Sea of Treason (Pirate's Bluff Book 1)

by Stacey Trombley

"There's more than one type of pirate in this part of the world. Ever heard of a river pirate?"

  I chew the inside of my lip, considering her words. Approaching pirates you don't know is rarely a good idea. It's an interesting concept, however. "Do you know these pirates?"

  "Sort of."

  "That sounds promising."

  "It's a better plan than you have."

  I give her that much. "But we'll need to think this through. Whatever type of pirate we interact with, there are rules to follow. They're not the kind of people keen to help others out of the kindness of their hearts. They want something out of it. And if they think they can get more out of betraying you than you're giving, they'll turn you over in a second."

  "All right. So, what do you propose?"

  I nod and begin to pace, thinking this through. "It's a good plan. But we need to consider what we're going to barter with. We'll need to know their motivation, their greatest desire. Is it money? Power? A place to belong? Do they respect pirates like Stede or do they hate them? Do they admire the elite of New York that you belong to or do they dislike it? All of those things will come into play. Tell me as much as you can about these pirates."

  I'm surprised when Whitley tells me all she knows about the pirates she's planning to approach. They're a secretive group, as I'd imagine, that live mostly in the slums and travel through old the canals beneath the city. Their average age is also somewhere around twelve. She said we'd be lucky to find one as old as we are—usually they're recruited by the mob by the time they turn eighteen.

  So pretty much they're a ragtag group of orphan thieves who use makeshift weapons and dinghies to commandeer ships on the river in order to survive. She knows where to find them, and that's her most useful bit of information. She's only met one, and she has no idea if he'll be anywhere around—or if he's even still alive.

  "Well, I can take a few guesses at what a group like this would want most,” I say, “but it's just a guess. We're going to have to think on the fly with this one. Just follow my lead, all right?"

  "Want to let me in on your guesses?"

  "Well, first, I'm going to assume they are not overly fond of rich people. Yes, that means you." I expect an annoyed expression but get none. She simply nods.

  "Very well. Should I change my clothes first?"

  I shake my head. "No, we don't have much time, and I'm not sure it'll help. You can only hide the stuck-up rich part of you so much."

  At that her mouth hangs open slightly, her eyes suddenly full of pain. A sweep of guilt swings through me but leaves quickly. I don't care if I offend her. It would be better if she hated me anyway.

  Whitley

  I ignore the dagger in my heart as I lead Bluff to the eastern most bank of the Hudson River. Waves shift quietly in the darkness. Everything is still this time of night. There is no sound but the soft rush of the waves pushing against the piles of stone. The only light visible from here is a lighthouse far in the distance, and a few lanterns somewhere over the water.

  "Well?" Bluff asks as we stand there with no sign of life anywhere.

  I take a few more steps until I'm standing just over a hole in the ground. It leads to an old underground canal. Sudden shuffling below assures me my hunch was right—they're here, just hiding.

  I lean down to the hole. It's too dark to see anything, but little noises sound from below: a whisper, followed by a sudden hush, a shift and a grunt, the scattering of pebbles.

  "Hello," I say.

  Bluff joins me, leaning down over the hole. "Hey, lads, know where we can barter for a ship? We have some business."

  "What kind of business?" a little voice calls up at us.

  "Hush!" another voice reprimands.

  "What?" the little voice yelps. "I want to eat today, okay?"

  "Yeah, well, you want to be locked up to do it? You see that lady's dress? She ain't here for no business."

  "But we are!" I call.

  "We're on the run," Bluff jumps in. "We have some bad men after us, and we need to reach our friends in the harbor, but we'll need a ship to do it. We heard you could help."

  More scuffling from beneath our feet. I find myself wondering how many kids are down there, and how bad they smell. I wrinkle my nose.

  "Yeah, right. I can tell an eloping couple from a true runway, any day."

  Bluff jerks his head back, gripping the stone beside the hole like he'll break it. "I wouldn't touch this lass with a ten-foot pole," he spits.

  I hold back a scoff at that. If they need to believe there is nothing between us to help, I need to not give away my feelings. Though his words are acid in my veins.

