by Cooper, R.
“We…” the corsaire paused to tap a space just above the newly bloodied spot with his weapon, deliberately letting the sharpened curve linger there, James had no doubt, and he felt himself twitch when the move brought a whispered curse to the Captain’s mouth. “ … are here …ici, close to St. Croix.” The man did not acknowledge any of his captors, his audience, or even the Captain, treating the man as if he were in fact a chart he was consulting and nothing more. He only directly addressed the man holding his charts, though he had to translate those words into French after speaking first in English, and James could not quite comprehend his purpose in making them listen as well, or in making them watch.
When that man nodded, almost thoughtfully, thecorsaire leader went on, in that same calm, broken, bloody English, making sure his captive audience understood. “Over here…” Smoothly, he transferred his attention, and his dagger, to the opposite side of Captain Carter’s middle, down near his ribs. James moved his gaze there as well, just as everyone else was surely doing, and watched the Captain pull in a deep breath. For a moment, James flicked his eyes up to the man’s face and saw how he had taken his bottom lip into his mouth and was biting down on it, turning away from the man in front of him.
But James could not, and despite his sudden surge of pity returned his gaze to the bloodied knife as it speared into the Captain’s body again and was slowly, so very slowly, moved in and out in another precisely misshapen oval, cutting shallowly and then deeply, as if the man holding it could not decide how much he wished to hurt.
“… Is the Isle of Jamaica,” the pirate captain finished, pausing in his work at the same time to pull the lace away from his wrist with his other hand so that the blood would not stain it. James could feel the bones in his fingers grinding painfully against each other, digging into his skin, but he kept them clasped and tried to breathe slowly through his nose.
A heavy, sickening scent filled his nostrils as he did, the scent of warm blood, and James gagged, turning his head at last as the pirate’s intentions became clear. He had found himself a new map to replace those that were ruined, and it was not Cartology that he wished to demonstrate.
“Near there…” that voice went on unemotionally, droning on in much the way James’ tutors had about Latin and Greek, with the same attention to detail, and James tried not to hear it anymore. Still, the words forced their way into his mind.Hispaniola, Maracaibo, the strange Spanish words filled the air, and with it came the image of the blade pressing in and the sound of another muffled groan from the Captain. Other place names followed, James counted six before he made himself stop.
There were many islands and towns in the West Indies, James thought over his Geography with a violent tremble, and he did not think the Captain had that much courage left. His moans of pain were louder now, escaping his mouth in low, keening bursts.
“ Tortue. Tortuga.” Thecorsaire changed from French to Spanish easily but it was the panting whisper that followed it that caught James’ ear, and made him raise his head to look partways on the scene. Partways was all his stomach could bear; the Captain’s chest was as full of holes and craters as the deck of his ship was, each one leaking blood furiously, gushing in spurts. His heart beating, pushing it out, James thought back distantly to his lessons in physick, his own heart pounding a thousand times faster.
The blood was drenching the Captain’s trousers; it was at his thighs like a river’s watermark, and slowly flowing lower. The cuts were deeper than they appeared, to make him bleed so, not as delicate and exact as they had seemed. His skin, where it was not covered in his own fluids, was white, changing to gray even as they watched.
His eyes left the man’s face at that, recognizing the mark of death with an ease he wished he did not possess. He could see Ben now; the boy had crawled closer to him at some point, for comfort James had no doubt, and did his best to push away his horror at the boy seeing such things, worse even than the hangings in the streets.
Breaking his grip at last, he lifted one hand to the lad’s shoulder, hoping to pull his wideeyed gaze away from his captain’s torture. But Ben shook his hand away, not looking at him as he did. His eyes glowed impossibly bright, like with some fever, and about his mouth there was a small smile, as if he were … delighting … in the scene before him, though that could not be. The smile widened into a full grin when Captain Carter’s broken, hoarse voice cried out in pain.
