The Noble Pirates

by Rima Jean

  He shrugged. “I doubt Charlie Vane’s thoughts go far past his own self-preservation. But he’s been chosen as a leader by the men here, and I’ve no choice but to follow.”

  “You’d never consider accepting the King’s pardon?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nay. A pirate I am, and a pirate I will be for the rest of my days.”

  Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life for me… I couldn’t help but smile. I had no idea where that was from or what the rest of the words were, but I was fairly certain they said something about plundering and looting, and villains and scoundrels… ‘Yo ho’ indeed. The song had clearly not considered pirates such as England, the political and social dissidents.

  Chapter Seven

  Far too quickly, we found ourselves standing beneath a canvas tarpaulin, surrounded by extravagantly-dressed men who were sitting on stools around tables and casks, drinking and smoking. Women, their faces painted and powdered with a heavy hand, pranced between the men, refilling mugs and cups and goblets, swinging their hips as they walked. Funny, how I knew I was in a pub without being told. Some things, apparently, do not change with time. The raw smell of unwashed bodies wafted at me with the breeze, and I found that, slowly, I was becoming used to it. While it still had the potential to knock me senseless, I had stopped gagging every time I smelled it.

  One man in particular seemed to be the focal point, as all bodies were partially turned toward him. He, like many of the others, was adorned with every imaginable luxurious cloth and embellishment: a scarlet broadcloth coat, a cravat of silver lace, a flowered velvet sash, fine black hose and shiny buckled shoes. Everywhere I looked, I saw Persian silk ruffles and taffeta and gold buttons… It was as though they had all these gentlemen’s clothes, but no real occasion to wear them. All dressed up with nowhere to go. For a second I felt, again, as though I were on a movie set, as though this was just one big game. That feeling quickly dissipated as the men began to turn and look at us, their eyes curious and – when looking at me – rapacious. I knew to be afraid of that look. Nothing like hanging out with eighteenth century prostitutes to make a woman feel gorgeous, let me tell you. If a pirate here decided he wanted me, there was no one but England to stop him. The pirates were the law in Nassau – for now, at least. England’s esteem among his peers, and then his own skill and strength as a fighter, were the only two things I had going for me.

  The man at the center of all the attention wore a large cocked hat with a feather plume on top of his wig, and he sat back leisurely, leaning against a cask, swinging a fine gold watch on a chain from his forefinger. He looked up at England from across the outdoor pub and nodded acknowledgment at him, smiling slightly. Then his dark eyes shifted to me and stayed there as he continued to swing his delicately engraved pocket watch. Kat suddenly materialized next to him, wrapping an arm across his chest and nuzzling his ear, but he brushed her away, his eyes never leaving me. I looked at England, but if he felt anger or betrayal, he showed none of it.

  Charles Vane caught the watch in the palm of his hand and signaled to England. England put his hand on the small of my back, encouraging me forward with him. Oh, no. I wasn’t ready for this. What would I say? How was I supposed to behave? I looked to England, panicked, and heard him mumble under his breath, “Let me do the talking, lass. Just sit and look yer pretty self.”

  All eyes were on us as we sat with Vane and his companions. Vane smiled at me, saying, “Well, Edward, what have we here? Lovely, simply lovely.” A London dialect, and I knew enough to guess he wasn’t ‘upper class.’

  England’s hand moved up to my shoulder, then to the nape of my neck. “Sabrina. We found her afloat, and she has no memory of what happened to her.” He shrugged and smiled, as if that explained everything. The absurdity of the situation struck me – here I was, an Ivy League educated attorney, barely a year shy of making partner, and I was being treated like a piece of meat, like a prostitute from the London gutters who couldn’t speak for herself. I felt the rage surge through my veins, the hot blood boiling. England must have sensed it too, because he gently but firmly pressed at my skin. It was just enough to startle me from my fury.

  Vane was still smiling, but his eyes went cold. “That’s not what I hear,” he said. “I hear she’s a mad one, saying she’s from the future and dancing in the rain.”

  England laughed. “And who would have told ye that?” He looked meaningfully at Kat, who was pretending to chat with the other women. “Ye’re not taking the word of a faithless baggage, are ye, Charlie?”

