The Swashbuckling Yarn of Milady Vixen

by Christopher Newman

  “Ye sent for me, Cap’n?” Tom said, suddenly appearing beside her.

  “Take the tiller; I have work to do,” she mysteriously stated.

  Ignoring his protests, she stalked down the stairs from the poop deck and stood with widely braced legs after stopping in front of the cannibal.

  “Ye be preaching mutiny, haven’t you, K’wanta?” she spat.

  “Argh, that be the truth of it.” He laughed. “Ye be unfit to command this here vessel.”

  “Oh, and I suppose you feel better qualified to lead this pack of Jack Tars?”

  “It has crossed me mind.”

  “Then defend yourself, you ungrateful whelp of a motherless whore!”

  Hissing steel slithered out of their sheaths, and the crew formed a rough circle around the two combatants. Slowly circling each other, each sized up his or her foe. K’wanta was a head taller than Vixen and as strong as a bull. Also in his favor was his greater reach, but his cutlass was a foot shorter than her rapier. Vixen easily parried his flashing strike while he grinned with his pointed teeth.

  “I will be dining on your tender flesh,” he slurred. “After, of course, the rest of these rogues tenderize your body for me.”

  “Ye will find that hard to do with a slit gullet!” she shouted.

  Once, twice and thrice their blades struck and danced off one another. Launching into a furious and powerful series of blows, the cannibal tried to hack her to pieces. Vixen thwarted each attack easily. Her blade stung him on the thighs, chest and forearms until his limbs were streaming with glistening red trails. Her booted feet thumped out a cautious but expert rhythm while his bare soles slapped upon the boards.

  “Aaaggh!” he shrieked, throwing himself at her.

  Vixen dodged and whirled. Her slender sword’s point pierced him through the shoulder and immediately numbed his arm. The big black man’s cutlass rattled to the deck. She ran him through the other muscle on the same side, leaving him without a useful limb to resume their dance of death. He lay there groaning on the boards.

  “Ye were always a clumsy oaf, K’wanta,” she sneered. “I think the only f-flesh dining will be done by yonder sharks trailing our stern.”

  Her words came out haltingly, and agony poured through her left thigh. Flicking her gaze down, Vixen saw the red, gaping wound staining her breeches. Her opponent hadn’t altogether missed with his strike. Summoning up the remainder of her strength, she slowly ran him through the heart, giving no ear to the howls of pain roaring out of his blood-flecked lips.

  “Toss that baggage over the side. Anyone else thinkin’ I be ill fit for command?” she snarled.

  Silence greeted her and most took a nervous step back, their heads bowed in supplication, indicating the mutiny was at an end. With the head of the snake cut off, the body just curled and flopped in its death throes.

  “Well then, hop to yer chores. I’ll be in my cabin,” she said. “Fetch the sawbones to visit me therein.”

  The deck swayed before her eyes, and her footing, usually sure and steady, lost most of its famed sturdiness. She managed to get inside and close the door before collapsing in a heap where Tom found her scant seconds later.

  Dreams. Those unbidden and often enlightening images that flutter into our sleeping minds can entertain, shock or confuse us. Too often we don’t realize these are insights from Beyond, warnings or suggestions we don’t pay much heed to. However, they are, my dear friend, a way to glimpse our true desires. Vixen was no different while she hung in her hammock, her thigh bound tightly and a fever raging through her slumbering body. Personally, I find many a yarn to be discovered in my dreams. How about you?

  The ocean was violently rolling, waves splashing over the decks while the wind howled like tormented souls from Hell. The sky was black as pitch. It was accented only by bright flashes of lightning and the booming, rippling noise of deep thunder that reverberated in Vixen’s chest. Viciously the Sea Fox tossed from side to side, making sailors stumble and dance to maintain their balance. She watched while several were flung over the railings to plunge and sink into the churning waves.

  Looking behind her, she saw a gray ship, its sails torn and flapping, gaining upon the privateer. Onboard this macabre craft were the souls she had sent to Davy Jones’s locker. Their deep-throated cries for vengeance rose above the shrieking wind. Vixen could feel their hatred of her burning upon her water-soaked skin and searing into her very soul.

