The Noble Pirates (16 page)

I found that I was holding my breath as I read. Fabulous. Just what I needed. My luck really couldn’t get any worse. Was I being punished for something? I finished reading Blaine’s entry in a hurry:

…captured the pirate hunter Edmund Taylor’s ship and killed Taylor, a former slave-ship captain… Blaine was finally captured in March of 1720… hanged and gibbeted in Jamaica…

“Who goes?”

I shoved the book into my jacket and spun around, exhaling upon seeing the cook, an unhappy little man with patchy facial hair. The discovery that I was a woman made the entire crew uncomfortable – while they’d mercilessly harangued the boy Will, they had no idea what to do with the woman Sabrina. So they settled on avoiding me when possible, which was the best thing that had happened to me in a long time. I began to wish I’d revealed myself several weeks ago.

The cook’s eyes darted about, trying not to look me in the face. “Er… I thinks I hear’d rats… They gets into the flour, ye know…” With that, he went about his business, trying his damnedest to pretend I wasn’t standing there.

I traced the outline of the book under the faded canvas. In the wrong hands, this book was dangerous. While I still had no idea whether the future could truly be changed, simply the knowledge of when and where… I thought of Blaine, of how he was bound to seek me out again. How much did he know? I simply couldn’t risk his getting ahold of it. All I needed to know was safely in my head.

In a single movement, I flung
Rovers of the Sea
into the air and watched, my eyes watering from the wind, as my last tie to Jake and Sophie was swallowed by the sea.

Chapter Nineteen

We were almost there. It was my one consolation.

  The blasted “Middle Passage” had taken forever, every hour dragging by as I consciously avoided Jack Blaine, surrounding myself with the crew at every opportunity to ensure that I was rarely alone.

Every time Sam was brought on deck to “exercise,” I would ask him about Davis, nearly frantic with worry. Sam would look at me, his scarred face fierce, his expression impenetrable. At first, he would simply answer, “He is alive.”

As this was not enough to satisfy me as the days passed, Sam finally looked me in the eyes and said softly, “He has much
ike
, strength. He will not die. Not yet.”

I had to be satisfied with this answer, although it did little to ease my worry. I could do nothing though, except wait with bated breath for Blaine to approach me, for the
Cadogan
to reach Barbados.

They happened quickly, nearly simultaneously. Just as the lookout excitedly shouted that Barbados was within sight, Taylor called me to his cabin. Inside, both Blaine and Taylor awaited me, their faces expectant.

“You say you have friends here?” Taylor inquired frigidly, his arms crossed on his chest. “How do you intend to meet with them?”

I shifted nervously. “England told me where to find them.”

Taylor seemed satisfied with this answer, ready to be done with me. “Godspeed, then.” As I turned to leave, he added, “Oh, and Blaine would have a word with you.”

Shit. I reluctantly turned to face Blaine, who was chewing on a toothpick and leaning against a table, his eyes fixed on me. He waited calmly for Taylor to leave before saying, “Charmed Woman Sabrina. What are ye, a witch?”

I stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you everything.”

Blaine stood, pulling the toothpick from his lips and squinting one eye at me. “Ye know fates of men, do ye? She said ye’d know me fate, the fate o’the world.”

“Who’s
she
?” I asked hoarsely, stepping back as Blaine approached. I looked at Blaine now, knowing what I’d recently learned about him, and noticed the lantern jaw, the flattened nose, the blond, sun-bleached hair, the weathered face. He couldn’t have been older than me, and his stocky form consisted of mostly muscle. He was a terrifying bear of a man, and he would no doubt be even more terrifying as a pirate.

Blaine ignored my question. “What of me fate, then? If ye know so much, what of Kidd’s treasure? Of Spanish gold?”

Was he mocking me? “I- I don’t know,” I stammered.

Blaine grabbed my face with his dirty, callused hand and held it close to his. I could smell his breath, a nauseating blend of ale and tobacco and rot. I could see the fog in his left eye, the one he always squinted. He said, “I’ve a mind to force ye, lass, if ye know something ye ain’t telling.”

