Pirate In My Arms

by Danelle Harmon

  “So,” he murmured, his gaze moving to the colorful wall hangings that decorated the drab, mud-chinked walls. “Doing lots of weaving lately, Maria?”

  “A bit,” she said warily, trying to ignore the warmth of his body beneath her palm.

  “Hmm. I notice your gown is heavily embroidered…. I like that. Something exotic about it, unconventional, even. I hate conformity, ye know.”

  “I know. As a pirate, you proved that.”

  “You sound displeased.”

  “I’m afraid. Afraid that if anyone learns you’re here, you’re as good as dead.” And so am I.

  “And where, Maria, is ‘here?’ I hear the surf, smell salt in the air. We’re near the sea, aren’t we?”

  “It’s right outside.”

  “Where are the other survivors?”

  His frank question caught her by surprise. She paused, a scoop of salve caught in the curl of her fingers just before she would have smeared it onto his chest. “Sam, I—”

  “Were there any?”

  “I think you should rest, and regain—”

  “Damn it, woman!” he swore, swinging his legs from the bed and hauling the blanket with him. “Stop coddling me, keeping secrets from me, hiding things!” He was on his feet now, his tall body swaying and looking like it was going to go down at any moment, but he was doing it, lurching across the room, stumbling against the table, clutching the back of a chair as he finally reached the door and flung it open.

  She had wanted to save him from the sight. Wanted to spare him the agony.

  There was no time.

  Standing there, he saw everything. The blood drained from his face.

  “Oh, Whydah. My lovely, beautiful Whydah….”

  The ship lay smashed and beaten in the foaming surf, her tallowed underside and broken keel all that remained of her hull. Loose planking tumbled over and over in the waves. Maria gripped Sam’s arm as he sagged against the door frame and stared silently at the wreck. The villagers were down on the beach, burning the proud galley’s masts to salvage their iron. Even up here atop the headland cliffs, the smoke from the fires drifted. Even up here, they could hear axes chopping against her splintered timbers…and see someone dragging a body over the sand toward a long, rough trench dug in the sand.

  Beside her, Sam Bellamy said nothing, the fight gone out of him in an exhalation of bitter defeat. Wordlessly, Maria guided him away from the door and back to the bed, fearful that someone might look up and see him. He did not protest, but allowed her to settle him back in bed and quietly draw the blankets up over his chest.

  “Christ,” he murmured. “By the bloody, crucified Christ….” He looked up at her, his eyes two dark orbs of pain. “There are no other survivors, are there? That is why I’m here alone. I’m the only one who made it out alive.”

  She found his hand, squeezing it in her own. “It wasn’t your fault, Sam.”

  He stared up at the dried plants and herbs that hung from the beams above his head. “It was my fault. I was the one who took on another pilot, hoping he could guide us safely into Provincetown. I trusted him, believed him. I promised him his freedom if he could do it. Oh, fool that I am! He never had any intention of keeping his word. He set our course right toward these shores, knowing the ship would be dashed to pieces in the storm—”

  “Then it was his fault, Sam, not yours.”

  “You don’t understand!” he roared, his eyes savage. “I was responsible for the life of every man on that ship, and because I was desperate to get back here, desperate to bring you a treasure fit for royalty, I entrusted those lives to someone I didn’t even know!”

  Maria said nothing; any comfort she might offer felt hollow and cheap. She was not a ship’s captain. She did not know what it felt like to hold such a weight of responsibility, though she did know the bitter guilt of being alive when those you were responsible for were dead because of your own mistakes.

  She thought of little Charles.

  But Sam Bellamy, closing his eyes in torment, was thinking of Whydah’s last moments.

  Lightning dancing about the spires of the mast as the breakers had boomed with hollow thunder.

  The cannon smashing Madigan’s chest like dry firewood.

  The screams of the drowning, the dying…

  It had all happened so violently, so fast—

  And poor Crumpstey—still clapped in irons as the ship had foundered.

  And the treasure. The gold, the silver, the doubloons and pieces-of-eight, the jewels…a fortune fit for a queen, his Maria, his princess, riches like no pirate had ever amassed, now lying deep beneath the waves whose timeless crashing was a dull roar in the distance.

