The Sea's Rough Magic

by Alicia C Graybill

  McSwain snarled his hand in Aaron’s hair and yanked him forward and down, his knees making a muffled thumping on the rug. “I’ll not hear any more o’ that talk, Johnson. If I do, ye’ll be shark-bait or, worse, I’ll leave ye on some little blot o’ land t’ starve t’ death, hmmm? Wouldn’t want that now, would ye?”

  The hand in Aaron’s hair prevented him from doing much more than a tight little negative shake of his head. McSwain’s other hand undid his breeches, sending them to the floor with a shove. The hand then reached for Aaron’s face, running across it before digging fingertips into the cheeks to force his mouth open.

  Shifting his grip on Johnson’s hair, he made room for his second hand to tighten in the locks, loading himself into the former captain’s mouth. He watched as Johnson opened himself as wide as possible to accommodate the invader.

  “Open yer eyes,” He ordered Johnson, who struggled to obey. Angus would have preferred to see adoration or at least some affection in those eyes. Instead, all he saw was resentment and hate. He smiled at that. “There’s a fine line, boy, ‘tween hatin’ and lovin’. Give it time, eh? We got all eternity.”

  But, after the initial thrill of Johnson’s submission, he began to realize that he couldn’t feel anything. The lust was there, he could feel that in every fiber of his being but no matter what he did, nothing could bring him to completion. He thrust himself harder into the mouth, hearing the sound of Johnson’s gag reflex being triggered, sensing the impact of his groin against Aaron’s face, the thrusts becoming more savage as the time went on. He grew aware that Johnson’s fists were slamming into him then the blows became weaker, less coordinated. It was only when he felt Johnson go limp, all resistance gone, that he glanced down to see he had bruised, battered and suffocated him into senselessness.

  He pulled his breeches back on and lifted Johnson into the bunk. Feeling a twinge of regret and self-hatred, he fetched some water and a towel to clean the boy up. Wiping at the blood on the younger man’s face from his battered mouth, he recalled the first time he saw Johnson.

  He’d been in the Wailing Bride when the young man, dressed in fine though plain seafarer’s garb, stepped in. Black hair, some tied in braids with beads to finish them, the rest falling loosely down his back, glistening, made his sun-drenched complexion and fierce blue eyes stand out. A bright red scarf held the hair back from his face. The face was what made Angus act. On a woman, it would have rivaled the legendary Trojan Helen’s. On a man—or more properly, at the time, a boy—it made men who would never dream of touching another man dizzy with lust. He had barely noticed the somewhat taller, older man, also good-looking but not in the same way, who stepped in to stand at the boy’s shoulder.

  Angus had allowed them to settle in, to make their business known in some capacity. Looking for a first-mate, they were. The last first-mate had met with ill-fortune at their last port of call, hanged by the British, and they needed a new man to help handle the navigating, who was also good with sword and pistol. McSwain sat patiently where he was, seeing man after man approach the pair, speak with them for a time then walk away, some with anger in their eyes, others with disappointment. At long last, McSwain had approached.

  “Lookin’ fer a new first-mate, are ye?” He asked with a smile. He tried not to let his hunger for the boy-captain show. “I b’lieve ye’ll find me well-suited fer the job.”

  “An’ who might you be?” The older man asked, pre-empting the younger man from speaking. The captain gave him a look but shrugged it off after a moment.

  “Angus McSwain, former captain of the Nighthawk. Lost her in a battle with a French privateer but managed t’ get me and me boys back t’ dry land in one piece,” Unlike the other men who had approached, McSwain deliberately took a seat at their table and called for a bottle. When the wench brought it by, McSwain grabbed her arm and drew her down to kiss him on the mouth as he stuffed two shillings into her cleavage. The girl giggled.

  “Bit cold, aren’t those, love?”

  Angus wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Maybe ye can help me warm me purse after I’m done here, eh?”

  The serving-girl laughed and tangled her fingers in his beard. “Oh, you are a smooth one, aren’t you? I’ll be waiting.”

  When McSwain looked back at the two men, their attitudes had changed to his advantage. The older man seemed relieved and the younger seemed interested. He smiled at them again, opened the bottle and filled both of their mugs. “Now, seems t’ me it’s only fair ye return the favor. You are?”

