Skulls & Crossbones

by Andi Marquette

  This is the type of barbarian we are pitted against. How can any civilized man fight against that? "Faith, sir. Surprise shall firmly be on our side."

  Surprise at our incompetence, perhaps. "Thank you, Mr. Stratford." The tension of her headache invaded her shoulders and showed no signs of breaking. She turned on her heel and set off to find Bodgers, debating whether she should put an end to the massages or ask for one.

  Events on the seventh day confirmed several of the captain's doubts about their disguises. A call of "Pirate spotted!" was shouted from the lookout above.

  The captain saw no ship in sight, but the midshipman in the crow's nest pointed to a small island. Its population consisted of a single, scraggly palm tree and an even more wretched pirate sitting in the paltry shade. As they got closer, the pirate waved them in. Hardwicke was instantly suspicious, but looking about, saw no place other pirates could lie in ambush.

  "Ahoy, there," Hardwicke shouted from the deck.

  "Ship ahoy," the pirate called back. His skin hung almost as loosely as the rags he wore.

  Hardwicke fought to keep her voice deep, raw, and guttural. "And what be ye doing out here alone?"

  "Marooned. Abandoned like a bottle emptied of grog. And who do I have the pleasure of speaking with, if I might inquire?"

  "Captain Patch Hardwicke."

  Bodgers shouted out, causing the captain to flinch. "Arrr. We be pirates. I'm second lieutenant Chumbucket Doylee."

  The pirate smiled, showing a line of filmy teeth. "I'm sure ye are. Must be somethin' wrong with me deadlights, for I'd near mistaken ye for king's men. Might y'tell me which fine ship this is yer sailin'?"

  Simultaneously, the answers of "The Nefarious,"

  "The Donnybrook," and "Bloody Entrails" were shouted.

  The captain glared at her two lieutenants. After hours of discussion last night, she had thought they'd come to a consensus on the most fear-inspiring name for their ship. Obviously, they had not.

  The pirate's laughter grated like a saw. " 'Tis a mighty complicated name that requires three men to speak it."

  "And yer own name, matey?" the captain asked, growing impatient. "Far simpler. You may call me Bones Benedict."

  The captain could not keep her eyebrow from rising above the patch. Redbeard's quartermaster. What the devil is he doing here?

  Bones Benedict continued, "If ye'd be so kind as to drop the theatrics and speak yer normal speech. I've always found the British tones quite lulling."

  "Arrr?" the second lieutenant asked.

  "Abandon the pretense, Mr. Bodgers," the captain said.

  "Chumbucket," the lieutenant whispered.

  "Abandon the pretense, or I shall leave you here with this unsavory villain."

  Mr. Bodgers turned pale.

  Hardwicke gave the marooned pirate a half-smile. "It appears you have seen through our deception. Very good, then. You may share that knowledge with your Davy Jones when he visits." The captain turned away. "Set sail. Let the devil take this man, if anything is left by the scavengers." She did not wait to see the pirate's reaction, afraid her bluff would be as transparent as her pirate disguise.

  "Wait," cried Bones Benedict. "Ye needn't be hasty. Might be I have more value than ye see. I know where Redbeard is."

  "What makes you think that would be of interest?"

  The captain could not hear the sound, but from the smile and the quavering chest, she knew the pirate was chuckling.

  "Perhaps it be, and perhaps not. Meself, I'm thinking we can enter a mutually profitable partnership."

  In the pause that followed, Hardwicke weighed peril against profit. "Wash him up," the captain finally ordered, "and bring him aboard."

  Bones Benedict's smile was a skeletal thing. Hardwicke wondered if she were speaking to the Jolly Roger's inspiration. Nearby, Lieutenant Stratford watched the prisoner like an osprey.

  "Where is Redbeard?" Hardwicke asked.

  "The wrong question, laddie. Ye should be asking first what he wants."

  "He's a pirate," Hardwicke said. "What he wants is obvious."

  Benedict shook his head. "Keep thinking all pirates are alike and ye'll win yerself a Red Kiss."

  The captain studied the man across from her, taking his measure. "Very well, what does Redbeard want?"

  "Immortality."

  The captain frowned. "What?"

  "I don't mean cheating death. I mean becoming a legend."

