Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  It was strange how it was barely midday yet, James reflected, his thoughts in the air as he watched the light glint off the short, wide sword the slight man held in one hand. In his other was a flintlock pistol, and that did not seem to reflect the light at all.

  “Master James?” Ben asked from behind him, his voice quavering, and James shook his head, movement returning to his body at last as that man leapt forward onto the deck and swung his sword at the same moment as more men began to surge forward over the planks of the wood. They came up behind him with cries and yells, screaming like children rolling stones in the street.

  Unable to take anymore, James yanked himself back around and hurriedly knelt beside the fallen man, not wanting to look at Ben as he shifted the heavy body lying between them. One look at the still, surprised face was enough to affirm that Berry was no longer drawing breath. Shuddering, James laid him back down and then finally raised his eyes to the boy’s, struggling to appear calm.

  “You must hide.” The words came from somewhere, nearly drowned out by startled shouts from behind him and his own pounding heart. Ben nodded seriously, jerking up and then back down in one quick motion. Tossing his head in a stubborn gesture, he bent down again and tugged at the Lieutenant’s belt sharply. James focused his dry eyes on the action, following the leather belt around the blue material until it came to the oiled scabbard propped crookedly under one arm. The Lieutenant had not even had time to draw it. Ben gave up on the belt and wrapped his hands around the sword hilt. One strong pull and he fell backwards, his thin arms shaking with the effort to hold the blade aloft. James stared at him in blank shock for a long moment and then leaned forward to yank the boy to his feet. Then he shoved the boy forward roughly, grasping the sword hilt at the same time. He pulled it away easily and then pushed Ben so hard the boy nearly fell; the boy complaining about it with a burst of coarse language.

  “Go!” James shouted hoarsely, some small part of him shocked at himself. But Ben immediately ran, skipping over dead men as if they were only horse turds in the street and then ducking down the stairs leading to the private quarters. James watched him disappear before he looked down at the weapon in his hands. The unfamiliar weight nearly undid him, his breath quickening. He tensed, arching over the blade for a moment as if wanting to hide the thing and flicked a helpless look back at the chaos around him.

  There were no words for the terror surging inside of him, ripping him up with the need to scream, and he clamped his teeth into his lip to keep the sound inside, trying to concentrate on what needed to be done in his last few moments of life.

  A small explosion sounded, followed by a strange fizzing, whistling noise and then a sharp bellow. James squinted and saw the slender man leaping up to the quarterdeck, where the Captain stood. His pistol was gone, and his sword no longer glinted, dulled by a crimson liquid. The Captain was alone and unguarded though his sword was drawn. His blade too, was bloodied. Furious and scared all at once, James stumbled to his feet and then swung his head back in the other direction at a cry from below deck that somehow carried above the din.

  With one last look at the Captain, James tripped over Lieutenant Berry’s form and then dashed after Ben, hoping to at least save one person from this madness. The stairs were dark, despite the midday light. But then they were always dark, and so low and narrow that James had to duck and watch his head even as he was turning this way and that, searching for any danger. He could see nothing, and the sound of above faded away to echoes and pounding footsteps as he descended further, and stepped into the short hall of sorts that lead to the rooms for wealthier passengers. Even then, he could still hear his own heavy breathing, and he could feel the sweat in his hands smearing against the warming grip of the sword, and that was enough to remind him that he was not caught in some nightmare as much as he might wish it to be so.

  His Lordship’s cabin was ahead, just a small door leading to a smaller room where James had his rough pallet on the floor. His Lordship’s dislike of carrying his own chamber pot the reason he had not been sent down to the hold.

