The Noble Pirates

by Rima Jean

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

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

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

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

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

  Of course.

  I shuffled back to Nan’s, feeling both buzzed and hyper. I wasn’t changing my plans. Ruth said this black pirate would find me. But was my fate within my control? Could any of us – Howel Davis, Edward England – change our fates? If, for instance, I decided to stay in Nassau rather than follow Howel, would the pirate still find me? It was all so confusing. While I vibrated with excitement (and too much caffeine) at the thought of returning to Sophie and Jake, I simply dreaded the thought of leaving Howel. If I had to choose between preventing Howel’s death and going back to 2011… I shut my eyes and took a deep breath – I’d cross that road when I got to it. One step at a time, Sabrina.

  But then, who said I had to leave him? Maybe he could go back with me. I stopped suddenly in the middle of the road as people and carts and horses milled by me, and doubled over with laughter. Just the thought of Howel in 2011 was so absurd. What in God’s name would an eighteenth century sailor and potential pirate do in 2011? Get a nine-to-five desk job? And what, exactly, would I tell Jake? Yeah, Jake, um, this is my friend Howel Davis… I’m madly in love with him and couldn’t stand to leave him in 1718, so… maybe we can make this work?

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

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

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

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

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

  It was none other than Ned Taylor.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Ned Taylor was chief mate of the Buck.

  It had taken me some time to piece this together, asking various sailors until I found someone who knew, but there it was. The man who had led the mutiny against Howel aboard the Cadogan and accused him of piracy, who had essentially destroyed Howel’s reputation and probably tortured him on top of it all, was now his superior aboard the Buck.

  I knew men well enough to know that this would not fly with Howel Davis. If anything could cause him to go on the account, this was it. Even with all of my warnings, it would happen anyway. Oh, God. What was Ned Taylor doing as a first mate of a sloop-of-war? I thought back on his biography. He becomes a pirate hunter, but the book never said when or why. Was it possible that Howel Davis was the reason? I suddenly felt sick. Here we were, all of us, just pawns in this game of life, plodding along the paths ordained by fate…

  Panic seized me. Had I truly tried to change things? I still didn’t know if it were possible. I had told Howel about his fate, but I had not truly tried to prevent anything as yet. Had I? I gritted my teeth. Fine, the details be damned. I couldn’t stop Ned Taylor from being the first mate on the Buck, nor would I likely be able to prevent Howel Davis from becoming a pirate.

  But I would be damned if I didn’t try to stop Howel from dying.

  I didn’t have long to wait for things to start happening, as it turned out – Howel was not going to submit to Ned Taylor any longer than absolutely necessary.

  We had just anchored off the coast of Hispaniola, and as night fell, I prepared to take my rest on the deck. I had managed to escape notice aboard the Mumvil Trader for the few days we’d been at sea by keeping my mouth shut, my eyes down, and my hands busy. So long as I wasn’t told to climb aloft, they’d hear no protest from me.

  Needless to say, I was exhausted. My thirty-one-year-old body ached for lack of a mattress to sleep on at night. I was getting too old for this shit. I draped my worn wool blanket over my head, thinking about Howel’s infectious smile, those gorgeous blue eyes of his… As my eyelids fluttered shut, I dreamed I heard him speak: “Get up, you men! We’re taking the sloops, both of ‘em, and you’ll either submit or suffer!”

  My eyes popped open and I rolled over to my side, pulling the blanket from my face. There he was, in the flesh, using the flat of a cutlass to smack a sailor awake, a pistol tucked in his breeches. Beside him stood several young men, armed in kind, grinning menacingly. Next to them were the two captains, their wrists tied behind their backs, and a terrified Ned Taylor, bound and gagged.

  The crew of the Mumvil Trader stirred awake, most of them apparently thrilled by this turn of events. They cheered Howel and his fellow mutineers, clearly ready and willing to join. My heart raced as I watched Howel prowl the deck, cutlass in hand, his teeth bared in a defiant scowl. This was not the Howel I knew. This Howel Davis was like an injured animal, snarling and vengeful. He was hatless and his hair was unbound, for once. It blew about his face in thick black waves.

  “See here, you men!” he cried, turning to gaze at the faces lit by firelight around him. I thought he looked straight at me and I cowered, but he continued on, not seeing me. “Those of you who wish to join us, make your way aboard the Buck. Those of you cowardly whelps who’d rather sneak after the arseholes of such villains for employment,” at this, Howel moved behind Ned Taylor and prodded him with his cutlass, “then here aboard the Mumvil Trader you should stay, to allow your superiors to kick you about the deck at their pleasure!”

  A cheer went up as most of the men rushed to clamber aboard the Buck. I stood, watching as Howel and the other leading mutineers surrounded the captains and Ned Taylor. One of them, a fair-haired fellow with a boyish face, said to Howel, “Let’s make an example of ‘em, Davies.”

  “The only one,” Howel replied, “I’ve any interest in making an example of is Mr. Taylor here.” He grinned devilishly at Ned Taylor’s wide eyes, pressing the edge of his cutlass against Taylor’s throat ever so gently. “How’ve you been, Ned? Fancy meeting you here, so soon after you left me for dead in Barbados!” He laughed contemptuously. “Life is funny, ain’t it? You’ll wish you’d killed me when you had the chance.”

