The Pirate King

by J. P. Sheen

  “Save your breath! This boy’s no idiot! He knows what he’s in for, that you ain’t his savior!”

  “I’ll have you both hung!” Eselder cried in sheer desperation.

  “Good luck with that, boy,” said Kurzon dryly, “I’d worry about your own neck if I was you.”

  “But my commission—”

  “If you want to save your precious career, you’d better listen to me!” Kurzon shouted at Thornhill, “You think we can pat His Royal Highness here on the head and send him skipping back to his dad? He’s seen too much! The best we can do is make the most of the opportunity we’ve been given!”

  “And what’s that?” Thornhill asked, sounding desperate.

  “Look what we’ve got!” crowed Thug Kurzon, waggling Eselder like a fish on a hook, “Think of the sovs the King would give to get his son back safe and sound!”

  “I wouldn’t count on it!” Eselder snapped, grief making him bold, “There w-was a revolt the night I was p-pressganged…my p-parents are most l-likely dead!”

  “Nice try, boy,” Kurzon replied smoothly, “We got word before leaving port. The King and Queen are alive and well. Son went tragically missing though.”

  He laughed, clearly interpreting Eselder’s whimper as one of fury. In truth, Eselder’s whole body had gone slack with relief. His parents were alive.

  “I don’t know…” Thornhill hesitantly eyed the terrified boy. “I still don’t see how this helps me.”

  “You don’t like the idea of being filthy rich?” demanded Kurzon, “We’ll send the ransom note anonymously. I’m sure Mr. Crown Heir here will be delighted to write a note to his papa, given the right motivation…”

  He pressed his knife down harder, and Eselder shuddered.

  “I don’t have it all worked out yet. We’ve got the whole voyage back to Elioth to figure this out! But if we play our cards right, Thornhill, you’ll keep your ship and your commission, and we’ll both be swimming in gold! This is our lucky day!”

  “It’s no use,” said Thornhill dourly, “He’ll tell his father everything.”

  “No, he won’t,” contradicted Kurzon. He lifted his knife and pressed it gently against Eselder’s trembling lips. “He’s going to keep nice and quiet for us, one way or the other, and he can decide for himself which sounds more pleasant: following his friend down to Keel Cutlass, or keeping right on as a happy cabin boy aboard the finest ship in the Navy.”

  Thornhill looked relieved. “I suppose…so long as we don’t kill the boy…”

  “What?” asked Kurzon, sounding astonished. He held his knife right in Eselder’s line of vision. “Kill a fine young hand such as this? Wouldn’t dream of it! Unless, of course, he starts giving hints that he don’t want to serve aboard Navy’s finest ship…then we might get hurt feelings, and who knows what we might do?”

  He looked at Thornhill. “Satisfied?”

  “Well…I suppose so,” said Thornhill lamely.

  “What about you?” Kurzon hissed, shaking Eselder by his hair, “Say ‘aye aye’ to your captain! Say it!”

  Eselder was just about to cave when a timid knock interrupted their exchange. Kurzon and Thornhill looked at each other, and Eselder glanced sideways from his uncomfortable vantage point. Through the glass, he could see who was knocking.

  It was Cheddar.

  Eselder’s face turned hot as the cabin boy entered the day cabin and realized what sort of scene he had stumbled into. Cheddar’s eyes briefly locked onto Eselder’s, and the prince saw all his misery and fear echoed back at him.

  “Did I say come in?” Kurzon growled. Cheddar jumped and hastily explained, “Mr. Bull told me to tell you…we’ve run down a fishing schooner…”

  “Well, you’ve told me; now get out!”

  Cheddar stepped backward but hesitated ever so briefly. He cast a glance at Eselder, who recognized the pity in his look. Unfortunately, so did Kurzon.

  The bosun cursed and sprang to his feet, wielding his knife. Cheddar blanched. Thornhill and Eselder cried out, but at the last second, Kurzon slammed his knife on the breakfast table and hit Cheddar with his fist so hard the boy roared in pain.

  “Please! Mr. Bull told me—”

  “Do you think I give a damn what Mr. Bull said?” Kurzon roared and hit him again, this time in the stomach. Cheddar doubled over, sobbing so vehemently that snot flew out of his nose. Eselder couldn’t bear it any longer.

