by Rima Jean
“So he intends to fight?”
“I don’t know. Rogers’ come early. Vane’s trying to figure a way to get the Ranger out of the harbor, but he don’t see how. I think he’s trying to buy some time, figure a way out.”
I bit my lip. “The Ranger’s big. Can’t she take that frigate?”
“Mayhaps, she could,” Tim replied, squinting into the setting sun and gesturing with his hand. “But not with those ten-gun sloops-o-war and that twenty-gun ship guarding her.”
I turned, squinting in the direction of the Royal Navy frigate. I saw them now, the heavily armed sloops and ship anchored just in front of the frigate. The butterflies in my stomach batted their wings furiously, and I swallowed. This was going to get ugly. I looked nervously at Tim. “He won’t be able to get that ship out. He’s trapped.”
Tim nodded. “Aye, by the looks of it.” Then he grinned again, clearly tipsy. “Are you sure you’ll not have some rum?”
I considered. These pirates might be on to something. I accepted the bottle and drank as Tim hummed a tune. I handed the bottle back to him and was about to speak when an explosion deafened me. I covered my head with my arms and then looked in the direction of the Ranger’s stern cannon, which was enveloped in thick smoke. It fired twice more, and I braced myself for the Royal Navy ships to answer, but they never did.
“Rogers raised the white flag of truce,” Tim told me after asking around. We sat together with some others of the crew, most of them excited and buzzed. Every pirate predicted Vane would tell Rogers to eat shit, and after what seemed like an eternity, we found we’d been right: Rogers sent a messenger to inquire as to why the pirates were being so hostile when Rogers brought a Royal pardon for them all. Vane replied that “he would use his utmost endeavor to burn them and all the vessels in the harbor” unless he could keep the Ranger and his loot.
The pirates hooted and cheered, making obscene gestures and shouting curses at the Royal Navy ships in the distance. I cowered, wondering if we were all going to get blown to hell. Almost immediately, the men were called to the Ranger to begin unloading the ship, all but its cannons. I was left alone on the deck of the sloop, watching the lit lanterns of the various ships bob with the movement of the sea in the darkness, wondering what Vane was planning to do. I felt my eyelids droop in spite of everything, and I dozed for a while, my head lolling to the side.
I was awakened suddenly, aware that we were moving. The sloop was quietly making its way behind Potters Cay to drop anchor. I waved Tim over to ask him what was happening. He very nearly vibrated with excitement. “Rogers never answered Cap’n Vane. We’re escaping! The sloop’s shallow-drafted enough to pass over the sandbar.”
“So they’ve left the Ranger behind?” I asked, trying to stand.
In response, Tim grinned into the darkness and pointed. “Behold, the Ranger!” The harbor was lit orange from the fire that consumed the great ship. The flames climbed up the masts and engulfed the sails as the vessel moved across the harbor, approaching the Royal Navy ships. Tim grasped the rail beside me. “They drenched its decks and rigging in pitch and tar, and double-loaded every gun,” he said.
I stole a glance at his profile. “But… doesn’t that mean…” In answer, a great eruption, and then another, and another, illuminated the sky and filled it with smoke. The Ranger exploded as the Royal Navy ships cut their cables and turned toward the open sea, trying to move out of the fire-ship’s path. The pirates cheered, and England interrupted their celebration by ordering them to their posts, his fierce face half-lit by the hellfire in the harbor.
Vane looked victorious, silently drinking from a bottle as he watched the drama play out before him. I watched those dark eyes flicker in the light of the flames, and I wondered what sinister thoughts were going through the pirate’s head as he watched the King’s ships flee.
Chapter Eleven
After going back to Nassau and frantically grabbing anything of use to them – supplies and weapons and more men – the pirates ran out of time. The next morning, Rogers’ entire fleet returned, including two Royal Navy sloops-of-war brimming with soldiers and hungry for pirate blood. A chase ensued as I clutched wildly at the bulwarks, crouching and covering my ears from the blasts of the cannons, waiting for the ship to burst into splinters at any moment. England tried to get me below decks, but I was not moving from my corner where I could witness everything.