  Hardwicke was shocked to hear that her enemy's goal echoed her own daydreams. "Go on."

  "He seeks to create a treasure trove, a hoard no other pirate would ever surpass."

  "How does he seek to do this?"

  "Ahh, I'll tell ye all . . . for a price."

  The captain kept her expression cool. "What do you wish?"

  "Some grub and grog, fer starters. Some cackle fruit, hardboiled. That'll put me in the mood to sing a little shanty about a pirate named Captain Seagrave." Stratford spoke up. "He's referring to a pirate dead a half-century now. Seagrave had an uncanny talent for finding treasure. Some even called it supernatural."

  Bones Benedict sat up stiffly. "How'd ye know all that, matey?"

  The captain snorted. "You'll find that civilized people take to all manner of useful habits. Reading, for instance. Go on, Mr. Stratford."

  "There's not much more. Seagrave's own treasures were looted by others. Where his body's buried, no one knows."

  "Har, it seems yer books be missing pages. Redbeard knows where the body is. And whoever finds the body is promised the Devil's Lode." Hardwicke looked over to her lieutenant whose shrug was almost imperceptible. "A myth, Captain."

  "A lodestone of great power," the pirate explained. "It'll enchant any compass created with it. The bearer need only ask a question that can be answered by a direction, and the needle points the way. Think of it. He'd know the safest passages, the position of his enemies and his prey." Stratford sniffed derisively. "There was clearly not enough shade on your little island, Mr. Benedict, for the sun has scorched your wits."

  Hardwicke stopped her lieutenant with a raised hand. "It needn't be true, Mr. Stratford. What counts is that Redbeard believes it."

  "Aye, he does," Bones Benedict said. "He's as superstitious as they come, as is most of the crew of the Black Spot."

  "And yourself?"

  The pirate smiled. "I'm of a more practical mind."

  The captain took this all in. "I fear you've played a poor game. You've shown your hand, and now have nothing to barter with."

  "Too true, too true, I've nothing more to offer. Except yer lives. If ye couldn't fool me with yer act, ye won't be foolin' Redbeard. And there's still the matter of finding him."

  "What do you want in return?" Stratford interjected.

  "Why, me life, of course. And a pardon. But most importantly, a ship to call me own."

  "Very good," Hardwicke said. "I can ask the king to throw in the Crown Jewels as well. And might some fresh, roasted babies be to your liking?"

  "Don't mock. I'm offering me services."

  "Services? What services of yours could we possibly require?"

  "A tutor. As it stands, yer only hope to pass as pirates would be if Redbeard has taken to wearin' two eye patches. And then, only if ye muzzle that Chumbucket fool."

  "You've given your list of demands. Here is my list of conditions. If you teach us to become pirates, well enough to fool Redbeard, and if I am still alive, my ship and crew whole, Redbeard dead or detained, then I will do what is within my power to help you gain a pardon. Perhaps even a ship to call your own." The captain did not add that she lacked the authority to grant either of those things.

  Bones Benedict cackled. "On that island, I could feel Jones's grip on my throat. I hope I can trust ye, even if it's just a wee bit more than Jones. If ye keep yer word, I'll keep mine."

  "One last question. You were Redbeard's man. Why should we believe you'd betray him?"

  "Betrayal for betrayal. Though I should warn ye I
won't lift a finger to spill his blood. That much I owe him."

  "What did you two fight over?"

  "He wanted to put an end—"

  "An end to what?"

  Embarrassment flashed over Bones Benedict's face. "The massages. Now do we have a deal?" The captain put out her hand, and the pirate shook it.

  The presence of a real pirate invigorated the men. The crew took to their schooling with remarkable enthusiasm, so much so that the captain reminded them daily they were still servants of the empire.

  Their first lesson happened at night and consisted of Bones Benedict getting the men drunk. The goal wasn't the actual inebriation, he told the captain, but the consequent hangovers.

  "Will put them in the proper frame of mind," Bones chimed.

  Sure enough, the next day saw the men as wobbly as any landlubber. No one was excused from his duties, and they soon achieved the appropriate state of surliness.

  "Remember this disposition, mateys," Benedict ordered. "Yer lives may depend on it."

