A Pirate's Ruse

by Camille Oster

  Something flashed in Havencourt's eyes. He didn't like his own beliefs being used against him, but then very little met with Havencourt's approval. "The future of this town is of no consequence to me."

  "Really? Is this not your home now?" Christian asked, knowing he was teasing the man, unkindly perhaps, but he made it so easy. "Aren't you really just one of us now?" Havencourt had all the skills to make an extraordinary pirate, but none of the willingness. "Then you will not be participating in the challenge?"

  Havencourt's lips drew tight. The man refused to lie and Christian knew it. If he wasn't participating, he would say so. The man ignored the question and pushed past. It was downright rude, and few treated Christian with such disdain. It could be challenged, and Havencourt, true to his nature, could never walk away from a challenge. But it wasn't worth wasting his energy on Havencourt. A tavern fight was not how he wanted to best the man.

  In one sense, this was a good development—he wanted to beat Havencourt and to have it known that no man here could best him. They would sail and whatever else this challenge would entail, and he would beat the man who many here were wary of.

  So where did Havencourt leave his little charge at night, Christian wondered. Did he lock her away somewhere? If it had been any other man than Havencourt, her chastity would have been plucked from her by now. A tension ran through him at the thought of an innocent in their midst—a beautiful one, too. Christian didn't normally care. Innocence had little value as he preferred willing wenches who knew what to do, but this was Guildford's daughter and she was innocent. It was almost ironic.

  Taking a swig of rum, Christian replaced the empty glass on the table, trying to forget how bored he was. That boredom would end soon, he knew, but he hated waiting. Maybe a barroom fight wouldn't be that bad, but it would end with blood and he would lose his opportunity to properly beat every single man in this town, fulfil the promise he'd made that he'd make something of himself.

  Chapter 7:

  * * *

  Clara climbed up the ladder hanging over the side of the ship. This was her ship, sitting in the glittering green water—at least for the duration of this challenge. She had never had anything that was hers before, other than her dress and a Bible. This was a ship, and effectively, it was hers. It was the strangest feeling.

  Climbing over the railing, she stood on the deck, waiting for Havencourt to follow. He appeared next to her. "That is the quarterdeck," he said pointing up the back of the ship. "It has the wheel."

  "Which steers the boat?"

  "Ship. It's a ship. That's a boat," he said, pointing down to the dinghy that had ferried them out here. "This is a modified brigantine. It is fast."

  "What do you mean modified?"

  "Anything unnecessary has been stripped out, lightening the vessel as much as possible, thereby pushing her higher in the water, making her faster."

  "Oh," Clara said, following Havencourt as he climbed up to the quarterdeck, where she turned back toward the ship. A group of men stood waiting, looking up at them.

  "This is our crew," Havencourt said.

  Clara surveyed the group of men. Some of them were old, very old, with missing limbs. Others were young and skinny. There were also some burly, black men. "A ragtag bunch," Havencourt said. Clara considered them again. Really, some of them looked like they couldn't stand for much longer. Even she could gather that this was not an impressive crew. A ragtag bunch, indeed. "There are some very experienced sailors, too old to work with a regular crew, but would cherish a last sail. Others have no experience. Some runaway slaves. No experience, of course, but they are highly motivated and eager to learn, and we could use their brawn. We have brawn and experience—unfortunately not both in the same person, but it's the best we can do at such short notice."

  "The others have crews they know and work with," she stated, just realizing how disadvantaged they were.

  "They are experienced working together, and with their ships. Let's sail," he called and the group of men broke apart. There was a great deal of yelling for a while and the younger men tried to follow direction, one of them stumbling, knocking over a pail of soapy water in the process and getting slapped by one of the older men.

  "Will this work?" she asked.

  "These are some of the most experienced pirates who have sailed these seas. Hopefully their experience will guide the others. Now take the wheel."

  Clara walked over, placing her hands on the spokes of the wheel. It tugged slightly in her hands.

  "That's the water on the rudder that you're feeling. Try moving it."

  She pressed on the wheel and it barely budged. "It's heavy."

  "It is. Easier when we're at speed. Hoist the sails," Havencourt yelled and ties were taken off bundled sails, hoisted by pulling ropes. Clara could feel them take the wind, pulling the ship. "Sailing is all about the wind and the currents. You must see the wind as a creature you are working with. Like any animal, it can turn on you, but you use its power. It is the wind that moves the ship. The sun heats the earth, heats the water, creating the wind. The tide is also important."

  Clara felt the ship build up speed, and it was amazing. The wind played through her hair and her clothes and moved the large ship. "It's moving," she said with delight. She could go anywhere. The world was open to her and the wind could take her anywhere. "We could sail to another island."

  Havencourt smiled. "You want to?"

  "Yes!" she said, feeling excitement build inside her.

  "To build up speed, you have to capture the wind in the sails. It is a creature with moods and swings. Where is she now?"

  "The wind?"

  "Yes."

  "She's coming from our left."

  "From port, then," he said. "But take care. There is more than one creature. This time of day, when the sun has shone for some hours, the land heats up and current rushes off the land, out to sea. There is a second wind coming off the land. Late in the afternoon when the land cools again, the current rushes in, just like a tide. So how do we place the sails?"