  “I warned ye of this!” Ginger Tom said from beside her. “Ye wouldn’t listen, and now the dead rise up from the briny deep to kill us all!”

  Turning to say something in return, she watched in horror as he was flung off the poop and into the frantically churning water. Hysterical fear chilled her heart until it grew even icier than the frigid water cascading over the poop deck to drench her. Twisting her head about, she roared out commands, but the decks were empty, void of any of her buccaneers. When she heard their gurgling cries, the pirate captain knew they had been swept overboard. She was alone.

  The derelict ship slid past the Sea Fox, grappling hooks biting into the wood of her vessel. As the ships slammed together, there was a splintering shriek of tortured wood. Grinding and snapping sounds shot upwards from between the two craft. Vixen hung on to the wheel for support, her strong hands and sturdy legs keeping her upright despite the shock of the impact. The vengeful dead scurried or jumped onto the deck, scrambling up the stairs with cries of murderous glee.

  Ripping her rapier out of its sheath, she met the first of them, an Effingham Marine she had killed in her first action. His gray, waterlogged face and listless dead eyes sent a shiver through her bones. Knocking his rusty blade aside, she drove the point through his un-beating heart so violently the spiraling hilt of her sword struck the dead man’s chest. He croaked out a laugh. Tugging himself away, he deprived her of her long, slender blade. She drew, aimed and fired faster than it takes time to tell. The black hole left between his eyes by her pistol shot didn’t seem to bother the dead soldier. He came on.

  Swarms of her victims clambered over the railings, trudged up the steps or swung on rotting ropes to land upon the poop. She faced ten, twenty and then over fifty of those she had ushered to Hell. Crowding around her with leering faces and deep, gurgling chuckles, they rushed forward. Vixen felt their cold, lifeless hands upon her cringing flesh. Fabric tore in terrible ripping sounds. Icy mouths, dead fingers and the cold press of gray skin made her scream in both defiance and terror while they bore her to the slippery deck.

  She awoke still shrieking, shuddering and alone.

  Milady’s Booty is Plundered from Her Locked, Treasured Chest

  “Ye have been strangely quiet, Cap’n,” Ginger Tom said, stepping into her cabin. “Since we’ve put to port ye have hardly come out of your cabin. What ailment could keep you locked away from the wind and the sun?”

  Vixen didn’t answer. Her throbbing leg and the images of the nightmare still haunted her. Trying to come to grips with such hellish images, she found herself in an awkward and unfamiliar mood. They had slid into port without incident, and the crew had been given liberty after their spoils were divvied up amongst the King of Gaston, herself, Ginger Tom and the remainder to her cutthroats. The vessel was strangely quiet. Only the mournful cries of the gulls above and the slap of the waves against her hull could be heard. Sitting in her chair staring at a mug of tea, the silent woman could barely bring her eyes up to meet her friend’s.

  “If’n your wound ails you too long, there will be another one like K’wanta who’ll think ye be ripe for the killing,” he continued.

  “Tom,” she whispered. “Do ye ever dream?”

  “What?”

  “Dreams—do you have them?”

  “Aye, Cap’n—why does this matter so?”

  Casting her gaze back to the medicinal brew, she watched t
he steam rise and curl from the lip of the cup. Something in her heart was weighting her down like an anchor. The first mate sat down in the chair in front of her, his eyes suddenly curious and large.

  “For too long I have reveled in the nightly visions of wreaking my vengeance upon those who cast my mother and me out of my father’s keep,” she whispered. “Acts of revenge, bloody and well pictured, filled my head from the time I first set foot upon a ship. Know ye well that I’ve been driven by that single act to rise to the position I hold now. I wonder, is this all my life is worth? To be a vessel of vengeance, with only the ghosts of whom I’ve slain to stalk nightly in my slumbering mind?”

  “There is more to life than revenge,” he answered. “You only exist to sink Effingham ships, raid their sea lanes and earn a spot on their gallows. I haven’t seen a smile, a genuine grin upon your face since you went on account. Swearing your allegiance to our former master be the last time I saw your teeth flash white behind those lips of yours. I think your heart has died, and this vision is your mind trying to revive it.”

