Skulls & Crossbones

by Andi Marquette

  Rianne regarded him for a moment. Bowly had been a loyal friend, and she'd trusted him with much. But to tell him what she was feeling at that moment about the chalice . . .

  "Ridiculous." She waved him off and placed the chalice on her bed before getting up and walking to her maps, spread out on a small wooden table, though she had little interest in them at that moment.

  Bowly moved to the table. "Rianne, ye don't seem to understand. The crew's squirrely about it."

  He had used her first name. A serious matter, then. "It's just a chalice. One chalice." Even as she uttered the words, she knew the problem. This wasn't about the chalice. It was about her taking it. She had not waited for her turn, and it wasn't her place to decide what to take. She'd vowed that to each and every one of her crew when they'd joined up with her. And she'd broken that rule.

  Bowly cocked his head. "Rianne." His voice held both reprimand and concern, a tone she remembered her father taking, so many years ago. "What were ya doing?"

  She paused, uncertain what to say. "What if I told you that this chalice belonged to me? I mean, really belonged to me? From my childhood." Bowly furrowed his brows. Of course he'd think she was batty. It was ridiculous. How could something from her childhood end up on the Esmeralda and then in the hands of her crew?

  "I know it sounds like the sun's burned my noggin, but I tell you that this chalice belongs to me. How and why it found its way back to me, I don't know. But here it is." She looked over at the cup on the bed, as if it were going to rise up and do something magical.

  "Even if that's true, you'll not convince the men of it. They won't care very much, either." He ran a hand through his thin gray hair. With his leathery dark skin, he looked older than his forty-three years. Life at sea weathered a body, outwardly and inwardly. Rianne was sure that she looked older than her thirty years.

  "Captain, I'm impressing upon you the gravity of this situation. The men

  are grumbling." He took a deep breath and exhaled. "They've been talking about how unhappy they are with you."

  Unhappy? "What nonsense is this? I've been a good captain. I've led successful raids." She shrugged. "With few exceptions. But did this last one not make up for the others? This was a grand haul," she said indignantly. "They would turn against me for a damn cup?"

  Bowly looked out the porthole for a moment. He turned back to Rianne. "They don't trust you anymore. Not since we took the St. Germaine."

  "The St. Germaine? That crumbling heap of a sloop off Madagascar? That was months ago."

  "One of the men saw you take something from the haul before I divvied it. I couldn't right off , as that squall came up. But the men claim you went down into the hull where we stashed the loot, while they fought the storm."

  Rianne's mind whirled back six months to when they had taken the French merchantman. She willed herself to remember anything she had taken but could not. She did remember one thing, though.

  They had taken the St. Germaine easily, with no resistance. It had held slaves in transit to the Colonies, and she offered them passage to Tortuga, taking pity on them. They were given quarter with the rest of the crew on a lower deck, without chains. Perhaps some among the men resented that. One—a woman whose skin was black as charcoal—had come softly knocking on her cabin door one night. Ahh. "I didn't take anything," Rianne said. "What do you mean? The crew says they saw you."

  "Damn it, Bowly." She glared at him. "I took pity on a slave woman and brought her to fetch her marriage bracelet from the haul. Yes, a moment of weakness. I had to figure out a way of letting her have it without drawing attention. So, I took it from her and put it in my pocket." Rianne sighed. Damn my soft heart. "You hadn't divvied the loot, so I reckoned no one would know the difference." Apparently, someone had been watching. He stared at her, aghast.

  "The storm had calmed, and the crew was indulging in rum. It was one

  bracelet. She'd been ripped from her family and she'd probably never see them

  again. I know what that's like." Severed from friends, family, and homeland.

  She knew very well what that was like.

  He shook his head.

  "It was just a damn bracelet."

  "It don't matter what you say. The crew saw what they saw. Ye'd make matters worse, even, with this tale."

  "What would you have me do? I'll not come begging for forgiveness from this bunch of mangy sea dogs." She drew herself up, angry.

