by Noah Harris
Captain Seawolf came up, running a hand through his thick brown beard and smiling as the man named Frenchie carried the pay chest. That, at least, would be covered by the investors. The crew was guaranteed its full payment regardless of what happened on the high seas.
Thomas didn’t care much either way. These men had been willing to watch him die for a crime that shouldn’t have been a crime. He owed them nothing. All those shipboard friends, all those men he joked with and stood watch with, all those men he had gotten drunk with at harbors on both sides of the Atlantic, none of them had lifted a finger to save him. Some of them had even dallied with him in the privy. They had been the most silent of all.
The last of the cargo was transferred over to the pirate ship, and the marauders started jumping back onto their own vessel.
“Come aboard,” The pirate captain said. “You tarry much longer and you’ll be left behind.”
The pirate captain and the man called Frenchie passed by him, stepping over the railings to get back on their own ship. As they did so, Thomas reached out with both hands and drew their cutlasses from their sheaths. He spun around to face Captain Stone and the first mate, ignoring the shouts of the pirates and the staccato click of dozens of guns being cocked all at once. He had no doubt those guns all pointed at him.
He strode across the deck and tossed a cutlass to the first mate.
“You and I have unfinished business.”
The first mate caught the cutlass deftly from the air. The crews of both ships cheered. The pirates hurried back onto the Virtue in order to watch the spectacle. Within moments they had intermingled with the sailors and formed a wide circle with Thomas and the first mate at the center. The two men, armed, circled each other.
The first mate, for all his hulking strength and brutal nature, did not rush into the fray. Thomas was a master with the cutlass, and the whole ship knew it. At times of calm sailing after the day’s work was done, the lads would get together for cutlass practice, sparring with blades wrapped in thick leather so as not to give anything worse than painful bruises. Thomas was better than everyone but the man he now faced and had proven an even match for him more often than not.
But the first mate had an advantage, and everyone, especially Thomas, knew it. Thomas had never killed anyone, while the officer had killed many a time for the sheer pleasure of doing so. He would not hesitate in a real fight to the death, while Thomas was still an unknown quantity.
The first mate allowed Thomas to attack first. The sailor leapt forward and gave a vicious slash for the first mate’s neck, which the officer parried with a loud clash of steel on steel. A cheer went up from both crews. It was unclear who the crew of the Virtue was cheering, the traitor in their midst or the most hated officer any of them had ever known. It was an equal mystery with the pirates of the Manhunter. They had no stake in this fight and yet they cheered as lustily as the men of the Virtue. Perhaps they didn’t care who won. They only wanted to see blood.
The first mate made a strong riposte that clanged off of Thomas’s cutlass and sent a spike of pain up his sword arm. The next instant, Thomas parried another blow. He countered, but it was weak, and the first mate easily parried it. The officer responded with a flurry that forced Thomas back. The cruel man’s face cracked into a grin that showed rotting teeth. He had guessed his advantage. Not only was he the more aggressive and experienced fighter in real combat, but Thomas was weak from a night in the brig and more than an hour tied to the mizzenmast in the hot sun.
Thomas gave more ground, barely trying to riposte now as blow after blow struck his cutlass and weakened his arm. The first mate smelled blood and leapt forward with a glow of victory in his eyes. He made a horizontal swing meant to part Thomas’s head from his shoulders, but the sailor ducked and sliced a deep gash in the first mate’s side.
Staggering backwards and gripping the gushing wound, the first mate backpedaled, parrying a series of blows from the rebellious sailor. They passed out of the circle, which parted to let them go, and moved right past Captain Stone. As soon as the pair went by and Thomas had his back to him, the crack of a gunshot snapped through the air.
The two swordsmen took a step back from each other and paused. A shattered marlinspike lay at Captain Stone’s feet. Thomas realized the captain had attempted to smash his skull with it, but someone had intercepted the intervention. It took a moment for Thomas to discover the location of the shooter, and when he did, he could barely credit his eyes.