  “Aye, ye may be right.”

  “Let us get drunk, sing and laugh. Tell bawdy stories of this roguish life until we fall down senseless beside our empty cups. Ye need to kick up you heels, Milady Vixen.”

  “My mood is too ill suited for such merriment.”

  “Only if’n ye don’t try. Let us wander over to the Seasick Parrot and quaff a few bottles of rum and roar out some songs. It will do ye a world of good.”

  Looking into his blue eyes, she saw something there she had never spied before. Deep within those cerulean orbs, something twinkled with a soft, yet sorrowful gleam. A gull’s cry from outside the porthole lent an eerie music to what Vixen saw.

  “What grips you now, Cap’n?” he queried.

  “Why have you stayed with me?” she asked instead of answering. “You could’ve put into port and returned home; your deeds are not as well sung as mine.”

  “I owe you my life, as miserable as it is, remember?”

  The sting of her repeated words pierced her dully thumping heart, and his image blurred and wavered as her eyes welled up with tears.

  “I was wrong to remind ye of that,” she sniffled. “Ye have ever been a good friend, a stout companion and a good ear to me. I release ye from your debt.”

  “I fear that no mere words, no matter how honestly spoken, could rid me of something I’ve repaid many times over. I do not stay because of what I owe.”

  The admission of his heart crashed through her mind like an aimed shot from an enemy’s cannon deliberately striking the powder magazine. The explosion it caused showed her the truth of why Ginger Tom had remained by her side, through thick and thin. She gasped and put a trembling hand to her lips.

  If love is blind, then you can’t imagine the veil unbridled hatred throws over the eyes of those firmly grasped by such emotions. Clinging to any emotion can be blinding, don’t you think?

  “Why have you s-stayed?” she stuttered.

  “You know why,” he replied.

  “This cannot be!”

  “Have ye seen a mirror lately? I adore the very deck ye stand astride. The swagger of your hips, the sunset’s reddish-gold shine upon your skin—aye, I treasure every moment in your company. For ye art more than just my captain—you are the commander of my heart!”

  Leaping out of the chair, he turned away, embarrassment reddening his already ruddy face. Stock still and petrified, Vixen watched him reach for the cabin door handle.

  “Wait!” she called out. “Don’t go just yet.”

  “I cannot undo my hasty words,” he stated without turning. “I would take them back in an instant; it is apparent you feel not the same. I have loved ye from afar for too long to remain silent, but I fear my tongue has divulged too much, too soon. I will seek out a posting on another privateer if I have shamed you with my heart’s content.”

  Vixen stood upon shaky legs, her hands pressed onto the table to keep her balance. A single tear coursed down her round, brown cheek. The hem of her bloodstained chemise touched her calves with feather lightness while she swayed at her post.

  “I wouldn’t like that,” she admitted softly. “Ye have always been by my side, be it in battle, calm seas or stormy nights. Perhaps I have been foolish not to look upon ye with more than just a friendly gaze.”

  Limping from behind the table, she managed to chart a course to his side. Tom refused to turn her way. Her hand fell upon his shoulder, and Vixen felt a tremor course through the man’s body.

  “Where I am well versed in the art of swordplay and seamanship, I feel utterly lacking in the ways of love,” she said. “You were my teacher once. Pray tell you could be again?”

  “Only if this is more than a lesson,” he muttered.

  “Let us find out then. This notion is new to me, but I be willing to sail this course until we reach the destination together. Whether we discover our port to be fair or foul, I wish to see what I have been ignoring with ye.”

  Tom twisted to starboard and took her face in his calloused and firm hands. As he locked eyes with her, she found her heart racing, a sensation she only noted just before the roaring of the cannonade signaling the call to arms. His handsome face, crystal blue eyes and light caress sent a warmth through her body like none she had known before.

  Still basking in this newly discovered harbor, she wasn’t prepared for his kiss. It was a gentle and unhurried press of fleshy heat, making her release a pent-up moan past parted lips. She felt the intrusion of his tongue, which fluttered against her own. Responding naturally, she returned the kiss as well as she could. Plaguing doubts of what to do, how to respond, and what would come next filled her mind, but strangely, they also urged her onward.