  Over the next week, the lessons intensified. For every desired effect, the pirate employed some unorthodox method. The men attained the proper facial expressions by snorting gunpowder, the appropriate voice by gargling vinegar, and the correct stagger by having their breeches starched. At no point were they allowed to break from their roles. At night, they practiced giving each other stares so cold, they could make ice shiver. Amazing, Hardwicke thought, as she saw the wild transformation come over her men. This might actually work.

  A mist fell overnight, eerie and thick. The captain worked hard not to let the strange fog dampen the men's spirits, and in this endeavor, Bodgers proved himself pivotal.

  "You can't ask the men to suppress their fear," he told the captain, "or it will simply fester. They have to feel their fear, but let them feel it in a controlled manner."

  The captain watched as Bodgers, standing on the main deck, enacted a cycle of ghost stories—tales of haunted ports, of beautiful blood-sucking sirens, of skeleton crews sailing becalmed seas.

  A spark ignited in Hardwicke's mind. She found Bones Benedict and pulled him aside.

  "How close are we now to your base?"

  "A week. I can almost smell it."

  "And you're familiar with this area? Are there are any reefs or rocks we need worry over?"

  "If the fog were gone, ye'd see for yerself that the sea is clear."

  "And how sure are you that Redbeard is crossing this way?"

  The pirate looked up as he did some mental calculations. "By now, he's found Seagrave's bones, which legend says will bestow the Devil's Lode. He'll be ahead of us some ways, going back to the base to stock up before his tour of plunder."

  "Can we overtake him?" The sloop was not as formidable as Redbeard's Black Spot, but it would be much faster.

  "Perhaps."

  "Very good," the captain said. "We need to reach Redbeard before he gets back to his base." Without explanation, she strode off to find the ship's cook.

  Hardwicke could only imagine what Redbeard must have thought as he watched their sloop break through the fog. In truth it was a close call, both ships nearly colliding, but her luck held true.

  This is it, thought the captain. She stood on deck looking similar enough, she hoped, to the long-dead Captain Seagrave. It had been a concerted effort: Stratford's history books, Bodgers's costuming skills, and Bones Benedict's inside knowledge. Surprisingly, the dead pirate had been a slight man, whose savagery had tamed his men wholly without the benefit of an intimidating stature. Hardwicke walked with a pronounced lurch, wore a studded eye patch, and kept a bottle of rum tucked in her pocket. The pirate, legend stated, drank so often that he would bleed rum when cut.

  With no small trepidation, the captain allowed the incontinent parrot to perch on her shoulder once more. Seagrave, it seemed, had a pet named Bloodfeather, which he was never seen without. At least she did not have to worry about her clothes getting soiled. She had borrowed Bodgers's regalia— with a few alterations—and the whole ensemble was sprinkled with flour that the cook had reluctantly surrendered.

  The sailors, too, were sprinkled with flour, turning them into a fearsome ghost crew. As a final touch, lanterns hung securely from the masts, creating the effect of floating corpse-lights.

  "Redbeard," the captain shouted. In the silence of the mists, the echoes rebounded ominously.

  A figure on the deck of the Black Spot turned. "Who calls me?"

  "Do ye not recognize Captain Seagrave?"

  The silhouette of Redbeard stood in silence. Hardwicke did not fail to notice how huge a profile the fearsome pirate cut.

  "Come with me, Redbeard, and I shall show ye riches not even hinted in yer dreams."

  "The Devil's Lode?" Redbeard asked.

  It was Hardwicke's turn to stand silent. Either Bones Benedict had miscalculated or Redbeard had failed to obtain the artifact he hunted. "Aye," Hardwicke yelled. "The Lode. And more."

  "Swear the oath that no harm shall come to me, and I will go aboard."

  The captain felt tugging from behind her. It was Bones Benedict. "Repeat after me," he whispered, and the captain did. The oath was a jumble, mixing the ideals of pillaging and freedom with nonsense phrases about wannions and fiddling wenches. She sighed in relief when it was over, and sighed again when Redbeard left the deck. A longboat dropped portside of the Black Spot and headed toward the Persistence.

  Could it really be this easy? the captain wondered, as she stood bathed in the glow of the ghostly lanterns.

