Skulls & Crossbones

by Andi Marquette

  Her free hand yanked out the bottle of rum, and she promptly smashed it into the pirate's face. The glass shattered, carving a deep gash and abruptly washing away Redbeard's smile. Blood streamed down to mingle with the rum already soaking his beard. Hardwicke suspected it was the first time Redbeard's own blood had ever touched that knotted hair. A mad thought flashed into her mind.

  "Do you know the difference between Earl Grey and rum?" she asked. "Tea is for biscuit-eaters," Redbeard roared.

  Hardwicke lunged, but the pirate parried it with a clang.

  "Wrong," she said. She followed up with a furious flurry of attacks, the last of which the pirate deflected into one of the hanging, ghostly lanterns. Just as she had planned. Her blade, alight with the lamp oil, slashed out. Redbeard was too quick, throwing himself back a handsbreadth out of harm. His long beard, however, trailed a second behind him. He smiled contemptuously until wisps of smoke rose before his eyes. "Rum," Hardwicke said, "is flammable."

  The pirate's beard blazed up like oiled tinder. Hardwicke lashed out, her exhausted arm weaving and bobbing until once, twice, thrice, her blade cut true.

  With his face on fire, Redbeard screamed like a demon in torment. The pirate swung his cutlass blindly and only stopped when Hardwicke ran him through. The pirate dropped, taking Hardwicke's blade with him. He moaned deeply one last time, then fell forever silent.

  The men raised a small cheer, and the captain tried to calm both her racing heart and racing mind. Hesitantly, she removed her eye patch, not quite sure when the bloody thing had stopped itching.

  Sudden insight sparked, and her breath caught. She leapt to where Captain Seagrave's remains lay, and she knelt by the bones. Holding the skull with one hand, she ripped off the eye patch with the other, and there in the socket, as tempting as Eve's apple, was a metal-gray lump. The Devil's Lode.

  Faster than Hardwicke could react, a white squawking shadow flew by and snatched the Lode out of the skull. Hardwicke's head snapped up in time to see the parrot swallow the Lode in one noisy gulp.

  To their relief, the Black Spot didn't pursue them. Bones Benedict had vanished during the melee, apparently taking the longboat back to the Black Spot. Hardwicke suspected he had gotten a ship to call his own, after all. Far more shocking was that the men did not mutiny upon learning her gender. "We saw how you fought Redbeard," her smiling lieutenants had told her. "Do you really think any of us would stand against you?"

  She was grateful for small miracles, at least. Though if she was able to adapt first to being a pirate, then to embracing superstition, then she needn't have been surprised that her crew could change their views as well. Perhaps the secrets to accepting change were simply time and motivation. A sudden squawk brought her attention to the present.

  "I've tried rubbing metal fibers across its belly, sir," Stratford said, "but to no avail."

  Indeed, everything they'd tried these last several days had been just as ineffective. "A myth, you said, Mr. Stratford, and I'm sure you were correct." The lieutenant frowned. "I have been wrong before, sir."

  The parrot squawked, as if agreeing. Hardwicke scowled at the bird. "Weeks now it's been evacuating its stomach contents quite generously. A perfect time for it to somehow get constipated."

  "Strange to say, but the Lode's actually done wonders for the bird's digestion."

  Before Hardwicke could respond, there was a loud knock on the door, and Mr. Bodgers bounded in.

  "Captain, sir—er, ma'am—we've sighted a small pirate vessel."

  "Which direction?" Hardwicke asked, and no sooner had she done so than the parrot, wings flailing, spun around on her desk. It stopped abruptly, wings outstretched and beak pointed north by northeast. For a moment, the three of them only stared.

  "Gentlemen," Hardwicke finally said, "I believe we have in our possession the world's first magical, feathered compass."

  "What are we going to do?" Stratford asked.

  "We are in the service of the King. And if there's a pirate that needs stopping, then by God and country, there's one ship that will be up for the job."

  "The Donnybrook?" Stratford asked.

  "The Bloody Entrails," Bodgers corrected.

  Captain Hardwicke bit her lip.

