by Rima Jean
Walter Kennedy had served in the Royal Navy during the War of the Spanish Succession, and as such was a skilled swordsman. I shrugged bashfully. “I’m not very strong,” I said. “I’m not sure I’d be any good with an edged weapon if faced with a big guy…”
Walter brushed my concern aside with a wave of his hand. “Makes no difference, that,” he said. “You needn’t be strong to wield a blade, merely skilled.” He retrieved two cutlasses and handed one to me with a devilish smile. “Would you like me to teach you?”
I smiled back at him. “Yes!” I said, delighted. I took the cutlass from him, grinning, inebriated, and waving the weapon as though it were a miniature Fourth of July flag.
Walter leaned back and laughed. “Easy there, lad! You cain’t just start swinging it about. See here.” He grasped the hilt over my hand, and I saw it – Howel looked over suddenly and stiffened. Ha! Jealous? Or just worried Walter would discover I was a woman? Hmph. Probably the latter. “There be two main parts: the blade and the hilt.”
I widened my eyes mockingly at him. “No shit, Walter!”
Walter shoved me playfully. “I’m not done, you little rascal.” He ran his forefinger along the top half of the elegantly upswept blade, closest to the hilt. “This here is the forte, the part o’ the blade you’ll use to hack at your attacker and parry his blows.” He then pointed to the second half of the blade, leading to the tip. “This here’s the foible, with which you’ll be stabbing and running your attacker through.”
I hiccuped and smiled crookedly. “Lovely.”
Walter laughed again. “When it’s a matter o’ your death, you’ll certainly think so. Now. This is how you’ll hold it, with your fingers round the grip, lightly, just so, and your thumb along the back. And you’ll stand on guard, your feet positioned just so…”
I imitated him, feeling light and giddy. I knew Howel watched us, even though he was speaking to others, his torso partially turned away from us. “Like this?” I asked.
“Very good,” Walter said. “Now I’ll show you how to attack, six cuts together called a moulinet, and you should practice it to strengthen those scrawny wrists of yours.”
Once I’d clumsily gotten a hang of it, Walter showed me how to parry the different cuts, and finally, what to do if an opponent was all up in my grill: drop the tip of my cutlass over my left shoulder, with the grip near my cheek, and smash the pummel of the cutlass into my attacker’s face.
We fenced for a bit, until I became weary. Ready to quit, I playfully charged Walter, and he easily parried my pathetic attempt at an attack, jokingly saying something about my ending up “as good as pork.”
I dropped my arms to my sides and laughed with abandon, throwing my head back. When I finally looked again at Walter, he had a peculiar expression on his face, a sudden alertness in his posture. My laugh had been a bit too girlish, my body language far too feminine.
Oops.
“Walter, a word with you,” Howel said abruptly, standing.
I watched them retreat to a corner, Walter glancing back at me in wonder. I shuffled over to my beverage and dropped the cutlass, feeling the warm buzz dissipate. So not only would Howel Davis ignore me, but he’d prevent me from making friends, as well. I pouted, drained my cup, and found myself a dark spot on the deck to sleep.
I lay against the bulwark, watching the stars slip in and out of the wispy clouds above, wallowing in self-pity until sleep overcame me, the laughter of the pirates and rocking of the sloop blending into vivid dreams.
The next day, Howel decided to free both his prizes. “They’re far too slow to be useful rovers,” he told his crew. “They’ll simply hinder us. We’ll give them back to the Frenchmen and let them be on their way.” The crew agreed, and Howel cheerfully restored the ships – looted of their cargo and arms, of course – back to their captains and crew.
The French captains, almost even more distraught by this development than they were with having been captured by deceit, tried to throw themselves overboard, so humiliated were they at being outwitted by the pirate Howel Davis. Their crews stopped them from killing themselves. One of the captains, the portly gentleman with the long wig, even insisted that Howel kill him for the sake of honor. Howel demurred, shaking his head and muttering something about “the crazy French.”
