Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  “Fitzroy!” “Master James?” Ben and Lord Cavendish both demanded his attention just as a large hand pressed into his shoulder close to his neck, hard enough to make him wince. Before he could turn, he was yanked around and forward by the man-mountain, Marechal, until, looking up, he could spy and count the hairs in the other man’s nose. It was then that Marechal smiled, a gaping, toothless grin that only increased the queasy anxiety in James’ belly.

  “You will come, little Englishman,” he spoke clearly, though his English was broken, and James nodded to show that he understood and would obey. “You also,” the big man continued as he released him and James pulled away gratefully, only to be pushed into the hall in the next moment. Quick footsteps sounded and then Ben was close behind him as they walked through the darkness toward the light up the stairs, to where the other pirate would soon decide their fate. If he had not already.

  Lord Cavendish was somewhere beyond, his steps sounding as firm and resolved as his behavior had not been when the ship had been fired upon and then boarded. James tried not to think about that for the moment, and instead, for no other reason than to occupy his hands, straightened his collar, knocked askew by Marechal’s handling. He moved up the narrow, creaking steps at the same time, blinking once again at the midday sun. It was only once fully above deck that he looked down and saw the blood staining the white cloth of the whisk collar, likely stemming from the wound on his neck.

  Mayhap the bit of cloth had helped halt the flow of blood, but James felt his stomach twist to see it though that pain was forgotten now. His unease only increased when he raised his eyes and saw the black flag of the Devil himself seeming to fly higher than even the sun.

  Dear God in Heaven, save your poor servants, he prayed without true awareness of the words.Oh Lord, we await thy mercy. For still, long moments it was that flag and all that it promised that held James motionless, even at Marechal’s rough prodding. And then the sound of someone calling his name broke into his thoughts and he pulled his gaze away from the lofty heights and tried to focus on the world in front of him.

  Sparks of color in front of his eyes blinded him, explosions of the sun’s light, and he blinked quickly in an effort to be rid of them and see. Another shove from Marechal nearly had him on flat on his face but for the pair of strong arms suddenly gripping his shoulders and drawing him forward.

  “James, you’re alive.” The hoarse sound of Michael Pym’s voice could not hide his relief, and James smiled slightly to hear the other man and know that at least one other was still living. Shaking his head, James let himself be pulled away from the pirate Marechal and then finally directed a clear look at the man supporting him.

  A few pox-marks from another disease of his childhood had made the bonded servant repugnant to Lord Cavendish upon seeing him board the ship a month ago, but aside from those there was no sign that anything was amiss with Michael Pym. Just as there were no signs of the dreaded malady that had nearly claimed the man two years ago, James thought with something like awe.

  But even knowing their cause, those few scars were a welcome sight to James now. It would have been a true tragedy for a man who had actually survived so much, even the Plague itself, to die at the hands of these thieves. It gave James hope that even this could be lived through.

  James clapped the other man on the shoulder as a greeting and to let him know that he could stand on his own now. Pym released him hastily and then looked back over the ship from their position near the portside railing. James did as well, noticing in surprise and vague hope that most of the passengers were in fact alive, seated or standing near them, blank, weary looks on all their faces but for when they looked out beyond themselves. Their faces made him shiver, remembering traveling back to London from the country and seeing the gaping pits, waiting to be filled with the dead.Two metres deep, he remembered someone saying,two metres and stacked to the top, Lord have mercy on us.

  Following their gazes, James saw Lieutenant Berry’s corpse laid out across the ship, alongside one other officer whose visage James could not see. There were no other bodies where he had been expecting to see a heap for the charnel house but his heart was still saddened to see those two. The second man had been stabbed, or run through. James studied the bloodied hole in the back of the man’s waistcoat closely, letting out one short breath to realize that his death at least had been no accident, and that he had been knifed in the back. Only one man slain intentionally, and only two bloodied swords that he had seen, though he knew well enough which one had done the killing.