  Pirate Wannabe

  Aubrie Dionne

  "I don't want to go to another maritime museum." Clare finally said it out loud. She was working on being more assertive, and it took the entire two-hour drive to get that out.

  "Come on, Clare. Stop complaining. This one has a pirate display, complete with swords, a restored cannon, and reenactments. Besides, we're almost there. It's really neat, and you're going to enjoy it."

  Clare added in her head, whether I like it or not. Tara was obsessed with pirates. Ever since those silly movies came out, she'd been dragging her to every pirate event in New England.

  "You're not going to make me dress up and act anything out this time, are you?"

  Tara laughed. "Not if you don't want to, no. I'm more interested in the legend of Ravishing Robert, dashing Pirate King of the Seven Seas."

  "Oh, no, here we go again. Not another lusty pirate."

  Tara parked the car, and Clare saw a dingy little building on the coast, barely able to be called a house, much less a museum. It probably had been someone's home once, and now they gave tours to people with strange pirate fascinations.

  Clare quit whining and followed Tara to the front porch. They were greeted by a mousy woman in her forties with graying brown hair and glasses twice the size of her beady eyes.

  Tara spoke first. "Hello, we're looking for the curator of the Isle of Shoals Maritime Museum."

  "You must be Tara Wardly." The woman smiled. "Come on in. The tour starts in twenty minutes."

  "Wonderful!" Tara was practically jumping with enthusiasm as she pulled Clare into the museum lobby. "You wait here while I buy the tickets."

  Already bored beyond belief, Clare occupied her time by studying the paintings on the wall. They all looked the same to her—boats and ocean, sea storms and wind gusts—except for one. At the end of the hallway hung a portrait of a young man with a black cloak, a jeweled head scarf, and a glint in his eye. Clare stopped in front of the painting and stared, despite her disdain of anything pirate.

  He was swooningly handsome, she'd give him that, but he also seemed mischievous and sly. His suntanned face and dark-brimmed eyes revealed a vibrant spirit with an insatiable wanderlust. Someone with a taste for adventure who wasn't afraid to confront his own fears.

  "That's him," Tara said, coming up behind her. "The Pirate King of the Seven Seas."

  "What happened to him?" Clare asked, surprised by her curiosity.

  "He was double-crossed by his first mate, Snake-Eyed Sam, in the Battle of Minorca, near the Balearic Islands in the western Mediterranean." Tara took a step closer, peering into the painting as if it would bring her closer to him.

  "He was going to rendezvous with another ship, the Gusto, when SnakeEyed Sam gave away their ship's coordinates and turned him in. His ship was taken in the middle of the night by the crew of the Gusto, and he was stabbed in the back."

  Clare suppressed a shudder, and goose bumps tickled her skin. "No way."

  "Yes, way. Those pirates were brutal, let me tell you."

  "But to betray his captain? That Snake-Eyed Sam must have been one hell of a ruffian."

  "You're telling me. He went on to become the nastiest pirate of all the Seven Seas, murdering for no reason and pillaging town after town. At least Robert had a moral code. He wouldn't fight against defenseless people, and he wouldn't take what wasn't rightfully won."

  A few others had joined them in the lobby as Tara told Robert's tale. The mousy tour guide began to collect tickets at the gate.

  "Looks like the tour's about to start," Tara said with excitement.

  Clare followed her to the group. Tara pushed her way to the front, already asking questions that Clare knew the curator wouldn't be able to answer. Clare watc
hed from afar, a straggler in the back.

  They passed rotting wooden planks, a few chipped coins, and a porcelain tea set from the 1750s. Clare wondered if she could sleep standing up. But every time she closed her eyes, the tour pressed on, and she had to find another position, lest she be left behind. Tara would make her walk the plank herself if she was caught drifting off .

  As the curator rambled on about eighteenth-century politics and trade negotiations, an object in the far corner of an adjoining room caught her eye. Slipping away unnoticed, Clare tiptoed into the hallway and snuck through the half-open door to another room.

  There was a sword stuck into a mast, protruding like King Arthur's sword in the stone. Clare read the plaque beside it:

  Ravishing Robert's Sword. Found at the bottom of the western Mediterranean, circa 1765. This mast is rumored to be his last target before he perished, stabbed in the back by Sam Whitaker, otherwise known as Snake-Eyed Sam.

