate I will be for the rest of my days.”

Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me… I couldn’t help but smile. I had no idea where that was from or what the rest of the words were, but I was fairly certain they said something about plundering and looting, and villains and scoundrels… Yo ho indeed. The song had clearly not considered pirates such as England, the political and social dissidents.

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“You killed him,” I said, taking his hand and letting him pull me upright. “For real. You killed him.”

“Yes, I did,” he replied nonchalantly. “And if I remember correctly, I told ye not to leave the house.”

“Nothing but trouble,” Jameson grumbled behind him, a stream of tobacco shooting from his mouth into the shrubs. “I say leave her be, Cap’n. She’s a mess o’ trouble, waiting to happen. Mark my word.”

“I can’t help ye,” England said, looking me straight in the eyes with his steely blue ones, “if ye don’t do as I say. There are no ladies here in Nassau. Only whores. Only pirates’ women. I may not know what ye are, lass, but I know this: Ye won’t last a second here without protection. Is that plain enough?”

I nodded. I wasn’t just about to argue. I was shaken to the bone. “It’s just that… I wanted… a bath.”

England raised an eyebrow. “How now?”

I rubbed my face with my hands, stumbling a bit in the sand. “A bath. With soap. To get clean.”

The men exchanged glances and England grinned. “Well, now, why didn’t ye say so to start instead of wandering out into the rain and nearly getting yerself raped and killed?”

“I tried… I asked Kat…” I sighed. “That was a bad idea. I’m sorry. I’m so confused… You killed that man…” I was starting to feel dizzy. Jesus, I can’t faint again. Seriously. All I was doing since arriving in 1718 was puking and fainting. 1718. This wasn’t an act if I’d just watched a man die. I’d watched a pirate skewer another pirate dead with a cutlass. Dear God, was it possible? I was in 1718.

As the sun set in a spectacular display of pink, purple, and orange over a placid, shimmering sea, the storm but a cluster of dark clouds in the distance, the men abandoned their work cleaning the hulls of several beached ships and loading cargo onto others to eat, drink, and womanize. England was watching me as we walked past the tents, the pirates laughing and cussing around their fires, mugs and bottles of ale and beer and rum in their hands. The prostitutes giggled and flirted and sat in the men’s laps, their breasts nearly tumbling from their low-cut bodices.  “Yer not going to faint again, are ye, lass?” he asked warily, reaching for my arm. “Ye’re looking a bit pale.”

“Nothing but a load o’ trouble,” Jameson growled, a step behind us.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I’ll be fine. I just need a bath.”

England chuckled. “Do folk wash themselves often in 2009, then?”

I looked at him, finally cracking a smile. “Yes. Yes. Every day. Well, most of us do.”

Back at the house, Kat was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief. Jameson disappeared and England produced a bar of lye soap, a pitcher, and a clean rag. While my hopes of submerging myself in a bathtub were dashed, I was able to wash my face and body to a semblance of cleanliness. I rubbed a bit of soap at the roots of my hair, but didn’t bother washing it. It would have been impossible, anyway, with the amount of clean water I’d been given. This would have to do.

England had also left a stack of dry clothes for me at the door, and this set was quite a bit finer than the worn, smelly rags Kat had given me. The gown was made of fine aquamarine silk that was delicately beaded and embroidered in silver thread, with a petticoat of damask. The clothes smelled of lavender, and a bit of must. Pirate booty. The owner must have never worn them before they were stolen.

As I struggled with the corset, England politely rapped on the doorframe. I was startled to see him in his finery – he wore a rich maroon knee-length coat with wide cuffs that were folded back and gold buttons that gleamed as he moved. His waistcoat and breeches were clean silk, his shoes were buckled, and he wore a large three-cornered hat on his head. Around his neck was a silk cravat, and his red hair was smoothed and tied back with a black ribbon. Best of all, he smelled a little bit less pungent, which meant he’d washed up. I noticed that, despite the sumptuous clothes, he still wore his weapons strapped to him beneath his coat.

England caught my admiring look and went red. Not knowing how to respond – the incident that afternoon had caused me to rethink my initial assessment of him – I turned my back and asked, “Can you lace me up? I can’t do this by myself.” I waited, hearing him shift behind me.

“Eh…Kat’s not back yet…I’m not sure where she went off to…” he said.

I looked over my shoulder at him. “Can’t you help me?” The man had carried me in his arms, watched me puke my guts out, smelled me at my worst, killed a guy for me… and he was hesitating over this? Maybe it was because I finally didn’t look like complete and total shit. I was as clean as I was apparently going to get, and I was wearing some pretty nice clothes. My hair was a wild mess, but there was nothing I could do about that. I had brushed my teeth and applied some of T’s makeup – some powder, blush, and mascara. The small mirror on the inside of the makeup bag wasn’t big enough for a total assessment, obviously, but it did reveal that I was in dire need of tweezers. My eyebrows were getting out of control.

I waited, my head turned away from him, listening to the rustle of his fine clothes as he hesitated. Then I felt the laces tighten, and I straightened, trying not to hold my breath. I was focusing on doing the little things and forcing myself not to think about the big things. I wasn’t ready for that yet. I wasn’t ready to deal with reality yet. I just wanted to clean myself, dress myself, think about the small, trivial things in life. For a change. “So what’s going on between you and Kat?” I asked, dragging my mind away from direction my thoughts were taking.

“Kat?”

“Yeah.” I realized that England was lacing me too loose – he seemed afraid of pulling the laces tight. He was probably afraid I’d faint or throw up. Because that’s all I’d been doing lately. “She seems possessive of you.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Does she now?” I could tell by the tone of his voice he had no intention of answering my question. Which was just as well, since I knew the answer already. Hadn’t he not-so-subtly explained it to me? There were no “ladies” in Nassau. Just “whores and pirates’ women.” I turned to face him, secretly glad he’d gone easy with the stays. He was merely a couple inches taller than my meager five-foot-five-inch frame, but it made no difference: I knew, looking at him, that he was not a man to be messed with. I opened my mouth to say something when Jameson burst into the  house and, in the next stride, into the room.

His hooded eyes darted from England to me uncomfortably, his large jaw working his essentially toothless gums, when he said to England, “That jade ‘o yours, Kat… been making trouble for this one here, she has! Went and cozied up to Charlie Vane, if ye get me drift, and told him we had a witch in  our midst…” Jameson glared at me accusingly. “It was that bag ‘o hers, filled with odd trinkets, and her running out in the rain, like she were mad…”

England froze, his expression unreadable. He looked at me steadily and said, “Now ye’ll be obliged to accompany me on my business this evening, lass, since leaving ye here is no longer an option. If word of ye has gotten out, then yer not safe alone, in my house or otherwise.” He then chewed the inside of his cheek, contemplating something. “For yer safety, ye’ll have to be willing to play a part, ye see?”

The nervous energy of the two men was contagious, and I found myself cracking my knuckles, twisting my fingers in my hands. “What part?”

England looked nervous, and Jameson guffawed. “The cap’n's doxy, luv!” the quartermaster said.

I looked from Jameson to England, my eyebrows practically at my hairline. “You want me to pretend to be your…your…?” When England hesitated, the flush creeping back up his neck, and Jameson continued to cackle, I took England’s arm, straightened my shoulders. I wasn’t going to fight it anymore. Wherever I was and however I got there, I was in for a wild ride, and there clearly was no getting off.

I took a deep breath and smiled at the blushing pirate captain, now my only friend and ally. I said, “Let’s do this, then.”

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