“Mercy!” Carter echoed James’ prayers in his scream, giving in to the pain at last. Twisting his head from the boy, James looked to thecorsaire, still standing over the Captain’s quivering form like a stern schoolmaster. James could hear him breathing, or fancied he did, the even in and out of the man’s breath a counterpoint to the wet, gurgling sounds coming from Carter now.
He leaned forward and further onto his knees, waiting. “And let us pretend that here would be France,” he continued finally, and a sigh of disappointment that there would be no mercy slipped out of James’ mouth before anger made him narrow his eyes. The slim hand brought the knife up, resting the point on the skin over the Captain’s heart. There the Frenchman hesitated only a moment before he forcefully pushed it into the skin, sending a spray of blood into the air the moment he pulled the blade back out. It splashed over the Captain and onto the deck, continuing to spurt as thecorsaire calmly turned away from the sight and handed the soiled knife to the waiting Marechal.
James watched that monstrous act in disbelief and then turned back to Carter, unable to breathe at how the life was pouring from him in front of their eyes.
“Life is pain. Be grateful for mercy,” thecorsaire warned them softly, and James raised his head to see dark eyes passing over all of them without a trace of passion, brushing over James like the hand of the Devil himself.
There was no recognition in their depths but James pulled back regardless, sitting on the backs of his legs and staring at the slim figure in red as it readjusted the length of the laced cuffs, now peeking out from the sleeves of his Lordship’s coat. It was faded, frayed lace James saw without truly caring, though his mind wondered if it too, and the torn shirt, had also belonged to someone else before being taken. But though his stolen lace was clean, it did not cover the hands spotted with blood.
Carter moaned, a long, drawn out sound that raised the fine hairs at the back of James’ neck despite the heat. It was a cry of suffering, and though he had not liked the man, James studied his face as the light left his eyes, not looking away until the large body sagged against its bonds and the chest moved with one last ghost of a breath. Then he lifted one hand and made the sign of the cross over his heart, hoping that some grace would go with Carter’s soul.
Beside him, Ben made a choked sound in his throat, and James spared the boy a brief look, hoping he was not harmed by what he had seen. Clear, light eyes met his, still lit by some internal feeling, and James frowned to see the smile still about his lips as well. This smile seemed to be directed at him, and at his gesture.
Uncertain though he could not have said why, James lowered his hand and then faced away from Ben to thecorsaire, who continued to stand before them. “Does anyone else wish to challenge me?” he asked warmly, the trace of amusement returning to his voice as if he already knew the answer. James swallowed the sudden torrent of wrathful words in his throat, startled at the force of them. His eyes swept up despite his efforts however, and for the smallest moment met the dark gaze sneering down at all of them. He would swear to anything that the other man knew his exact thoughts, just as he had known them down below in the doorway to Lord Cavendish’s room. His mouth curled into a faint smile much like the one on the boy’s face just now.
Something small and warm pressed against one of his hands and then curled around it, and James blinked to realize that it was young Ben’s hand. Whether the lad meant it for comfort or apology or simply to help hide his own fears, James could not say, but when his eyes opened again thecorsaire leader had moved a few steps away.
Exp
elling a breath after becoming aware that he had forgotten to breathe for several moments, James squeezed the smaller hand, hoping the child was not afraid, and then glanced at Pym. Pym was staring back at him, and when their eyes met he raised his eyebrows once.
His eyes held the same question that occupied James’ mind, now that he was free of the corsaire’s attention and the bloody spectacle was over. Were they to live?
No one had dared answer the man, and he nodded, the action shaking a few dark strands of hair loose from the scarf holding it back.
“ Trés bien. You now serve René Villon until I release you or you die.” That was issued much as James imagined Parliament proclaimed new laws, though a thousand times more fearsome than any new ordinance, for all its simple wording. More even than the contract he had signed to serve his Lordship.