  Clare was impressed with Tara's accuracy. She knew her pirates better than Clare knew the presidents of the United States. History was all dusty has-beens and old news for Clare. But, for some unfathomable reason, the sword stirred desires in her that no other museum artifact had ever done. The hilt gleamed, decorated as it was with chips of rubies and sparkling emeralds. Silver ridges etched the hilt, the blunt end engraved in gold with Ravishing Robert's seal. Clare had a bizarre urge to touch it.

  She'd never broken the rules in her life, and was especially respectful in museums, however boring she found them. But this particular artifact called to her like a box of chocolates on Valentine's Day.

  Maybe it was the fact that it belonged to such a handsome man, or maybe it was one museum too many and all the boredom had piled up to drive her insane. Perhaps it was all those self-help videos about developing confidence and asserting yourself she'd drudged through. Whatever the case, Clare did the unthinkable. She stepped over the velvet cord that surrounded the exhibit and grasped the hilt in her hand.

  The metal was as cold as the grave. She wrapped her fingers around the gigantic handle. It resonated in her head like a tuning fork hit with a metal rod. Release me, it sang to her, free me from this prison. Clare furrowed her brows and tried giving it a yank. The blade was wedged tightly into the mast. She wondered if the curators had ever tried to take it out, or if they'd left it for antiquity's sake. She gave it a few more test yanks before she braced her feet against the wood and began to seriously pull, straining the muscles in her back.

  The wood of the mast would not let go. She tried to jiggle it back and forth to loosen the hold of the rotting oak and with another tug, the blade sprang forth suspiciously easily and Clare fell back in surprise. She flailed her arms, but the metal was heavy and dragged her back with it as it flung away from history's grasp.

  Clare tumbled and smacked her head on the marble pedestal of another exhibit. The last thing she remembered was the clang of the metal hitting the floor.

  It seemed like an eternity passed in the space of a few dark moments. Clare opened her eyes and saw an endless slate of pewter. Water sloshed somewhere around her, and her stomach heaved. Was the ground level? Clare tried to raise her head, but a sharp pain ran down her back, and she stopped. She suspected she had a large bump on the back of her head, and she guessed it would be a while before she could stand.

  But why was she outside? Had Tara dragged her out to get fresh air? Where was everybody? Why would they leave a wounded tour guest out near the ocean on some wooden platform that resembled a . . . wait.

  The ground rose and came down again. It felt like she was floating, but not on air, on water. Someone had dragged her aboard a ship. A memory of Tara and a water bucket tied to a door came back to her. Her friend was known for pulling pranks on her, before her obsession with pirate history. What if Tara caught her messing around with the exhibits and wanted to teach her a lesson?

  But this would be overdoing it. With her head hurting like it was, she might have a concussion. It was hardly time to be pulling stunts. Clare decided that it was important for her to raise her head no matter how much it hurt. After counting to three, she sat up and blackness spread behind her eyes. Her stomach pitched, and she squeezed her eyes shut until the feeling passed.

  When she opened her eyes again, she saw wooden planks, a railing, and a man dressed very much like a pirate behind the steering wheel. She was on the deck of an antique ship. Somehow, she must have stumbled into a reenactment. Maybe they saw her keeled over in the museum and thought she was part of the show.

  Whatever it was, she was in no mood for pirate antics. She was fed up with old ships, magic swords, and tragic history. She needed to get to a hospital and have her head examined.

  Clare tried to stand, but the deck swayed, and she had to crawl to the railing for support. Clinging to the carved wood, she looked down into the water and all she saw was endless blue. In fact, there was no land in sight. Only waves stretching out to the horizon. How far was the ship off shore?

  Clare righted herself and started across the deck when the man at the wheel turned. He had slimy, dark, thinning hair tied in a ponytail, and two silver teeth way too big for his mouth.

  Clare backed away, but it was too late, and there was nowhere to run. Not that she could run very fast in high heels with her head pounding on a slick, tilting deck.

  "Blimey, what d'we have here?" He sauntered toward her like a boogeyman amused by his prey.