  The fair-haired mutineer leaned toward Howel. “Let’s teach ‘im a lesson, Davies.”

  Howel seemed to consider the option, then said, “We haven’t the time, Walter. Let’s strip ‘im of his fine clothes and dispatch the sloop back to New Providence.” Howel brought his face close to Taylor’s and sneered. “I should kill you, but then, if I did, I’d rob Jack
Blaine of the pleasure.”

  Taylor looked utterly terrified, as well as utterly confused. Then, without warning, Howel backhanded Taylor with all of his strength, causing Taylor’s head to snap back. “And that,” Howel snarled, “was for hitting Sabrina, you son of a bitch.”

  I gaped in disbelief. Did he just hit Ned Taylor for me? Taylor had all but killed him, and he was hitting Ned Taylor for me? I felt weightless, dizzy, euphoric.

  Taylor whined and moaned from behind his gag as the mutineers took his clothes, laughing all the while. Howel wasted no time slipping into Taylor’s apparel, pulling off his threadbare shirt and breeches. I felt the heat rush to my face as I caught sight of Howel’s bare back, his naked ass. And what a mighty fine ass it was. By the time I started breathing again, he was fully dressed, hopping on one foot as he pulled on the second boot. It was a snug fit – while Howel and Ned Taylor were the same height, Howel was broader in the chest and shoulders. Regardless, it was a great improvement from the rags he’d been wearing all this time. He grinned at the pale, naked Taylor and turned to look at the remaining men, all of five sailors and myself, on the Mumvil Trader. “‘Tis your last chance, you men,” he said.

  I stepped forward, my teeth nearly chattering with nervousness. “I’m coming with you,” I said.

  “Good lad,” the fair-haired mutineer, Walter, said.

  Howel looked at me and his nostrils flared. A stream of shocking expletives suddenly poured from his mouth, and he flung the cutlass he’d been holding point-first into the deck with all his strength. It stuck, vibrating from the force. He then raked his fingers through his hair and looked at me in a fury. “Damnation! What the… Why are you here?”

  I had never seen him so angry. I was, justifiably, frightened. He was not happy to see me. “My, my, Howel Davis,” I answered, trying to sound acerbic. “Already cursing like a pirate, I see. You’re a natural.”

  Howel approached me slowly, his expression ferocious. If there had been a window of opportunity to prevent Howel from going on the account, I had missed it. The man before me had been a pirate in his heart for a while. Instinctively, I stepped back, more thrilled than afraid. I felt, for a split second, like the heroine in Sky’s harlequin, minus the blonde hair and heaving bosom – this was the part where he grabbed me and kissed me passionately, then thrust me away, because God, he just couldn’t do this, he was running from the law now…

  Howel stopped, took a deep breath, and said, “You’re going back to Nassau on the Mumvil Trader.”

  So much for his ravaging me Lord Lance style. I snapped back, “The hell I am! I’m going with you.”

  “The hell you are!” Howel retorted. “Don’t you realize–”

  “Oh, I realize!” I interrupted. “I realize that if you send me back to New Providence, I’ll end up in Ned Taylor’s hands, and Jack Blaine will be that much closer to finding me!”

  Walter stepped toward us, confused. “Davies? It’ll be time…”

  Howel growled so that only I could hear him, “Damn me for being whipped by a bit o’ fluff! And damn you, for being a conniving little bird! We’ll take you aboard until we find a proper port to leave you at.” He grabbed my arm, shoving me roughly in the direction of the Buck. “Go, then!”

  Wow. He was mad at me. I made my way onto the Buck, on the verge of tears. What had he called me? A bit of fluff? What nerve. All I was doing was trying to save him, for goodness sake. Talk about being ungrateful. Had I been silly to assume that he would be happy, on some level, to see me again?

  Howel, Walter and some others transferred all of the valuable cargo from the Mumvil Trader to the Buck, including spices, silk, tea, and cloth, and stripped it of its guns. Then they untied the four remaining men, a very naked Ned Taylor included, and left them to their devices aboard the anchored Mumvil Trader. As the Buck sailed away, Taylor rushed up to the poop deck, his white body illuminated by the moonlight, shaking his fist and hurling threats at Howel. The mutineers roared with laughter at the sight, but Howel simply stood, arms crossed, a foreboding look on his face.

  He should have killed Ned Taylor when he had the chance.

  The mutineers quickly gathered on deck to elect a captain. They threw together a bowl of punch from the rum, wine, lemon juice and spice they’d found in the cargo and, after each man (and boy, in my case) had been given a generous cup, began their “counsel of war.” Walter Kennedy spoke first. “Listen here, you men! The Buck is now a free ship, and as such, we are free to elect its captain. I’ve heard the stories of Sir Henry Morgan and Henry Avery, and with Howel Davies as our commander, we could be as great as any of those thievish heroes!”