Once we were a lone pirate sloop again, Howel called a very important meeting, one that would decide our destination. Howel paced the deck, his hands behind his back, chewing on the inside of his cheek between thoughts. “Any riches to be had will be off the Guinea Coast,” he said. “Gold. Ivory. Not to mention, Rogers has got a strangle-hold on Nassau. These waters ain’t good for pirates, not anymore.”
I looked at him in alarm, and he deliberately did not look back. He and I both knew what I was thinking: Prince Island, the predicted place of his death, was off the West African coast, a Portuguese colony and vibrant trading center. As if answering my thoughts, he said, “We’ll stop at Coxon’s Hole, careen the Buck, and then take the trade wind to the Cape Verde Islands.” The Cape Verde Islands were three hundred miles away from the coast of Africa, and that was too damn close for my taste.
But that’s where we were going, despite my vote against it.
Coxon’s Hole was on the eastern coast of Cuba, a narrow inlet just big enough for one ship. There, Howel and his crew cleaned the hull of the Buck, getting her in shape for some serious plundering. It was tedious work, this careening business, as everything – including the cannons – had to be lifted off the sloop, then the sloop itself towed onto the beach and tilted to one side, then the other, for cleaning and caulking.
“We must clean the hull of barnacles, seaweed, and those damn worms that eat away the wood,” Howel explained to me, shading his eyes against the sun to survey the progress. “After we’ve scraped or burned it all off, we have to replace the planks that’ve rotted. A damn hard job,” he grumbled, “as we haven’t a skilled carpenter among us.”
While the pirates wanted to take advantage of their time on land to drink and find themselves some local women, Howel was gently but firmly adamant that they get the work done quickly. He was so popular with his crew that they obeyed him with little complaining, readily doing their smiling, self-effacing captain’s bidding. Howel kicked off his boots and tossed aside his shirt to work alongside his men, singing their shanties and drinking with them, acting every bit the common sailor.
I helped too, scraping away at the nasty crud that had accumulated on the bottom of the sloop, trying not to grimace all the while. Walter Kennedy had carefully avoided me since that night of our fencing lesson, and I didn’t doubt he knew I was a woman. I would have been very alone indeed if I hadn’t noticed Howel’s keen awareness of me. He watched me surreptitiously, feigning indifference, but when we would, by chance, lock eyes, I saw it – a twinge of feeling, something behind the veil of nonchalance.
Perhaps he thought of me like the sister he had loved and lost. In the end, I didn’t know how much or in what way, but I knew that he cared.
And that was enough.
For the time being.
Once the Buck was in fighting form, we set sail for the Cape Verde Islands. It would not take very long to get there, as the Buck was small, fast, and freshly repaired. I was getting into a routine on board the Buck, finding ways to keep myself occupied and for what it was worth, happy. I helped mend sails, cleaned the deck, and nursed the ailing pirates. I had restocked my medicinal herbs while at Coxon’s Hole, and was once again prepared for the diseases of Africa. Maybe this time I’d actually get there. Or maybe now that Howel was a pirate, he’d pull an Edward England and try to send me back on a prize.
I scowled. The thought was not amusing.
One sunny afternoon, shortly before we reached our destination, I practiced the moulinet that Walter had taught me on a makeshift target. Walter saw me and smiled, looked away quickly. I was getting better, I thought proudly. Granted, I had no idea how I would do against an actual oppon
ent. I’d probably drop the cutlass and run, screaming. I chuckled to myself. In the words of Walter Kennedy, I’d be “as good as pork.”
“Would you care for a real adversary?”
I turned to see Howel tossing a cutlass from hand to hand, that playful, mischievous twinkle in his eyes. My heart jumped. The patented Howel Davis look. I nodded and stepped aside. “ ‘Tis easy to be arrogant when what you’re fighting cain’t fight back. We’ll see if you’ve learned anything at all,” he said, taunting me.
I felt the blood surge through my veins, the desire to whoop Howel’s ass pulse through me as he assumed guard position before me, his lips parted ever so slightly in a smile. This was a perfect way for me to take out all my pent up aggression.