  Clare was at a loss for words. She backed away, step by step, but he was coming at her fast.

  "A stowaway?" He smiled, and his silver teeth glinted. "Snuck aboard the Red Lichen, did ye?"

  She smelled him from ten feet away. As he shuffled closer, she could see yellowed stains on his white billowy shirt, and his pants were soiled with who-knew-what on the knees. He grabbed her arm with his grimy hand, his fingernails black as ink and frayed at the tips. Clare noticed that he had a marble in place of an eye.

  If this was a reenactment, this man was doing a superb job. Clare had never seen an actor so engrossed in his part. "I don't know how I got here. I need to get back to the museum."

  "The museum, heh?" he said, apparently entertained. "Well, now, seems t'me we've got a real hoity-toity on our hands."

  Clare felt like a rose in a land of muck. She was acutely aware of her perfume, her vibrant sundress, and her perfect white skin. The man leaned in, and his breath smelled like rotten eggs and spoiled rum.

  She slapped his face. "You get one inch closer and I'll scream. Your museum will have a lawsuit on its hands."

  He snarled, but kept his distance. "We'll see what the captain says 'bout this." Without another word, he dragged her with him. Her high heels wobbled in the puddles of sea brine, and she wished she hadn't dressed up for the museum tour. Surely, the scene would end soon, and Tara would jump in to laugh in her face.

  The man knocked on the captain's door and looked down at her dress as they waited. Clare stared at him in shock, but he didn't flinch. Instead, he smiled another of his toothy grins. She looked away, disgusted.

  There was a call from inside. Clare was relieved to hear a civilized voice. "Come in."

  The dirty man sniffed and opened the door. Surprisingly, he gestured for her to enter the room first, apparently aware that she was a lady.

  Clare walked in, eager to get away from the man and get some answers. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw nautical charts pinned to the walls, fishnets and buoys hanging from the ceiling, and a stuffed seagull staring at her with a blank eye from a shelf.

  She half-expected Tara to be sitting at the broad desk in the center of the room, but she was dead wrong. Instead, a young man appraised her with glinting eyes. His thick, dark hair framed his handsome face in waves of shine.

  "What have we here?" The man's eyes drank in the sight of Clare and widened in curiosity.

  The dirty pirate spoke before she could find her voice. "Stowaway. I found her clingin' to the starboard rail. She's a proud beau
ty with a saucy temper." He pulled on the hem of her skirt. "Might fetch a good ransom." Clare jerked the fabric of her dress away, smoothing over the spot where his grimy fingers had touched, and narrowed her eyes.

  "Snake-Eye, go check the others, see if any of them brought her aboard," the dashing pirate said in a commanding voice.

  "Aye, Captain." The man jerked his head in what seemed like a bow, winked at Clare, and left.

  Clare's mind was swimming in a maelstrom of thoughts and images. Did he say Snake-Eye? Of course, she chided herself, this museum would have a reenactment of the pirates whose artifacts lay on display. It made perfect sense. The man in front of her was clearly meant to imitate Ravishing Robert. He looked exactly like the portrait.

  "None of your men brought me on board," Clare said, getting right down to business.

  "I know," the captain replied with a glimmer in his eye. "I would have known it if they had. Pirate tongues run rampant at sea." He sat back in his chair. "I just wanted him to leave so we could be alone." He flashed a pearly white grin, and Clare's mouth almost dropped open like a dumb donkey's. She was both shocked by his audacity and lured by his charismatic appeal. A little voice in her head told her that being alone with him wouldn't be all that bad.

  "My name is Captain Robert." He spread his arms. "Welcome aboard my ship."

  Clare had had enough of these theatrical reproductions over the years. This one was highly involved and much more accurate than anything she'd experienced in the past, but she did not want to be any part of it. It was clear that Robert was highly entertained. "And your name is?"

  "Clare."

  "Ah, Clare." He savored her name as if it were a piece of Spanish gold. "Now, how is it that you came to be aboard the Red Lichen, appearing out of nowhere in the middle of the sea?"

  Clare decided that the truth was the only way to get out of this. Her words started slowly, but as she talked, she gained momentum, and her dilemma flowed out in a tidal wave.