Skulls & Crossbones

by Andi Marquette

  Marcela propped herself against the side and winced as she bent her knees a few times. "Marcela," she stated flatly. "I am no longer a nun."

  Rianne shrugged and gestured at the wooden box. "Is there food in there?"

  Before responding, Marcela undid several buttons of her habit then hiked the dress up and pulled it off .

  Rianne stared, astonished, at Marcela's brown breeches, close-cut white linen shirt, and long boots. Marcela drew a knife from a sheath tied to her waist and pried open the box. She retrieved some biscuits and cheese, and handed half to Rianne, who took the food, feeling that she ought to be suspicious of a woman who dressed as a man while masquerading as a nun. But first things first.

  She ate gratefully while surreptitiously watching Marcela eat. There was a gracefulness about the way she chewed, elegance in the way she pushed the crumbs from her mouth with her fingertips. Very ladylike.

  Rianne finished eating and wiped her mouth with her sleeve, aware of the contrast, and picked up the oars. "I'm hoping for Jamaica. I take it that's where you'd like to go, as well." It wasn't a question. "That's fine."

  Rianne mentally shrugged, unsure what to make of Marcela. Her unblemished skin, shiny black hair, and smooth pink lips denoted youth, but the steadiness in her eyes and calmness throughout their escape indicated a maturity beyond that.

  "Are you going to tell me who you are?"

  "I did. Marcela."

  "What you are doing here?"

  "I'm going to Jamaica with you."

  Maddening. "Yes, but why?"

  "Does it matter?"

  Rianne arched an eyebrow. "No, I suppose it doesn't." Marcela was probably one of those women who dreams of running away from a constrained life. Rianne couldn't blame her. She pulled on the oars and said nothing more. Marcela had planned well, because they had enough food and water to last the journey. They took turns rowing and, with the help of the navigational instruments Rianne had taken from the Queen's Wrath, on the third day, Rianne spotted land. That evening, they pulled into an inlet, waiting until the fishermen went home for the night before beaching the boat.

  Marcela had not offered any information, nor had she asked any questions, and Rianne hadn't pressed her. No matter. This was their parting. She took her sack from the boat.

  "Thank you," Rianne said, "for your help. I'm indebted to you. If there is anything I can ever do for you, the name is Rianne Cotter." She turned and started walking up the beach.

  "Wait."

  Rianne stopped.

  "I'll go with you." Marcela joined her.

  Rianne smiled. "No. You know nothing about me or what I do."

  "You think I don't know a pirate when I see one?" Rianne hesitated. "What makes you think that?"

  "A woman, dressed in men's clothing, chased by a group of angry, scraggly men?"

  Rianne eyed her. "You're wearing men's clothing."

  "I'm not being chased by a horde."

  Rianne hefted her sack, thinking. "No. A woman like you does not belong on a ship." She started walking again. "As far as I can see, Captain, you no longer have a ship."

  Rianne stopped. Not a naïve young girl after all. "I'm on a mission," she said defensively.

  "It must be important, since you have no ship."

  Rianne removed the chalice from the sack. "There's something I'm supposed to find. It's all on here." She held the cup out. Why am I telling her this?

  Marcela ran her finger along the etching. "What is it?" Her question was almost like a challenge, a test to see how much Rianne knew. "I don't know."

  "You're looking for something but you don't know what it is?"

  "Yes." Marcela looked into Rianne's eyes. "Very well. Let's go."

  Rianne frowned. "How did you know to call me 'Captain' ?"

  "You were, weren't you?" Marcela said over her shoulder, her demeanor suggesting that she would speak no more on the subject.

  Again, silence accompanied them as they walked into the town. When they were safely ensconced in a room in one of Port Royal's inns, they devoured the stew from the tavern downstairs. After Rianne had sopped up the last of the juices with her bread, she took out the chalice.

  "This is Jamaica," she said, tracing the outline of the island and the daintily carved "X."

  Marcela took the chalice in her hands and studied it in the light from the oil lamp. "I know where this is."

  "How?" As soon as Rianne uttered the question, she knew Marcela probably wouldn't answer. She was cloaked in mysteries that Rianne did not have time to solve. "Can you take me?"

