by Koko Brown
Gloating, the Dorcas’ commander waddled over to the banister.
“I’m Master Achibald Talbot,” he hailed. “Who’s the pimp…err…master of your ship?”
“No master. Only a mistress. Me.”
Drawn by the feminine voice–and its inherent command–Christian abandoned his post and joined the rest of the crew starboard.
“How may we be of assistance?” Preening like a peacock, Talbot ran his sausage-like fingers over the several strands of hair escaping from his tricorn.
“I was going to ask the same,” the ship’s pilot countered.
“She’s a girl,” Christian whispered unable to keep his surprise unchecked.
“One with a nice pair of teets,” Talbot pointed out. “So not a girl at all.”
Her heart- shaped face burnished a warm bronze, attested to more than a transitory life at sea. Flynn’s gaze shifted downward. Modesty abandoned, the pilot’s collarless, blood-red silk jacket revealed no undergarments. The swathe of exposed skin, including a portion of her swelling bosom, were also deeply tanned. Despite his earlier misgivings, he wouldn’t mind exploring her in closer quarters.
Christian frowned. Possessed of a strong constitution, he never slaked his baser needs with a light skirt. There had never been the need. Ever since he’d outgrown his breeches, he’d found himself inimitably admired by the feminine sex. There was something about his cobalt blue eyes and hair the color of a crow’s wing that made women abandon their common sense. Even the smartest among them turned into gawking ninnies unable to piece together a complete sentence while others talked his head off in a vain attempt to reap the benefits of his attention.
“Are you willing to make a trade? I have pretty, clean girls for silver shillings. Whatever your pleasure we will satisfy it. We come aboard now.”
Archibald held up his hands. “Hold the horse and carriage. No women allowed onboard.”
The girl’s expression remained an unreadable mask. “The zhōngguó zhī rén don’t have the same superstition. You can board us.” She lifted her hand and snapped. Two goons, carrying grappling hooks, materialized from the half-naked throng.
“Your call captain,” she continued. “I have thirty girls with their own pallet or hammock. If you outnumber us, then your men can take turns.”
“You have more than enough to handle our needs,” Talbot balked. Beside him, Christian swore under his breath. “Only twenty-five men aboard.” Eyes bright with lust, Archibald swung about. “Officers first then work downward in that order, Mr. Flynn. You and your proclivity to stay above the fray can remain here to guard the ship.”
Chuckling, Archibald descended the ladder to the lower deck. Christian hung back. His interest in the junk’s pilot incapable of perverting his suspicions.
“I’ll stay behind with you, Mr. Flynn,” Fergus offered. “Sum’thin’ about this smells rotten.”
“Rotten indeed,” Christian agreed, returning his attention to the neighboring ship and its tiny pilot. She stirred something inside he couldn’t quite put his finger on. And as he stood there, vowing not to follow the commander, he experienced a novel pang of regret.
His disappointment doubling twofold as a cheer arose from the junk boat’s silk-clad crew. As if they’d done this a million times, they’d grappled the rope ratlines to their ship with one deft pitch. Not wasting any time, the captain, accompanied by several officers and half the seamen, scrambled down the vertical ropes. Helped aboard like treasured cargo, the crew quickly paired off with Archibald folding two tarts under his wing. At the lead, he led a ragtag parade into the stern deck.
“What about you? You no come aboard to sample my wares?” Bold, the pilot planted her hands on her narrow hips, exposing more flesh. The sight of her golden brown skin was particularly carnal and offsetting for a man used to restraint. For a tremulous moment he felt like they were alone as a flaring heat curled around his cock and immoral thoughts hammered at his self-restraint. Disquieted, Christian gripped the bulwark.
Still, like a moth to the flame, he asked, “Your wares or one your girls?” he asked.
“I have not worked in many years but for you…” Smiling, she placed a hand over her eyes and squinted. “I might make an exception.”
“No need madam. My loyalty remains with the ship.”