  When the longboat neared, a rope ladder was dropped, and the pirate climbed to the deck. Up close, Hardwicke was unnerved by the pirate captain's hulking presence. His face was rough and ragged like coral, and his notorious beard—wild, snarled, monstrous. Hardwicke wondered how many men's blood had drenched that matted tangle. In one meaty hand, the pirate dragged a large canvas bag.

  Redbeard's reaction was one of awe as he looked at the "spirits" around him. The flour they all wore created a sinister effect in the ghastly mist and lighting.

  Hardwicke saw her crew giving the cold stares they'd practiced these last few days. Seeing their contorted, terrible visages, she'd never been more proud.

  "I've come, then," Redbeard said, "to forge anew where yer voyage ended and to carve upon the sea a path of blood and fire. What say ye?" The parrot squawked, "Dropping anchor!"

  Hardwicke froze like a statue, forced herself not to react to the splash on her shoulder. "Aye, we shall drop anchor in a sea of blood!"

  Oblivious, Redbeard continued, "And that sea will spread, red rivers coursing down the land."

  "Dropping anchor!" the parrot said again, and a second plopping sound echoed in the mists.

  Hardwicke nodded desperately. "Aye, dropping anchor in coursing rivers." Redbeard's voice grew louder. "And the rivers shall water the soils, and the earth shall bear vile fruit."

  The parrot flew up to perch on Hardwicke's head. Her eyes widened.

  "The vilest fruit!" she agreed. A hard swat sent the parrot flying. It shrieked in protest and fluttered up to the foremast.

  When Hardwicke sensed Redbeard's puzzlement, she quickly gestured to the canvas bag that Redbeard held. "Reveal what ye carry," she ordered, though she had a grisly idea what it would be.

  "The tales claimed that when I found yer remains, I would inherit the Devil's Lode. But until ye arrived, I thought the tales wrong, for all my efforts have left my hands empty." He opened the bag and poured out its contents. Bones clattered, broken pieces, the last of which was a cracked skull complete with an eye patch. Upon seeing the remains, Bodgers promptly shrieked and fainted.

  Time seemed to slow, and everyone looked at each other.

  When Redbeard finally realized that ghosts shouldn't faint, his roar broke through the silence. "Who are ye?"

  Hardwicke knew when to quit. She threw off her cape and straightened. "My name is Captain Willoughby Hardwicke of the King's Royal Navy, and you are under arrest for the c
rime of piracy."

  Redbeard's cutlass flashed out in an eye-blink. He looked around, flushed with anger. "Ghosts you dress as. Ghosts ye'll be."

  Hardwicke's heart raced. It was unlikely Redbeard could escape. Even so, if a fight broke out, Hardwicke knew she would lose crewmen's lives to this ogre's ferocity. Up till now, she had thought herself the equal to any navy captain, but her tongue hesitated to give the command to attack. Could she order anyone to their death if it were possible to avoid it? Redbeard's body tensed to charge.

  Hardwicke had no more time to deliberate. "A duel," she shouted. "A duel, then, captain to captain."

  She looked to her crew. "That is an order. None of you are to cross blades with this man. If he wins, you will let him leave."

  Redbeard's laughter shook the masts. Without another word he rushed forth, and the battle was joined. From the first clash, the two fought with all the martial skills in their repertoire. Hardwicke countered the pirate's strength with speed, his savagery with training, his bloodlust with discipline. As the fight raged, the pirate's superior endurance began to tip the scale. Where Hardwicke was fighting for breath, the pirate's face beamed, absent of any weariness. His feral smile could have curdled blood.

  The pirate pressed again. Their bodies were so close Hardwicke feared it would devolve into a wrestling match, a fight she would surely lose. Redbeard started moving them toward the rail, his strategy clearly to force her overboard.

  For a moment, their swords locked, and their gazes as well. Hardwicke caught the brutal glee in Redbeard's eyes, but refused to blink. He saw

  something as well, something Hardwicke had given all her effort to hide these past weeks.

  "You're a woman!" The villain bellowed a laugh.

  She forced herself to ignore the smattering of gasps around her. A few steps behind her, she knew the railing waited, and beyond that the cold, cruel sea. As Redbeard renewed his assault, Hardwicke's elbow brushed against something in her jacket pocket, and when she realized what it was, she reached to grab it.