  Gone.

  All of it.

  When she brought him laudanum, he took it quietly, welcoming the relief of blessed oblivion.

  Chapter 12

  The many men, so beautiful!

  And they all dead did lie:

  And a thousand thousand slimy things

  Lived on; and so did I.

  — Coleridge

  Sam Bellamy had been one of only three survivors to make it ashore as Whydah broke up in the vicious surf that cold April night, but he was too despondent over all he had lost and too disgusted with his own mistakes, to imagine that the other ships in his fleet might have escaped the storm unscathed.

  On a morning several days after the shipwreck, there was a hard pounding on Maria’s door. She froze, reluctant to answer it, for there was nowhere to hide her recovering patient.

  Before she could react, their visitor pushed open the door. Sam grabbed the knife from the bedside table and Gunner dove under the bed.

  By then, Maria had her musket in her hands. She didn’t see Sam lower his knife, put it back on the table, and begin to grin. She didn’t hear the faint whines that came from beneath her bed. She only saw a man silhouetted in her doorway—and assumed the worst.

  She raised the gun. “What do you want?”

  “Why, Maria! Is that any way to greet a friend?”

  “Friend?”

  He stepped into the room, sweeping off his hat with a flourish. Maria shut her eyes in trembling relief. “Paul Williams,” she breathed, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Her knees had gone to water. For a moment she’d thought he was one of the king’s men, come to take Sam away. But out of the corner of her eye she saw Sam muffling his laughter with a broad palm, saw a flash of white as the courageous Gunner streaked across the room and shot out the door.

  “Forgive my brazen intrusion,” Paul remarked, though his laughing eyes bore no trace of apology. Glancing about the room, he took in the assortment of jars on the table, some nearly empty, others filled with dried leaves and flowers. He saw the mortar and pestle, the various salves and bottles of ointments. His brow furrowed in puzzlement.

  “My Maria here, she saved my life with this assortment of weeds,” Sam offered wryly.

  Paul looked at Sam. “Did she, indeed? Because you look like death warmed over.”

  “Aye, as would you if ye’d had berries, branches, and twigs forced down your throat for nearly a week.”

  Paul looked at Maria and shook her head. “Ungrateful wretch, isn’t he?”

  Maria just returned his grin.

  “Don’t know why you bothered, Maria,” Paul continued fondly. “I’d’ve let him die for all the gratitude he’s displaying!” He pulled out a chair, tossed his three-cornered hat—complete with crimson feather—upon the table and leaning back, crossed his wrists behind his elegantly peruked and powdered head.

  “How did you find me?” Sam asked, becoming serious.

  “Honestly, I didn’t expect to. Word has it you died in the wreck. I came to offer my condolences to Maria. Guess I ought to be offering condolences for the impending death of her patience with you instead, because God and the devil both know it’s only a matter of time before she loses it and—”

  “Do you bring news?” Sam asked, cutting him off.

  “W
ell, as you can imagine, word of the wreck was not well received aboard my Mary Anne. My lads were ready to burn Eastham to the ground to try and get back what they believe the villagers here must’ve salvaged. What the blazes happened, anyhow? You’re the last man to let his ship run aground in a storm. Rumor has it you took a wine ship that day…too much imbibing of the cargo?”

  Sam’s eyes darkened with anger. Of course the news was not well received. Whydah had been carrying a magnificent treasure and it would have been shared amongst them all. Now, most of it lay on the seabed or hidden in the cellars of Eastham, and nobody felt worse about it than he did.

  “No, damn you, ’twas a faulty pilot.”

  “Really now? Just goes to show, if you want something done right you must do it yourself. Say, Maria, do you have anything to drink? I’m parched.”

  “Take your pick,” Sam said acidly. “Birch bark broth, pine cone soup—”

  “I have cider,” Maria offered. “It’s good and cold.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Sam was in ill humor and looked into the flickering flames in the hearth, his thoughts his own.

  “So how did you know I lived out here, Paul?” Maria asked, finding a mug.