  “Johnson, Captain Aaron Johnson of the Saucy Maid,” The young one said. “An’ this is the quartermaster aboard ‘er, Henry the Lash Stern. We’re new t’ the area an’ in need o’ someone who knows his way about and who can be a good first-mate. Why should you be that first-mate?”

  So Angus had launched into his life story. Born in Scotland nearly two score before, his father had taken them to sea with him until he was almost five. Apprenticed to a merchant captain at 7 years of age by his newly-widowed mother, Angus advanced in his education and career until he was near 20. At that point, he went to work on a ship bound for the Caribbean. The captain of that ship proved weak-willed and treacherous, setting the men against each other for sport so he could wager on the outcome of the fight. When he won, he collected with a savagery unmatched. When he lost, he denied that he’d ever made the wager and the winner, often as not, ended up being flogged. When Angus’s best friend aboard the Nighthawk died as a result of his flogging, Angus could stand it no more. He led the mutiny, keelhauled Captain Marsh, and turned pirate. For two decades, Bloody McSwain of the Nighthawk was the nightmare of many a ship’s captain in the West Indies. Until the day she went down and he and his crew made Tortuga in their leaky longboats.

  Johnson looked skeptical but Stern seemed to understand. “Aye, I’ve seen it happen just so. Well, Aaron, what d’ ye think?”

  Johnson’s eyes met his, unflinchingly, for several seconds. Angus just gazed steadily into those appealing orbs. Finally, Johnson said, “Awright, ye got yerself the job. Be at the dock tomorrow mornin’ at dawn and I’ll send a boat fer ye, savvy?”

  McSwain nodded once, almost a bow, and Johnson and Stern left. For the next 2 years, McSwain worked hard at proving himself loyal and indispensable. In the meantime, he played the dangerous game of flirting with and leading the young Captain on while pretending before the quartermaster that he was only interested in pleasurable company of the feminine gender. To his own surprise, the double-dealing worked. Just before the mutiny, he and Aaron were meeting secretly for stolen moments of pleasure. Stern invited him along to go wenching. Neither questioned McSwain. And it was at that point that they learned of the sea-hag’s gold on the Isle of the Fates. A treasure worth more than any three well-loaded merchants combined and just sitting there ripe for the taking with naught but a daft old woman for protection.

  He gazed upon Johnson’s face for several more minutes, tracing fingers across the lips that were swelling and purpling by the moment. The lust still burned inside him. He reached out to wind a cluster of braids around his hand, bringing the black hair and baubles into the moonlight to glow against the bone-white of his hand. He had fought to deny the curse but it was now more apparent than ever that something had to be done. The curse had to be broken.

  Nearly three hours later, he was lying in the bunk trying to warm himself on the former Captain’s body when there was a knock at the door. McSwain snarled silently and rose.

  “Come in, ye bleedin’ cockroach,” He ordered, stepping to the table to pick up a ripe peach. Aaron had been at them again, he could see. He would have to punish him for that.

  The door swung open and the Lash stepped in. “McSwain, I would speak with you.”

  At the sound of the voice, Aaron’s blue eyes opened and he pulled himself upright. Henry’s eyes cut to his former lover briefly, returned to Angus, then flew back to Aaron, taking in the sight of the battered mouth. Angus saw the bright eyes meet the a
mber ones pleadingly and knew he would have to be rid of Stern or Johnson. His instincts told him to be rid of both but a glance at those eyes, those sapphire eyes that begged Stern for assistance, made his mind up for him.

  “And what d’ ye want?” McSwain growled, pacing across the cabin to place himself between the former captain and the quartermaster. “I ain’t got all day.”

  “Me an’ the lads, we’ve been talkin’ it over. We need to get back the treasure we already spent and head back to the island. It ain’t worth what we’re going through,” Stern glared at him and he sensed that Stern knew exactly what had happened between him and Aaron.

  “An’ what would you be doin’ about it if I don’t agree, hmmm?”

  For a moment, Henry glared into McSwain’s eyes then he looked away. “Not sayin’ that there’d be anythin’ to do about it, Cap’n. Jus’- This ain’t right, Angus. You an’ I know it ain’t. A man should be able t’ enjoy life. What’s the point in livin’ if ye can’t take yer pleasure from it?”

  At that, Henry’s eyes rose to Aaron’s face. McSwain’s eyes followed his line of sight and the vision made him wince again. Something had transpired while he was gazing guiltily at Aaron because Aaron was now staring miserably at the floor and the Lash’s eyes had an odd glisten to them. McSwain sighed harshly.