  Vane grinned wolfishly, the shadow of a goatee darkening the skin around his mouth. I could see the cunning ruthlessness in that hawkish face. He relaxed a bit, leaning back against the cask once more and setting that damn watch swinging again. “No, Eddie, course not. And if you fancy her – “

  “Aye,” England said loudly, firmly, his fingers tight on the back of my neck. “That I do.”

  Vane’s eyes flickered from me to England, assessing us carefully. “What is she, then? For all the world, she looks to have exotic blood in her.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but England was quicker, his fingers pressing again. “Possibly. I think she may have fallen from a trader bound for Jamestown. It matters little, in the end, since she’s happy here, with me.” Again, that possessive tone. I suddenly felt the need to show some sort of affection to England, to play my part, so I leaned toward him, smiling, and wrapped my arms around one of his. I felt him shudder slightly. “And now, we must discuss more pertinent matters,” he continued. “What of Blackbeard?”

  Blackbeard! I knew that name. He was a famous pirate. As I was trying to remember what it was I knew about Blackbeard – which, incidentally, was nothing – Vane growled, “Fuck Blackbeard! He’s in bed with the governor of North Carolina. He’s made his choice, and he’s not coming back. He knows Nassau is doomed.” Vane took a swig from his mug, the dark liquid trickling down his chin, which he wiped with the back of his hand.

  England took a deep breath and nodded, removing his hand from my neck. He examined his knuckles absently. “Then we’re ready to fly?”

  Vane nodded slowly, clearly put out by the situation. He looked like he was getting quite drunk, and his eyelids drooped slightly. “That son of a whore Rogers will be here in a fortnight, I wager. That’ll give us a bit more time to load the cannons onto the Ranger and make sure we’re ready for the voyage to Brazil.”

  I blinked. Brazil?

  “We’ll not leave without a fight, damn both Woodes Rogers and King George to bloody hell!” We looked up at the slurring speaker, a rosy-cheeked man in bright, flashy clothes, his arm around a giggling woman, a bottle in his hand. He looked a lot like a guy I dated in college, a lacrosse player who spent all of his free time playing video games and all of our dates talking about how he wanted to be a fighter pilot. A real winner, as you can imagine. With the devil-may-care attitude and flower-print shirt, this pirate would have been right at home on a booze cruise in 2011. Until, of course, he killed someone.

  I leaned toward England and whispered, “Who’s that?”

  England replied, “Calico Jack Rackam.” He watched as my face lit with recognition. Calico Jack! Another name I’d heard before. This place was a veritable who’s who of piracy. A smile slowly spread across England’s face as he mumbled, “Made it into the history books, did he? Hmph. I wonder why?”

  Calico Jack swayed a bit as his eyes tried to focus on me, and I observed that he wasn’t a bad looking guy. As I was assessing Jack Rackam and he stood trying to assess me, England pushed a bowl of zesty-smelling food before me. “Eat,” he ordered, his voice low, his breath on my ear. “I’ve watched ye bring up every blessed thing ye’ve eaten in the past couple days. Ye need to eat and keep it down.”

  I smiled at him and murmured, “Thanks, Dad.” I then inspected the bowl in front of me: it looked like a bowl of salad toppings. I recognized pieces of meat (probably turtle), fish, and crab; they were garnished with hearts o
f palm, hard-boiled eggs, and a variety of pickled shrubbery. I smelled garlic and spice and wine, and despite my reluctance, my stomach growled loudly. I glanced around furtively for utensils and noticed that everyone else was using their hands. Fine then. I dug in, scooping up the strange mix with my fingers and slopping it into my mouth. Oh shit, that was spicy.

  “Has all the cargo from the St. Martin been conveyed?” England asked Vane, ignoring Rackam as he clumsily plopped down at the table.

  “It has,” Vane answered solemnly. He looked at England for a long while then said, “Are you still set on Africa, then?”

  England nodded. “I’ll be sending Jameson to Abaco in a few days, where he and some of my men’ll await me.” He smiled wanly at Vane. “I’ve no desire to abandon Nassau. Not yet.”