I grinned at him and saluted. He grinned and saluted back. I attacked immediately, and he parried easily, his grin growing broader. He must have sensed the ardor in me. I continued to attack, and he continued to parry, remaining passive. “Not bad,” he said, still smiling, his eyes still shining. He lunged his first attack, cutting at me from above, and as I caught his cutlass with mine, he drew himself near me, pushing my weapon against my chest with his. Over our crossed blades, he muttered, “For a bit o’ fluff.”
“Bastard!” I hissed, trying to disengage, but before I could see past my rage Howel had slipped his cutlass under mine and held it lightly against my body.
He laughed and said over his shoulder to Walter, “You did well, Walter, teaching Will here. But you need to teach him how to fight like a Whitechapel rough.” He grimaced at me. “Like a dirty pirate.”
With that, he turned his back to me, and as carefully as I could, considering how impassioned I felt, I pricked his buttocks with the tip of my blade. He jumped, yelping, and spun around, his eyes round with surprise. “Why you little shit!” he cried in disbelief, rubbing his backside.
As I glared at him, his crew roared with laughter. It wasn’t long before Howel himself was laughing, his blue eyes bright with admiration. I laughed too. I said loudly, “Was that dirty enough for you, Captain Davis?”
“You put a hole in me breeches, dammit,” he said between guffaws. “You drew me blood, you did!”
I couldn’t stop giggling. “Serves you right.” Then feeling bad that I’d hurt him, I said, “I’m sorry.”
He beamed. “You’re a piece o’ work.” After a moment, he added softly, “A beautiful piece o’ work.”
As he walked away, still massaging his derriere, I sagged down to the deck, elated, and accepted a cup of rum from Walter and the pats on the back from the crew.
As the crew sang and drank merrily, I found myself humming Blondie’s “The Tide Is High.” It had been on my iPod (how I missed my iPod), and for some reason was suddenly stuck in my head. I was in high spirits, feeling the urge to dance, and trying to do so without being obvious. The tide is high but I’m holding on… I’m gonna be your number one…
I would win his heart yet.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It was the beginning of 1719.
The pirates Stede Bonnet and Blackbeard were dead, as I had predicted. The Cape Verde Islands, which the Portuguese controlled, were but days away, and we had just captured an English sloop with hardly any effort at all. Howel was in high spirits when he called his crew together to tell them of his plans once we reached the island of São Nicolau.
He held the English flag in his hands, his brow furrowed with thoughts none of the men could guess. I could guess them, of course. The Cavalier Prince of Pirates… known for using deception rather than brute force… They were things I hadn’t told Howel, things that were occurring to him independently, without my help. I hadn’t wanted to tell him. Why help him take those steps that would inevitably lead to his death? Despite my feeble efforts, things were happening as they were supposed to, and I shuddered to think what that meant.
“When we get to São Nicolau,” Howel told us, “we will not openly show our hand. Nay, we will outsmart those fat Portuguese. We will pose as English merchants, come to trade our goods. Once they have taken us into their arms, we will reveal our true selves.” He grinned at his men. “Remember, men, ‘tis a game. A glorious game.”
Howel’s crew took to the idea. If Howel could pull it off, as they were certain he could, considering what he’d already done… Howel set about making the Buck look more like a merchantman than a rover, instructing his crew to “dress down,” more like common sailors. They stowed away their fine, looted apparel, their fancy weapons and silk scarves and embroidered waistcoats – for the time being.
Howel called me into his cabin that day, and I nervously entered to find Howel and Walter before an array of beautiful clothing, all brought out from an ornately-carved trunk and draped across the furniture. It was a dazzling display of brocade, damask, gold, silk and lace. It had been so long since I’d seen such things that I sighed with delight, walking over to touch the fine materials. I would not be giving myself away this time, for both men knew what I was. I relaxed, letting my feminine appreciation for beautiful clothing show in my face.
Howel cleared his throat. “I thought you might like some new clothes,” he said, his hands behind his back, his eyes looking kindly at me. “You’ll still be playing the part of the boy, of course, but there may come a time when playing the lady will be necessary, no?”
I looked up at him and smiled. “Really?”