  "Straight to the wind."

  "No, you want to use the wind to push on the sails, not to trap it completely and stop it. We use its power. Too intently and we kill it."

  Clara listened carefully, trying to understand what he was saying. She could picture a creature like a dragon flowing through the air, pushing on the sails as it flew past. Something about all this made sense. Closing her eyes, she could even feel the second current Havencourt had referred to—a gentle breeze coming off the coast. Clara felt it caress her skin, play with her hair, and the tug of the ship responding to the ebb and flow, like a playful creature.

  "Grab the wind at an angle and it will take the most power," Havencourt continued. "Now we're sailing. Anywhere you want to go."

  Clara laughed. She loved this. She felt as if the sea understood her. Looking over at Havencourt, he smiled at her, shifting his eyes to the sails billowing with wind, groaning with pressure.

  *

  Reaching the tavern and stepping through the rough wooden door she remembered from a few days ago, Clara moved onto the raised platform where she had initially met her father. He wasn't there.

  "Do you know what he's dying of?" she asked Havencourt, who was leaning on the balustrade.

  "Guildford? No, I don't know."

  Technically, her name was probably Guildford too, but she was going to stay with Nears, which must have been her mother's name, or maybe it was just some name picked out of the air. "Did you know my mother?"

  "Long before my time. You're going to have to find your answers elsewhere, because I have none to give you."

  Clara frowned, suspecting her father would be less than forthcoming—not that she'd seen him since that first night.

  "This is the competition," Havencourt said, speaking somberly.

  Looking down on the madness below, she looked over the room and the groups of men sitting there, drinking, fighting and gambling. "Are there really female pirat
es?"

  Havencourt turned to her. "Occasionally."

  "I don't see any here."

  "I didn't say there were a great many, and the ones who do exist don't seemingly want to spend time here."

  "Can't blame them." Another fight broke out below. Men were bludgeoning each other, one picking up a chair and smashing it over the other. "Must go through a lot of chairs here."

  "They're a wild bunch. Most of them couldn't behave if they tried. These are the men you will compete against, but not all of them are mindless drunks. Some of them are far worse. That man over there," he said, pointing to a dark-haired man along one of the walls, with dark clothes and a thin mustache, "is Captain Tesarro and he has unspeakable proclivities. Don't ever find yourself alone with that man. He's a deft sailor, too."

  Clara considered the man. He did look particularly slimy and she shuddered.

  "That is Captain Wainsess. He is a bully and a brute, particularly keen on engaging with the navy. You would suspect that man has a death wish. By all accounts, he's a successful pirate and stupid enough to want to win this challenge."

  "Why do you think I should win this challenge?"

  The lieutenant shrugged. "To deny the others," he smiled. "To deny your father."

  "Does he really want me to lose this? Why did he call me here if that's the case?"

  "I cannot claim to understand Guildford. All I know is that I would never trust him, and neither should you. If there is one rule to live by here, it's to never trust anyone."

  "Including you?"

  Havencourt's gaze roamed the crowd again and he sighed. "Probably me as well. No one."

  Clara frowned, not wanting to consider a life where she trusted no one. It seemed so empty. She also couldn't imagine Havencourt turning on her as he seemed too honorable and proper—but then he'd ended up here and he must have done something dishonorable to be rejected such.

  "Then there are Diaz, Jellicoe and Tynne. There are a few more who aren't here, who will take part in the challenge. And that," he said, indicating to a younger man with dark eyes and sun-bleached hair, "is Christian Rossi, and make no mistake, as opposed to his namesake, he has absolutely no Christian values."

  Clara considered the man. He was young and strong, with a handsome face. His shoulders were broad and his chest muscular, his arms corded.

  "He is the one you need to watch out for. He is ruthlessly ambitious and he wants to win this, probably more than anyone else here. He will literally do anything to get what he wants. He is the one we need to beat."

  Their attention drew his gaze and Clara's eyes connected with his dark brown ones as he sat below them, acknowledging a rival. He didn't smile, but he knew exactly what he was doing. Scowling, he held her gaze, daring her to outstare him, and she refused to relent. With a narrowing of his eyes, he took a sip of his rum, wiping the excess drop off his lips with his knuckle. A look of scorn crossed his face before he stood, turning his back on her as though he was dismissing her. What was it with pirates and rude dismissal? Apparently piracy left men free to be rude—even a father.

  Staring daggers into the young man below, whose muscled back was turned to her, heat flared through her body. She so badly wanted to beat him—unlikely as it was. That look he gave her, like she didn't deserve to be here—that she was below regard. It infuriated her.

  Chapter 8:

  * * *

  When all else failed, there was always gambling. It killed time like nothing else, and the rum kept flowing. Christian didn't go overboard. The jolly atmosphere of the tavern belied a much colder state of affairs. This town and its riches were up for grabs and these men were vicious. It wouldn't surprise him if some of the competition ended up with their throats cut before the week was over.

  He would not utilize such tactics, mainly because he wanted to beat everyone in this room and he had the skills to do it. Those without skill, may resort to more underhanded tactics, but such treatment was a risk of existing in this town at the best of times.