  "Yes. Tomorrow."

  Rianne regarded Marcela. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

  Marcela chewed the inside of her cheek, then said, "Not many people go to this place. Some say it is haunted."

  "Bah. It's the way of the sea to make up fantastic stories. To scare people." She looked into Marcela's eyes. "You don't believe it, do you?"

  For the first time, Marcela smiled. "No. But even stories have a bit of truth to them. We're haunted by many things—by the ghosts of regret, mistakes, and sins of the past. And those can be more frightening than spirits from the afterworld."

  Marcela's speech blew through Rianne's veins like one of Neptune's gales in high summer. "Were you really a nun?" Marcela watched Rianne silently. "Why did you leave the Church?"

  Marcela rose from the table and moved to the bedside. She pulled the covers back and got in. "Tomorrow, we find your treasure." And she rolled over.

  Rianne sat looking at the figure in bed, frustrated. But what did it matter? Tomorrow, I find my treasure. She doused the table lamp and went to bed, too.

  The next morning, Rianne followed Marcela through town until they reached the outskirts, where Rianne checked her weapons before they entered the jungle. They traveled without speaking, but moved quickly. Soon, Rianne was breathing hard from the trek, wondering how Marcela knew the path. Marcela moved stealthily through the trees and vines, and Rianne was about to suggest a rest when the trees ended and Marcela stopped. Rianne took a few steps closer until they were elbow to elbow.

  In the clearing beyond stood a hill and at the top of that stood a yellow clapboard house. It was unassuming with its small windows and unadorned frame, but appeared neat and clean. Another house was several yards away from the first, almost identical, but larger. A road meandered away from the houses, linking them with more houses of varying pastel colors, all plain but neatly kept. "Where are we?" Rianne asked. "The place on the map."

  Rianne removed the chalice from the sack and looked at it, then again at the houses. "But why would there be a map to this place?"

  "Come, if you wish to find out."

  They walked up the hill, and a young man came storming out of the larger house, a musket pointed at them. "What do you want?" he demanded in English.

  Rianne moved for her pistol, but thought better of it. She'd be shot before she got it out of the sling.

  Marcela stepped in front of her. "William, it's me." Rianne stared at the back of Marcela's head, bewildered.

  He lowered his gun then looked at Rianne.

  "Go inside," a female voice commanded him, but he hesitated, still staring at Rianne with curious intensity. He turned then and retreated to the house, but not before Rianne noticed something familiar about him. Something in his fair features and sand-colored hair. What the bloody hell is going on here? The woman who had spoken was standing just outside the door. She wore black breeches and a red calico shirt. Her long brown hair, streaked with gray, was tied back into a plait.

  Rianne studied the stranger as best she could from a distance of several yards. "Have we met? You seem familiar."

  The woman straightened her back. "We have indeed," she said, taking a few tentative steps toward Rianne. "I've waited for this day for so long." Hope and wonderment filled her voice. "You've come home."

  "What are you talking about?" Who was this? What's going on?

  The stranger stopped a few paces from R
ianne. "I'm your mother."

  A roaring filled Rianne's ears, and her gut dropped down as if she'd just been run through with a dagger. She could feel her face burning. "You're lying," she said, half-accusing and half-hopeful. She was lying. She had to be.

  "Please come inside," she said, motioning toward the house.

  Rianne glanced at Marcela, whose expression remained impassive, but she, too, motioned for Rianne to follow the stranger. They walked up the dirt path to the house, thoughts and memories racing through Rianne's head. Inside, the house was warm and inviting, though simple. A small fire burned in the fireplace, a pot of stew hanging over it, and the smell reminded Rianne of the salmagundi Cook often made on the Queen's Wrath. How she missed the sway of her ship and standing at the gunwale watching the sun come up. How many days had it been? Five? Six? Seven? It might as well have been years. "Sit down," the woman said.

  My mother? It had been twenty years since Rianne had seen her mother, but wouldn't she recognize her own mother? As the woman sat down opposite Rianne and Marcela at the table, Rianne scrutinized every inch of her face. The blue eyes, the brown hair. It can't be.

  "I'm sorry, but it's been a long time. Why should I believe you? You say you're my mother. How do I know this?"

