by Rima Jean
He looked down at me for a split second, then began shouting urgent orders over the crackle and thunder of the fire. I was hustled into a boat, passing from hand to hand, and finally felt the familiar rocking of the sea.
When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in a bunk, listening to the familiar creaking of a sailing ship, watching as a lantern swung from a rusty hook above me. I was on the Royal Rover. I sat up suddenly, confused and afraid. What had happened? Where was Howel Davis? My memories were so broken and incoherent – Jack Blaine, Ned Taylor, John Roberts…
“Ah,” a voice said from a corner of the cabin. “She finally emerges from the fever.”
I gasped, turned to peer into the dimness. I knew that voice. Roberts sat on a low stool, his elbows resting on his knees, his dark face even darker beneath the brim of the hat. I saw the difference in his appearance almost instantly – the red-feathered tricorn hat, which he removed as I stared; the clean crimson waistcoat; the soled leather shoes. I swung my legs over the side of the bunk abruptly, my head spinning. “Where’s Howel?”
Roberts didn’t flinch. “Calm yourself,” he replied. “You are still weak from the malaria.”
“Answer me, damn you!” I replied, catching my breath and leaning against shaking arms.
“Howel Davis is dead,” he replied evenly, his black eyes meeting mine. “He was shot to death attempting to rescue you.”
I stared. Surely he was kidding. Surely if it were true, this man would not be looking at me so calmly, so heartlessly. Oh, God. I’m going to faint again. I noticed Roberts had prepared himself for this and held a small tin of smelling salts loosely in his palm. I shook my head, my mind refusing to accept it. I was finally thinking somewhat clearly now, and it didn’t make sense. Howel would have prepared himself, knowing I was being held captive on Prince Island. He would have done something to try and prevent it, right? “No. Tell me what happened. Exactly what happened.”
“Sabrina,” Roberts said, his voice hard, his eyes never leaving mine. “He’s gone. The sooner you accept it, the better.”
“No,” I repeated, my throat closing. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“I wasn’t there,” Roberts answered. “Walter Kennedy is the one you should be asking.”
“Get him in here then!” I cried shrilly, growing angrier, more panicked by the second. I felt nauseous again, feeling hot and then cold in turn.
Roberts stood, looking distinctly annoyed with me. Here he was, telling me Howel Davis was dead, and he had the nerve to look annoyed with me? The big son of a bitch –
“Cap’n?” Walter said as he stepped into the cabin, looking over at me nervously.
I turned on Roberts, my head spinning, shivering from the hot and cold flashes. “Captain? You are captain now?” Jesus, I couldn’t faint, not right now. A groan left me and I gasped, “Did you kill him, you bastard? Tell me!”
His expression barely changed, revealing a hint of scorn behind the coldness. “Kill him?” he echoed. “The fever must have damaged your brain, woman. I did not kill Howel Davis. Jack Blaine, with the help of Ned Taylor and the governor of Príncipe, did that.”
I looked at Walter desperately. “Is he really gone? Please tell me what happened, Walter.”
Walter removed his hat, strings of greasy hair falling into his eyes. Walter was not a nice man, in my opinion, but he had been fair to me and had, without a doubt, worshipped Howel Davis. Now, there was no mistaking the sorrow in his eyes, in the creases of his burned face. I braced myself for his story, the tears already welling from within my eyelids.
Walter’s grimy fingers tightened their grip on the brim of his hat. “The night you were taken, word reached us that you had tricked Sam and bribed Smith and Withers to take you ashore.” He looked at me with a flash of spite. “We knew not why you would have done such a thing, considering Davies had ordered you to stay on the Royal Rover. Davies – he was alarmed but calm at the start, commanding us to search the island, to leave not a single door unopened. ‘Twas not until he learned that Jack Blaine was also on the island that he went mad.” Walter began twisting his hat, clearly perturbed by what he was telling me. “I’d never seen ‘im in such a state. Jack Blaine had you, he was certain of it. You know Davies, Sabrina. You know how he was always plotting, always thinking his plans through. Not now. Without a trick up his sleeve, he had us weigh anchor to give chase to Blaine’s ship, which had left but a few hours earlier. We worried for ourselves, you see, for Davies had all but lost his wit. Then, when we discovered he’d taken you to Príncipe, a sudden calm befell him, as though he understood something none of us knew, none of us could guess.”