  He stopped outside the door, wondering if this was where Lord Cavendish had run to, and why, and then stilled at the sound of a number of footsteps growing louder. Gulping air as if it were mouthfuls of ale, he flung open the door and leapt inside, abruptly halting at the sight of Lord Cavendish advancing on young Ben, who had a slim blade held tightly in one hand. Lord Cavendish turned to face him with wide eyes when the door opened and James got a good view of his Lordship’s disheveled, dirty appearance. The man was covered in splinters of wood and gray powder and, though James could not fathom the reason, had put on his wig. It was sliding to one side however, hanging from the top of his head limply. In one hand he held his wig curler and James frowned, lost as to why his Lordship held it now.

  “My Lord?” James heard himself asking in a low voice, his ears pricking at the sounds coming from above, and then glanced at Ben. Ben scowled fiercely, but did not move from his place in front of a large opened chest on the floor against the nearest wall.

  “I’m hiding here!” Ben yelled insistently, a trace of fear in his voice, and flourished what James dimly recognized as the knife he used to sharpen quills. Lord Cavendish stopped at that, but only for a moment, drawing himself up until he towered over the boy and lifted one heavy hand threateningly. Rage darkened his face to purple.

  James felt the sword in his hand being raised before he could think better of it. He held it out with arms that barely trembled and abstractly made sure that the point of the blade was straight before him, as he had seen others do in moments of combat. He was as careful about the unfamiliar move as he was in blotting out mistakes in his letters. Then he swallowed dryly once, nearly choking on the panic. It felt like laughter in his throat and that was more shocking than his treason now.

  Lord Cavendish met his gaze with a look of surprise and disbelief that echoed in James’ stomach.Jesu, what have I done? James wondered and closed his eyes for the barest moment, feeling the sick, tight tension sinking into him from the air itself, twisting inside his belly and clouding his mind, leaving him shocked and still. Above deck was death and below was more madness.

  It was laughter gathering inside him. Absurd, insane, mad. He looked quickly from the boy to the man and struggled not to let his bubbling panic show. Ben’s eyes suddenly grew in size as he watched and James felt something behind him shift, moving air teasing the hair stuck to the back of his neck.

  With a startled shout he spun around, swinging the sword out wide in front of him and then stopping so abruptly that the sword wavered for a moment before ceasing. A body was in front of him, a man, standing in the doorway holding himself so still that he scarcely seemed real. It was a smaller man, a slightly shorter figure, he noticed, somewhere, and then swept his gaze down over the bloodied sword held in one of the slender hands, and then back up, to where his own sword was poised to kill. Hairsbreadths away from another man’s throat, James realized in renewed shock as he panted for air, and then belatedly looked up into the face of the man he had beyond his blade.

  Black, furious eyes stared back at him, so dark and intense that James could not see the rest of the man’s features, and even the whole of the world around him seemed to darken to nothing. He could feel himself tensing with fear though he had the advantage, his fingers curling around the hilt more to remind himself that it was there than to use it.

  He could not; his body would not move. It was scarcely drawing breath, but his could hear the low rush of air fighting to get in and then out of his mouth—the only sound in the room, for the other man did not seem to breathe at all.

  That snapped James from his dreaming and he broke away from the lightless gaze and dropped his eyes to the man’s chest, nearly jumping in surprise to see that it rose and fell a fraction. A plain white shirt covered it, several splashes of red soaking into the cloth, and James returned his eyes to the other man’s face quickly, abruptly realizing that he was looking
at that first demon pirate that had boarded their ship, and that he had him at the end of his sword.

  Lieutenant Berry was in his mind, and imagining how the others on board like the young cabin boy would soon be joining the man in Heaven was enough to keep James from dropping his sword while he tried to think. But he was unused to lifting much beyond books and reams of paper, and his shoulders, still quivering with fear and already sore from being tossed around above deck, began to tire almost immediately.

  Dark eyes acknowledged the fact, one thin brow arching upward almost impatiently. But the unholy fury in his gaze remained, and James swallowed, bringing up his sword another degree without truly being aware, letting it press into the skin until the skin showed white.