High up in the Manhunter’s crow’s nest, a man stood with an elaborately carved musket, a wheellock of the old pattern. Neither of the duelists could believe that the man could have made such a shot, but smoke issued clearly from the gun’s muzzle. With a calm demeanor, the man set aside the old-fashioned gun and picked up its twin, aiming down at the fray.
“There is nothing I hate worse than an unfair fight,” the man called down. “The next man who interferes gets a bullet in the brain, whether he be friend or foe.”
The look on the faces of the assembled pirates told the crew of the Virtue said that the man spoke the truth. Even the pirate captain looked grim and wary. Thomas and the first mate got back to the business at hand.
The wounded first mate, still bleeding freely from his side, tried to hasten the end of the fight before he wearied. He made several savage swings at Thomas, who nimbly avoided them, circling around his injured prey, searching for an opening. The officer snarled in frustration, redoubling his attacks.
Thomas avoided him, parrying and dodging, only occasionally making a swing of his own. The first mate was visibly tiring. Desperate, the man let out a roar and charged straight at Thomas, cutlass held before him to guard himself as he tried to bowl the smaller man over. Thomas dodged to the side at the last minute and slashed at the man’s calf. The first mate let out a cry and fell to the ground. He spun around and was getting up in a trice, balancing on his uninjured leg and raising his cutlass to fend off the next blow.
Too late. Thomas’s blade sank deep into the man’s neck, opening his throat and letting out a gout of blood to spill down the officer’s chest and splash onto the deck. The bane of every sailor on the Virtue coughed, swayed a little, and fell backwards, never to move again. Both crews let out an ear-splitting cheer. Thomas walked over and picked up the dead man’s cutlass.
He tossed it to Captain Stone.
The captain snatched it from the air with a snarl.
The pirate captain let out a belly laugh. “By the Devil, man, are you going to cut through the entire crew one by one?”
“No,” Thomas said calmly, “he’s the last. I wouldn’t want to kill a lover, and as dark as it is in the ship’s privy I cannot vouch that any of these other men are certain not to be among their number.”
“You filthy catamite,” Captain Stone raged. “You have perverted my crew and despoiled the good name of my ship. I’ll cut you into tiny pieces and feed you to the sharks if it’s the last thing I do on God’s earth!” The captain raced forward. Thomas waited to parry his blow at the last instant in order to draw the captain in as close as possible before making an attack of his own.
But as enraged as the puritanical captain was, he would not fall into so simple a trap. He parried the counterattack with ease and made a series of his own. These Thomas blocked with skill, but the sweat pouring down his face made him blink, interfering with his vision for critical moments. Thomas almost let one past his guard, the blade of the captain’s weapon tearing through a loose fold of his pant leg and barely missing the flesh underneath.
Thomas leapt back and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Just then Captain Stone lunged forward. Thomas batted his sword aside and sliced a shallow cut across the captain’s chest. A cheer went up from half the crowd. The pirates had applauded a good swing, while the men of the Virtue hesitated, not knowing how the fight would end. It would not do to cheer for Thomas Treadwell only to end up back under the iron heel of Temperance Stone.
The cut only sto
ked the captain’s rage. He hacked at Thomas’s defenses, nearly knocking the cutlass out of the sailor’s hand with a series of vicious swings. Again, Thomas backed up, until he bumped into the same mizzenmast to which he had been tied.
Captain Stone grinned and pressed his advantage, not allowing Thomas room to move and lunging at him every time he tried to dodge to get around the mast. Another attack. Another parry. Thomas was weakening. His arm felt numb, and his fingers could barely clasp the hilt of his weapon. Desperately, he lashed out with his foot, landing a hard kick square on Captain Stone’s knee.
The captain staggered, and Thomas punched him with the hand guard of his weapon. The cup of hard steel hit the man full in the face, and blood spewed from the captain’s crushed nose. The Virtue’s cruel master fell back and landed on his rump.