I tried to twist away. “I know nothing. Now let me go before I scream.”

He held my face for a moment longer, long enough for it to hurt, and then abruptly let go. He grinned. “I don’t know where ye plan on running to, but there ain’t many places for ye to hide, a lass with no kin to protect ye. Be assured that I’ll find ye when the time comes.”

“I told you, I don’t know anything,” I repeated. “And I’ll report you to the authorities– “

Blaine laughed harshly. “Aye, report me, will ye? I’ll still hunt ye down and get it outta ye.” He walked to the cabin door and opened it, then bowed deeply, irreverently. “Milady?” His voice dripped with sarcasm.

I rushed out, my heart pounding in my chest, and resolved to find myself a pistol once we’d reached solid land. I would rather shoot myself again than land in the hands of either Jack Blaine the sailor or Jack Blaine the pirate.

Chapter Twenty

Bridgetown’s harbor was so very different than Nassau’s. Of course, Nassau was the only town I had to compare Bridgetown to, and I’m not sure it was considered “civilization,” even in 1718. Bridgetown was what I had imagined an American colony looked like (not that I’d ever really taken the time to think about it): cobblestone roads, busy docks, two-story frame houses with large balconies and tile roofs, people – lots of people – who were neither whores nor pirates. I knew that beyond them lay the vast sugar plantations with their numerous slaves. To my eyes, the island of Barbados seemed an unusual backdrop to this scene of eighteenth century colonial drudgery, what with its shimmering blue waters, lush green foliage, and enormous bougainvillea flowers.

  We anchored at dusk amidst the numerous ships in the harbor. Merchants and planters came aboard to inspect the cargo, and the slaves were brought on to the deck. I held my breath, waiting for Davis to emerge, but he didn’t. They were going to keep him in the hold until the very last minute.

I was dying to get off the ship and away from Blaine, but I simply couldn’t leave until I was certain Davis was OK. I watched with horror as the prospective buyers inspected the slaves, telling them to open their mouths and jump. I turned away when two sisters were separated, wailing in anguish, their arms outstretched reaching for each other. Blaine brought the whip down across their bare shoulders and back, but they continued to call to each other, to weep profusely. I found myself sobbing quietly into the sleeve of my shirt.

I watched as Sam, tall and dignified, was bought by a wealthy planter and was led away. I squeezed my eyes shut, making a desperate mental prayer for him and the rest of the slaves. I wasn’t sure I believed in God, ever had, but I had to believe that something was controlling this magic, this curse, this surreal existence. Perhaps it could be merciful.

When finally the robust slaves had been sold, I realized I had to make myself scarce or face Blaine again. I took a few things out of my trunk – the white willow bark, the ginger, the silk gown England had given me in Nassau – and bundled them in a sack. Then, when I thought no one was paying attention, I made my way off of the
Cadogan
.

I had no where to go, of course. I considered lurking around the piers to wait for Davis to be brought off the ship, but beggars and stray dogs and enormous rats convinced me otherwise. I asked an old sailor smoking his pipe where I could find the prison, deciding I would wait there for Davis to be brought. For surely that’s where they were taking him.

The prison, or “gaol,” was a substantial brick building, dark and forbidding, with soldiers guarding the doors. Here, prisoners would await trial in the Law Courts, and convicts would await branding, whipping or hanging – whatever their sentence called for. It was dark now, and I had a plan. I sought refuge at an Anglican church not far from the gaol, where I was given some bread and water. The following morning, I used the water to wash myself as well as could be expected (which, incidentally, wasn’t well at all), and slipped into the fine aquamarine gown. I piled my stringy, unwashed hair on my head and hoped I looked something like a respectable colonial woman. I had a sneaking suspicion I looked more like a prostitute, but it would have to work.