  "Maybe not. But ye'll have to convince them they're wrong, and that'll be some mighty hard convincing," he said, sadness in his voice. "It's the only way to get their respect back."

  "This is madness." She slammed her fists onto the tabletop. "Very well. In an hour."

  He nodded once and left, shutting the door softly behind him.

  That slave woman, Rianne thought. That was why the chalice meant so much to her. The slave woman had wanted her bracelet, a symbol of something she had lost and wanted to find again. Rianne's guts clenched as she looked out at the sky. She knew where this was headed.

  She could see the ship's flag from her porthole. That was her blood. She'd drawn the sword on it herself, too. Her father had always told her she had an artist's soul and that she should make a living through pottery or doing needlepoint for fancy ladies' fabrics. But she had decided what her life would be the day her father brought her and her mother aboard his ship and sailed to Virginia in the Colonies and then back to Jamaica to live. She would be a privateer for England, like he was. One day, he took Rianne back to Virginia, where she was raised by relatives. Away from her mother and Jamaica. She never understood, and her father looked so sad when she'd asked him why she couldn't go with him. "One day," he said, "I'll tell you why you're living here." That day never came, and the mystery died with him at sea.

  But before he walked away from the little house in Virginia, he handed her a flour sack that held something heavy in it. "Don't ever let anyone take what's yours. Use what you've got to find your way back home," he'd said, "and always maintain your dignity." With those words, he turned and walked away. She stood in the doorway, watching him get smaller as he headed back toward the docks, until her aunt pulled her inside.

  Her aunt showed Rianne the little cot in the corner of the kitchen, where she would sleep. The tiny house had two sleeping rooms, one for her aunt and uncle and one for her three cousins. That room was overcrowded as it was. "This way," her aunt told her, "you'll be warm at night." Rianne put her bag next to the cot and stared at the rough-hewn wooden floor. She pulled the flour sack to her feet and began taking things out: her few articles of clothing, a couple of books, and a small sheepskin purse containing a few coins that her father had placed there. Something was weighing down the sack, and it banged into her ankle. She stuck her arm all the way into the bag to retrieve the item. It was a chalice with a bird etched into it. Where did this come from? She'd never seen it before. She put it on a little crate that had been set up next to the cot.

  One day, the chalice was gone. "I'm sorry," her aunt had said. "The tax collector was here, and we needed to sell a few things. I wanted to ask you first, but I needed the money right away. I didn't think you'd miss it." Ah, but she did miss it. She'd look at it every night, wondering about its origins and what the little etchings on the bird's wings meant. Now, I'll never know.

  "Captain." Bowly's voice outside her door tore her from her memories. "Enter."

  He did, and Rianne regarded him a moment, then reached for her weapons. With her cutlass in its sheath and her gun in the sash hanging at her waist, she went up to the poop deck. "Ahoy! All hands available on deck," she called.

  Sailors scrambled to gather. Those who lagged behind positioned themselves wherever they could, hanging off the ladders or balanced on the rails. Rianne waited until the jostling settled. Standing with her feet spread apart and her hands on her hips, she surveyed the faces of her crew. Some wore puzzled expressions, no doubt wondering what this was about. But others scrutinized her with narrowed ey
es and a hard set to their jaws.

  "I've heard grumbling," she stated flatly. "If anyone has anything to say against me, now's your chance."

  A faint mutter came from the center of the crowd.

  "Speak up," Rianne said.

  A pudgy man in ripped trousers and filthy tunic pushed through the crowd. Her least favorite crew member. She should have guessed.

  "Ah, Toby Lawrence. What complaint have you?"

  "You been stealin' from us. I seen you."

  "Under what circumstances?" She crossed her arms and glared even harder. "St. Germaine," he said, pronouncing the word awkwardly through his broken teeth. "Ye went to th' hold before we'd divvied."

  Rianne thought a moment, choosing her words carefully. She couldn't tell them what she'd really done. Bowly was right. That would make matters much worse. "Your eyes see what your head tells them to see."

  The crew mumbled amongst themselves for a few moments.