  A sudden increase in pressure and he would take another man’s life, as simply as that. A man who undoubtedly deserved his death, though it would do no good in sparing their lives with the other pirates. They would all die at the hands of base thieves and murderers, but…his mind tripped back and forth furiously, if he killed now, he would die with blood on his hands. Was there more honour in that, in not being taken without a fight?

  This man would fight. James had the queer thought even as he noticed just how still and expectant the man was, as if calmly awaiting his death blow. It was his eyes that belied his stance, and when James met the pirate’s gaze he felt the blade in his hands fall just a fraction at the idea that this man would not even understand anyone who would attempt reason or compromise.

  In less time than it took to blink, James felt the sword being knocked from his hands. It clattered to the floor just as a cold, wet point dug sharply into the skin of neck. He pulled in one stunned breath, or tried to, and then turned his eyes to the silver and red cutlass at the end of the pirate’s steady arm. What precisely had just happened his mind refused to comprehend, so he stared into eyes that were suddenly cool, and waited, wanting to close his own eyes against the sight but unable to.

  With a slight twist of the pirate’s hand, the sword tip ground into the skin of his neck and James sucked in a breath at the pain. It had pierced the skin and would bleed. But the pain was fleeting, and when it was gone James felt a burst of anger that he could not explain, and drew his brows together.

  His frown was as short-lived as the pain, melting into complete, open-mouthed surprise when the pirate pulled the sword away a small degree and eased it up from that torn spot, scraping the bloodied point slowly up the course of the vein in James’ throat and then over his jaw to his cheek, stopping wherever it pleased him and letting the tip rest against James’ shivering flesh. Unholy eyes lit up at that, and then the man smiled faintly, curving his lips the barest amount at James’ careful swallow.

  “Someone should show you what your sword is for,” he remarked, his voice so low it was nearly a whisper. James blinked at the odd words, and then shook his head distractedly, trying to ignore the implied threat and face his last moments with dignity. A Frenchman, the man’s accent marked him plain enough. A bloody Frenchcorsaire.

  “Are you going to kill him or not, dog?” Lord Cavendish’s demand jerked the corsaire’s eyes from his face, and James watched the cold amusement in the other man’s eyes intensify. It seemed so much worse than his previous anger that James turned his head as much as he could, still wary of the sword, wanting to see what about Lord Cavendish had made him react that way. Then what his employer was saying was fully realized and he turned his head more, forgetting the blade.

  “I can give you anything you please, if you spare my life,” the older man went on in a stiff, proud voice and James felt his mouth gape. “S assenach bastard!” Ben shouted furiously and James watched tensely as the corsaire’s attention swung to the lad, and then down to the chest behind him. The sword slid away from his throat a moment later and then a slender hand grabbed him by his collar and pushed him aside. James was stumbling to regain his feet when the pirate smoothly picked up the fallen sabre and flipped it in his left hand so that he now had two swords at the ready.

  Ben was glaring at Lord Cavendish, but when the pirate extended the slim blade to gesture at him, he looked up with round eyes. His knuckles were as white as a dead man’s on the knife but he held it readily enough, James noticed with a vague envy before straightening up warily. He touched two fingers to his bleeding throat as thecorsaire strode forward, forcing Lord Cavendish back though the man said not a word.

  From behind, James could see that the smoke had dirtied the pirate’s shirt as well, and there were slashes in the cloth near the top that his long dark hair did not hide. But there was not a scratch on him to be seen. It was doubtful that the Captain remained, or most of the crew, if the others had attacked like this man. They three might be the only ones not of pirate ilk left on board alive.

  The man walked to the opened chest much like a tomcat in an alley and with as much care, then stopped, peering inside seriously. When he raised his head, the tight line of his brows indicted his displeasure and James felt his heart pound with a new fear.

  “Not even the tiniest drop of medicine.” He bit the words out. “Or one of your shining guineas,” he added a moment later in tones of disgust, and then flicked a look back at him. James knew his eyes widened at being addressed when Lord Cavendish was present, and tried not to look at his employer, though he could sense his anger at being ignored. There was a clear, furious questioning in the pirate’s gaze that pinned him to the spot.