  The oral assault began with tenderness, but the thundering of her heart, the rising of her passion and the eagerness flooding her like a sundered hold soon took command of Milady Vixen. She threw her arms around his neck, his own encircling her waist. The hot press of their forms sent racing shivers down her spine. They drank each other frantically, like a thirsty and shipwrecked sailor gulping down his first cup of fresh water. Roaming hands found delightful ports to sail into. Tom’s fingers dug into the plush posterior of her bottom, cupping and pinching the rounded spheres. Vixen squeezed back in the same place on his body, taking great pleasure in the firmness of his rear and the thick muscle it possessed. They broke apart reluctantly, both gasping for breath.

  “I have dreamed of this,” he began.

  “Hush now,” she cautioned him, “no words until later.”

  Brazenly she tugged the hem of her chemise over her body and threw it aside to land in parts unknown. With a confidence she did not feel, she stood there naked as the dawn for him to survey. The stunned expression he wore made it all worthwhile.

  “Dear God, what a beauty you are!” he husked out. “The visions in my head, created with the best of my ability, do pale in comparison to reality!”

  “I bet you say that to all the wenches.” She laughed.

  “The hell I do! Look at you! That face, heart shaped and adorned with such curling black locks, strikes a chord in me never before plucked. You have breasts like full and ripe melons, and the lushness of your body would make any courtesan weep with envy.”

  “I pray you to go on.”

  “Such ample hips, and a lush bottom only fit for a queen. Aye, ye art the very paragon of womanhood!”

  “I don’t understand it—my rear, that is. Mama was so slender, and yet I have been cursed with a jiggling bottom like some strutting harlot.”

  “Avast ye! Curse not those rounded globes of absolute perfection, for mine eyes have often found themselves wandering to them.”

  Of course you realize why Vixen had this style of derriere, don’t you? Let us just say it was hereditary and leave it at
that, okay?

  “I stand here naked, and you have yet to disrobe,” she muttered. “Are you going to make love to me still garbed in coarse wool and boots?”

  Tom took off his clothes.

  I say that as if it were so quickly done, while in truth it was a scrambling, stumbling and hasty dance that a man can achieve only when struck so deeply by Cupid’s arrow. Let us return, shall we? Where were we? Oh yes…

  Unclothed and a bit shy, Tom shifted from foot to foot while Vixen’s hot gaze charted a course all over his freckled flesh. He was narrow of hip, broad of shoulder and deep bronze where the sun had touched him. In areas more concealed by his clothing, he was white as a fish’s belly and dotted with deep brown freckles. Her eyes sank down to the mystery he was attempting to hide with his hands. She gave him a stern look, and his hands fled to his sides.

  “Y-you are so…,” she gasped.

  “I know what ye will be saying, for many a wench has stumbled back in fear. I think this length of spar betwixt my legs be a curse, not a blessing.”

  “I was going to say red-haired, you scallywag!”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “However, the tall neck of that bird so haughtily rising from its red nest does make my knees weak and a-flutter.”

  “As does the dewy glistening of your ebony curls so neatly nestled betwixt your chocolate thighs.”

  “I think we’ve spoken enough poetic musings to satisfy and compliment one another, don’t you?”

  “Aye, me lass. Let us hasten to yonder hammock to further complete yer education in the loving arts.”

  “Dear me, I am so taken back by your insistence to school me well. Such a single-minded drive is often admired in a professor.”

  “No more words, my beauty!”

  As Tom picked her up bodily, Vixen let out a squeal of laughter. Carefully carrying her to the swinging bunk, he set her astride it, a long brown leg dangling over each side of the netting. Taking up a position in front of her, the smiling sailor ran a palm down her cheek. She sighed. The wake of his touch ran from cheek, to chin and down her elegant throat and stopped its course upon her collarbone. Vixen shut her eyes, wallowing in the sensations of his hands. Down through the straits betwixt her rolling bosom his hand sailed, past the smoothness of her stomach only to encircle the dimpled vortex of her navel.