  "Use what you've got to find your way back home." Rianne almost jumped out of the chair. "What?"

  "That's what your father said to you when he left you at your aunt's." The woman stared right into Rianne's eyes. "And clearly, you did."

  Rianne's head swam and her throat dried out. "Gwendolyn." She couldn't bring herself to call her "Mother." Not yet.

  Gwendolyn nodded, and tears shone in her eyes.

  Rianne choked down the lump in her throat. "Why? Why did you leave me?"

  Gwendolyn wiped at her eyes. "Your father and I ran his ship together for years. Yes, your mum was a privateer as well. When I birthed you, I stayed in England until you were old enough to be on the ship with us. Do you remember?" She did. Bits and pieces, but enough.

  "You became ill on the ship, and we went to the Colonies." Gwendolyn cleared her throat and ran her palms across her thighs. "Someone informed on us, and your father and I were to go to trial for crimes at sea. I was with child. So we returned to Jamaica and stayed there."

  "With child? But I—"

  "Your brother, William." Gwendolyn looked out the window in the direction of the other yellow house. "Your father then took you to Virginia, where you would be safe, and brought me here."

  "What is this place?"

  Gwendolyn chuckled, then, a rich and deep sound that flooded Rianne with childhood warmth. "You might say it's a colony for old pirates. Everyone who lives here was a pirate—or privateer, as some of them like to fancy themselves."

  "Why didn't you come for me?"

  "I couldn't. If I'd been caught and tried, I would have met the rope's end. Here, I've been safe. No one talks about this place. The stories say it's haunted."

  Rianne put her head in her hands and closed her eyes. All these years, she's been right here in Jamaica.

  "Marcela, would you please get us something to drink?" Gwendolyn directed.

  Marcela stood, and Rianne looked up. "How do you know her?"

  "She was found wandering in town. An orphan. She had been . . . taken advantage of and needed a home."

  Marcela placed three cups on the table and disappeared again behind a wall.

  "She was ten," Gwendolyn said. "Just about your age when I last saw you." She looked wistfully down at her cup. "I took her in. When she was sixteen, she decided she wanted to become a nun." She patted Marcela playfully on the rear when the girl returned with a bottle and began filling the cups. Marcela smiled and rolled her eyes, as if to say, "Silly, wasn't I?"

  "I told her that, one day, my daughter, Rianne—her sister—would return to Jamaica and find me."

  Rianne gaped. "But how could you know? That chalice had been lost to me for years. It was by sheer Providence that it was returned to me."

  "And it was sheer Providence that I was counting on to bring you back to me. Or destiny. Or something magical. But I knew that you would find me someday."

  Gwendolyn got up and knelt by Rianne, placing her hands on her knees. "Oh, my child, I longed to see your face and hear your voice. Forgive me for abandoning you, but it seemed I had no choice. I wanted to ensure your safety. It was the only way I knew how." She rested her forehead on Rianne's knee.

  "I understand. But give me time. There's a lot to think about." She carefully moved her knees and stood up. "I must step outside. I'm afraid I'm a bit hot." She walked out the door and gulped air as if someone had been choking her. Mother. She had found her mother. Marcela joined her.

  "When I called you 'Sister,' " Rianne remarked, "I was speaking the truth." She smiled. "But how does one just stop being a nun?"

  Marcela bent to pick a wildflower growing on the path. "Mother told me that when my sister came, she would need my help. I decided that on that day, I would leave the Church. I'm just glad you came now and not twenty years from now."

  Laughing, Rianne squeezed Marcela's arm. "I always wanted a sister."

  Marcela plucked the petals of the flower, one by one. "Have sisters ever traveled together on a ship, Captain?"

  "You never answered my question," Rianne remarked. "How did you know I became a captain?"

  "Mother has received reports on you over the years. We live surrounded by pirates, after all."

  Rianne watched the petals as they floated to the ground. "I don't know if sisters have traversed the seas together, but not knowing things seems to be a trait of mine." The last petal landed softly on her boot. "But it has never stopped me." She glanced back at the house. "We shouldn't have any problem finding crewmembers here, I'd wager."

  "No, we shouldn't." She took Rianne's hand and pulled her back toward the house. "Welcome home."