  “Oh, ’twasn’t hard. I went to your aunt’s house to offer my condolences on your…loss.” He shot a glance at his sullen friend. “But did I find you there? Oh, no! Nothing but a wizened old woman who came after me with a fowling piece and told me if she ever saw my likes again she’d blow my guts clear across Eastham!” He happily accepted the tankard of cold cider, his enjoyment of it grating on Sam’s nerves. “Told me a rather strange story about witches and devils and a pirate who had the good graces to wash up dead on his lover’s doorstep. Good thing she doesn’t know you’re alive, my friend. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of that gun.”

  “I’m surprised my aunt told you I was out here,” Maria mused.

  “She didn’t. I made inquiries in the village. Funny, but not one person offered to show me where you live. Acted like they were scared of you. Nothing but a pack of cold snobs, if you ask me.”

  “I, uh, don’t get very many visitors,” Maria said, pleading with her eyes for Paul not to disclose the things the villagers had surely told him. Now was not the time to discuss the witchcraft business, little Charles or any of the other matters that, with each passing day, grew harder and harder to bring up. And Sam, sullen and remote in his grief, had not pressed her. But then, he’d been so occupied in torturing and blaming himself for the shipwreck that he’d thought of little else.

  “And it’s a good thing you don’t,” Paul said. “Anyone finds out you’re harboring the most infamous pirate captain since—”

  “Stow it,” Sam said. He eyed Paul’s cider with envy. “You took a foolish risk in coming here, yourself. That beach is crawling with the king’s men. If they see you, you might as well put the noose around your own neck.”

  “Come now, do I look like a pirate captain?” Paul asked, raising his brows. And indeed, he did not fit any traditional definition of the word, pirate. His Ramillies-style wig hung in a long plait past his shoulders and was tied with black ribbon bows at nape and tail. His coat was well tailored, his boots polished and reflecting the firelight. No, Maria thought, he didn’t look like any pirate captain she knew, but then, she knew only one—and he and Paul were as different as night and day.

  “No,” she said softly, with a wistful glance at Sam. “Indeed, you do not.”

  “What brings you to Eastham?” Sam asked impatiently.

  Paul swilled his cider, smacking his lips in appreciation. “My men were complaining about the wreck, driving me so crazy with their whining that I finally decided the only way to shut them up was to come here and let them see it for themselves. I thought we might be able to salvage some of the treasure, but that’s a hopeless quest if ever there was one. The seas are so rough I can’t even get near it.”

  “Neither can Southack,” Sam said.

  “Southack. Now why does that name sound familiar?”

  “Captain Cyprian Southack? His Majesty’s Most Honorable Servant?” Sam’s hard mouth curved in a sneer. “Protector of this coast, defender of its people from the horrible misdeeds of piracy, former commander of the Province Galley—”

  “Ah, that Southack,” Paul said, nodding sagely. “Good God, I hope he doesn’t find out you’re here!”

  “He shan’t,” Maria declared, never ceasing to be amazed that among seamen everybody knew everybody, no matter which side of the law they walked—or sailed—on.

  With an effort, Sam got out of bed and walked painfully to the window, there to stare out over the glistening sea. “Where is Mary Anne?”

  “Just north of here.” Paul held up a hand as Maria offered him more cider. “But I hope you don’t take offense if I make this a short visit.”

  “I’d think you a fool if ye didn’t.”

  Paul picked up his hat. “And on that note, I’m off. Oh, by the way, I’ll leave these with you. With Southack sniffing around outside, you might need them.”

  He pulled two pistols from his bandolier and laid them on the table. They were beautiful weapons with brass escutcheons, their butt-caps each boasting the face of a snarling lion in raised relief. “Took these off a naval man,” Paul said, grinning. “Kind of ironic that they end up in the hands of the most infamous pirate to sail this coast since Kidd, isn’t it?”

  Sam was running a finger over one of the lions, symbol of the might of England. “Much obliged,” he said, “but they’ll do the pirate no good if he hasn’t the powder and shot to go with them.”

