Cross Bones

by Editor Anne Regan

  Revenge maintained course, sailing directly toward the French vessel, with the Sea Nymph keeping pace off her port side. Cook gagged as they closed in on La Concorde. The foul stench that permeated all slave ships could be smelled from miles out.

  “She’s a blackbirder sure enough,” Teach said. Cook glanced at the captain but didn’t see any of his own disgust on the man’s face. He’d heard that Teach had first sailed into these waters on a slave ship out of Bristol, and he appeared to have few scruples about the sorry cargo. “It’s time to show them our true colors,” Teach called. Within moments, the French flag had been pulled in, and the sign of the Death’s Head was waving in its place. Cook could well imagine what the sight would do to the crew of the French ship, lulled into thinking they were allies only to find themselves sandwiched between two pirate vessels, trapped as though between the pincers of a crab.

  “Gentlemen, let them know we mean business,” Teach ordered.

  Cook ran to the side of the ship, yelling at the top of his lungs and waving his pistol; the rest of the crew followed suit, and soon the air was filled with the menacing roar of hundreds of voices, all screaming for the destruction of the lone French ship. This close, Cook could clearly make out the faces of the enemy crew and see fear underneath the pallor of fatigue. As he watched, the ship’s captain pushed his way through his men, casting a practiced eye over Revenge and Sea Nymph, quickly calculating how vastly outnumbered and outgunned he was. With an eloquent shrug, he reached for his pistols and made great show of placing them on the deck; then he raised his empty hands in surrender.

  Cook smiled grimly; not a single shot had been fired.

  “Prepare to board,” Teach called, and next thing Cook knew, he was swinging from a rope between the two vessels and landing next to Seb on La Concorde’s weathered decking.

  On board, the smell was even more appalling, and the crew looked in worse shape than Cook had first thought. There were barely twenty of them by Cook’s reckoning, and those on deck had the slack, bruised skin of men suffering from scurvy. To a man, the crew were thin and sallow, the dry crusting around their colorless lips speaking of lack of water, the blood flecks and gap-toothed mouths attesting to their diseased state.

  By now Teach had boarded La Concorde, and the captain of the French ship made a curt bow in his direction. “Capitaine Pierre Dosset, à votre service, monsieur,” he said. “Je vous présente le lieutenant Francois Ernaud. Nous sommes….”

  “Speak English, man,” Teach cut in, scowling fiercely.

  Captain Dosset inclined his head. “We are a merchant vessel, sir,” he said, betraying barely a hint of an accent. “What business do you have with us?”

  Teach grinned. “Why, the business of relieving you of your goods, Captain,” he said amiably. “Surely you understand the purpose of those who sail under the black flag?”

  Dosset frowned. “We have nothing but slaves on board. They are of no use to you; you must allow us to continue on our way.”

  Teach drew himself up to his full height, easily towering over the sulky Frenchman. “I’ll be the judge of what is of use to me,” he growled. “Now, I want to see your manifest. Make haste!”

  Cook joined Teach and Howard as they crammed into Captain Dosset’s well-appointed cabin. After ransacking the contents of several drawers and trunks, Teach made himself comfortable at Dosset’s desk, flicking through the ship’s log and cargo manifest.

  “You picked up five hundred and sixteen Africans off the Gold Coast in September. How many are still alive?”

  “Four hundred and fifty-five,” Ernaud replied crisply. “We’re bound for Fort de France.”

  Cook exchanged a satisfied smirk with William Howard. La Concorde was barely sixty miles from its destination, just days away from profiting off the lives of the unfortunates sweltering in the hold below.

  “Forty crew,” Teach said, reading off the ship’s manifest. “How many are still fit?”

  “Twenty-three,” Ernaud replied, with a shade more compassion in his voice.

  “Well, let’s take a look, then,” Teach said. Cook had known the dreaded words were coming, but he shuddered nonetheless.

  Back on deck, the dispirited crew of La Concorde was sitting in a circle, huddled together. Seb and the men from the Revenge had pistols trained on them, though they were scarcely needed; any fight the French once had in them had long since fled. Cook moved reluctantly to the hatch that led to the ship’s hold, and pulling in a deep breath, he popped the clasps, recoiling violently as the stench of death and decay flooded his nostrils. Despite thinking himself prepared, he couldn’t avoid retching noisily onto the deck.