Walter paused, thinking back. “Aye, he changed then. He was determined to get you back, and he returned to his plotting ways, a quiet but fervent determination about him. The crew went along with him because they adore him, but also because many of them hold grudges against Blaine, and wanted their revenge. We sailed into the bay at Príncipe, where we found two of Blaine’s ships. We captured one of ‘em quietly, stealthily, and Davies just about tore it to pieces looking for you. Davies woodled the mate until he revealed you weren’t on the ships at all, but that Blaine had taken you ashore.”
Walter rubbed his face, avoiding my intense, wide-eyed stare. “He plotted to try and take the fort by cunning, by dining with the governor as a pirate hunter. Once in control of the fort, he would have the means to find you and destroy Blaine. We had no way of knowing, then, that Ned Taylor was involved with Blaine, or that Blaine had already captured the fort himself. Davies and I and several others, then dressed for our evening with the governor, not knowing ‘twas a trick, thinking ourselves the clever tricksters.”
“No,” I said involuntarily. The tears were running down my face, but I was not sobbing not yet. I had to hear the end of this story.
Walter looked at me with sad eyes, his lids heavy with grief. “We were ambushed. I am the only one who remains.”
“No,” I said again, this time with purpose. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
Walter sighed. “We were told that the governor was visiting his country house but would be back soon, and that we should wait. Davies thought this highly suspicious, and said we should return to the ship. As we left, we saw that an armed crowd had gathered outside, and before we realized what was happening, they fired at us. We pulled our weapons and tried to run, but we’d been surrounded. All the men were shot save me. I managed to leap from a precipice into the sea, and though I was battered for the rocks below, I somehow, by the will of God, survived.”
This wasn’t happening. I was having an out-of-body experience. My voice sounded so calm, so unreal. “You saw him die?” I asked.
Walter stared hard at something behind me, his jaw tightening. “Aye. He was shot five times. And though he drew his pistols and fired back, the fifth shot took ‘im down. But by God, Sabrina, he gave a dying blow so that he’d not fall unrevenged, and he fought like a – ”
“— game cock,” I said, interrupting Walter. I felt empty, dead on the inside. “Where is his body? I need to see it.”
The two men exchanged looks. “I’d wager the Portuguese had their way with it,” Walter replied, his voice hushed.
I felt my sanity unraveling, my tenuous grip on logic slipping. “He knew this would happen. How could he set foot on that island when he knew this would happen?” I said, mainly to myself. I glared at Roberts. “And you have replaced him as captain? The crew chose you – above all the others – to replace him?”
“Davies wanted it that way, Sabrina,” Walter replied softly. “And the crew was happy to oblige him. Cap’n Bartholomew Roberts is, by his courage and skill, best able to defend this commonwealth.”
I flashed Roberts a look. “Howel wanted it that way because you tricked him. He didn’t know what you are, that you –” I stopped suddenly. “Wait. Bartholomew Roberts? I thought your name was John?”
Roberts rubbed his chin. “As a pirate captain, I wa
nt to be known as Bartholomew Roberts. John Roberts is my former name.” He smiled slightly. “John Roberts is no more.”
I blinked rapidly, trying to clear my head. I was most definitely going to faint now. “Get those smelling salts ready, dude,” I said to Roberts, trying to breathe evenly.
Davis was ambushed at the island of Principe, where he “died like a game Cock,” shooting two Portuguese as he fell. He was succeeded by Bartholomew Roberts, the most successful Golden Age pirate.
I hated that book. Hated it. What good had it done me, knowing the future? It taunted me with its words, at my sad attempts at proving it wrong. I scanned Walter’s face frantically, searching for a crack, a hint of dishonesty in his face. He stared back, twisting his hat in his hands.
“He’s dead, Sabrina. I tell you he’s dead,” Walter said.