We managed to escape – narrowly, by the look on Charles Vane’s face. The governor’s sloops had been in hot pursuit for a moment there, and I thought the pirates – and I – were done for. Then the pirate sloop began to sail away from the wind, and it quickly left the Royal Navy behind. I saw Vane wipe the beads of sweat from his brow and blow out his breath. He would live to cruise again.
England would too. The sloop dropped us off at Abaco, where the Royal James awaited us, hidden in a cove, careened, stocked, and ready to fly. And so England and Vane parted ways, and I knew England was not sorry to see him go. The pirate republic had been all but destroyed, and while Vane swore he would continue to try and re-establish it, England was done with Nassau, and was set on plundering ships off the Slave Coast.
As soon as the Royal James set sail into the open sea, I popped my first pill. I was terrified of this journey, but I was also determined to prove I could be of help even to these hardened men. The brigantine, much to my relief, was much cleaner and smelled much less rank than it had before. I learned what a “brigantine” actually was: a two-masted vessel with square rigging on the foremast, but with fore-and-aft sails on the mainmast. In other words, square sails on the front big pole that were aligned perpendicular to the deck, and triangular sails on the back big pole that were set parallel to the deck. Let me tell you, life sucks without the Internet at hand – it took me forever to figure that one out.
I watched with fascination as the crew went about their work, an endless list of tasks that sounded both tedious and dangerous. The younger, stronger seamen climbed up into the rigging to set and furl sails, sling yards, strike the topmasts, and generally risk falling from immense heights as the ship pitched from side to side. They were often barefoot, gripping the spars with their feet and toes. They wore tarred breeches and jackets, their hair tied back and also tarred, or “clubbed,” for safety.
On the deck, seamen hoisted sails, swabbed decks, cleaned the head, kept the caulking tight… There were duties for each role – the boatswain, the master gunner, the first mate, the carpenter (who was also, much to my dismay, the surgeon). Jameson, as quartermaster, did most of the ordering around and supervising, while England navigated and was the definitive authority in battle. I had yet to see him in the latter role, but I knew without a doubt that he had the courage and decisiveness to lead when the occasion presented itself.
The first several days of the journey were far easier than I had feared. I spent most of my time observing the men at work, trying to teach my body the movement of the ship. I can’t count the number of times I stumbled, tripped over my own feet, and fell, land-lubber that I was. The pirates always had a good laugh at my expense.
I slept on the deck under the stars like the others, England at my side, separating me from the men. I used a chamber pot to relieve myself, unlike the pirates, who used holes in the head to defecate directly into the sea, or who just stood on platforms along the ship’s side to urinate into the water.
I watched curiously as the cook, a one-legged chap with a paunch, worked over a small hearth and kettle, getting his fresh meat and milk from the pigs and goats that wandered about freely on deck, as well as the chickens cooped belowdecks. I helped Tim mend some sails, listened as England tried to teach me the rudiments of seamanship, and mainly focused on getting through the day.
One night, as I lay on deck amidst the snoring pirates, watching the sails and masts sway beneath the stars, I marveled that I was able to sleep like this, on a rocking ship, without puking my guts out. I marveled that this was the very same sky under w
hich Jake and Sophie would lay nearly three-hundred years from now. Or was it? Every time I thought about time travel and all those paradoxes, my head hurt. I sucked at physics. And philosophy. But I’d seen Back To The Future, the one when Michael J. Fox visits the past, meets his parents and changes them, then jumps into a parallel universe where he has a better future than the first. I’d also read The Time Traveler’s Wife, where the characters couldn’t change history, no matter how hard they tried. I made a silent prayer right then, that my actions now, in the past, would not affect Jake or Sophie negatively in the future. Let them stay safe, tucked away in 2011.
I felt that damn ache in my throat and rolled over to face England, where he lay on his side, his back to me. I could tell he wasn’t sleeping – his breathing lacked that rhythm. I poked him in the shoulder blade and whispered, “Edward?”
He rolled over to look at me, an eyebrow raised. “Aye?”
I had to keep my mind off of Sophie, off of Jake. “Tell me a story,” I said.