  “You there!” Teach signaled to the French crew, so used to the smell that they didn’t so much as flinch. Several of them struggled to their feet, and with further signals from Teach, they disappeared down into the hold. Moments later a black head appeared at the hatch, and a fearful procession of debased humanity crawled slowly out of the belly of the ship. They cringed in the sunlight, squinting and shielding their eyes; shackled together with heavy iron manacles, they were all naked, women and men both, and so emaciated that their bones protruded through taut ebony skin. They were coated in their own filth, and Cook had to step back several paces to keep the rest of his stomach from emptying.

  When the hold was empty, an eerie silence descended over the ship as crew and cargo surveyed each other warily. Then Teach’s voice rang out. “Mr. Howard, secure this vessel.”

  HOURS later, Cook was thankful to be back on board the Revenge and several miles downwind of La Concorde. He hung over the side of the sloop, breathing in deeply of warm, sweet-smelling air. Below, the blue-green waters of the Caribbean were crystal clear, so transparent that he could make out fish swimming in the depths.

  “Here you are.”

  Cook looked up to find Philip Morton standing beside him, holding out a wooden trencher heaped high with salmagundi. For a moment his stomach rebelled; then it clenched as hunger nudged aside nausea. He took the plate gratefully and sat with his back resting against the warm wood of the hull.

  Morton hunkered down beside him, and they ate in silence, shoveling the spicy mixture of fish, poultry, and vegetables into their mouths.

  “I hear we’re setting sail for Bequia,” Morton said. “The captain has taken a shine to that French blackbirder. He means to convert her for his own use.”

  Cook shrugged, not really caring what they did with the gruesome vessel.

  “Where’s your beautiful friend?” Morton asked.

  “With the party that stayed on board the slaver,” Cook replied.

  Morton’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll likely miss him tonight.”

  Cook looked at Morton, easily reading the invitation in the man’s eyes. Morton was a handsome devil, his clean-shaven face and unruly blond hair making him look young and incongruously innocent. Cook didn’t resist when Morton’s hand reached out to rest on his knee.

  “I thought it was Seb caught your fancy,” Cook said.

  Morton smiled, and his hand moved higher on Cook’s thigh and squeezed lightly. “I appreciate beauty in all its forms,” he said, his voice suddenly husky.

  Cook snorted. “You don’t need false flattery with me.”

  “False?” Morton echoed, sounding bemused. “I never expected modesty….” He trailed off and looked sharply into Cook’s face, his eyebrows shooting up in amazement. “By God, do you not know yourself?” he asked incredulously. “Those wild eyes, that tight arse, those luscious lips, just begging to be kissed.” His hand slid the last few inches, rubbing against Cook’s rapidly swelling prick. “And this,” he breathed. “I’ve wanted this since the minute I clapped eyes on you.”

  Cook gasped as Morton squeezed hard, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. He licked his lips slowly, and Morton’s eyes widened, the question on his face as clear as though he’d spoken it aloud. Cook nodded briefly and clambered to his feet, leading the way to the ship’s prow. The
re was precious little privacy on the open deck, but darkness provided some cover, and Morton was well-practiced. They fumbled open the flaps to their breeches; then Morton’s callused fingers closed around Cook’s length as he guided Cook’s hand to his own stiff prick.

  “Your friend won’t mind?” Morton breathed.

  Cook frowned. “Why would he? He knows this means nothing.” Apart from a mildly reproachful look once in a while, Seb had never complained when Cook’s attentions wandered.

  Morton shrugged, his hand closing more tightly around Cook, forcing all other thoughts out of his head.

  They worked quickly, Cook watching Morton’s flushed face as he pumped vigorously, grunting as Morton’s hot seed spilled into his loose fist. In return, Morton’s rough palm scraped the sensitive skin of Cook’s length, and he groaned loudly as he came in a sudden, violent burst. A moment later they were both tucked in and tidied away.