What followed is not worth telling, is not worth reliving. I could not keep my agony from spilling out before those hardened pirates, causing them significant discomfort. I was left alone in the cabin, and only Sam came in periodically to ensure I took the Cinchona bark decoction Roberts had brewed on account of the malaria that had sickened several of the Royal Rover’s men.
“He’s gone, Sam,” I sobbed to him during one of his brief visits, my face swollen from crying, my body skeletal from the malaria. “It’s all my fault. He knew he would die, but he came anyway. And now he’s gone.”
Sam nodded slowly, unable to hide the uneasiness from his expression. Not even Sam was immune to the frenzied mourning of a woman. “He is gone, but you must live, nwanyi,” he said.
“Why?” I moaned. “What’s the point?” I pushed the cup of steaming decoction away miserably.
“Because you must go back,” he said. “You must go back to your time, to your family. You have found your black pirate.”
I stopped sniffling and met Sam’s eyes. “What? How did you know that?”
Sam responded coolly, “Howel Davis told me who your black pirate is.”
I gaped, my puffy eyes barely able to blink. “Howel knew? When…? How…?”
Sam shrugged. “I do not know. How did you know?”
“I… I just figured it out,” I replied. “Certain things about him stood out to me.”
Sam smiled. “Then perhaps those same things stood out to Howel Davis. He was a very smart man.”
Was. A fresh wave of devastation hit me, and I began to wail anew. Sam stood, taking this as his cue. “Survive, nwanyi. Howel Davis would have wanted you to survive.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
When I had no more tears left to shed, I sat up, drank the concoction, and slowly made my way out of the cabin on weak legs. Sam was right. I could stay in the eighteenth century and die, or I could try to get back home. With Howel Davis dead, there was no way in hell I was staying in this shithole. Shaking and blinking in the sunlight, I watched unsteadily as the men went about their work, the deck alive with activity. I had once been a part of this, been proud of it even. Now, as I looked around, I realized that without Howel Davis, these men were merely pirates. They would never again have a leader like Howel. Who was this strange man who led them now?
I spotted John – sorry, Bartholomew– Roberts pacing the deck, his hands behind his back. This man was Howel’s successor. This man was my black pirate. This man was… an ornery cuss, as far as I could tell. I didn’t like him. But I had to speak to him, to find out who he was. And most importantly, I had to find out if he could get me back to 2011.
He saw me hobbling out to him and met me halfway. “Not here,” he said softly, gesturing. “Abaft. To the poop deck.” I followed him to the stern, noting that we were close-hauled with the wind, therefore our voices would not be heard by the crew. He saw me stumble and reached for my hand, which I reluctantly gave him. As soon as I was able to lean against the railing, I pulled my hand away. He noticed how I retreated, as though I loathed to touch him, and he stiffened.
“Before he discovered you’d been captured by Jack Blaine,” Roberts began, his big palms on the railing, his eyes on the waves below, “Howel Davis told me he suspected I was from a different time, a different era. When I revealed nothing, he told me about you.” Roberts still didn’t look at me. “He asked that I help you get back to your time, that he knew I could help you. He offered his small fortune in return.”
My eyes were fixed on Roberts’ face, on the smooth, hairless jaw, the firm, wide mouth. I noticed, suddenly, that his accent had changed, that he sounded more American than Welsh. I could hardly wait for him to continue. “And?”
“I told him I would consider it, if he told no one of his suspicions about me. Then you were captured, and Davis became desperate. He approached me again, told me that his end was near, and that if he was unable to rescue you, he wanted me to do it. I told him that I would – on one condition.” Roberts finally met my gaze. “He had to make me captain.”
Roberts rubbed his chin thoughtfully before continuing. “Davis tried to trick the governor, not realizing he was secretly allied with Ned Taylor. None of them even realized Taylor was there. When he was killed, I was made captain, and true to my word, I returned to avenge Davis’ death, and to rescue you. We destroyed the fort, and while Blaine managed to escape, he was unable to take you with him.” Roberts smiled. “I got to you first.”