  Startled, he turned to look over the deck more closely, expecting to see the man with the dark eyes again. Twenty or so of the sea robbers were standing guard over them, though most were moving from place to place, seemingly searching for something, treasure he assumed. Neither Marechal, nor their leader, numbered among them.

  “What has happened?” he asked softly so as not to disturb the silence above deck but Pym shook his head and did not answer. His head did turn toward the Captain, who was separate from the rest of the prisoners, standing near his cabin with a dirtycorsaire leaning over him, sword at the ready.

  Captain Carter was as slovenly dressed as Lord Cavendish had been elegant, his usual habit, but James could only wonder why the man was alive at all, when he had given the order to fight. He had had his sword drawn, in those first few moments, though there was no sign of it now. Perhaps he had forgotten his honour as well.

  Lord Cavendish’s lack of courage during the short battle came to mind at that thought, and James licked his lips, which were dry and coated in a bitter dust that nearly made him choke.

  “Talk of courage to protect naught but goods for the settlers and my Lord’s costume, and now we shall all die,” James whispered, trying to wet his throat. Summoning his fury did little good however, since its force did not compare to the terror inside him tearing its way slowly out. His narrow glance fell on first the Captain, and then his noble employer, forgetting their captors entirely as he imagined what horrors would befall his fellow passengers because of men like them. Cruelty was the one trait certain to appear in all the tales of the strangeboucaniers of the Spanish West Indies; he had known it, and so surely must have they when they had demanded action.

  Again, the bear-bait came to mind, the diversion seemingly as odd a thing to think about at this time as his Lordship and his wig, but James curled his fingers into his palm, surprised to find himself wishing to be holding the sword again.

  Pym did not seem to hear his quiet words; he was staring between the rest of the passengers and the men guarding them. His expression seemed watchful, though surely he could not be calm at a moment like this. Yet his entire body seemed still, his posture that of someone prepared to wait and see, until a loud crash made his shoulders jerk tensely.

  James jumped at the noise, as did many others, and shifted enough to notice Ben and Lord Cavendish on the other side of him. Ben was curled onto his knees and seemingly unafraid, as at ease as Pym had appeared to be, though his small, pointed face was pale. His Lordship was standing stiffly, awkwardly holding onto his slightly torn waistcoat, the curled locks of his wig shining in the sunshine. He did not even glance at James.

  “Where is Deniau?” The impatient inquiry was followed by a burst of several French phrases unfamiliar to James. But he turned his head swiftly to watch the pirate leader appear out of the stairs leading below the deck, pushing a heavy-looking wooden box forward as he did. The moment he came into sight, his man Marechal seemed to glide to stand next to him, picking up the chest without a word and carrying it to a nearby barrel top. Had he found some treasure after all, James wondered, his rage surging again until he had to clench both hands tightly, enough to be worth all of their lives?

  But the chest was carved, and locked, and James barely had a moment to recognize it as an apothecary’s box of potions before it was rudely opened and the many compartments opened.

  Frowning to see how the full, brightly coloured casks
and bottles seemed to please both men, James tried to imagine what their interest in the box was. Their leader, the small man of the black eyes, even smiled to see them, though in truth it was only a bare, quick show of teeth and not a real expression of joy. Such a smile would have been blasphemous, James thought furiously, this time not at all shocked by his fury.

  The box was put back in order smoothly and then handed to Marechal who in turn handed it to another man who carried it back across the planks of wood to the other ship. Another order was barked at his back from their captain, ensuring that this Deniau would be served.

  An ill man? James tried not to openly show his disbelief, though he could recall the man’s words upon looking into his Lordship’s baggage. If they had wanted medicines, they had had only to ask. They would have been helped, surely even Captain Carter would not have refused such a request.