  "She's too pretty. No way she's a runaway," an older voice says, eyes peeking up closer than the others.

  "Doesn't even have any bruises!" a high-pitched voice calls.

  I hold out my arm to them, to show the finger marks Mr. Robinson left. "I've got a nice bump on my head as well," I say.

  Bluff's eyes linger on the dark spot in my forearm. Guess he hadn't noticed that.

  "That don't prove nothin'."

  "Who told you about us anyway? You bring her here, bloke? Who do you know?"

  Bluff's eyes meet mine.

  "Charlie," I squeal out.

  "There are twelve Charlies down here, miss. Don't mean nothing."

  "Don't call her miss, she didn't do nothing to deserve respect."

  "Knickerbocker, that's what he went by, once he joined." I'd almost forgotten that part, but he told us all about it one day it was raining too hard to play ball, so we sat around playing truth or dare. That was the day I learned about the child gang on the Hudson.

  A hush falls and my heart stops. Is that good or bad?

  "Go get Knick," the older sounding boy says to another, then an arm appears from the entrance canal hole, followed by a head and body, hoisting itself out. Several other bodies follow, and I watch in awe as these little bodies unfold themselves into a rag-tag crowd in front of us.

  "I'm Tom. Who are you?"

  "I'm Bluff and this is Whitley."

  "Bluff your real name?"

  He shakes his head.

  "Well?"

  Bluff takes in a deep breath, like it causes him pain to pull out his true identity. "Nalin. My real name is Nalin."

  I immediately wonder if it's the truth or if he made up a "real" name.

  "What do you want?" Tom asks, seemingly unimpressed with our introduction. He's maybe sixteen. His pants are tight over his thighs and cut off too short. The younger kids around him have the opposite problem—clothes so big they're falling off of their skinny bodies. They're a diverse group, heights ranging from tiny to tall and lanky. There are girls and boys, and skin colors from white as paper with red freckles to as dark as the boy speaking to us now.

  "We told you," Bluff says, putting his hands in his pockets casually, "we need a ship to reach the outer harbor."

  "The outer harbor? As in all the way to the ocean?"

  Bluff nods. The New York harbor follows a thin water way through several other portions of land before reaching actual open water. Apparently, that's where The Freedom will be waiting for us, though that's news to me.

  "That's not an easy job. You better have some good payment."

  I look to Bluff, unsure what his plan is on actual payment. His eyes meet mine before turning back to the leader of the child mob. "I have gold. But I'm guessing it's not going to be enough."

  The boy crosses his arm. "If you're guessing, then I'm going to agree with you."

  I wince, wondering if we'd have been able to get away with paying what we have without that comment. Too late now.

  "I have an emerald ring," I offer and pull the ring out from its hiding place inside my dress’s waist belt. "I won't be needing it now."

  I can't help but glance at Bluff's expression as I hold it out. His eyebrows are pulled low, confusion written on his face. "Jeb?" he asks.

  I shake my head. "Apparently my father made a deal with someone
else," I say, my voice only a whisper now.

  "Told you she was running from a husband!" a little girl shouts.

  "Where's the ring from?" the older boy asks. "Was it given or stolen?"

  I bite my lip, considering my answer, but before I can collect my thoughts, whispers begin flowing through the little crowd, and another form crawls out from the canal—a face I barely recognize, but something there is familiar. His face is sallow, and pale, but covered in dirt.

  The boy is taller than the rest by at least a foot, even the boy we'd taken as the leader.

  "Who is it using my name to make a deal?" the boy says, looking us both over. His eyes linger on mine as recognition dawns. He doesn't look shocked or angry or annoyed or even like he expected it. He just looks tired.

  "Whitley," he says quietly. "Hadn't thought I'd ever see you here. Last I heard you were engaged to Jeb."

  I nod, almost surprised he was that caught up on the gossip, as it had only become public in the last two days.

  His eyes drift to Bluff, looking him up and down.

  "You think I'm going to help you flee from an old childhood friend for some other beau?"