Thomas punched him with the metal guard again, and Captain Stone toppled back, his head cracking against the deck and his cutlass falling from his grasp. The sailor kicked the weapon away and knelt by the man he had defeated, clasping his free hand around the captain’s throat. Through bleary eyes, Captain Stone beheld him with hatred.
“Go ahead and kill me, you wretched sinner,” he choked, fragments of teeth flying from behind bloody lips, “for I will go to paradise while you will suffer the pains of eternal torment.”
Thomas pressed the edge of the cutlass against the captain’s face and cut a deep wound across his features. Captain Stone let out a hiss of pain.
“I will let you live,” Thomas declared in a loud voice for all to hear. “And may you have a long life—a long life bearing the testimony that you were bested in combat by a catamite.”
Thomas returned the pirate captain’s cutlass, hopped over the railing onto the pirate ship, and stepped into his new life.
The crew of the Manhunter unloosed the grappling hooks and used stout poles to push their ship away from the Virtue.
The pirates made a smiling circle around Thomas, clasping his hand and patting him on the shoulder.
“Good work, lad!”
“That was a fine bit of cutlass dancing!”
“You showed that bastard a thing or two!”
“You’ll make a fine addition to our crew!”
Thomas shook his head and pulled away. “I’m not joining your crew. I’m no pirate. I’ve never done anything illegal in my life besides bed another man.”
“And kill your first mate and disfigure your captain. That makes three hanging offenses, you blockheaded Jack Tar!” shouted the hefty woman crewing the cannon.
“True enough,” The pirate captain said, cleaning the blood off his cutlass with a cloth and returning it to its sheath. He strode over to Thomas. “If this man doesn’t want to join us, we’ll honor his wishes, because what do we stand for, lads?”
“Freedom, Captain Seawolf!” the crew bellowed.
Captain Seawolf drew closer. Thomas looked up at him, unsure of himself.
“What is your name, lad?”
“Thomas Treadwell, of Buckland, Kent.”
“Ah, the Kentish boys have the sea in their veins. Many a fine sailor has come from those parts. Now if you be a passenger on this vessel until we find a safe port where we can drop you off, there are a few rules you have to abide by.”
“Rules?” Thomas replied with surprise. He did not think that pirates had any rules. But as he looked around he saw that this ship was as well tended as any other, better than many others in fact. The deck was freshly swabbed, the rigging appeared in good order, the sails well-tended, and every tool in its place. Despite their reputation, this chaotic crew kept order when order was needed.
“Yes, rules. The first is that you’ll do a proper day’s work. We’ll have no idle hands on our ship.”
“I’ve worked all my life. I wouldn’t know what to do if I sat by while other men bent their backs.”
Captain Seawolf laughed. “No bending of backs when there’s work to be done. Business first, and then you can fuck and be fucked to your heart’s content.”
Thomas blushed. He’d never been faced with the truth of his desires so openly before.
Captain Seawolf continued, “You’ll be paid the going rate for a second-class seaman and be given billets and a full food and rum ration. Given what we pulled from your hold, that rum ration will be most generous.”
That brought forth a raucous applause from the pirates.
“Although our ship may be a pirate vessel, we do not abide drunkenness on duty. The rum ration comes only with supper, and only for those men not standing the night watch. If you have a quarrel with another man, you can call a ship’s meeting and try to resolve it. If you two decide to fight, you fight equally and openly in front of the crew. Stealing, backstabbing, and drunkenness on duty are punishable by death.”
“Fair enough.” Thomas nodded, noticing the captain kept referring to “our” ship.
“Since you’re a man-lover like us, you’re more than welcome to any man who will have you, and as long as you’re not in the way of any work you can do your business anywhere on the ship you like except the privy. I don’t want to be standing outside with my legs crossed and my face turning blue because you’re inside with some sailor relieving a different need than the privy was intended for.”
This brought out a mocking laugh from the assembled crew.
“All right,” Thomas said, blushing further.
“And one last thing.”
“Yes?”
Captain Seawolf grabbed Thomas by the neck and lifted him off the deck.