Someone to his right gasped, and the name itself seemed to thrust into his heart, chilling him. Not the worst of theboucaniers, if the tales were true, but no saint indeed. Ruthless and cunning, James recalled the stories and looked back to Carter’s body. But perhaps not without mercy, he questioned and then jumped in place when the Captain’s body suddenly fell onto the deck. Ben did as well, pulling his hand away.
Pirates appeared at his head and his feet and then dragged him away, talking to one another in rapid French as they did. Others were also moving about; the quiet, smooth sounds they made suddenly catching his ear. His fellow passengers on theQueen of Sheba were whispering now too, furtively murmuring to whoever was next to them. René Villon was farther away now, leaving only Marechal to stand guard over them. But the man-mountain was more than enough.
The men dragging Carter abruptly stopped in the middle of the deck, and James’ eyes widened as they yanked free his trousers, leaving him naked as they argued heatedly about the blood staining them. His gaze instantly skirted away from the other man’s privates, only to land on the bodies of Berry and the other officer. Richmond, James saw now that his head had been turned, his face locked in surprise and pain. Othercorsaires were stripping their corpses as well, like greedy hangmen, testing the officers’ long swords and dancing about over their limbs. Nothing was sacred to them in their search for material wealth.
Still others were carrying up boxes and chests from below the deck, dropping them noisily around the cannonballs and smoldering holes, and then rifling through them quickly. “I like your clothes, Englishman,” Marechal’s unmistakable rumble broke upon them suddenly, and James shuddered as the man crossed his line of vision. But he was not talking to him, but to Lord Cavendish. He stopped in front of him and then lifted him to his feet with one hand. His other traced over the embroidered gold of his waistcoat in a thickfingered imitation of what his master had done earlier and then tugged on it sharply.
Lord Cavendish was sweating profusely now, spots of colour in his cheeks though the rest of his skin was like snow. But he kept his head up as the waistcoat was ripped from him, reminding James of Carter so much that the sickness again rose in his throat. His Lordship held his tongue as well, even when Marechal’s covetous eyes fell to his trousers.
There James averted his eyes, watching instead as more of the thieves began to parade amongst their captives, or fellow crewmates, he supposed, faintly. Searching among them for anything of value, taking any bit of clothing that struck their fancy. Most of the passengers were indentured servants like Pym, and had nothing to offer them. James could see the anger in the thieves’ faces at that, and when one passed near him he tried not to flinch.
Though bloodstained, the fine new collar he had purchased for his journey was taken, as was his book once discovered, though one glance at the Latin and it was tossed to the floor. He did his best not to show his reaction to that, but he scowled when Sir Thomas More’s great work was trampled on.
Near him, Lord Cavendish was beginning to complain at his treatment, as item after item of his costume was taken from him, even his boots. James eyed his own bare feet with a feeling of relief and then glanced up, mouth falling open to see his Lordship standing there as naked as Adam in the Garden.
He could not help but gawk to see a lord stark naked, his pale, plump body half turned to the rail with obvious horror and humiliation. James felt his own cheeks heat to see the other man’s nakedness, to imagine himself in the same position. Jeers came from everywhere, in both French and English, though who dared among the prisoners James could not guess.
His Lordship’s face was all red now, and tight with anger and shame. But he lifted his chin even higher and James noticed for the first time that his wig was still on, though slowly sliding back and exposing the gray hair underneath.
“The wig,” Villon’s voice cut through the laughter, silencing it. James got to his feet as his Lordship straightened and snatched the wig from his head. He held it in front of him in white hands, managing to cover most of himself at the same time. The wig, James saw, was a rich chestnut brown where the rest of his Lordship’s hair was much darker.
A queer urge to laugh hit James again and he cleared his throat and looked down. Hearing Villon again made him look back, but thecorsaire apparently was not yet through punishing those who defied him. He stalked slowly to Lord Cavendish and then barely paused in front of him before ripping the wig away so fast that his Lordship had no time to hide himself. James jumped at the ferocity of the movement.