  "I know what I saw." Lawrence turned to face his mates. "She stole from us. Are we going to accept that? And from a woman?"

  The mumbling of the crew turned into shouts of "Nay!" Rianne glanced at Bowly, who stood apart from the others. The fear and despair on his face told her all she needed to know. She'd lost this one. Her once-loyal crew was turning on her. Based on what? The word of one filthy, deceitful man. And she couldn't speak against him. He didn't know what she'd been doing in the storeroom that day. Though she hated to admit it, under normal circumstances, he would be in the right.

  She only had one choice—to appeal to their sense of loyalty. Pirates were thieves, but they were loyal thieves. "Men, have you ever known me to keep anything from you? Have I not always shared in our spoils equally with each and every one of you?"

  There was hesitation in the crowd, but once again, Lawrence spoke. "That we know of," he said with a smirk.

  Heat swept over Rianne's flesh. This had been brewing for months. She looked at Bowly again. He closed his eyes in resignation.

  "If you all believe that I have not been looking out for your best interests, and if you want to overlook all the successful missions I've led, then vote me out." She paused and looked at the faces of her crew, some who'd just signed up with her a few months ago. "But if you want more successful raids, more treasure, stick with me."

  The crew went silent, looking at her and each other. Had she convinced them? She waited another moment, then started to tell them to get back to work when Lawrence spoke again.

  "We'd probably get more without you around."

  Rianne looked at him and narrowed her eyes in warning. "What do you mean by that?"

  He hoisted himself onto one of the rum barrels from the Esmeralda.

  "You're taking what's not rightfully yours." He turned to face his crewmates.

  "And theft is punishable, right, mateys?"

  The rumbling among the crew increased.

  "Now hold on," Bowly shouted, putting his arms in the air. "Why are ye taking the word of this scummy sea dog over yer own captain?" Rianne breathed a silent "thank you."

  "You always had a soft spot for the captain." Lawrence leered at Bowly, and Rianne realized just how determined he was to get rid of her. "Or perhaps a hard spot, eh?"

  Bowly reddened and turned to the crew. "Has anyone ever had any complaints about the captain before this?"

  No one answered.

  "Only means we haven't caught her," Lawrence pushed. The crew roared its agreement.

  Bowly turned and caught Rianne's gaze. He'd tried. She was in trouble, and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

  Lawrence addressed the crew then. "Who here wants this wench as captain? Show of hands."

  Only Bowly's went up. "Who here wants her off the ship?"

  Rianne spotted a few loyal sailors who kept their hands down. She would have to remember them for their courage.

  "The vote's been cast," Lawrence said.

  She swallowed her anger, stared hard at him for a second, and waited for Bowly to escort her to her private quarters so she could prepare for her punishment.

  "I'm so sorry, Rianne," he said.

  They set her adrift with two days' food and water and only her personal belongings. The last face she saw was Bowly's, filled with regret and sadness. As her small boat drifted out to sea, she knew it wouldn't be long before they discovered she'd taken the chalice anyway. And a store of gold they'd definitely miss. They would come after her.

  Rianne kissed the sand of Hispaniola when her boat washed ashore, and for the first time in her life, she was grateful to find a church. And now, here she hid, uncertain of her next move.

  She examined the etchings on the chalice, thinking. Her current state was inevitable. If Lawrence hadn't seen her come out of the storeroom that day with the bracelet, he would have found some other way to get rid of her. She'd led her crew into successful battles. Lined their pockets with gold, silver, and jewels. Kept them rummed up. And this is how they repaid her? Mangy sea dogs. The chalice felt heavy in her hands. She'd thought about it only fleetingly over the years, for she felt it did no good to dwell on something she'd never get back. Yet, here it was in her hands. Why had Providence seen fit to return it to her?

  Rianne turned the chalice around and around, recalling doing the same thing as a child. She traced the bird's wings with her fingertip, all the way around the chalice, following the strange etchings that she'd puzzled over so long ago. She carried it to the corner of the church where candles of varying lengths burned. In the light they afforded, she examined the etchings again. Something about them . . . Sweet Jesus. How had she not noticed this before? The strange scratchings that had baffled her as a child were actually the lines of a map. A crude one, but definitely a map.