  A great cheer went up that nearly jolted me from my seat, making my punch slop out over my lap. The men began chanting his name, but Howel merely sat, his boots propped up, his arms across his chest, his eyes flickering from face to face. The “election” was over before it even started, as every single man aboard the Buck voted for Howel as their commander. Once it became clear that it was unanimous, Howel himself stood and accepted the position. A quiet fell upon the excited crew as they waited anxiously for their new captain to speak.

  Howel Davis was silent for a long moment. He held his cup between his hands, peering into its contents, his brow furrowed, his lips downturned ever so slightly. Then he looked up and smiled at the anxious faces around him – a whimsical, impish smile. He said, “The pirate Edward England once told me, in so many words, that I was a fool for submitting to the laws that rich men have made for their own security. He said that we’d always be but the scum o’ the earth to them, but, in the end, ‘twas us who served them, who allowed them this advantage.” Howel looked directly at me for a burning second, then continued to peruse the faces around him. “No more, my brothers. Our lives will be cut short for pursuing the game, don’t doubt it. But when we are hanged, which surely we will be, remember that while they vilify us, the scoundrels, there is only this difference between us and them: they rob the poor under the cover of law, while we plunder the rich under the protection of our own courage. We are free princes now, and we have the authority to make war on the whole world, and this, my conscience tells me, is what we should do.”

  I have to admit, even I was roused by his speech. As the men shouted their hearty approval of their pirate captain, I locked eyes with him briefly.

  And just like that, Howel Davis the sailor became Howel Davis the pirate.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Howel drew up Articles of Agreement the following morning, and had all thirty members of the crew swear an oath of allegiance over crossed pistols. I swore as well, avoiding Howel’s eyes as I did so, forcing my voice to sound masculine, if boyish. The Articles were written in Howel’s hand and posted on the door of the cabin for all to see. I read them with interest, as this was a fascinating document. Every man had a vote in “affairs of the moment, and had equal title to fresh provisions and strong liquors as seized,” although prizes would be divided among the men according to rank. The men were to keep their weapons in good condition, and no stealing or fighting amongst themselves would be tolerated. The best set of pistols found aboard a prize was to be awarded to the lookout who first spotted that prize. I chuckled to myself: the pirates even got workers’ compensation and a retirement plan, which was far more than an ordinary sailor, who was no better than a slave, could ever hope for. I scanned the Articles for a clause about women, and only found this:

  If at any time you meet with a prudent Woman, that Man that offers to meddle with her, without her Consent, shall suffer present Death.

  Good deal. I wondered if Howel had me in mind when he wrote that particular clause. I hoped so.

  He’d been a busy man of late, Howel had. He hadn’t glanced at me twice since he’d become rogue captain of the Buck. I chalked it up to his being busy, but I also sensed he was avoiding me. I told myself it didn’t matter – I was able to look after him, or simply be with him, and that was enough.

  But it
wasn’t.

  When, a few days later, a French ship was spotted off the coast of Cuba, I was ready to do pretty much anything to get Howel’s attention. Including hand-to-hand combat. Sure, I still couldn’t handle a cutlass to save my life, but I couldn’t stand the fact that, as far as Howel was concerned, I did not exist. Risking my life would have been well worth the effort, even if he became angry with me.

  The French ship had twenty-four guns and was considerably larger than the twelve-gun Buck, which wasn’t much bigger than a large periagua, or a dugout. When Howel decided to pursue the vessel, his crew, understandably, wondered about his sanity. Hell, I know I sure did. How was this little sloop, with all of thirty pirates, going to capture a 250-ton, three-masted ship, with probably no fewer than eighty men aboard it?

  When asked this question by several of his crew, Howel grinned and dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Mere details,” he scoffed, his eyes fervid. “If we cain’t use brute force, then we’ll have to use cunning, now, won’t we?”

  The crew stared blankly, hesitantly. Even the daring Walter Kennedy eyed his captain with uncertainty. But Howel wasted no time before giving orders. “We’re going to run straight for her. She’ll either think we’re crazy or have bigger consort behind us.” He grinned. “Hopefully each in turn.”

  I watched as the men did as they were told, fear lurking in their eyes. It was a desperate attempt at surprisal and deceit, and Howel armed himself and each of his men with a brace of pistols, or a baldric, and a cutlass. He pointed to a dirty tarpaulin. “Cover it in tar and fly it at the masthead,” he ordered. “It’s as good a black flag as any.”

  As I watched the preparations, I realized something strange – I was not afraid. Here I was, on a small sloop with a bunch of amateur and born-again pirates, about to attack a much more powerful French ship. We would most likely die, all of us. And I was fearless. Living in 1718 had done something to me, brought out a very primitive courage, borne out of the desire to survive. It coursed through my veins, steadying me, giving me focus. I looked at Howel, leaning into the wind, his brow creased in concentration, the skin of his face, throat and forearms beginning to reacquire that baked brown color from the Caribbean sun. With a kerchief tied around his head to hold back his hair, his pistols slung across his chest, the cutlass at his hip, and those clean black boots, he looked nothing short of a swashbuckler. He knew that survival instinct, that raw pluck, so very well.