“If you touch a weapon of mine again I’ll cut your fingers off one by one and feed them to the seagulls.”
“Understood,” Thomas choked out.
A distant call came over the water from the Virtue. It was the voice of Captain Stone.
“Thomas Treadwell, you catamite! You sinner! I will hunt you to the ends of the earth! I will not rest until I have taken my vengeance upon you! If you go to the farthest icy wastes of the north, I will be there! If you sail across the ocean to the shores of Africa, I will hunt you! If you flee around Cape Horn to the uncharted waters of the Pacific, you will find me waiting! I will track you down, Thomas Treadwell, and woe betide you when I do!”
Captain Seawolf dropped Thomas to the floor.
“Only a fool gets an enemy in his grasp and lets him live,” the pirate leader told him.
Thomas glared at him in defiance. “And yet I have done it.”
The Manhunter heaved off, heading due south, away from fringes of the Caribbean and away from the shipping lanes. Soon, Thomas was in the rigging, helping to trim the sails to make the most of the wind, which came at an angle to their course. Then he was down on deck to lend a hand with the other countless tasks required to keep a ship at sea.
Thomas exchanged a bit of small talk with many of the pirates, learning names and little else. He wasn’t in the mood for banter. He had killed a man and maimed another, and while both had richly deserved such treatment, Thomas was unaccustomed to violence. And now, he found himself in the midst of some of the most violent men on the Seven Seas.
He should have been rejoicing, for here he had found an entire ship full of men who shared his desires, plus two women - Maggie and Fanny - who remained a mystery to him. He had heard whispered tales of women dressing as men in order to go to sea, but he had dismissed such stories as wishful thinking on the part of lonely sailors. But here were two women freely mingling with the rest of the crew and doing men’s work.
He supposed this was the only ship that would be safe for them. This was a ship full of men who wanted men. While that should have filled his heart with joy and stirred his loins with desire, he felt ill at ease. Thomas had always been an honest man, and now he was keeping company with a band of pirates.
A band of pirates who had saved his life, he reminded himself. He was coiling a length of rope while sitting on deck when the marksman in the crow’s nest finally came down as another man clambered up the rigging to take his
place. The fellow had the raven hair, brown eyes, and somewhat dark skin of the Black Irish, and yet when he spoke he spoke as a cultured Englishman from the Midlands.
“A fine bit of cutlass work,” he said to Thomas in a quiet voice. “I’m Bill Husk.”
Thomas rose to his feet and took the man’s hand. “Thank you for your help. That was an impressive shot you made. I’ve not seen the like.” Thomas pointed at the pair of wheellock muskets strapped to the man’s back. Both looked like they had come from the hunting lodge of some nobleman. They were of finely carved wood, the barrels chased with silver and the butts decorated with carved ivory. “Those are odd weapons for a man to fight with. I’ve only seen such guns a few times. They are almost antiques.”
Bill Husk nodded. “While the flintlock is better in most fights, because it is quicker to load and easier to care for, the old style wheellock is still superior for marksmanship. You see, when the lock of a flintlock hits the pan, making sparks and igniting the powder, it jerks the gun ever so slightly. With the wheellock, since the striker is wound up with a spring and spins when the trigger is pulled, there is no such disruption, and the gun fires much more accurately. There’s also this little steel cover over the firing mechanism so that the powder stays dry in the rain. One cannot do that with a flintlock. The flint hammer takes up too much space.”
“So even in stormy seas, the Manhunter has at least one gun at its disposal. That’s clever.”
“It does come in handy. Plus, the barrels on both my guns are rifled.”
“Rifled?”
“It is a method of putting grooves inside the barrel. It makes the ball spin and that makes it fire in a much straighter line. It is an expensive process and not very common, but it is a marked improvement, as you saw. If you had a pair of these you would find your marksmanship increased a great degree.”
“I’ve never practiced with guns,” Thomas admitted.
“If you join the crew, we will train you.”
Thomas shook his head. Bill Husk made a slight shrug and walked off.