Christian fingered the pocket watch attached to his belt loop, periodically checking the time. The next five minutes proved to be excruciating. The late afternoon sun once pleasant now beat down on his neck. The lazy lap of wind against the ships’ sails should have been cathartic, he felt anything but soothed. His apprehension bordering on anxiety.
“Want me to tell the others to come up, Mr. Flynn?” Harry asked, twirling his sailor’s cap by the ribbon. Defying gravity, the cabin boy’s shorn blond locks stood atop his head. His chubby cheeks pink with excitement.
In charge of cargo and crew, Christian didn’t take his responsibilities lightly. “Tell the rest of the crew to come topside. No need to drag out this carousel by taking turns.”
Before he dashed below deck, Christian caught him mid-step and arms spinning wildly like a windmill.
“Do not run, boy,” Christian hissed.
“Aye, Mr. Flynn.” Free to carry out his bidding, yet mindful of Christian’s warning, Harry ambled over to the stairs.
“This really your last voyage?” Fergus asked, leaning against the bulwark, making himself comfortable.
“That’s the plan.” Christian refused to expound. Once he left the sea behind, he would sever all ties. He’d given the unforgiving bitch enough of his blood, sweat and tears. He wanted land, a wife, and children. He didn’t want to die on some distant shore with a conk shell as a headstone.
“What the fuckin’ h….”
In his inattentiveness, he’d missed his boatswain, John Marlowe emerging from the stern deck. White as a ghost, entrails in his hands, the Londoner staggered toward the bulwark.
“Pirates,” Christian whispered, gaze seeking the junk pilot. His blood ran cold. She returned his gaze, her smile widening with the cool self-assurance of a cat catching the canary.
Eschewing the stairs, Christian gripped the rails and slid down from the poop deck. When he landed, the rest of the crew were scurrying up from below.
“Grab what you can,” he bellowed. “We’re under siege.”
Flummoxed by the command, the crew stood immobile.
“Moooovvvveeee!” Christian bellowed.
Not waiting to see if they followed, he launched himself onto the ratlines. Maneuvering the net like a monkey amongst the trees, he quickly landed on the other side. A party of three greeted him. Daggers of various length in hand, the trollops didn’t look the least bit dismayed by his cutlass. Christian grimaced. He’d fought a pirate or three in his day. None of them had been female. Choosing to simply disarm, he slowly advanced.
Rapid-fire mandarin carried over the screaming the wind, the shouts of his crew behind him. Stance still threatening, the trio suddenly stepped back leaving a gap between him and their captain.
“Looking for me, stud?” Her voice held a husky bravado, and her gaze dropped to his crotch, giving him pause.
Whose pud was he pulling? It just wasn’t her voice or her sly looks and innuendo that had made him feeling like his world had capsized.
Standing in the shadows of the ships sails, didn’t detract from her beauty. She was undeniably breathtaking even with that gloating sparkle in her brown eyes. Her red jacket set off her sun-kissed skin and dark hair to perfection. She was luminously radiance washing out everything and everyone around her. And for an instance, he saw himself lying under her while she did wicked things.
How old was she? Up close, the junk pilot looked even younger. In the next quicksilver instant, Christian decided it didn’t matter. She stood between him and his crew. Fury replacing lust, he planted his booted feet.
“Let the commander and crew go,” he said, training his cutlass on her.
Sh
e cocked her head. “How much will you pay me?”
Indignant by this slip of a girl demanding ransom, Christian bristled.
“Pay,” he spat. “I nor anyone will be paying you anything.”
“Then you will have to come through me to get them back.” Smiling, she pulled twin blades, the size of her forearm, from her jacket sleeves.
Rage dominating common sense, Christian rushed her. To his surprise, she appeared to wait for him. Arms dangling by her sides, and that undeniable smirk. Realizing he was falling into a trap, unable to stop, he fell into her with his full weight. She squatted into a side lunge, shoved up on her shoulder, sending him sprawling onto the deck. The hollow clatter of his cutlass against wood a confounding testament to his foolishness.