  The Hangman's Dance

  Jane Fletcher

  The drunken whore threw herself onto the lap of Captain "Grim" Mary Beaumont and missed. She ended up face down on the floor, her dress in sufficient disarray to reveal to all in The Golden Fleece that she wore no undergarments beneath—not that anyone would have expected her to. The pale white hubs of her buttocks were twin moons in the candlelight. The whore gave an unconvincing squeal of dismay and tugged her skirt down. Roars of laughter filled the smoky brothel, but Grim Mary merely smirked as she extended one booted foot and kicked the hem up again, revealing yet more flesh, then inserted her toe into the triangular cleft at the top of the woman's thighs.

  The whore gave up any attempt of pretending that she had some modesty to preserve and wiggled her hips and moaned in a pantomime of pleasure. She then heaved herself up on her knees and crawled onto the pirate captain's lap to a chorus of whoops from Grim Mary's crew.

  In a dark corner of the room, Corporal John Cooper of the King's Dragoons watched it all with disapproving eyes. The dark corners in The Golden Fleece were generally the preserve of those who had the money for a whore, but whose finances did not go as far as a private room upstairs. Yet, despite having a month's pay in his pocket, John Cooper was sitting alone. He hoped it would not make him too conspicuous, but he had no intention of hiring company. On top of any other reason, he knew the dim light and plastered make-up served to conceal the pox sores that scarred the whores' faces.

  The risk of disease was clearly of no concern to Grim Mary. She clapped her mouth over the whore's in a forceful kiss, while her free hand burrowed beneath the recently straightened dress. The brazen display of deviance made Cooper's stomach contract in a painful spasm. He tried to look away, but his eyes refused to move. Was no one else concerned by two women cavorting in such an unnatural fashion? It was not as if she was trying to hide—quite the opposite. Grim Mary sat in the middle of the room, under its only lantern. But, of course, the crew don't care. The words ran through Cooper's mind. They're all over the whores now, but three days at sea and they'll be hammering away at each oth
er's ends again. Men would be men and had their needs. But how could women act in such a fashion? Cooper knew exactly what his father, the vicar, would have to say about it. At the thought, his throat felt suddenly dry, and he took a mouthful of beer, before the irony struck him.

  "The devil's brew that turns men into bestial sots, unfit to stand before the Lord " had been one of his father's favourite sermons. Cooper had been raised on tales of the evils of alcohol. Only after enlisting had he drunk his first beer, in an attempt to fit in with his new comrades. He was still a little surprised that its effect had not been quite as dramatic as his father had led him to expect.

  "Shameless women who ply the trade of the harlot" was another of his father's favourites. Had his father ever imagined a scene as depraved as that in The Golden Fleece? And what would his father make of Grim Mary? Most likely, he would refuse to believe she was a woman and claim her instead as a fiend straight from hell. Plenty of others would agree with the description. Cooper stared at the pirate captain. She was tall for a woman, with red-gold hair pulled back in a pigtail, in the same fashion as her crew. The lamplight was just strong enough to pick out the blue of her eyes, and the scar running across one cheek. She was dressed in a crimson brocade coat that she had stolen from another captain. If the stories were true, the darker stains on it were the original owner's blood. She wore both the coat and the blood as a trophy and a warning. As if any more proof was needed of her ruthlessness. Cooper felt his eyes narrow as he remembered other stories of Grim Mary—boatloads of innocent travellers she had forced to walk the plank, if their ship had not delivered sufficient treasure; rivals killed, slowly and gruesomely; ships sunk as sport. Grim Mary was dangerous, a violent thief and a murderer, cruel and remorseless. Even other pirates went in fear of her. How many people had she killed, while her lips held that same rakish grin? For the sake of all those she would yet harm, she should be brought to justice. Although, Cooper would have to admit his main motive was on his own account.

  Life in the cramped barracks was proving even more of a challenge than he had expected. The other soldiers were crass and loud, crowding in on him. Every action was noted. Privacy was impossible. Cooper desperately wanted to move into private quarters, even if it was no more than a couple of rooms. Just as long as he could shut the door at night and get away from the continual, "What you doing, John? Let's see."