  “I wonder if I would find your friend as accommodating?” Morton mused, his appraising eyes fixed on Cook’s face. “More to the point, would I find you barring the way if I approached him?”

  “Sebastiano does as he wills,” Cook replied shortly.

  “I might just test that assertion,” Morton said. He shook his head. “If I had that beauty in the palm of my hand, I’d be sure to keep him close.”

  Cook shrugged; Seb had never shown any interest in following up on the speculative looks and whispered invitations he regularly received. Still, that knowledge did nothing to ease the sudden knot in Cook’s gut at the thought of Morton’s adept hands working Seb the way they had just so thoroughly serviced him.

  A DAY later, the three vessels docked in Bequia’s hidden bay and unloaded La Concorde’s miserable human cargo. Cook watched as they waded ashore, his eyes searching for Sebastiano amongst the men who had been left behind to steer the ship into harbor. His mouth dried when he caught sight of Seb, black curls escaping from a tightly clubbed braid, his expression unusually grave. Seb raised his head, his eyes unerringly finding Cook’s, and a tired smile quirked his lips. Cook wanted to slide his arms around his friend’s waist and pull him close, but he wasn’t about to make a fool of himself. Instead he asked, “¿Cómo estás?”

  “Better, now that I’m off that damned frigate,” Seb sighed.

  “It was bad?” Cook asked. He knew that Seb had no stomach for La Concorde’s economic practices and precious little regard for those who made their living that way.

  Seb nodded silently, his eyes fixed on the slaves huddled together in terror. “Poor bastards,” he muttered. He eventually tore his eyes away and glanced at Cook. “How goes it with you?” he asked.

  Cook shrugged. “As always,” he replied. “But I missed you sorely.”

  Seb’s mouth tightened at the unaccustomed sentiment, and his eyes swept the area until they fell on Philip Morton. His head swiveled for a moment between Cook and Morton, looking at each intently, but if he put two and two together, he was experienced enough not to show it.

  By the time the sun began to dip behind the low hills to the west, the former slaves had been decked out in a bizarre assortment of clothing raided from the sea chests of the French sailors and supplemented by donations from Teach’s crew. Men and women alike wore breeches and cotton shirts, and each had been given a scrap of cloth filled with hardtack and salted turtle meat. Several of the crew had been assigned to conduct the group to the outskirts of the nearest settlement and see that the locals understood that they were freed people. Cook doubted they would stay that way for long; the Europeans whose slave cargoes were intercepted in the Middle Passage usually sent swift replacement ships to round up their property, and there seemed little chance that these would remain at liberty for more than a few weeks.

  When the last of them had straggled out of camp, attention turned to Captain Dosset and his shipmates. Teach had ordered his smallest vessel to be gutted, and the men had stripped her of guns and supplies, sail and rigging, until she appeared a shadow of her former self. Teach then rounded up the French crew and ordered them on board.

  “And what of my ship?” Dosset demanded.

  Teach smiled tightly. “I think you’ll find she’s my ship now, Captain,” he replied amid jeers and howls from his men.

  Dosset scowled. “Will you at least give us food and water?”

  “You’ll have as much as you gave those unfortunates,” Teach snarled, his head gesturing in the direction of the retreating slaves.

  Dosset blanched, but he recovered quickly when storage barrels were loaded on board, enough food and drink to last for the several days it would take to reach Martinique, provided they rationed wisely.

  “You may keep Sea Nymph with my compliments,” Teach said, waving his hand magnanimously. “We’ll consider it a trade.”

  Dosset’s lip curled in disdain, and he barked out a sharp order. Within seconds, several oars appeared, and while Lieutenant Ernaud counted out a beat, the weary French sailors began to row. Teach’s crew yelled and whooped from the water’s edge as the sloop drifted slowly back out to sea, although they gave up the sport long before the vessel disappeared over the horizon.