  “’Sdeath, but you’re a greedy rascal. Take all you can get, won’t you?” Paul chuckled and tossed his leather ammunition pouch to the table along with a dagger whose hilt was encrusted with emeralds. “Here, take these, too. What else do you want? My cutlass? My ship? The clothes off my back?”

  Sam was priming the pistol. “Keep your foppery,” he said, grinning. “And as for Mary Anne, don’t forget she was once under my command until I gave her to you. And keep the cutlass as well. Never know if you’ll encounter trouble on your way back to the ship.”

  “You’re a thoughtful bastard,” Paul muttered, fondly.

  Maria saw their visitor to the door. “Thank you, Paul. We shall remember your kindness.”

  He doffed his hat. “My pleasure. Good day to you, Maria. And Sam? I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again…soon.”

  Sam raised the pistol in casual salute. “You can bet on it.”

  With that, Paul opened the door and slipped outside, leaving Sam caressing the pistols and Maria wondering suspiciously what he’d meant by his last remark.

  * * *

  ’Twas said that on dark, stormy nights the ghost of the Whydah’s captain wandered the dunes of the Great Beach in search of his witch lover…. When the moon rose pale and bloated over the sea, you might catch a glimpse of his dark shape as he strolled through the silvery waves breaking along that endless shore, waiting for the skeleton hands of his drowned crewmen to toss a lost coin or two up from the depths. And if you listened closely—very closely—you could hear his deep, rolling laughter in the night wind as it sighed over the vast, barren moors and deserted cliffs of the Great Beach….

  They weren’t entirely untrue, those legends. Black Sam Bellamy did indeed haunt that beach at night. Yet it was in the flesh, not as some ghostly apparition, and the laughter the villagers heard in the wind was nothing more than the product of easily frightened and overactive imaginations, for the pirate captain did not find much to laugh about as he wandered the dunes and gazed at the wreck of his once proud ship.

  It wasn’t long before the people of Eastham started locking their doors against the night and trying to chase the darkness away with bright, blazing fires in their hearths. And when the Sea Witch ventured to the edge of town to trade a blanket or two for supplies, or to sell a potion for this ailment or that, no one dared question her about the ghost w
ho roamed the Great Beach. And no longer did anyone make the long trek to her hut to seek her medical advice or renowned cures.

  But that was all well and good as far as Maria was concerned. She made no move to put talk of the “ghost” to rest, for it gave Sam what he needed most of all: safety, solitude, and the time to regain his strength.

  Despite her dismay that Whydah’s loss claimed his every thought, his every mood, Maria tried her best to make him happy. She abandoned her dreadful cure-alls in favor of more sustaining foods that strengthened and nourished her patient’s gaunt, fever-ravaged body: baked apples with cinnamon, Indian pudding smothered in molasses, fish chowder, dried pumpkin slices, shellfish, and as much hard cider as he wanted. This he consumed in quantities that would have felled a lesser man—upon rising in the morning, while pacing the one-room hut whose walls both imprisoned him and hid him from discovery, and late at night while he walked the beach. Maria could not remember him drinking so much when he’d come to Eastham last year, but, she kept reminding herself, Sam Bellamy had a lot on his mind—and a lot to forget about.

  She only wished he hadn’t forgotten her, for she had only to look at his proud, strengthening body and desire would swell her breast ’til she thought her heart would burst. But he remained sullen and preoccupied, obsessed with Whydah and all he’d lost, and her heart went out to him. He didn’t belong here, confined on land; he belonged on the quarterdeck of a mighty ship, for her pirate captain was a creature of the sea and belonged to it as surely as did the sharks, the gulls, and the mighty whales that made their way past the Great Beach. It was a painful truth, one that pierced her every time she found him standing silently in the doorway, his eyes lingering wistfully upon the great, shimmering surface of the ocean.

  With every day that passed, he sank further into his own private hell of grief and self-blame, and the tension between them became so palpable that Maria began to find it uncomfortable to be in the same room with him. The idea of confiding her past troubles and lingering heartache over little Charles became unthinkable. In his brooding, easily angered state, that was a subject she thought best to avoid.