  He looked to the Captain just as the corsaire did the same, stepping away from the barrel only to stop in front of the man. From where he stood, James could see the arrogance in the smaller man’s attitude as he looked over the Carter, sweeping his gaze from his crown to his toes and then back up. A moment later he shrugged one shoulder, the action somehow bringing to attention the new red coat he wore, before sliding past the Captain to the door of his quarters.

  There he spoke quietly, his words directed at someone inside the room. It was too soft to hear at his distance, excepting the last few words, which rose to a high, angry pitch, sharp enough to make even Pym twitch with fear. Outrage at something the Captain had done, and then a swift vow of revenge following it, something that caused Marechal, yards away from the smaller man, to laugh shortly as if it were not serious.

  His mirth should have been calming, reassuring James that the promise to extract blood had only been in jest. Instead the quiet sound of Marechal’s laughter made the bile rise in his throat and his stomach churn until he was sure he would be sick.

  “Your ship carries only passengers,” the slender corsaire broke into English again before he had turned back around and James was startled into a gasp though the pirate seemed to have forgotten him. He was clearly addressing the Captain, though Carter did not seem to know how to answer. In truth it was more of a demand than a question.

  The Captain twisted his head to watch the other man circle him and then shuddered, his fit body suddenly an image of a beggar’s in the wintertime upon seeing a magistrate approach. Finally he nodded, glancing toward the group of them, huddled together near the rail around the remaining crewmembers. Thecorsaire did not follow his look, or even seem to react to the admission at all. He merely stood there, one hand on the hilt of his sword. It was sheathed now, but that did not matter. James was certain that it was still soaked in blood.

  He focused on that hand, hearing the vow for revenge in his mind, and remembering that though the man had asked for physick, he had also wanted gold. “You fought?” This was a question, scorn the only emotion keeping the words from freezing over. Beside him, James saw Pym turn to await the Captain’s response, barely breathing so that he would not miss it. So did the others. Even James could hardly make himself move, somehow aware that the coldly-voiced question was vital to all of them.

  Carter did not speak. His former bluster and calls for bravery were gone as if never existing and for a moment, James felt sympathy for the man, knowing that when those dark eyes had been trained upon him, he had not been able to speak either.

  “You fought?” A hiss seemed to slither from someone near James when theboucanier repeated his words. One tap of a slender finger to the thick cutlass, and Carter finally nodded again, his eyes getting so large that James could see the fear in them though the man did keep his head up. “Did you think to earn my mercy by defying me?” thecorsaire went on, his voice lowering and yet carrying over the ship at the same time. Mayhap it was the taut silence that allowed it to travel so.

  Marechal laughed again and James swung his head in that direction, though his eyes seemed to stretch so as not to lose the sight of the pirate captain. Was there to be mercy? James prayed for it over his madly pounding heart, wanting to believe it. The man had boarded them to seek medicine after all, had he not? Though had not saved the man lying next to Berry. James could easily imagine the ruthlessness with which the poor man would have been dispatched; a quick stab from behind merely to get the fellow out of the way.

  “…Die before I see my ship in your hands,” the Captain managed to say in a mumble, some of the terror in his eyes replaced with defiance and James knew his eyes widened with amazement to hear it. He wondered if he could remain so defiant at his moment of truth.

  “You value nothing,” the other man declared in the same icy tones before had even finished, his accent growing thicker. It was much like the way a Puritan condemned those in the street for their frivolousness, though this man was nothing like the black-clad preachers hated by so many. A wave of his hand and a man stepped out of the Captain’s destroyed cabin, many sheets of vellum filling his arms, some rolled up carefully, others wrinkled. A few had pieces missing, smudged with black and curled as if they had been set afire.

  James felt his brows draw together at the puzzle, though the papers were clearly maps and of great value to sailors. Thecorsaire holding them began expressing his disgust over the burn marks as if to prove that, holding the pages up and gesturing excitedly until the other man stepped forward to handle the charts.