  “Protecting your ship from Rogers, are you? A bit premature, sending it to Abaco so soon, no?” Vane asked.

  “I’ll not take the chance,” England replied. “But as I said, I’m hear to fight with ye. I’ll not leave until I’m damn sure Nassau is lost to us.”

  It occurred to me to ask England, “Africa? Brazil? What about me?” but I was too busy trying to extinguish the fire in my mouth. I grabbed England’s mug, fairly certain that I would not find water in it. Maybe, just maybe, it would be port or beer. Maybe, if I were really lucky, a claret or other fine wine looted from a prize. I drank deeply and then very nearly spewed the fiery concoction all over the pirates who were conversing earnestly at the same table. They stopped to look at me, and almost immediately started laughing. Even England cracked a grin, despite himself.

  Rackam spoke first. “A rumfustian virgin!” he cried gleefully as England retrieved a cup of water for me. I felt the heat leave my face as I downed the water, watching over the rim of the cup as Vane wiggled his eyebrows at me and the prostitutes cackled like witches in the background.

  “What the hell is rumfustian?” I asked England in a choked voice when he was seated next to me again.

  “‘Tis a powerful brew, eh?” he said, smiling. “This one’s got raw eggs, gin, beer, sherry, and sugar.”

  “There’s no rum in rumfustian,” I said hoarsely, and this caused the pirates to burst out in a fresh round of hearty laughter.

  Vane’s humor improved at my expense, and he finally addressed me directly, asking, “How old are you, sweetheart?”

  Rackam said, “I’d say a score and five years, at most,” then took a swallow from his bottle. England looked at me with interest.

  I sat before the three pirates, thrilled that I knew what a “score” was. Rackam thought I was twenty-five. I smiled at the men and answered, “Actually, I’m thirty-one.”

  I relished the looks of surprise on their faces. Vane cried, “Why, you’re as old as that one!” He jerked his thumb back at Kat, who was looking pretty pissed off. Kat easily looked like she was in her late forties. I suddenly felt sorry for her – what must it be like to be a prostitute in 1718? The kind of hard living she had endured, only to be cast aside by these guys, must have been horrible. And she was probably one of the lucky ones, getting a piece of pirate booty. And by booty, I meant “plunder.” I had yet to see a single pirate whose booty a prostitute would be lucky to get.

  Rackam suddenly tossed three dice on the table and, with a mischievous grin said, “A game of passage, Eddie?” I was beginning to wilt with fatigue. England noticed almost immediately and replied, “Nay, Jack. I think I’m for bed.”

  Vane and Rackam exchanged looks and then leered at me. “I don’t blame you,” Rackam said, grinning. “Not one bit.”

  England led me from the tavern back to the house. We didn’t speak – I had a million questions to ask him, but my brain was too exhausted to articulate them. By the time we got back I could barely keep my eyes open. England bid me goodnight but, before he could leave my small, stuffy room, I said, “Edward?”

  He turned to look at me, surprised. “Aye?”

  “Don’t leave me,” I pleaded, sounding far too desperate for my taste. But there was no helping it – I was desperate. “Whatever your plans are – Africa, Brazil – just don’t leave me.”

  I saw his jaw tighten before he answered, “I swear to ye, lass, I’ll make sure yer safe. Don’t worry yerself over it. Now get to sleep.”

  “Why are you doing this for me?” I tried to keep the tears out of my voice, but I was so tired, mentally, emotionally, physically…

  England looked at me for a long moment, something tender in his expression. For a second, it looked like he debated something, then, resigned, he said gently, “Ye need to sleep, Sabrina. To bed with ye.”

  He left and I kicked off my shoes, curling up on the cot. Something about our exchange was nagging me, something… Before I knew it, I was in a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Eight

  Mental note: Do not fall asleep in a corset. I awoke to find the strips of whalebone digging into the flesh of my abdomen and my breasts aching from being flattened.

  I sat up suddenly, my head spinning. Where was I? As my eyes focused, I remembered. As with every time I had awakened in 1718, I still wondered if I was dreaming, still experienced that plummeting feeling in my gut every time I realized that this was, in fact, not a dream.

  I was in 1718.