  “I won’t do it!” he shouted, mainly to distract Kurzon. His ploy worked. The bosun turned to face him, bloody murder in his eyes. Behind him, Cheddar wheezed and cried.

  “I won’t cooperate,” Eselder said coldly. His voice didn’t stutter, not even once. “I’ll do everything in my power to escape. And if I do—”

  Kurzon didn’t flinch, but Thornhill did.

  “I’ll make sure you both come to justice!”

  Eselder’s sentiment wasn’t rage. It went beyond that. Whatever it was, he was so full of it that he hadn’t any room left for fear. He thought of Blake Ransom and yelled all the louder, “I won’t forget this ship or those aboard her! I have seen their lot! I’ve lived their life! I won’t abandon them to the likes of you!”

  Thug Kurzon’s face was red, and Thornhill’s white as chalk. But they weren’t the only ones paying him heed. Huddled behind Kurzon, Cheddar listened to Eselder’s every word, his eyes boring holes in the tile.

  Kurzon was the first to recover. “What a fine speech, boy.”

  “Now get out!” he spat, and Cheddar hastily obeyed, “I need to teach our royal guest here a lesson.”

  Thornhill nervously cleared his throat.

  “We should oversee the unloading,” he suggested, fanning himself with his hat.

  “Looting fishing boats now, are we?” Eselder inquired, contempt dripping from his tongue.

  Kurzon looked like he was about to snatch his knife back up. At last, he growled, “Aye aye, captain. Wouldn’t want to lose my temper and cut off the boy’s fine fingers. He’ll be needing those.”

  Before they left, Kurzon ordered Thornhill to get a piece of parchment and something to write with. Thornhill set down his hat and left the cabin. Moments later, he came back in with a quill, inkwell, and sheet of parchment, all of which he put on the breakfast table. Kurzon followed him to the door, grabbing his knife on the way out. Before he left, he paused and looked over his shoulder. Malice glittered in his eyes, promising all sorts of things that made Eselder’s intestines shrivel with fear.

  “Start thinking about what you want to write to your dad,” the bosun sneered, “And remember, boy. You don’t need all your fingers to write a letter.”

  He grinned and slammed the door shut behind him.

  It was a windy day and Blake was aloft, pretending that he was a rigger aboard a pirate ship. When he climbed down out of the oak tree, a tentative voice surprised him.

  “Aren’t you afraid of falling?”

  It belonged to a lad around Blake’s age, perhaps a year younger. He was clearly a courtier’s son, but Blake had never seen him before.

  Blake flushed with pleasure. He rarely spoke to anyone anymore, but now he bragged, “No! I’d never fall!”

  “It is an admirable feat!” cried the other boy with obvious sincerity. Blake felt his guard lower. He even smiled, and the smile felt good.

  That same day, Blake was called to Jaimes’s study.

  “You’re dripping wet!” the King complained, for probably the thousandth time in his life, “Where were you, in the lake?”

  Blake nodded, looking cheerfully defiant. Jaimes sighed and rubbed his eyes behind his spectacles. Blake, however, wasn’t in the mood to fight. He felt bizarrely lighthearted from his brief exchange that morning, and he wanted the feeling to last as long as possible. It was like coming back to life after spending a long time stumbling through a black, bewildering haze.

  Closing the door, he shot straight for a crystal decanter brimming with port. He managed to uncork it and grab a glass before
Jaimes barked, “Hands off, Blake!”

  As it had been a ceremonial act in the first place, Blake did without arguing. He swaggered over to Jaimes’s desk and plopped down in a wingback chair.

  “What are you doing?” he asked politely.

  Sitting behind mounds of parchment, Jaimes looked like Blake had started reciting Elioth’s oath of allegiance.

  “What am I doing?” he repeated, sounding flummoxed.

  Blake nodded earnestly, looking more like the boy from Moanamiri than he had in years. He tried very hard to appear interested.

  “Approving a new tariff on exported tea, for one thing,” Jaimes said, still looking uncertain.

  “Is that good or bad?” asked Blake, grabbing a bronze lion paperweight. He didn’t really give a damn about the tariff. He just wanted Jaimes to keep talking. He felt like he was starving but had only just realized it that morning under the oak tree. Now he was dying to fill up the cavernous hole inside of him, and he wanted Jaimes to help him do it.

