by Rima Jean
I walked up to him calmly and said, “Just so you know, I plan to fight alongside you.”
He looked at me, his eyes giving nothing away. “I wager there’s nothing I can say to stop you,” he answered simply.
I touched my pistols, the cutlass I had been given, and smiled. “Nope.”
He almost smiled back, I swear it. He looked away quickly and said, “Very well then. Mind you don’t get shot.”
They must have seen us coming, but the gun ports of the great ship remained closed, its course slow and steady. The French must not have been very intimidated by us- they didn’t even bother to mount some of their cannons. Soon we were right alongside the ship, dangerously close at about a hundred yards. Had the ship’s cannons been mounted, we would have been within point-blank range of them. The sun was setting, and several shadowy figures appeared on the quarterdeck of the French ship.
“Ohe!” the French captain, a fellow wearing a great plumed hat, called out. “D’où est vôtre navire?” (Ahoy! From whence your ship?)
Howel climbed to the poop deck so that he was clearly seen. His voice loud and strong, he shouted back the traditional pirate response: “De la mer!” (From the sea!)
“Comment osez-vous nous approcher de si près?” (How dare you lay alongside us?)
Howel laughed. “Pas tant d’histoires! Amène, chien!” (Enough babble! Amain, dog!)
There was some rushed discussion between the captain and another of his crew, and then he replied in heavily accented English, “What are you about, English dog? Do you wish to die?”
Howel said fiercely, “We’ve consort coming behind us, and if you do not heed me and strike your colors immediately, we will show no mercy!” Then he turned to the designated gunners among his crew and shouted, “Give her a broad-side!” As the cannons were fired at the French ship, he drew his cutlass and a pistol and ordered, “Lay her aboard!”
He was not wasting any time. The boarders threw the grappling hooks and lashed the little sloop to its much bigger prey. With Howel and Walter leading the way, the men of the Buck rushed to the forecastle and climbed the ropes onto the French ship, howling like bloodthirsty wolves. I followed, drawing my pistol, but ensuring it was half-cocked. I wasn’t that stupid.
There was no battle, no bloodshed. The Frenchmen surrendered instantly, striking their colors and dropping their weapons. I watched, dumbfounded, as Howel ordered the French captain and twenty of his crew aboard the Buck as prisoners. The French captain was a portly man wearing a beautifully braided coat and waistcoat, a frilly lace cravat, and an enormous, curly wig that hung halfway down his back and rose over his brow. He stood, horrified, his mouth agape, as Howel smiled genially at him.
“Bonsoir, M. le Capitaine!” he said cheerfully, clapping the stunned captain on the back.
“Ce n’est pas possible!” The captain muttered hoarsely, wiping the sweat that dripped down his nose. “Vous m’avez trompé!”
“Aye,” Howel responded. “We’ve fooled you, my good man. But lest you think yourself a coward or a fool, know that you deal with very crafty thieves!”
Walter, who had been standing nearby, came over, and rubbing his chin, fingered the lustrous curls of the captain’s wig. “ ‘Tis a fine head o’ hair, you got there, Cap’n. ‘Twould have cost a small fortune, I’d wager.” He grinned. “A bit out o’ fashion these days, but…”
“Walter, you’ll not be taking the man’s wig,” Howel snapped. “You know these Frenchmen. Already he must think it necessary to end his life, as in his mind he’s been dishonored. Let him have his hair, for God’s sake.”
I would have laughed, had it not been for the look on the French captain’s face: he did, in fact, believe his life to be over.
I couldn’t believe it. Howel had just captured his first prize with little more than courage and guile.
To say that a celebration ensued would be an understatement. The pirates were over the moon. It was clear that they had chosen their captain well. Fine wines from the French prize were drunk as the booty was divided among the crew. But Howel was not ready to celebrate. He laughed and drank with his crew, ready with his smiles, but I saw it was a facade: he was thinking about his next prize.