  "Listen up, you mangy dogs," Tuber yelled and the tavern quieted, waiting to hear what was to come. Christian noted that the girl and Havencourt had appeared as well. She looked small and weak next to the naval man, and her eyes roamed the tavern nervously, finding his, where she stopped for a moment before looking away. He wasn't sure if that was a blush he saw creeping up her cheeks. He smiled, thinking it had been a long time since he'd seen a woman blush.

  Christian let his eyes roam down her form, taking in the white shirt and dark breeches, which suggested shapely legs. She frowned and he wondered if she was aware of his scrutiny. Not exactly the come-hither look he usually preferred in women.

  "The first challenge starts the day after tomorrow, and the task is to sail to Jamaica." A murmur broke out as the gathered pirates couldn't resist commenting. It would be a straight race then. Christians supposed it could be worse. "To make it more interesting, and to test your mettle, there is a further task," Tuber continued and Christian smiled, having suspected there was more. "You're to sail to Port Royal, and to steal something from the navy's stores."

  Silence reigned over the tavern. The task had just become infinitely harder. Not only a race, then, but to sneak into Port Royal, and steal from the very people hunting them. It was one thing to run down a ship and pluck its goodies, quite another to sneak into the enemy stronghold and steal.

  "Ha!" Christian cried, amused at Guildford's overall bastardness. Not only were they to put themselves in danger by competing with each other, they were to toy with the navy as well. This would certainly discourage some, particularly those who knew they had a poor chance of winning. Why place yourself at such risk?

  Christian's eyes traveled to the girl, who was conferring with Havencourt. Havencourt looked displeased. This would mean tangling with the people who had thrown him out, and they knew what he looked like and knew of his more recent, disgraceful activities. On the upside, he had a uniform that would blend in on the streets in Port Royal. Still, if they caught him, they'd stretch his neck as long as anyone else’s here.

  Perhaps the girl was now starting to understand the peril she was placing herself in if she chose to actually participate in this challenge.

  *

  The boredom of staying in port was testing Christian's temper. There was nothing to do but drink and whore, but he wasn't in the mood for either. He wanted to be out there sailing, running down a ship—or at least the competitors.

  The challenges would commence tomorrow and it was painful to wait, but it did give him time to dwell on tactics. The plain sail would be easy. His ship was fast and his skills were good. Wainsess had a better ship and would likely win the race portion. It was the stealing that would be hard, because everyone knew the stores were inside the actual fortress. Getting into the fortress was the difficult part, after skulking through the town's streets. Climbing the walls was always an option—perhaps the only option.

  He dropped his head back and it thumped on the back of the seat. He couldn't cope with this sitting around and sharply stood, making his way out of the tavern. He had no idea where he was going, but he needed to move. It felt like his muscles were stiffening from the lack of activity these last few days.

  Reaching the beach, he stopped when he saw the girl walking along the water's edge, looking worried and absorbed. Christian smiled. There was always sport to be had if one looked hard enough, and Havencourt had left his little charge alone and unprotected.

  With large strides, he walked down the beach to where the girl was now eyeing him warily. She was still dressed in breeches, her hair braided. There was no doubt she was Guildford's daughter; he could see as much now that he was close enough. She had his eyes.

  She was looking around and wrung her hands together in nervousness. "Your father makes sport of you, placing you in this competition," he said. She didn't know what to say. What was there to say? It was undoubtedly true. "Rumor has it you've been living in a convent."

  He walked aroun
d her and she refused to give him her back. Clever girl. A thin mortuary sword was tucked into her belt. It looked awkward, and from what he'd seen, she didn't know how to use it.

  She went to keep walking, but Christian stepped in her way, making her stop. "You are in my way and you are deliberately placing yourself there," she accused.

  "I am."

  "Could you be so kind as to get out of the way?" she said with her head held high. He could hear the sarcasm in her voice.

  "You should leave here. This is no place for a convent girl."

  "This isn't a place for anyone with a modicum of decency."

  "Agreed there. Or are you without decency? Because if you are, I'd be happy to take you up against the nearest coconut tree. There is nothing I like more than trying out new whores."

  He smiled as he observed her mouth narrow into a thin line. She was thinking about going for her sword; he could see it in her narrowed eyes. "You're revolting. And if I was a whore, I'd still have standards, which means you can go rub yourself up against a coconut tree." She went to take another step, but he ghosted her. "Are we quite done here? I have somewhere less annoying to be." She could certainly pull out the verbal claws if she wished, he conceded.

  "Oh, I'm sorry. Am I annoying you?"

  "I thought that was abundantly clear." Her crisp accent was difficult to place, but it wasn't the pronunciation of someone raised in a slum. He knew what that sounded like.

  It was amusing him, toying with her, but her arrogance surely tempted his control. He let seriousness take over his features. "This isn't a place for a woman, and don't let Havencourt tell you differently. You will embarrass yourself. Withdraw out of this and turn around—go back the way you came."

  "Believe me, I had considered it, but since you came all the way over here to threaten me, I'm starting to wonder what it is you fear so much."

  Christian snorted. "I fear nothing."