England smiled. “A bedtime story? Having trouble sleeping, lass?”
I chuckled. “Yeah. I’m trying to keep my mind off… my family.”
His smile faded, his eyes grew sad. “You miss them very much. I never had much o’ family, and certainly no children o’ my own, but I can imagine, ye know.”
“How did you… become a pirate?” I asked, pushing myself up onto an elbow.
“I was pressed by a pirate named Christopher Winter.” He seemed uncomfortable, like he didn’t want to talk about himself. “And what sort of things does a woman like yerself do in 2011?”
I smiled at him. “I am a lawyer.”
His eyes widened. “A lawyer! Damn me!” he muttered. “I knew ye were educated, to be sure…”
“Women are just as educated as men in 2011,” I said, enjoying the look of shock on his face. “We are doctors, lawyers, leaders…”
England shook his head. “Tell me no more,” he insisted firmly, his voice low. “I’ve not come to grips with what ye are, Sabrina, and I’ve no time to contemplate it.”
“I’ve had to contemplate it,” I said. “You don’t think it’s mind-boggling for me? You don’t think I want to scream and cry and carry on every time I think about it?”
“Ye’ve no choice, lass,” he replied. “I have.” He saw the desperate look on my face and softened. “Here now. Buck up. Survival is yer main concern now. And I’ll be damned if I ever understand why ye came with me, when ye could have stayed and tried to go back to yer home, or at the very least, had a chance at a civilized sort of life.” He shook his head. “As though ye have a death wish.”
I sat up, crossing my arms, my voice several octaves higher than it should have been. “Why are you so against having me here?”
“Because yer a walkin’ piece o’temptation, and he wants to sport with ye!” a voice called out, and several pirates howled with laughter.
England shook his head, a crooked smile on his face, then met my eyes sheepishly, only a hint of a blush on his cheeks. “Oh, sod off, all of ye, filthy dogs,” he muttered, lying back down flat on his back and pulling his hat over his eyes. “G’night, Sabrina.”
I lay down once more, curling on my side under my wool blanket, and sighed. “Good night, Eddie.”
Chapter Twelve
The days passed thus: my nausea pill supply dwindled and I became increasingly nervous. I hoped to God that I’d acquired my sea legs, since I didn’t know what I’d do if I hadn’t. I had some ginger in my chest for nausea, and I hoped it would give me some relief. It worked when I’d suffered from morning sickness while pregnant with Sophie… in another life, it seemed.
My services as a “doctor” had been called on a few times: I’d used aloe and honey on a burn; basil on a rash; tea tree oil for lesions, fungus, and scabies; white willow bark for fevers, aches, and inflammations. While my remedies worked, in several instances I suspected I only eased the symptoms of a greater ill – syphilis. I lamented my lack of antibiotics, and wondered what kind of risk I’d be taking if I had the afflicted pirates eat moldy bread. I knew from my grandfather that it would be a pretty bad idea, as nasty stuff grew on the bread as well as penicillin. So I listened as several sailors described nasty chancres in places they would not reveal, and I could only sigh and tell them that my remedies could ease their discomfort, but would not cure them if it was the “great pox.”
I dreaded the day when a sailor would come to me with a gory wound or a partially detached limb. I would direct him to the carpenter, I suppose, after loading him up with rum.
As I tended to some of the men, I noticed that a few of them eyed me hungrily. Perhaps it was because I tended to their ailments in a gentle, motherly fashion. In any case, it made me nervous, and I could see that it made England nervous as well. He could punish a man for violating me, but short of staying with me at all times, he could not always prevent it from happening. He and Jameson had both warned the men of horrible punishments should one of them merely look at me askance, but there was no guarantee.
As a result, England insisted I learn how to fire a pistol, and that I carry both pistol and knife on my person. He showed me how to load it with two balls and swan shot from a horn that hung, along with my pistol, on a ribbon that slung across my chest. He told me to fire at close range, when the aggressor was just a couple yards away, to ensure that “he’d not live to see a good day afterward.”