I waited until he’d had plenty to drink – and I’d had quite a bit myself – before approaching him. I was hoping the effects of the alcohol would have mellowed him, loosened his tongue, as it had that night at the Black Dog Inn.
He was sitting on a hogshead on the deck, a bottle between his legs, watching as his men danced and sang drunkenly. The French ship had several musicians on board – a fiddler, drummer, oboist, trumpeter, flutist – and now the Frenchmen sat sweating, playing a steady stream of French and English sea shanties for their intoxicated captors. Howel swung his legs, a crooked smile on his lips, his eyes half-shut, taking a swig from his bottle every now and then. He saw me approaching and his smile faded, just a bit.
I sat next to him, and after pretending to watch the crew’s antics for a few minutes, said to him, “Congratulations.”
He looked at me briefly. “Thankee.”
I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Howel, what happened? Why do you suddenly hate me?” I blurted, standing before him.
His eyes widened. “Hate! Egad, Sa – Will! I’ve no hatred for you.”
“We were friends, you and I,” I said, becoming increasingly angry. “And now you won’t even look at me.”
Howel looked around, then said softly, “I thought we discussed this. We cannot be friends.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I insisted. “You may as well get used to having me around.”
He looked directly at me now, his pupils dilating. “And why is that, pray tell? Why have you followed me?”
“Because you need me,” I said, snatching the bottle from his hands and drinking from it myself.
“I’ve no need for a guardian angel,” he grumbled. “You’ll get yourself killed on me account.”
“That’s fine,” I said tartly. “I haven’t got anything better to do. May as well become a pirate.”
He chuckled, shook his head. “You are… like no other woman I’ve ever met.”
I grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He looked at me suddenly, hopping from the hogshead, and said, “Could you accompany me to the cabin, please?”
I was confused as I followed, my heart palpitating nervously. Clearly, he was taking me to the cabin for its privacy. What did he have to say to me? Maybe this was the part where he made love to me. My stomach tightened. I was getting too hopeful.
To my utter disbelief, I was right.
Sort of.
With the door closed, Howel turned to me, his expression lustful, and grabbed my arm. He pulled me up against him with a jerk, pushing the hat from my head. He weaved one hand in my hair as the other groped my butt. He pulled at my scalp so that I was looking up at him and then he breathed, “Why are you here, Sabrina? Why? I am a pirate now, as you predicted, and as such will lay me hands on whatever I please. Is this what you want? Tell me, pray, why you followed me!”
I could smell the liquor on his breath, see the haziness in his eyes. This wasn’t right. No, as a matter of fact, it was all wrong. I wanted him, there was no doubt, but… not like this, not angry, not pushed to the edge. The whole being “ravaged by a pirate” thing wasn’t working out for me. I began to try and pull away, shaking my head. I felt the tears spill down my cheeks against my will. I was done playing games. “Because I love you,” I said, my voice cracking inconveniently.
His grip on me slackened, his body straightened away from me. Sadness flashed across his face, and he said softly, “Ah. So the truth finally emerges.”
God, he was infuriating! That was his reaction? Oh, poor Sabrina, I thought so? Tsk, tsk… Just one of the many women who throw themselves at me constantly? I let out a strangled cry and, seeing nothing but the red of my fury, slapped Howel across the face – hard.
His he
ad snapped to the side and he blinked, his mouth slightly ajar. Then he looked at me, bewildered. “What the fuck was that for?” he asked, his voice surprisingly calm.
“That,” I spat, “was for being a prick! A self-righteous, pompous prick! Why did you do that to me? Were you trying to force my hand? You big bully!”
“I did that to you,” he answered, “because I had to know.”
“Oh, good,” I retorted venomously. “Now you know. Not that it changes a single thing. And tell me, what would you have done had I been receptive to your uncouth advances? Huh? Would you have laughed at me? Oh, poor Sabrina, she actually thinks I want her!”
He grinned – a devilish, depraved showing of teeth – his cheek red from the slap, his eyes hooded from the alcohol. He said, “I would have taken you right here, against the bulkhead, and dispelled whatever whimsical notions you have of me.”