  I stumbled through the house, looking for England. On the table, I found a pitcher of water, pieces of fruit and a hunk of cheese on a plate, and a note tucked carefully under a pewter cup of ale:

  Loading the ship. Infection abound, stay in the house. Edward

  Infection? Great. Just great. All I needed right now was to get sick. Immediately, I washed my hands and face, creating as much lather as possible with the bit of lye soap I’d been given. I peeled and ate an orange while I opened the shutters of a window to let in some fresh air. The stench that wafted in was beyond anything I had ever smelled before, and I found myself slamming the window shut in a hurry. Only once had I smelled anything so bad, and that was when a raccoon had died in the wall of my house. Was anyone surprised that there was “infection abound” when the air smelled like rotting flesh?

  I sat down and put my head in my hands. A green fly buzzed through the room, settling on the cheese. What was I going to do? I needed to speak to England, ask him what his plans were. With the pirates losing Nassau, he was going to Africa, that much was clear. But what was I going to do? On the one hand, I didn’t want to be separated from England. He was, as he had so aptly put it, my protection. I wouldn’t survive a second on my own in this place.

  On the other hand, I had to stay here. What if the sea around Nassau, around the Bahamas, was the key to my returning home? The idea had come to me in a dream: I had been thinking about my last moments in 2011, the storm, the captain shouting something about the compass not working… Was there some link to the Bermuda Triangle? I remember watching a special on TV once about time warps and the Bermuda Triangle. What channel had that been on? Not the Sci-Fi Channel, I hoped. Jake had made fun of me for watching it, but I’d been procrastinating at the time and anything, including pro wrestling, was better than working.

  How else could I explain what had happened to me?

  A time warp. Wormholes or something. Jesus, what a horrible nightmare. If this were, in fact, the way I’d gotten here, then leaving the Bahamas was a bad idea, right? But then, what would I do? Set myself adrift on a boat and wait for something to happen? Hope to stumble on another time portal? I felt my eyes fill with tears. There was no reasonable way out of this. I had to focus on simply surviving at this point. And the key to my survival in this strange and volatile world was Edward England.

  But while I clearly needed him, he most certainly did not need me; if anything, I weighed on him, a woman who claimed to be from the future, a woman who knew nothing about anything and wouldn’t stop passing out or throwing up. I couldn’t think of a bigger pain in the ass for the average person, let alone a pirate. A man who was defying the king and country and losing his home base was putting his own
needs aside to help me, to take care of me. Maybe he felt something for me, maybe he thought I was cute. Maybe I reminded him of his mother. Who knew? But at some point, he was going to have to ditch the extra baggage. The last thing an outlaw needed was a weak, confused woman holding him back.

  I had to convince England that he needed me. The question was, how?

  I pulled out the cropped picture of Sophie that I kept tucked in a secret pocket in the front of my corset. I remember hearing somewhere that this pocket was used to hide small fragrant sacks of perfume (you know, to mask the stench of their unwashed bodies). I used it to keep Sophie close to my heart. As I examined the worn photograph, wishing that radiant smile had been for me and not Jake, my stomach rumbled.

  I grimaced, tucking the photo away. I knew the time would come when I would have to… relieve myself, but I’d tried my best to hold it in. Using a “piss-pot” that I later dumped out into the street was repulsive enough; but having to actually go to the privy, which was little more than a hole over a cesspit? I shuddered. If the alternative was a stomach ache, then so be it. But what I was feeling was more than just a tummy ache from “holding it in” - it was, without a doubt, caused by eating and drinking in 1718.

  Using the privy, at this point, was no longer an option. It was a necessity.

  I rummaged though my backpack, desperate to find something I could use as toilet paper. I settled on a few pages out of Sky’s romance novel, The Pirate’s Fire, and almost smiled at the irony. I would use my reading material to wipe my ass afterward.

  After emerging from the nightmare that was the privy, I scrubbed my hands with soap until they were raw. I felt queasy, gutted. It was that damn water, I was certain. Any water I drank would have to be boiled, plain and simple. It would be good for England to learn about water sanitation, in any case. He and his pirates had to learn simple hygiene, for God’s sake, if they wanted to live long enough to…