He also had me try my hand with a cutlass, showing me some basic thrusts, cuts and parries. I was a sorry sight, holding my weapons “like a girl.” England was a patient, if highly amused, teacher, and everywhere I looked I saw a pirate grinning from ear to ear, watching as I accidentally dropped the cutlass no fewer than five times. God help me should I ever need to use it.
“What do I do, when, er, you know…” I rubbed my arm uncomfortably. “When you finally… see a ship worth attacking?”
England smiled wryly. “Get yerself in the cabin and stay there ‘til I say ye can come out.”
My anger flared. “Forget that!” I cried. “Give me something to do, to help. You know how much I hate going belowdecks where I can’t see the horizon.”
Before England could retort, Jameson stepped in. “She could be of use to the gunner, Cap’n. He’s in need of a powder monkey.”
“I’m sorry, a what?” I asked, imagining a baboon with a powder compact.
The two men were silent for a moment, looking at each other. I was acutely aware of the power struggle between captain and quartermaster as they surveyed each other, a crackling tension in the air. Jameson wanted me to be useful, England wanted me to stay out of the way. England finally answered, “Ye’ll be running the charges to the guns on deck.”
“I will?” I wasn’t thrilled with the title, but it sounded like a job I could do.
Jameson took me to the master gunner, a man with a cleft palate called Griffith. He in turn showed me the gunpowder room, where the charges were made and kept ready. I was to help make the powder charges, which were hand-sewn bags of gunpowder. I had never sewn anything in my life, and said so to Griffith, who snorted with contempt. “Well, ye better learn, and quickly!” he growled at me. “If the bags ain’t sewn proper, the powder’ll leak and we’ll all of us be blown straight to hell!”
I was also to make sure each gun had enough charges during the heat of battle, so that the gunners would not be forced to use loose powder in the cannons – something that could cause a fire and, in a worst-case scenario, explosion.
It was a chore a monkey could do, but I nervously wondered if I’d have the presence of mind to perform it when the time came.
Nearly nine weeks into the voyage, I became ill with some virus or another. I lay in a hammock in the cabin, drinking some chamomile tea and wishing I had some serious drugs on me. Vicodin, Percocet, anything… It was probably just a common head cold, but I felt miserable. The misery was enhanced by the fact that I could not submerge myself in a bathtub, could not take a hot s
hower, could not sleep in a warm bed.
We were quickly approaching Sierra Leone, and it was only a matter of time before England captured his first ship. I was ready to stand on firm land again. I would never get used to this life. Not after knowing what luxuries would eventually exist. I longed for my worn pajamas, my big pillow-top mattress, my coffee maker, my So You Think You Can Dance and nightly dose of CNN. I missed my little girl so much my chest ached every time I thought of her. I even missed my estranged husband and his inconsiderate habits – how he always dropped his clothes on the floor and left his dirty dishes in the sink, joking that a little “dish fairy” would come and clean them up. What I wouldn’t do to be his dish fairy right now.
I reached for my knapsack, swaying from side to side as I leaned from the hammock. I had kept everything from my backpack, even my useless Blackberry and iPod, holding them now like they were relics. They were relics of my past and yet somehow, also of the future. Tanya’s makeup bag, the little toothbrush and nearly empty tube of toothpaste; the bathing suits and cover-ups, the wallets filled with credit cards and money that were of no value; Sky’s romance novel, now missing a good twenty pages from a critical love scene between Lord Lance and Ginger (ahem).
I sighed, pulling Sky’s other book, Rovers of the Sea, from its plastic bag. Why couldn’t she have brought something else along, like Confessions of a Shopaholic or something? Why did it have to be about damn pirates? I’d had it up to here with pirates. But I was sick, hammock-ridden, and wanted to read something, so this would have to do. I flipped through it, humming to myself, when it occurred to me that this was not a novel – it was non-fiction. I turned to the table of contents, my heart-rate accelerating. The Golden Age of Piracy… 1680-1730… Famous Pirates of the Era…
Oh my God. Oh my God.
I frantically skimmed the index: Bellamy… Blackbeard… Bonnet… the Es… England, Capt. Edward, pirate career of, 222-230. He was here. With trembling fingers, I opened the book to page 222.