  "Use what you've got to find your way back home." That's what her father had said. Back home to Virginia? She didn't need a map to show her how to get there. To Jamaica? She didn't need a map to that, either.

  She moved the cup to better catch the light. The etchings took the form of Jamaica. But it wasn't a map to Jamaica—it was a map of Jamaica. A treasure map? She turned the cup over again. What treasure? Whose treasure? A noise from behind the altar broke her concentration, and she slid into a pew, ducking down and holding her breath. A slight rustling, but nothing like what a group of men would make. Rianne waited a moment then cautiously peered over the pew. A woman knelt at the foot of the cross in prayer. From the plain robe she wore, she was a nun, and Rianne wouldn't be able to leave until she did.

  Rianne hunkered down again, waiting. After a few minutes, she thought she heard the nun leave, so she stood as well, and her heart almost stopped when her eyes met those of the nun, staring right at her.

  "Have you come to pray?" the nun asked in heavily accented English.

  "No, Sister. I'm seeking refuge," Rianne said, taking a chance. "There are men who would harm me, should they find me."

  The nun's eyes widened, and her gaze momentarily lowered to Rianne's chest, then returned to her face. Rianne had seen this reaction many times before. The nun had thought she was a man, and upon hearing Rianne's voice looked at her breasts.

  But the nun's eyes did not retain their stunned expression for long. "Who are you running from?"

  "My crew. Former crew."

  "I see." The nun turned back toward the altar. "I saw a group of men walking through the town, heading this way. I came inside to pray that they would not harm anyone." She looked at Rianne. "If it is you they are after, you are in great danger."

  "I have no doubt." She looked at the chalice. All this because of a cup.

  The nun stepped closer and looked at the chalice. She paled. Or was it the light from the candles burning for the saints?

  "Señorita, are you well?"

  "Come with me," the nun said, walking toward the altar. Rianne hesitated for a second but followed, ensuring that the chalice was stowed in its bag. The nun opened a door and took Rianne through a tiny rectory and out another door into a fiel
d. The church was set apart from the other buildings in the town, a few yards from a forest, and Rianne feared that this would make them visible.

  But the nun moved quickly, and they were in the forest just as men's voices floated toward them along with the dull thunks of church doors thrown violently open. The nun started running, and Rianne kept pace.

  "Where are we going?" Rianne asked, her breath burning in her chest.

  The nun remained silent as they crested a hill. Below them was a single dock with two small boats tethered to it. They ran to one of the boats. Rianne stopped a few paces next to her companion.

  Out of breath, Rianne bent over with her hands on her knees. When she looked down at the boat, she saw blankets, rope, two casks, and a wooden box. "I don't understand."

  The nun put her hand on Rianne's arm and pushed her. "We must go. Now."

  "What?" Rianne tried breaking free of the nun's grip but the small woman moved with determination.

  "Hurry."

  Rianne looked back over her shoulder. Certain death awaited her there. In the boat, she had a chance. She gripped her bag and climbed down the rope ladder into the boat then turned to help the nun, who was doing fine on her own.

  The nun undid the tether as Rianne rowed out. While Rianne took them out to sea, she watched with interest as the nun checked the provisions without speaking. "Will you at least tell me your name?" Rianne asked.

  "I was Sister Maria Luz," she said, turning to regard Rianne. "Was?"

  The nun pulled her wimple off and tossed it to the boards underfoot. "Now I am Marcela."

  Rianne raised an eyebrow and continued rowing in silence.

  When Rianne woke, the sun was high in the sky. She didn't recall falling asleep and was surprised she didn't wake at dawn, as she usually did. The bones in her back complained as she straightened herself out. Marcela sat slumped on the other side, her legs splayed out on either side of Rianne's. She wanted to let Marcela sleep—is she still a nun?—but as Marcela stirred, Rianne was glad. Perhaps she'd get some answers. "Good morning, Sister."