  “Well,” said Jaimes carefully, “It probably won’t be a popular decision with the colonists. But I believe it to be a fair tax.”

  “Will there be riots?” Blake asked eagerly, replacing the paperweight.

  “I…hope not.”

  “Will the colonists burn the ships bringing the tea into port? That’s what I would do.”

  Jaimes looked like he was trying not to smile. Blake watched the corners of his mouth, transfixed. It had been a long time since his brother had done anything but frown at him.

  “I take it you’re opposed to the new tariff?” Jaimes asked, feigning annoyance.

  Blake shrugged. “I don’t like tea. Only rum, morning, noon, and night!”

  Jaimes visibly brightened. Now he looked years younger, too. His mouth tugged upward, making Blake’s heart leap.

  “Actually, there’s a high tax on rum too!”

  Blake tried to scowl but started grinning instead. “You did that just to spite me, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Blake. You and all your rum-swigging friends.”

  “I’ll have to rally ‘em. Light the torches, me hearties!” Blake shook his fists at an imaginary mob. “We’ve got the right to get schnockered whenever we dem well want! To blazes with the King’s tax!”

  “You wouldn’t make a half bad orator, Blake,” remarked Jaimes, rubbing his chin and smiling.

  “It’s the cussing,” Blake replied modestly. He thought about it and asked, “Would a ship full of rum catch fire easily?”

  “Yes,” said Jaimes solemnly, adding rapidly as an afterthought, “But Cribbshire Abbey is quite a ways from any harbor.”

  “Where?”

  That was how Blake learned about his punishment for his poor behavior. Jaimes launched into a rapid-fire explanation, only stammering once or twice, about how Cribbshire Abbey was the finest (and strictest) private grammar school in Elioth. Only the very wealthiest families could afford to send their sons to Cribbshire Abbey, where the lucky lads received a top-notch education, fresh country air, and friends for life.

  As Jaimes earnestly explained the reasons behind his decision, Blake’s face lost all the light that had recently been rekindled there. He slumped back into his chair, staring at the bronze paperweight. When Jaimes finished his speech, Blake threw his hands to his cheeks in mock excitement.

  “How uttah-ly exciting!” he cried, “Pah-haps they shall even teach me my let-tahs!”

  “I know you’re angry with me,” snapped Jaimes, “But you’ve no one to blame but yourself!”

  At that helpful remark, Blake’s countenance lost its joviality, and his clothes started pressing on him again. He channeled all his discomfort into hating the tyrannical brother who made him wear this straitjacket.

  “Lord Cribbshire, my advisor—”

  “Bet you need a lot of those!”

  “His son goes to Cribbshire Abbey,” Jaimes pressed on, his pen quivering slightly, “He’s at court for the holidays. It didn’t look like Cribbshire killed him. You might survive there, Blake, even without the sea, if you tried very, very hard.”

  Whatever good ideas Jaimes wanted to inspire in Blake, they were all undone by the sarcasm in his voice.

  “It could even be an opportunity to turn over a new leaf.”

  Blake pretended to perk up. Like the prospect of turning over a new leaf was actually a comfort to him, instead of a mocking punch to the gut.

  “Cribbshire, who?” he asked innocently.

  Jaimes knew him well enough to shoot him a suspicious look. Perhaps he was overdoing it a little. He made a face, and that did the trick.

  “Chauncey Cribbshire?” said Jaimes, “I think you’ve met. He mentioned that you two spoke earlier today on the grounds.”

  Oh…Blake’s eyes lit up. So that was the little Lord Cribbshire.

  “Well, is that all?” he asked pleasantly, standing up, “Can I go?”

  Jaimes stared at Blake’s amiable face, looking at a loss. “Yes…”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” said Blake brightly, practically skipping to the doors.

  “Blake.”

  Jaimes’s tone was shrewd and suspicious. Blake froze, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Whatever you’re thinking. Don’t do it.”

  Blake twirled around, his mouth ajar with wounded indignation. “Who, me? Please, Jaimes. I’m a Cribbshire lad now. Decorum is our motto, and respectability is our creed.”

  He offered an infuriated Jaimes a salute and bounded out the door. He had a Cribbshire lad to hunt down. In Kingston Palace’s halls, he whispered to the terrified boy, “I will make your life hell.”