  "No. That's not what this is."

  "Sure looks like it," Tom says.

  "I'm not running from Jeb. I'm running from—well a few things actually. My father's schemes and the troubles that came along with them, the mob, Mr. Robinson...."

  "That where the emerald came from?" Knick asks.

  I nod.

  "Isn't that that old guy who beats all his servants?" Tom asks.

  "Yeah, that's the household Betsy came from," a boy, maybe seven, says, "all bruised up and starving to death."

  "What about Mr. Robinson?" Knick prompts. "Why do you have a ring from him and not Jeb?"

  "It was a bribe." I swallow and look to my feet. "My father gave it to him as a symbol for my hand, before we fled the city." My heart is pounding now. "It was my mother's before that."

  "You knew this? About the marriage?"

  I shake my head. "It was all done behind my back. I only learned of it hours ago now. I don't want that ring anymore. Whether you help us or not, just keep it."

  Knick considers this and reaches to take the ring from my fingers.

  "I heard you came back from the south on a pirate ship. That true?"

  I blink, then nod.

  "This one of them?"

  I nod again, too tired to consider whether it is something I should lie about.

  "If you go back to Jeb, what will happen?" Knick asks.

  I think about Jeb's family, his huge home. I think about the pirates and Mr. Robinson, but truth is, even without all that, there is no going back for me.

  "I won't. I'll jump into the sea before I go back." These words are so much stronger than the rest. It's true. Even if I could just go back and be with Jeb, I wouldn't. I couldn't.

  "And you just need a ship to ferry you out to sea. Nothing more?"

  Bluff and I nod in unison. He's been surprisingly quiet through all of this.

  "Alright. Let's get this started."

  Bluff

  The knot in my stomach grows larger and larger as the horizon lightens. I only wish I were as good at these types of knots as I am the sort you tie in ropes. I'm good at knots on a ship. But unraveling the anxiety building in my bones is impossible.

  Of all the things you could call me, a carefree pirate I am not.

  In fact, I'm probably the worst kind of pirate there is: the kind who hates actual piracy.

  And that's one of the many reasons I feel awful at the moment. I step onto the little boat, keeping my chin up as the children row out towards the harbor, towards a ship we'll commandeer—a polite term for steal. All the while, I refuse to look back at Whitley shrinking into the distance. At least she didn't insist on coming out with us. That would have been a disaster—in many ways, including that she's reason number two for the knot. I still don't know what to make of her. I know what I want to think, what I want to feel. But I could not stand the sadness in her eyes when she pulled out that ring. When she told me—us—about her father attempting to force her to marry some cruel man.

  Perhaps bringing her back to New York, what I thought was giving her the freedom she wanted, was actually just buckling the lock on her prison cell.

  Maybe she's as stuck as I am.

  "There!" a young boy calls, pointing out towards the silhouette of a ship in the distance. "I bet that's that tobacco ship we’ve had eyes for!" His Irish accent is actually a bit endearing, if you ignore the meaning behind his words.

  "And we keep passing over," Knick begins slowly, "because we don't have the manpower..."

  "But what if we do now!" a darker skinned boy hollers, eyes turning to me. "We got a real pirate this time. I bet he could help."

  I open my mouth. I probably could help them take a high value ship, but not because of my skill as a pirate, because of my ability to turn into anyone I want. But I don't plan on exposing that skill to this lot, if I can help it.

  A larger ship also means higher levels of violence. More lives at risk. Which is exactly what I'd like to avoid.

  I don't want to slit anyone's throat or watch one of these youngsters do it.

  They've probably done worse. They're doing whatever they must in order to survive. The worse their situation, the worse they'll be willing to do. And their situation is pretty ugly. I look down at the lookout boy's bare feet, covered in black slime.

  "No,” Knick says after a moment of silence. "That's not what we're here for. They need a ship, any ship, to take them out to sea. We don't need to pick the most protected ship out here in order to do it."

  "I know we don't haaave to," the boy whines. "But we could. We gotta take a ship, why not make it most worthwhile for us?"