He refused to meet my eyes. “Aye. If Walter and I are to be gentlemen…” At this, Walter snorted and grumbled something unintelligible, “…we may need help convincing our prey that we are, in fact, what we claim to be. What better way to do that than have a lovely lady in our midst?”
I nodded excitedly. “I can help you, I know I can.”
Howel made a sweeping gesture toward the gowns among the clothes. “‘Tis yours, then.”
I ran my hands across one in particular, a gorgeous silk, salmon-pink damask mantua, a gown with a coat-like look to it. It bore a tiny floral pattern brocaded in gold and silver thread. It was pleated at the shoulders and fell to the waist, where it was held in place by a gold braided sash. It folded back into a bustle and had, beneath it, a matching petticoat and an intricately embroidered stomacher, complete with lace at the bodice. “It’s beautiful,” I murmured.
“Aye,” Howel agreed solemnly. “ ‘Twould look… eh… aye, ‘tis lovely.” I looked up at the men to find Walter holding back a smile, Howel fidgeting uncomfortably. Howel pointed to Walter and quickly said, “Now, if only I can find a way to make this lout look and act like a proper gentleman…”
“It ain’t in me,” Walter grumbled sullenly.
“‘Tis not!” Howel corrected. “Not ain’t. Ain’t no gentleman talk like that, you fucking clod.” Walter threw something at Howel, and Howel dodged it, saying, “You’ll just have to hold your clack and let me do the talking.”
I giggled and both men looked at me, as if suddenly remembering I was a woman. They knew they had to treat me like one of the boys in front of the crew, but in private? They didn’t know what to do with themselves. They were like two little boys on a playground, acutely aware that a little girl was watching them. I looked down bashfully and said, “So what should I do when we get to São Nicolau?”
Howel rubbed his hands together, clearly excited by the prospect of “playing pretend.” This was, without a doubt, the same man who’d dressed in Captain Skinner’s clothes my first day aboard the Cadogan. This was the same man who’d challenged Edward England to a fight, who’d won me over with his impish grin and easy manner. “So, me thinks…” He paused, rearranged his features to look haughty, then said in that uppity English accent, “Begging your pardon. I believe I will acquire a new identity, for our, ehm, piratical purposes. As soon as we drop anchor, I will no longer be that rascal, Howel Davis. I will become Captain Charles Reed, an honest English merchant and His Majesty’s loyal servant.” He bowed, smiled, and waggled his eyebrows at me.
I laughed and shook my head. He was
so cocky, so infuriatingly charming. “I told you once upon a time that you missed your calling as an actor,” I said. “Looks as though you’ll be able to use your gift after all.”
“And you, milady?” he asked. “How are you at playing the good wife?”
My heart jumped. “I’m playing your wife?”
Howel kept his eyes level with mine, his face unreadable. “What else would you be? An unescorted female passenger? Nay, the most believable story is that we’re newly wed and you are accompanying me on this voyage.” He considered. “But if you’re uncomfortable with this, you can always be the ship’s boy –”
“No,” I said quickly. “Pretending to be your wife is brilliant, actually. It would give them even less reason to suspect you’re a pirate.”
Howel grinned, happy to see I followed his reasoning. “Exactly. So now, we’ll be anchoring in São Nicolau on the morrow, and we’ll have the act down by then. We shall be transformed.”
Howel, Walter and I proceeded to spend the rest of the afternoon drinking two bottles of French claret and practicing our “gentlefolk” accents. I felt like a B-list actress in a bad period movie, but in the end, I was better than Walter, who could not for the life of him shed his class. One moment he sounded Irish. The next moment, God love him, we couldn’t understand a bloody word he said.
“Sweet Jesus, Walter,” Howel cried. “What language are you speaking? Mayhaps you should pose as me dumb manservant instead.”
“Sod it,” Walter grumbled, throwing back yet another glass of wine, his blond hair flopping into his eyes.
I hadn’t laughed so hard in a long time. “The Portuguese aren’t likely to notice my bad accent, are they?” I asked between bursts of laughter.
“Not likely,” Howel replied, grinning and taking a swallow of claret directly from the bottle. “But even a Guinea native who’s never seen a white man before would wonder about Kennedy here.”