Outfoxed and disarmed, yet refusing to surrender Christian rolled to his knees. He got only far as a crouch when a blade was slid beneath his chin. His eyes traveled the length of the foot long blade and settled on the cross guards. The brass had been hammered in inch–long intervals for an advantage.
“I like you on your knees,” she purred flirtatiously. “I can think of a few things you can do down there.”
“Can’t accuse you of being coy,” Christian seethed, yet far from offended. In truth, her words had struck a chord, and he almost felt obliged to try out the things she’d propose. Still, his ego won out.
“One thing about being on my knees.” He struck out, grasping her calf. “It doesn’t last for long.”
He had no trouble lifting her feather-light weight. Expecting her to fall sprawled onto the deck, he didn’t count on her using him like a cherry tree. Surprised, he stood rooted in place while her feet pounded into his chest, then his shoulder. When she ran out of flesh, she tucked her legs and launched herself backwards, landing solidly.
Bullocks! She’d outmaneuvered him again. Choking with anger, he lunged for his sword.
“Heel, Mr. Flynn.”
Naked save for his linen shirt, the commander of the Dorcas hobbled forward, flanked on both sides by his previous escort daggers drawn. Heaving himself to his feet, Christian swore.
“Drop your weapon,” Archibald ordered.
For a hairsbreadth moment, Christian considered his commander’s directive. Then his gaze drifted to his boatswain, and the man’s sightless body preempted his submission. Lifting his cutlass, Christian vowed, “With foolhardy desperation, I seek revenge.”
“Don’t be a pillock, Flynn, they don’t aim to kill us,” Archibald sputtered.
“Tell that to Marlow,” Christian said through clenched teeth. “He’s fish food because he did exactly what you’re doing, fighting back.”
“Listen to your commander,” the pilot advised. “You and your crew are worth more to me alive than dead.”
“Ransom then or slavery when none is paid?”
The pilot’s answering smile triggered what could only be described as terror. His employer had never paid a ransom in the five years he’d been in their employ. His and the rest of the crew’s fate were sealed. He would never see the green verdant hills of East Sussex again. He would never have a family, a wife nor children.
“Flynn, don’t.…”
Archibald’s warning faded into the background as did everything around him save for the junk pilot. Intent on taking his pound of flesh before he himself was cut down, he swung toward her. He barely took a step. White searing heat exploded in his head. He staggered to the side, then crumpled to the deck.
TWO
Any display of emotion was foreign. So Lèsè’s interaction with the European confounded her crew. And when the blood-curdling screech rent the relative calm, they went scurrying. With no obvious destination–they didn’t want to miss the imminent fireworks–they ran about like headless river rats, bumping into each other.
Her quarry didn’t have enough sense to run and hide. Perhaps fear had frozen her second– in–command in place or possibly ill-placed bravado. Lèsè didn’t care which as she grabbed the girl’s ponytail, whipped her about then planted a fist in her face. Seeing stars, Min-Ru folded onto the deck, legs crossed like an Indian yogi.
Lèsè crouched down beside her. “Did I ask for your help?”
Min-Ru wiped at her mouth, smearing blood. “No, Mistress Lèsè,” she murmured, eyes downcast out of fear and for good reason. “I only did it to protect you.”
Lèsè’s eyebrows rose in response. “You protect me? I am the one who taught you everything you know.”
It wasn’t an exaggeration. After discovering Min-Ru in a rice paddy keeping watch over her father’s corpse, she’d latched onto her like a lost puppy. Unable to shake her and tired of her being a burden, Lèsè had taught the girl everything she knew about surviving by any means necessary. Only five years apart, they’d grown close or as close as a shadow could be with Lèsè simply tolerating the other’s existence.
“Are you now the mistress of this ship?” she curtly queried.
“No, mistress P-please forgive me.” Min-Ru sniffled, and Lèsè’s lip curled. Why couldn’t the girl take a reprimand without turning on the water works?
“Get out of my sight before I do something I can’t undo.”
Knowing she was getting off easy, Min-Ru crawled away.
Lèsè turned her attention to the European. He was terrifyingly still. Maybe she’d dismissed Min-Ru too soon. If she’d made fish bait out of him, she would….