In spite of my anger, I shivered with delight at the thought. That would’ve been hot. “What notions?” I pressed.
“Ha!” Howel cried, finally rubbing his sore cheek. “That I am anything of a gentleman, a hero, a noble soul. I am none of those things. I am a selfish fiend who uses deceit to survive, and who cannot afford to have anyone depend on him. I will die like the brigand that I am, and there will be no glory in it.” He was tired now, spent. He looked at me and said softly, “You’d do well to stay away from me, Sabrina.”
I slumped. “So you keep telling me. When will you figure out that I’m not leaving you?”
He shut his eyes. “Even after what I nearly did to you?”
I looked at him, and I knew he could see the love in my face. It was liberating, being able to show it. I said, “You wouldn’t have done it.” I didn’t add that I probably would have blissfully let him, in any case.
“The hell I wouldn’t have!” he retorted, gnashing his teeth. “There is nothing that separates me from those free-booters out there, with their evil ways, pillaging without a second thought for human life.”
I sighed impatiently. “Oh, stop being so melodramatic. You know you’re not like them.”
Howel looked at me for a long moment. “Why do you think so highly of me, Sabrina? It’s… it’s maddening!”
I returned his gaze, wiping my eyes with my sleeve. “You set the bar, not me.”
“That must be one of your 2011 expressions,” he replied. “But I get the meaning. And I did no such thing. You perceived that I did something honorable, when, in fact, I was simply using me wit to survive.”
“Not so. You defended Skinner when Edward England and his crew were torturing him,” I reminded him.
He scowled. “I wanted to fight the pirate. I’m an upstart.”
“Liar!” I cried. “How about when you protected me from your crew before you knew I was a woman?”
He grinned. “I knew you was a lass. I wanted to keep the spoils to meself.”
“Liar,” I said again. “And what about the slaves? Why did you treat them so well?”
“I’d no desire to make enemies of the slaves while I was captain,” he said firmly. “I was just watching out for meself, yet again.”
I shook my head slowly. “I don’t believe you, Howel Davis. If all you say is true, then why didn’t you just join England’s crew to begin with? It would have saved you a hell of a lot of trouble.”
Howel pulled off his boots, tossed them in a corner, then removed his brace of pistols and cutlass, dropping them with a thud on the wooden floor. From one of the holsters he took a single pistol and, with it in hand, he crawled into the bunk, his eyes heavy. “‘Aye, ‘tis a fair point,” he replied, tucking the pistol beneath the stuffed mattress. “So I am a fool on top of it all.” As he pulled the plush blanket over himself, he grinned drowsily in my direction and patted the mattress beside him. “Come and lie with me, lass, and I’ll show you what a black-hearted scoundrel I am…”
Before I had time to answer, he was snoring, deeply asleep. I watched him for what felt like an eternity, his face relaxed in his slumber, his body curled, his arm hanging over the side of the bunk. He looked more like a little boy than a dangerous brigand. I shook my head. A black-hearted scoundrel, indeed. My heart heavy, I stood, blew him a quiet kiss, and left him to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Howel captured his second prize the very next day, in much the same manner as the first.
It was also a large French ship, but this time Howel was even craftier.
He awoke that morning with boundless energy. He behaved as though nothing had been said between us, like I was once again merely a ship’s boy. As though he’d never heartlessly fooled me into believing he wanted me, tricked me into professing my love for him. And I? I went about my chores as usual, a roiling tempestuousness within me, barely contained. I wanted to unleash it on Howel Davis – the ire I felt, the passion. He had toyed with me, and now that he knew I loved him, he had the upper hand. I was burning, suffering.
Perhaps he wouldn’t remember what had happened. Perhaps he’d been too drunk. Please, God, let him have been too drunk to remember!