  “The point is t’ get as much swag as possible, Henry. Or have ye fergot that bein’ a pirate is about the treasure an’ not the—‘purse’, eh?” McSwain felt the resentment flare in his gut. He had been about to set a course for Tortuga to start the process of collecting all the cursed loot they’d idled away. The idea, though, that Henry might think he was swaying Angus in some fashion made him angry. He turned and grabbed Aaron by the back of his hair, dragging him upright and pulling his dagger from his belt to place it at Aaron’s throat. “Get back t’ yer post an’ I’ll hear nay more of this or I’ll slice him until he begs me t’ let him bleed out. An’ remember, any trouble from ye, the pretty man dies a very ugly death. Now get out!”

  Henry’s eyes flashed but Angus pressed the knife-blade a bit more firmly against Aaron’s flesh to draw a bright red line of oozing blood there. At the intake of breath from Aaron, Henry spoke. “No, don’t! I- I’ll go. Apologies, Cap’n.”

  When Stern fled the cabin, never casting a glance back at the former Captain, McSwain turned to Aaron, his grip still powerful on Aaron’s hair. He leaned down and slid his tongue over the wound then down the neck catching all the blood that had emerged. When Angus seized the tender flesh in his teeth, Aaron tried to jerk away. Instead, he was thrown back onto the Captain’s bunk.

  “An’ now, Aaron, I think we’ll be tryin’ yer services again, eh? Take off yer britches,” McSwain grumbled.

  For a moment, Aaron considered throwing himself upon Angus, attacking him so savagely that the fiend had no choice but to kill him outright. Instead, hating himself for his cowardice but nursing at his core the tiniest of hopes that Henry would rescue him, he did as he was ordered. When McSwain joined him on the bed, he had to fight down the taste of bile as he felt the touch of cold hands.

  )O(

  Days passed, stretching into a month or more. Aaron wasn’t sure how long it had been. The ghost crew needed no sleep, no food or drink. For the most part, he remained locked in the cabin, filching the occasional piece of fruit when he thought McSwain might not notice, consuming any food or drink presented to him otherwise, and dreading the sound of that voice. The few times he was allowed up on deck, McSwain kept a firm grip on his shoulder or hair and his hands were generally tied, his mouth gagged. When he would see Henry on these rare excursions, his heart would leap up as he continued to cling to the slimmest of possibilities that Henry would save him.

  Despite all that he’d seen and all he’d been through, Aaron was still young enough that a small voice within him kept the hope alive. Yet every day spent in terror and loneliness, every night suffering McSwain’s torments, robbed him bit by bit of the hope. Until one night, the Maid just having raided Santiago, McSwain managed to destroy it entirely.

  The entire crew had gone ashore, leaving Aaron locked in the Captain’s cabin. He tried to pick the lock but had no success. Knowing that Angus would return in a mood, he retreated quickly into the shadows, fighting to keep his breathing steady even as his heart began to race at every thump, real or imagined, from above. He had his head buried in his hands and was rocking slightly, tears crawling down his cheeks, when he heard the key turn in the lock on the door. The half-stifled sob was wrenched out of him.

  )O(

  The Lash slipped into the captain’s cabin as soon as he returned to the ship. The silver in his pocket seemed to burn against his hip. He glanced around. “Aaron?”

  There was a flurry of movement from the darkest corner and Aaron was suddenly in his arms. “Ah, Henry, I’m so glad--.”

  The sound of Aaron’s voice wrenched at his heart. He pressed a kiss to Aaron’s lips, crushing him close. Truthfully, he couldn’t feel a thing and that hurt worse than he could possibly imagine. But Aaron can still feel and he needs me.

  “Aaron, love, I’m goin’ t’ get ye out o’ this, swear to God. The crew’s near t’ mutiny now. ‘Tis just a matter of a day or two,” Henry pushed Aaron away a bit to study him closely. “Damn him, how dare he hurt ye like that?”

  “Doesn’t matter now, eh?” Aaron muttered, pressing his forehead against Henry’s shoulder. “We gotta get out o’ here, love. Now, ‘fore Angus comes back. Please, Henry? I promised Ike he could come with us on the next voyage out. Can’t disappoint the boy, can I?”