I marched into the loathsome building, aware of the curious eyes that followed me. Upon entering I asked for the bailiff, who wore a long, fine coat of silk and a sour expression on his face. He looked at me without interest, as if he’d seen far more unusual things in his day. I was certain he had.

“Has one Howel Davis been brought in this morning?” I asked.

The bailiff rummaged though his records, making phlegm-rattling snorting sounds through his nose. “Yes, one Davis is here on the charges of piracy. Brought in from the
Cadogan
.”

“What evidence was provided against him?” I demanded.

The bailiff yawned and then answered, “The accounts of his crew members.”

“Who is the prosecutor? The magistrate? I must have a word with them,” I said urgently.

“You needn’t waste your breath,” the bailiff replied. “The charges will most likely be dismissed for lack of evidence.”

I took a deep breath, relieved. I knew this would happen, but I thought I could possibly expedite the process. “Well, please put me on record as having said that the charges were purely fabricated…” The bailiff dutifully, if grudgingly, took down my words, and filed them away in Davis’ records. He assured me that the situation would be addressed shortly, then seemed relieved to see me leave.

Now all I had to do was wait. And needless to say, it was agonizing. The parish priest, realizing I was a woman, allowed me to stay sheltered at his church for several days, knowing that I was awaiting a man to be released from the gaol. In return, I scrubbed the floors and did some menial tasks to earn my keep, so to speak. Every morning, I went to the prison and asked the annoyed bailiff about Davis. I wouldn’t be surprised if Davis was released only to get me off the bailiff’s back.

Then, on the fourth morning in Barbados, I walked into the prison and the bailiff, seeing me, immediately said, “He’s being released this day, in the afternoon, I’d wager.” I could tell he was thrilled at this development, because it meant I would stop harassing him.

I rushed back to the church to change back into my boy’s clothes – I did not want Davis to know I was a woman. I had thought about it since Davis had been put in the hold of the
Cadogan
, and I had my reasons: Davis knew Will, but he did not know Sabrina. I wanted to be a familiar face to him, not another shock to his system. Also, I was afraid. I was afraid that should Davis learn I was a woman, I would not be able to follow him in whatever he may pursue, whether it be piracy or anything else. I wanted to have the freedom associated with being a boy.

Finally, I was terrified of rejection. What would I do if Davis’ kindness and playfulness only extended to Will, and not to Sabrina? What if, upon realizing I was a woman, he promptly ditched me? I wasn’t sure I could deal with that – especially after England had done just that.

I waited outside the gaol for hours, the butterflies at work in my stomach. I was so nervous I thought I might vomit. Then, in the late afternoon, Howel Davis emerged, blinking in the sunlight. Actually, the man who emerged was a mere shadow of the Howel Davis I had known aboard the
Cadogan
. He was gaunt and pale, his clothes filthy and shredded. He had a full beard and dark circles around his eyes. And yet, I knew it was him, the smiling Howel Davis, from the fire in his eyes, which, while subdued, was still very much there.

They hadn’t broken him. Thank God.

I watched him cross the street, approaching me, and as he looked in my direction I waved. “Howel,” I said, unsure of what to call him. “Howel Davis.”

He stopped and looked at me, recognition flickering across his face. “Why, ‘allo, Will,” he said. He paused and I looked him over. God, he looked haggard.

“Are you… well?” I asked.

“Ha!” he said without humor. “Been better, that’s for certain. I could use a meal and some drink.”

“Can I come?” I said quickly.

He looked at me carefully, just a glimmer of good humor returning to his eyes. “Aye. I know a place… Just down White’s Alley.”

We walked in silence, and I noticed the gashes in his wrists from the manacles, the cuts on his neck and face, the bruise at his temple. I felt this sudden urge to take care of him, to clean his wounds, feed him, find him a good place to sleep. I couldn’t imagine what he and the slaves had suffered in the hold, and I was afraid to ask.

Davis broke the silence by asking, “So did you find the pirate’s friend, then?”

I shook my head, not looking at him. “No. I don’t have anywhere to go.”