  Blake was as good as his word. He bullied Chauncey Cribbshire relentlessly. No opportunity passed that he didn’t seize with relish. It was possibly the best Candelwedde holidays ever. Blake whispered threats during social gatherings and left frightening signs of his presence inside his victim’s room. He made sure that Chauncey Cribbshire couldn’t feel safe anywhere. It was gratifying to watch somebody else walk around Kingston Court with a perpetually haunted look. And Blake much preferred Jaimes’s rage to the cold shoulder he had gotten ever since their arrival at court. He might be despised, but he wouldn’t suffer to be ignored.

  Then, to Blake’s annoyance, the high-strung aristocrat broke down into a fit of hysterical tears one time too many, and his parents sent him back to Cribbshire Abbey early to deal with his shattered nerves. Blake spent his final weeks at Kingston Court sulking. What was all the fuss about? It wasn’t as if he had actually done anything. From the oak tree, Blake sighed as he watched Cribbshire Jr.’s carriage roll out of the courtyard. Such a shame.

  However, Blake’s efforts over the past month hadn’t been wasted. He had made an important discovery. Maybe it was true that he couldn’t change his life for the better. But that winter, he learned that he could change other people’s lives for the worse…and that he was very good at it.

  And, while that didn’t take his pain away, it was still a wonderful consolation.

  Blake’s opportunity to desert came sooner than expected.

  In the late afternoon, he was absently staring at a faint gibbous moon when he suddenly gave a start and squinted. There was another vessel on the horizon. A fishing boat, by the look of her, and a sorry piece of work. Scars ran down the schooner’s green hull, and her yellow trim was all nicked up. Still, the decrepit vessel was Blake’s bid for freedom, and perhaps there was more to her than met the eye. Blake peered at the barely legible script on her hull. The Sandpiper. He hoped the Sandpiper wouldn’t capsize with an additional passenger aboard her.

  The HMS Swift must have spotted the fishing boat too, for she abruptly altered her course. Like a giant wooden bully, she fired a warning shot at the schooner, and Blake watched with mild sympathy as a group of fishermen lost their grip on their bulging net. What if they saw him? Oh, well. What were they going to do? Rat him out?

  It wasn’t long before a white flag ascended the Sandpipe
r’s mainmast, and the Swift dropped anchor beside her.

  Ha, glorious freedom! Blake was about to scuttle down the ladder when guilt caught up to him. He scowled. The captain’s cabin was out of reach, high on the top deck. Blake’s salvation was a quick dip away—he had to take it! Besides, what good would it do Eselder if he got recaptured? If he escaped now, he could pop in on King Jaimes and let him know where his son was…

  Blake nodded firmly. That was the thing to do.

  …If, that is, he hadn’t any qualms about leaving Eselder in the hands of Captain Charles Thornhill.

  Blake scowled fiercely. He seemed to recall that Charles Thornhill spared the children of respectable families. If the royal family wasn’t respectable enough for him, what was? Eselder would be fine. Just bloody fine.

  Blake’s writhing stomach still rooted him to the spot. He teetered on the brink of the entry port, flicking feverish glances at the Sandpiper.

  “Look, he’s no better off with me!” he finally snarled at the daytime moon, “I’ve got a Crown to steal and a traitor to kill, and even if I weren’t a sick, twisted bugger, he wouldn’t be safe with me, not where I’m headed…”

  Muffled voices behind the entry port cut Blake’s arguments short. With a jolt, he remembered precisely where Thornhill’s men would exit the Swift. He barely had time to swing onto the side ladder before the entry port opened. He started rapidly descending, but Charles Thornhill’s agitated protest stopped him short.

  “But holding the King’s son prisoner—”

  “Is no different from our past ventures,” Kurzon interrupted him smoothly, “We’ve been taking advantage of the King’s patronage for a long time, and you’ve never been squeamish about it before.”

  “This is entirely different!” Thornhill protested.

  Kurzon laughed at him. “What’s so different? We’ve been stealing from the Crown for years. Makes little difference to me what the goods may be!”

  Blake realized that he was as hot as a firebrand, and it had nothing to do with the summer sun.

  If you touched him, Thornhill…if you so much as laid a finger on him…

  Thornhill tittered, “You oughtn’t have told him about…about that pirate. He cared about him. Probably the only soul on earth who did.”