  “We…we only carry p…passengers,” he managed to get out and saw the other man’s eyebrows lift with disbelieving scorn. But then he glanced away and James sighed in relief to not be under his scrutiny any longer. At last the other man had turned to Lord Cavendish. At any other time, James might have taken a wicked pleasure seeing the sweat drip down his employer’s face the way it was now, soaking the costly Flemish lace of his collar with the evidence of his terror.

  “Wealthy passengers,” the Frenchman commented and then swept the sabre up swiftly, slicing the buttons neatly, and, James guessed, narrowly missing his Lordship’s chest, and only then because Lord Cavendish pulled in his belly with a powerful intake of breath. “I like your coat,” he declared simply as the satin covered buttons dropped to the floor.

  There was silence above deck now, and James shivered violently, fearing what that could portend. Quiet reigned down in the little room as well, for what felt like forever though in fact it could not have been that. The whole attack itself had been only moments, moments stretched out like the strands of wool in a loom. He darted a look at Ben and saw the cabin boy watching the whole scene intently, seemingly forgetting the fate that had undoubtedly befallen on the rest of his shipmates.

  Lord Cavendish nodded once, unsteadily, and then ripped his costly garment from his shoulders, holding it out in a hand as pale as his face. James blinked several times, squinting through his smeared lenses to see the coat so easily relinquished, and then tried not to stare when the Frenchman stabbed the sabre into the floor in order to take it. Tossing the shorter sword from one hand and then to the other, the pirate slipped the coat on and then adjusting the way it fell as if he had not a care in the world.

  “Marechal,” the man spoke abruptly, raising his eyes to the doorway. James spun around quickly in time to see the large figure settle in the door, jumping to think that such a big man had not made a sound. The man was taller than he, a rare thing in itself, but wide as well. His massive shoulders and chest blocked all view of the hall outside and he was forced to turn his head up to look into the man’s face.

  A splotch of blood marred one cheek, though in truth the cheek already had a few pale scars crossing it, not hidden by the few days’ growth of beard. The man’s eyes didn’t seem to see him at all, but stared ahead at the other pirate, his attitude that of brooding patience. James twisted back around to watch the other man as well. He was stroking the lining much as Lord Cavendish had as he spoke.

  “Do you like my new coat?” That trace of amusement crept back into the man
’s voice as he asked, though Marechal only grunted for an answer. James looked at his Lordship and noticed the blank look on Lord Cavendish’s face, realizing only now that the man had asked the question in his native tongue. Lord Cavendish’s weakness in language was one of the main reasons for James’ employment.

  James let his eyes fall back to the garment without thinking, deciding with a trace of anger that the large coat looked foolish on the slighter man, and then returned his gaze studiously upward.

  The man’s demon gaze trapped him the moment he did, shining with a new knowledge. He had seen that he had understood him, James realized on the instant, wondering if only death would be the end to his fear this day. Surely his understanding of French was no threat to the man. The sweat prickled along his neck and back at the thought.

  The pirate was smoothly picking up the abandoned sabre and addressing the man Marechal in streaming French that James could not translate without difficulty. Purposefully, he was quite sure now. However, he managed to distill orders to search the ship from the speech, and then questions about the crew, his crew. His tone was of master there, most possessive. James had a moment to consider that he was the captain, and if it would do good to plead to him for mercy, at least for the boy, before the pirate captain strode past him and out into the hallway without even a nod in his direction, as if he had already been dismissed and forgotten.

  One last order, casually tossed out as his voice and footsteps faded away proved that idea true and worked in James’ mind like a spark to a keg of black powder.

  “And bring them up top with the others.”

  Others? James questioned silently with the first feelings of real hope that he had had in the long moments since he had first spotted that ship approaching.