  Knick clenches his jaw. "Because I want this done as quickly as possible. I'm not playing games today, Tim. Now no more arguing. Look for a smaller ship, with sails already set to fly. That's it."

  My eyes narrow as I study Knick. It does make sense for them to choose a ship they can gain from, even if not a ship as big as a tobacco freighter. Why does he want this done with so quickly? Is it out of concern for Whitley, a girl he hasn't seen in years? Is it out of guilt for helping her leave Jeb—also a friend he hasn't seen in years and likely never will again? Both options seem unlikely.

  And for the first time, I mistrust this pint-sized pirate crew.

  Tim crosses his arms and pouts. Knick raises his eyebrows. Tim pulls the spyglass back out, with a grunt, searching the dark waters for traces of a more reasonable target.

  "Sorry ‘bout him," Knick says without looking at me. "Our crew tends to be a bit eager, and naïve."

  "Don't call me big words," Tim sneers and I hold back a laugh.

  Knick smiles. "Which word did you dislike?"

  "Nave-ie or whatever. If I don't know what it means, I don't like it."

  Knick opens his mouth, but the boy shoots him another look. "And I don't want to know what it means!"

  I smile and nod, changing the subject. "I've been there, trust me." I remember when overtaking a ship was nothing but a game. An adventure. When all I wanted was to prove myself, so desperate to belong.

  That was before I witnessed death. Before I saw what proving myself cost.

  I press my lips tightly together and watch as Tim goes back to his search. Knick still refuses to meet my eye.

  "There's a teeny thing over that way," Tim says in a flat tone like he's never been more bored in his life. "By the lighthouse on the Jersey coast. Small crew, and they're already hoisting the sails."

  "What kind of ship?" Knick asks.

  Tim shrugs and looks again. "I see a net. Must be fishermen."

  "Head for the lighthouse, boys,” Knick calls to his rowing crew. We're pretty piled onto this little thing. We have four rowers, including Knick. Tim is the littlest at the bow, the look out. And one larger boy, with long curly hair sits back quietly, picking at a knife. I'm
guessing he's the best fighter.

  I'm smack in the middle.

  It takes us a half hour before we reach the fisherman’s ship. The sun is just peeking up over the horizon now, making our vision clearer than is ideal for this type of piracy. Luckily, the ship is sailing toward us, not away.

  As we approach, one of the sailors aboard our target ship spots us. He points and shouts to the rest of the crew. Element of surprise gone.

  I wait, heart beating faster, wondering if Knick will call it off and wait for a better time of day—something we can't afford.

  No one speaks for several moments, then a few things shift inside our little ship. The larger boy at the back pulls his knife down, hidden next to his thigh. He and Knick both slump down, pulling their heads lower so they're even with the smaller boys.

  Then, Tim at the front waves eagerly.

  That's when I remember I'm not with a typical pirate crew. To most people, this is just a boat full of children. Not a threat.

  There is shouting on the fisherman's ship, and a rope is thrown out to our row boat, which we use to pull ourselves in closer. A ladder is tossed over the side, and the smaller boys climb up first, their weapons hidden inside their pants. The points poke out only slightly— only noticeable if I look closely.

  This crew doesn't need darkness to hide their intensions. They don't need to be far out at sea where no one can come to their victim's aid. They don't even need the ability to shift.

  Their age is their disguise.

  I move to climb up the ladder once Tim, that last small boy, is on his way, but Knick puts his hand on my arm without a word. I stop and wait.

  Once Tim is aboard, there is silence for one small moment—then the shouting starts.

  Knick and the large curly haired boy jump into action, climbing onto the ship with impressive swiftness. A splatter of blood lands on my hand, and I grit my teeth.

  This is the part of piracy I hate.

  Destroying someone else's life, in order to help my own.

  I know it's necessary. I don't know any pirates who choose this life freely. They choose it because they have no choice. Because their families will starve. Because honorable sailors are stolen from—by the government, by rich men who use their power to control them, by other sailors. They’re men who were born deformed and outcast by their own families. Men who were born to the wrong parents.