Lèsè drew herself up. What would she do? The man was no more than cargo. A thing to be traded or sold to the highest bidder. Still, it didn’t keep her from reaching out and fingering his scalp. Rankled by the warm sticky blood coating her fingers, she barked, “Haung and Liu!”
More lackey than pirates, she used the only two males in her crew for the necessary grunt work.
“Carry him to my quarters,” she instructed the pair. “Then pull Bao Lin from the galley to tend to him.”
The pair exchanged a glance.
“What about the others, mistress?” Haung asked, as he slid his hands beneath the European’s broad shoulders. She had to bite the inside of her cheek to check another screech. The fools were handling him like a chicken carcass.
“Put the rest of his crew in the livestock compartment,” she instructed as if speaking to a child. “Have you forgotten?”
“No, mistress.”
Lèsè heard a ‘but’ in there, she ignored it. She was fully aware they regarded her orders as odd given the European tried to separate her head from her shoulders. Still this was her ship and her word would be followed to the last letter.
Leaving the European in their able hands, Lèsè retreated to the side of the ship, calling names as she went. Armed, they scaled the rattails to the British frigate. Once onboard, they split into three equal factions. As captain, she went directly to the cargo hold to make a visual assessment. The take was her top priority. Not a single shilling or crate of tea could go missing or it would be her head. Once ashore, the take would then be recorded and placed in the general coffer. After Ching Shih’s tribute, she and her crew would receive the lion’s share. The rest, distributed equally within the Red Flag.
Feeling the chafe of Madame Ching Shih’s short leash, Lèsè scratched her neck. A ruthless autocrat, the leader of the Red Flag ruled her band of pirates with an iron fist and a strict code of laws:
Madame Ching Shih’s orders and hers alone were to be followed.
Any actions that did not come directly from Madame Ching Shih had to be petitioned.
No keeping the spoils or stealing from mainlanders that supplied the Red Flag.
All spoils joined a public fund with a small percentage going to the procurers.
No rape of females.
No mistreatment of the ransomed.
Lèsè understood Ching Shih’s strict codes kept order, it didn’t mean she had to like them. She’d dreamed of being the owner of her own destiny for years. And more of late, each journey into the open sea felt as if tethered to a chain. And that chain wa
s far reaching. Rumored to be more than a thousand junks strong, the Red Flag and Ching Shih were a formidable foe. Not even Emperor Jiaqing’s Navy with the enlisted help of several European powers could bring them to heel.
Her crew were fiercely loyal to her but Lèsè wasn’t sure how many of them would turn their backs on the Red Flag. If captured, they wouldn’t be granted amnesty but stripped of everything even an ear or two. Many of them–herself included–had come from nothing. Faced with the prospect of going back to that life would not be an enticing consolation.
Lèsè’s eyes drifted over the cargo. About two dozen barrels littered the frigate’s hold. An odd amount for such a long voyage. Glancing at Zheng Liu, Lèsè tapped two. Eager to please, the teenager, stepped forward and used her hatchet to pop the lids.
“British woolens,” she said, holding up the undyed wool from one of the barrels. To a pirate, the commodity was practically worthless.
Guided by intuition, Lèsè strolled over to the hull. She ran her palm over the bulwark’s smooth surface then knocked. Solid, she deduced. Undaunted, she walked four paces, stopped and rapped her knuckles against the darkened wood. Again, a dull thud.
A quick study, her crew followed her lead. Slowly, no more than an arm’s length apart, they circumvented the water-tight compartment while knocking in various intervals. They’d circled half of the room when Zheng Liu exclaimed, “It’s hollow!”
Dubious, Lèsè didn’t give up her post. After all Zheng Liu only had one good ear, the other had been blasted by cannon fire.
“Go ahead,” Lèsè prompted, leaning against the hull.
Eyes bright with excitement, the younger woman rapped again.
Thunk, thunk
Lèsè pushed away from the wall. “Do that again but a little higher,” she commanded.
Zheng Liu moved her hand a little to the right and up. Again.