Whatever the case, Howel was in top form that day, not like a man who’d been drinking heavily the night before. The instant the prey was spotted, he sprang into action. He ordered that the prisoners be brought on the deck of the French prize. He turned to the pirates. “Find them some white shirts and give a couple of ‘em cutlasses,” he said, “so that they look like pirates and can be seen clearly from the prey.” He grabbed another dirty tarpaulin and looked at Walter Kennedy, his quartermaster. “We’ll raise this so they think this is a rogue ship. Our consort, as it were.” The two men grinned at each other mischievously.
Save for a a few well-armed pirates, Howel and his crew went back to the Buck to prepare for the attack. When the Buck drew near the prey, the exchange between the French captain and Howel Davis was nearly identical to the one prior to Howel’s first capture, except this time, when Howel ordered a broad-side, it came from his French prize, which was slowly coming up behind the Buck.
Howel called out to the stunned Frenchmen aboard the prey, “I will keep you in play until our consort arrives, and they will deal with you quickly and mercilessly. Strike to me immediately, or you shall have but bad quarters!” He then signaled for the French prize to fire another broad-side as the Buck was lashed to the prey. The pirates on board the Buck fired their muskets and threw their grenades, preparing to board. From where I stood on the forecastle of the Buck, Howel’s French prize indeed looked like a more powerful pirate ship, with its French prisoners on the deck, playing the parts of the brigands.
It was deliciously clever, more fantastic than fiction, and I couldn’t help but smile when the prey lowered its flags.
Howel had done it again.
Boy was on a roll.
Howel was nowhere near celebrating yet. He had the guns, small arms, and ammunition transferred from the first French prize to the second one, ensuring that the first prize was completely defenseless. He had the majority of the prisoners put on board the first prize, then clapped the remaining prisoners on board the second prize in irons. He was taking no chances, since the prisoners far outnumbered the pirates at this point. He went from one ship to the other, carefully securing his control over both, giving each pirate clear instructions regarding their duties.
Having consolidated his authority, Howel set sail, the Buck leading the way, the two French prizes following in her wake. He and Walter Kennedy then went about dividing up the loot, which consisted mainly of fine clothes and liquors, firearms, iron, and tools. It was all very valuable stuff, of course, but not the gold and silver of pirate dreams. With the booty of the two ships, Howel was able to replenish his stock of food, liquor and ammunition, and granted his men new clothes and weapons.
His was a band of happy pirates.
But Howel remained pensive, scheming. As his crew reveled in their good fortune – they had a cunning leader, two rich prizes, and a life of abundant wine and merriment
– Howel plotted his next move, scanning the horizon like a hawk seeking its next quarry. He never relaxed, and I could see the tension in his shoulders, his jaw, the way he tightened his eyes. He was taking his new vocation seriously.
Two days passed uneventfully. I forced myself not to look at him, not to meet his eyes. I forced myself to play the part of the pirate boy, drinking with the men when they drank, laughing heartily at their suggestive jokes, partaking in the salty language. Part of it was so that I didn’t feel so alone, so isolated. But the other part was for Howel’s attention: I wanted to shock him, to catch him off guard, to compel him to look at me.
I had to make him love me, or in the alternative, hate me. I couldn’t stand this indifference. It was killing me.
One night, as the men drank and enjoyed the frantic playing of the French musicians, Walter Kennedy, who had taken something of a liking to me, draped his arm around my shoulders and asked, “Can you fight, lad?”
I had been drinking a sangria made of Madeira wine, sugar, lime juice, cinnamon, clove, nutmeg, and toasted bread, and was feeling up for anything. My blood ran warm that night, and it grew even warmer when I noticed Howel was pretending not to listen to our conversation. I said, “I can fire a pistol. Really, if you knew what I know, you wouldn’t bother with blades anymore.”
Walter grinned, not catching my meaning. I could tell by the way Howel’s eyes suddenly darted in my direction that he, on the other hand, had gotten my meaning. But Kennedy was tipsy, and my vague references to the future escaped him. “As a pirate, my boy, you need to know how to cut and rip!” he said jovially.