I furrowed my brow. “I don’t get it. If you’re from the future, why would you want to be an eighteenth-century pirate captain? Who are you?”
His eyes lacked emotion, lacked reaction. Like a shark’s eyes. “I’m John Roberts, commander of a multi-national naval task force.” He paused, giving me a moment to soak it in. “I am from 2022.”
Since learning about Howel’s death, things had failed to astonish me. I was numb. He could have told me he was an alien from outer space and I’m not sure I would have flinched. I had subconsciously prepared myself for a more fantastic explanation. “You’re an American,” I said. I shuddered out the remnants of the malaria, forced myself to shut out thoughts of Howel Davis. He was gone. I had to get out of here. Period. “You’re in the Navy. You came here on purpose.”
He almost smiled, hearing the incredulity in my voice. “I’m a Navy SEAL.” The cocky bastard wanted to be sure I understood he was a SEAL. I rolled my eyes as he continued, “I am part of a clandestine operation to explore time portals as a means of obtaining military advantage over our enemies. Active military research on the time continuum disruptions in that area, including P54, has been going on for some fifty years. Once we could determine that P54 appeared relatively stable and we were able to calculate its occurrence and aperture duration with some degree of certainty, I was sent. Or, as it were, I sent myself.”
My mouth was open. “Wait, rewind. P-what?”
Roberts inhaled impatiently.“P54 is the designation we assigned to the recurring disturbance in the area known as the Bermuda Triangle, the time portal I went through – and I believe you went through. The disturbances we have studied occur, in some cases, including in the case of P54, at regular intervals and durations, assuming weather conditions are typical.” He was speaking slowly, as if to a child. A very, very young child. But while he spoke slowly, the words he used swirled uselessly in my head: electromagnetic field… fabric of time… wormhole… paradox…
“Stop,” I said suddenly, scratching my head in frustration. “You’re not speaking English anymore. I don’t care about that physics crap. Just tell me what I need to know. So you entered the time portal not knowing where – or when – you’d end up?”
“That’s correct,” Roberts replied, sighing. “I was the first to intentionally go through.”
“And what about getting back?” I asked.
“When I left 2022, we knew with a high degree of certainty that 350 earth days lapse between P54 occurrences, assuming weather conditions are typical. If this principle holds true in 1718 to 1719, I expect P54 to occur in 51 days from today. The idea was that I would return through P54 at its first occurrence subseque
nt to my arrival at time Zero.”
“Time Zero?” I questioned in a small voice.
“Time Zero is the day and time I arrived at the destination,” Robert’s explained. “Time 350 is when P54 should next occur. Our best scientific theories indicate, although we have no way of knowing with certainty, that I could return through P54 and arrive at or about 2022.”
Damn my sluggish brain! I pressed against my temples with my fingertips. “So… 51 days before you go back?”
He smiled. “The time is approaching.”
But you won’t go back, I thought. Did he know who he was? That he would become “the most successful Golden Age pirate”? Probably not. Not unless he was a pirate enthusiast as well as a Navy SEAL. Not a likely combination. “Roberts,” I said, deciding to go with his last name since the alternative was calling him Bart– “Can I go back with you? I have to go back. I have a family –”
“Yes, I know,” Roberts replied, interrupting me. “Davis explained it all to me. He asked me to help you get back to your time. The problem is that I only know when the time portal opens to 2022, not 2011.”
2022. Sophie would be… seventeen. Dear God. Her entire childhood, gone. I wouldn’t know her, and she most certainly wouldn’t know me. But if the alternative was never seeing her again… I looked at Roberts’ stone face pleadingly. “Help me get back, Captain Bartholomew Roberts. Please.”
Roberts wasted no time in drawing up his own Articles: No gambling allowed. Lights out at eight, and if any man desired to drink after that hour, he could do it in the dark, on the open deck. As soon as I was “taken care of” (Roberts’ delicate way of saying “gotten rid of”), there was to be no boy or woman allowed among the crew, and if any man was found disguising a woman to take her to sea, he would suffer death. Roberts would take no chances that something like me would happen again.