  His hands smoothed over the pages with obvious pleasure, and then he exchanged some quiet words with the other man, flipping through the maps with another flash of a smile. Behind them, Carter paled, though again why was a puzzle.

  Still looking over the charts as if they were a thousand times better than any treasure, though how that could be James did not know, the slender man suddenly jerked his head towards the Captain.

  “You fought.” James heard again, the tone that of a tutor berating a slow pupil, as though only a fool would not bend before a greater force, when the corsaire captain could not have ever shown such fear.

  “Tie him to the mast,” the man ordered in clear, ringing English and the man standing guard over Carter had him by the shoulders before the man had time to protest. “And keep the rest of them down.”

  James barely heard the second order. He remained standing until Pym’s hand on his shoulder forced him to bend his knees before their captors could get close. He could feel the wood underneath him and from the corner of his eyes saw Ben look over to him, but did not take his eyes away from Captain Carter as he struggled feebly with the men twisting his arms back around the wood.

  The Captain was a big man, so much so that he seemed to tower over Ben whenever James happened to see him near the cabin boy. But now his size did him little good. He was dwarfed by the trunk of the mast, and helpless once his hands were lashed. James was sure it was painful, for the man grunted when the sailors had finished, and his coat gaped widely, stretched to the point of tearing.

  It was at the edge of the piece of filthy cloth that a flower of crisp, clean scarlet caught James’ attention, and he stared with unblinking eyes as the flower of red grew larger, sinking into the linen shirt thread by thread.

  More red appeared in front of his eyes, until it was all he could see, and it took the span of several beats of his rushing heart to realize that it was Lord Cavendish’s prized coat, and that he was looking at the pirate captain’s back as he stood in front of Carter.

  Closing his eyes at last, James murmured another prayer, that all of this was only a fitful dream brought on by the ship’s tossing or the bad food. That it could not be real, and that the man tied to the mast was in no danger.

  “Dogs!” the Captain spit the word, expelling it in one rasping breath, and James had barely opened his eyes before he had to close them again, wincing at the blazing sun reflected off the small, thin dagger in thecorsaire’s hand. It was still before him, the menacing image it had made, as menacing as an etching of a victim at the stake, and he clasped
his hands together tightly for strength and comfort though he could not bow his head, not with that man in front of him. “I am a captain in His Majesty’s service, and I will not be treated so!” That seemed to take the last of the Captain’s breath, or his courage, for he fell silent afterward and did not speak again.

  Daring to lift his eyelids once more, James spied the man in the red coat first, though he had changed position slightly so that those on their knees to watch whatever he was about to do had a view of his side. Not knowing what he was going to do made it all the more unbearable, and James interlocked his fingers until only God himself could have separated them.

  His whole body felt that tight and knotted and only his clenched teeth kept him from vomiting. Then thecorsaire spoke and the bile burned against James’ tongue. “You will be treated how I say. And I piss on your king,” the man pronounced slowly and then flipped the knife once in his hand, until the hilt rested comfortably in his palm. It was then that James noticed how the Captain’s bloodstained shirt had been ripped down the center and pushed aside, so that the pale expanse of his furred chest and belly were visible to all. Blood was already seeping from a wound on his side, a long, open slice that had cleaved the flesh neatly.

  Swallowing did little to help him be rid of the sickness in his throat; more rose when the point of the blade was tapped against a small patch of skin, just above the Captain’s hip, where a few drops of blood had already fallen. He focused his attention on the lacy cuffs falling over onto the man’s pale wrist and not the hand and the knife itself, but he could still see both, could not look beyond the wrist to anything other than the silver metal slipping carefully into the Captain’s white skin.

  Someone made a low sound at that, a sort of a choked whisper, though who James could not have said. The blade twisted, forming the shape of a rough circle in the cut flesh before blood poured out and covered it. Then thecorsaire removed the knife, and James’ eyes followed the weapon as the man lifted it to wave at the other man some distance away, still holding the armful of burnt chart.