  Henry leaned in and kissed him as he stroked a palm across Aaron’s cheek and hooked his fingers into the braids, trying to remember how the silken strands felt the last time he’d touched them. He kissed Aaron again, a bit deeper, and heard him gasp.

  “Sorry, sorry, love,” Henry backed off, his other hand raising to cup Aaron’s face as well. “I forgot.”

  “Nah,” Aaron said, blinking wetness out of his eyes. “Not t’ worry. Let’s go, please?”

  “How very touchin’,” McSwain’s voice from behind Henry made Stern stiffen, his eyes telling Aaron that he would die before he would let anything more happen to him. “An’ where d’ ye propose t’ go, Johnson?”

  “We’re goin’ t’ the Isle of the Fates,” Henry said calmly, stepping between Aaron and McSwain. “I’m goin’ t’ undo the curse upon my head an’ Aaron an’ I are goin’ home. Let us go in peace, Angus, an’ all will be well between us.”

  McSwain laughed and Aaron became aware that the ship was now in motion. He seized the back of Henry’s vest and pressed his forehead into the material, hoping to take strength from Henry. “Don’t take me fer a fool! Ye take yer share and walk away, fine. Aaron stays as he’s part o’ my share.”

  “He is not!” The Lash answered, his voice dropped to a dangerous snarl. “Stand aside.”

  Angus laughed again and Henry felt Aaron begin to tremble wildly. He longed to comfort Aaron, draw him into his arms and keep him safe but that was not practical at the moment. Instead, he advanced into McSwain. “Stand aside, I said.”

  McSwain smiled, an eyebrow raised. “Are ye quite sure ye want t’ push this, Henry? Is the whore really worth it t’ ye?”

  The amber eyes flashed fire and he replied, “Yes.”

  To Aaron’s shock, McSwain nodded and stepped aside, letting them pass. As they stepped into the wardroom, it happened. Benson and Crabbe seized the Lash, dragging him away as Aaron was picked up bodily by the bosun. They emerged on-deck to the black of a foggy midnight. Wherever they had made landfall earlier, they were now out on the open sea. Gunny, Roth and three or four others were dragging the broken aft anchor toward the starboard rail. McSwain mounted the stairs leading up to the quarterdeck and turned to face the assembled crew.

  “I want ye all here t’ see this, ye blasted bilge-rats. I hear some o’ ye been discussin’ yer future aboard this ship with the quartermaster, fillin’ his
head with some nonsense about rebellin’ against kindly Captain McSwain. Well, let me put yer minds at ease about it. Bring ‘im forward!”

  Aaron was spun about so that he could see exactly what was happening. Henry fought as hard as he could, nearly breaking away from Benson and Crabbe as he was dragged to the rail. Henry paused in his struggles and spotted Aaron, whose mouth was open as he wheezed, his eyes having taken on a glaze of pure panic.

  “It’ll be all right, love,” He said aloud, his eyes holding Aaron’s. “I love you, you know?”

  Aaron licked his lips but couldn’t manage to speak. The other pirates laughed and Aaron began to fight suddenly, pouring every ounce of his strength into it. When he broke free, he did the only thing that he could; he threw himself to the deck at McSwain’s feet.

  “Please, Captain, please, don’t do this. Don’t hurt him. I-I’ll do anythin’ ye want, anythin’, jus’--.”

  McSwain reached down, hooked a hand under Aaron’s chin and drew him to his feet, sliding an arm about Aaron’s shoulders. “Of course, ye will, Johnson. We’re not goin’ t’ hurt the Lash, ye know; we’re just goin’ t’ put ‘im away fer safekeepin’ as it were. But first, let me finish me little speech.”

  Aaron fell silent, his eyes fixed on Henry with an expression that made Stern cease his battling. McSwain resumed.

  “Unlike me predecessor, I don’t tolerate any sort o’ mutinous nonsense. ‘Twere things as they once were, Mr. Stern here would be dead of a lead ball to the brain or a sword to his guts. But killin’ seems t’ be out o’ the question now. Since that’s the case, we’ll be maroonin’ our good quartermaster in such a way that he canna give us anymore trouble,” McSwain paused and glanced down into Aaron’s face to see that he was in such severe distress that he was barely conscious. A wicked sneer lit his face. “Now, Aaron-me-boy, don’t be faintin’ on me. Ye need t’ see this, hmmm?”