  Cook was glad to have Seb back beside him, and that night they threw a blanket down on deck, enjoying the salty night air and the gentle swell of the ship beneath them. After the rest of the crew had fallen into rum-soaked sleep, Cook slid a hand over Seb’s hip, worming his fingers under his shirt to stroke the warm expanse of skin. Seb groaned quietly and caught Cook’s hand, guiding it past the waistband of his breeches until Cook was cupping Seb’s hard cock. He didn’t waste any time, just moved his fingers quickly up and down the taut length until Seb tensed and came with a muffled cry, and Cook barely needed more than a stroke or two of his own prick to finish himself off. Seb squeezed his hand and murmured his thanks, then rolled onto his side and quickly fell asleep. The last thing Cook was aware of was Seb’s deep, rhythmic breathing, the murmur of waves lapping at the ship’s hull, and Philip Morton’s sharp eyes watching intently from the darkness.

  OVER the next days, they worked to convert the French ship to Teach’s specifications; stripping out the bulkheads that had been set up in the hold and carefully setting small brimstone fires to drive out the smell; tearing out the forecastle and re-rigging the vessel; then adding the guns that had been removed from the Sea Nymph. By the end of the week, the work was complete, and Captain Dosset would have been hard-pressed to recognize his old ship. Teach issued a double ration of rum so the crew could celebrate the launch of their new flagship.

  At the height of the celebration, he unveiled a painted nameplate with their ship’s new name proudly displayed. “Queen Anne’s Revenge,” he declared, for the benefit of the many who could not read. “Mark my words, brothers, with this sloop underneath us, we’re all going to get very rich!”

  And a Bottle of Rum

  “THREE-MAST brigantine two points off the port bow and closing fast!”

  Teach raised his spyglass, and a moment later a satisfied smirk spread across his features. “Shake a reef out of the ’fore topsail, Mr. Howard,” he ordered. “Let’s see what the Queen Anne’s Revenge can do!”

  The brigantine slowly revealed herself as they closed in. “The Great Allen,” Teach said. “I think she’s out of Boston. She’ll be carrying a pretty penny. Run up the Union flag.”

  Cook felt a thrill shiver through him, alive to the excitement coursing through the ship. Teach lifted his spyglass again, then let out a string of colorful curses. “Damn her to oblivion! She’s spotted us for a fake. She’s making a run for it.” At a gesture from Howard, the Jack was pulled in and Teach’s distinctive insignia, a skeleton toasting the devil, was hoisted up the flagpole. “Put the ship before the wind,” Teach shouted. “The chase is on.”

  The well-trained topmen swarmed up the rigging and unfurled the sails, the canvas sheets falling like the curtains in a music hall; others manned the oars and began to pull strongly in rhythm, and soon they were slicing
through the water as easily as a sharpened cutlass through flesh.

  “Helm hard to port,” Teach roared. Cook re-balanced himself as the ship turned sharply, riding the swell and roll of displaced water. Morton was grinning madly, and Cook glanced up to see that they had almost caught up to their prey and that the Revenge was harrying the Boston trader’s far side, pressing her toward them.

  “By God, she means to make a stand,” Teach said, sounding impressed. From what Cook could see, the Great Allen had a fair number of cannons on deck, but between Teach’s two sloops, she was vastly outgunned. Still, the next moment proved Teach right as a loud crack rent the air and a cannonball exploded against the Queen Anne’s side, shattering several of her timbers and sending shards of wood flying in all directions.

  “On my mark,” Teach roared. “Fire!”

  In a great boom and flash of gunpowder, Morton’s cannons leapt to life, and when the haze of yellow sulfur dissipated, Cook saw that the Allen’s mizzenmast and main topmast were smashed, her hull pockmarked with holes, and her sails hanging in shreds. There was little time to celebrate as Howard urged the men forward. Cook found himself swinging onto the trader’s splintered deck and was so hard-pressed by the enemy that he soon lost sight of Seb.

  Putting all else aside in an effort to secure the ship, Cook slashed his way steadily forward while ducking and weaving to avoid his foes until he heard Teach’s deep voice booming across the ship. He glanced up to the quarterdeck in time to see Teach level his sword against the throat of the Boston trader’s captain and to hear the captain’s strangled shout of surrender. He cheered alongside the rest of his crew as the Great Allen’s men dropped their weapons with a loud clatter, giving up the unequal fight and loudly begging for quarter.