“I can use your wig too,” Villon murmured in his own tongue so that his Lordship understood nothing and then wiped his bloodied hands in the fat curls until they appeared clean. When not a trace of blood remained he turned away, carelessly tossing the battered piece of hair over one red shoulder.
James watched the hair sail through the air with a strange fascination, for it seemed to move slowly while everything around him remained the same. It flew through the hands Lord Cavendish raised from his lap to catch it and then sailed over the side of the ship until it was out of view, undoubtedly landing in the sea.
A hand on his shoulder snapped him from his daze, and James turned around instantly only to stare blankly into the face of an unknown pirate. He blinked to wet his eyes and saw the man’s well-fed but unshaven cheeks curve into a wide smile. The thief spoke, and James could only gape.
“Welcome to the New World,” the man laughed, talking with the warm, lyrical accents of the English countryside.
Chapter Two
The damp, metal-like smell of the night’s rain still hung over the ship, making the air heavy and uncomfortably warm as the sun rose toward its zenith. Morning it would likely still be accounted, but already it was hotter outside than the Devil’s arse, for all
that it was the winter months. Down below the deck, it would be worse. It was a stinking, steaming hole holding the little cargo that they had carried on their ship, as well as those among his fellow captives fool enough to stay down below during the day. James had to return down there soon, though he did not wish to. His Lordship was languishing in the fiery bowels of the ship and would need water. None but he seemed willing to care for the man, even though he clearly could not care for himself…not anymore.
A tiny sound of frustration escaped him and James clasped his hands together painfully to remind himself that this situation was very real indeed. His new life was not something he could touch or taste, and yet hewas living it, trapped here by Chance or Fate—the Lord’s will he tried to tell himself. Trapped, and he could not help but be angry even after the patient advice of Michael Pym. He knew it was no dream, that this was true, but could imagine himself back home with ease, listening to his step-mother baking the bread downstairs, her oven slowly warming the chilly house before the sun had even risen. He had become used to her, this last year.
Winter did not mean what it should have, here in the New World. Instead of gray-coloured skies and iced streets, there was shining sun, and rain, and heat when there was no rain, and all of it left him feeling irritated and hot, his skin sticking to itself whenever his legs or arms would touch. None of which had Ja
mes minded, when theQueen of Sheba had first entered these foreign waters, but now, while captive onle Diable Noir, it seemed as if his mind could dwell on little else. Such a trivial matter as the weather should have been his last concern, now that his life and the lives of his friends were no longer their own.
Furious, James dropped his gaze out to sea as he had for over a fortnight now, looking to the west for a sign of land. There was none of course, and most deliberately so, he was sure. Most of the islands of the Caribee were not separated by such a great distance, and he had overheard the men—thecorsaires, complaining of the lack of treasure to be had here, and then saying enough for James to determine that they were still close to the strip of tiny isles claimed by the French. Why, he could not say, and had not been able to tell much from the one or two Frenchman he had started to converse with in the past weeks.
What he did see was equally disheartening, the captive Queen of Sheba sailing alongside them. Thecorsaire, their new captain, had decided that dividing up the prisoners would discourage any rebellions or mutinies, and in that he was right. The sailors of theSheba hardly seemed to desire such a thing in any case, most of them considering themselves fortunate. But the sight of the ship had been supposed to carry him to his future made James toss his head and look away.
His glance moved back over the deck to the men who were now his crewmates. Aside from the first day, after Carter’s death when they had all been stripped of their possessions, the corsaires had offered no insult or offense toward himself or the other prisoners, some of them in fact seeming to regard them with mild amusement. Just like that, they suddenly had nothing to fear and were treated as if they only barely existed at all. James had stumbled at that, remembering only too well his embarrassment at having even his plain clothing admired and then taken by some Frenchman, only to be given a pair of patched breeches in return.
