The Noble Pirates (21 page)

I have to admit, even I was roused by his speech. As the men shouted their hearty approval of their pirate captain, I locked eyes with him briefly.

And just like that, Howel Davis the sailor became Howel Davis the pirate.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Howel drew up Articles of Agreement the following morning, and had all thirty members of the crew swear an oath of allegiance over crossed pistols. I swore as well, avoiding Howel’s eyes as I did so, forcing my voice to sound masculine, if boyish. The Articles were written in Howel’s hand and posted on the door of the cabin for all to see. I read them with interest, as this was a fascinating document. Every man had a vote in “affairs of the moment, and had equal title to fresh provisions and strong liquors as seized,” although prizes would be divided among the men according to rank. The men were to keep their weapons in good condition, and no stealing or fighting amongst themselves would be tolerated. The best set of pistols found aboard a prize was to be awarded to the lookout who first spotted that prize. I chuckled to myself: the pirates even got workers’ compensation and a retirement plan, which was far more than an ordinary sailor, who was no better than a slave, could ever hope for. I scanned the Articles for a clause about women, and only found this:

 
If at any time you meet with a prudent Woman, that Man that offers to meddle with her, without her Consent, shall suffer present Death.

Good deal. I wondered if Howel had me in mind when he wrote that particular clause. I hoped so.

He’d been a busy man of late, Howel had. He hadn’t glanced at me twice since he’d become rogue captain of the
Buck
. I chalked it up to his being busy, but I also sensed he was avoiding me. I told myself it didn’t matter – I was able to look after him, or simply be with him, and that was enough.

But it wasn’t.

When, a few days later, a French ship was spotted off the coast of Cuba, I was ready to do pretty much anything to get Howel’s attention. Including hand-to-hand combat. Sure, I still couldn’t handle a cutlass to save my life, but I couldn’t stand the fact that, as far as Howel was concerned, I did not exist. Risking my life would have been well worth the effort, even if he became angry with me.

The French ship had twenty-four guns and was considerably larger than the twelve-gun
Buck
, which wasn’t much bigger than a large periagua, or a dugout. When Howel decided to pursue the vessel, his crew, understandably, wondered about his sanity. Hell, I know I sure did. How was this little sloop, with all of thirty pirates, going to capture a 250-ton, three-masted ship, with probably no fewer than eighty men aboard it?

When asked this question by several of his crew, Howel grinned and dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “Mere details,” he scoffed, his eyes fervid. “If we cain’t use brute force, then we’ll have to use cunning, now, won’t we?”

The crew stared blankly, hesitantly. Even the daring Walter Kennedy eyed his captain with uncertainty. But Howel wasted no time before giving orders. “We’re going to run straight for her. She’ll either think we’re crazy or have bigger consort behind us.” He grinned. “Hopefully each in turn.”

I watched as the men did as they were told, fear lurking in their eyes. It was a desperate attempt at surprisal and deceit, and Howel armed himself and each of his men with a brace of pistols, or a baldric, and a cutlass. He pointed to a dirty tarpaulin. “Cover it in tar and fly it at the masthead,” he ordered. “It’s as good a black flag as any.”

As I watched the preparations, I realized something strange – I was not afraid. Here I was, on a small sloop with a bunch of amateur and born-again pirates, about to attack a much more powerful French ship. We would most likely die, all of us. And I was fearless. Living in 1718 had done something to me, brought out a very primitive courage, borne out of the desire to survive. It coursed through my veins, steadying me, giving me focus. I looked at Howel, leaning into the wind, his brow creased in concentration, the skin of his face, throat and forearms beginning to reacquire that baked brown color from the Caribbean sun. With a kerchief tied around his head to hold back his hair, his pistols slung across his chest, the cutlass at his hip, and those clean black boots, he looked nothing short of a swashbuckler. He knew that survival instinct, that raw pluck, so very well.

I walked up to him calmly and said, “Just so you know, I plan to fight alongside you.”

He looked at me, his eyes giving nothing away. “I wager there’s nothing I can say to stop you,” he answered simply.

I touched my pistols, the cutlass I had been given, and smiled. “Nope.”

He almost smiled back, I swear it. He looked away quickly and said, “Very well then. Mind you don’t get shot.”

They must have seen us coming, but the gun ports of the great ship remained closed, its course slow and steady. The French must not have been very intimidated by us- they didn’t even bother to mount some of their cannons. Soon we were right alongside the ship, dangerously close at about a hundred yards. Had the ship’s cannons been mounted, we would have been within point-blank range of them. The sun was setting, and several shadowy figures appeared on the quarterdeck of the French ship.

“
Ohe
!” the French captain, a fellow wearing a great plumed hat, called out. “
D’où est vôtre navire
?” (Ahoy! From whence your ship?)

Howel climbed to the poop deck so that he was clearly seen. His voice loud and strong, he shouted back the traditional pirate response: “
De la mer
!” (From the sea!)

“
Comment osez-vous nous approcher de si près
?” (How dare you lay alongside us?)

Howel laughed. “
Pas tant d’histoires! Amène, chien
!” (Enough babble! Amain, dog!)

There was some rushed discussion between the captain and another of his crew, and then he replied in heavily accented English, “What are you about, English dog? Do you wish to die?”

Howel said fiercely, “We’ve consort coming behind us, and if you do not heed me and strike your colors immediately, we will show no mercy!” Then he turned to the designated gunners among his crew and shouted, “Give her a broad-side!” As the cannons were fired at the French ship, he drew his cutlass and a pistol and ordered, “Lay her aboard!”

He was not wasting any time. The boarders threw the grappling hooks and lashed the little sloop to its much bigger prey. With Howel and Walter leading the way, the men of the
Buck
rushed to the forecastle and climbed the ropes onto the French ship, howling like bloodthirsty wolves. I followed, drawing my pistol, but ensuring it was half-cocked. I wasn’t
that
stupid.

There was no battle, no bloodshed. The Frenchmen surrendered instantly, striking their colors and dropping their weapons. I watched, dumbfounded, as Howel ordered the French captain and twenty of his crew aboard the
Buck
as prisoners. The French captain was a portly man wearing a beautifully braided coat and waistcoat, a frilly lace cravat, and an enormous, curly wig that hung halfway down his back and rose over his brow. He stood, horrified, his mouth agape, as Howel smiled genially at him.

“
Bonsoir, M. le Capitaine!
” he said cheerfully, clapping the stunned captain on the back.

“
Ce n’est pas possible!
” The captain muttered hoarsely, wiping the sweat that dripped down his nose. “
Vous m’avez trompé!
”

“Aye,” Howel responded. “We’ve fooled you, my good man. But lest you think yourself a coward or a fool, know that you deal with very crafty thieves!”

Walter, who had been standing nearby, came over, and rubbing his chin, fingered the lustrous curls of the captain’s wig. “ ‘Tis a fine head o’ hair, you got there, Cap’n. ‘Twould have cost a small fortune, I’d wager.” He grinned. “A bit out o’ fashion these days, but…”

“Walter, you’ll not be taking the man’s wig,” Howel snapped. “You know these Frenchmen. Already he must think it necessary to end his life, as in his mind he’s been dishonored. Let him have his hair, for God’s sake.”

I would have laughed, had it not been for the look on the French captain’s face: he did, in fact, believe his life to be over.

I couldn’t believe it. Howel had just captured his first prize with little more than courage and guile.

To say that a celebration ensued would be an understatement. The pirates were over the moon. It was clear that they had chosen their captain well. Fine wines from the French prize were drunk as the booty was divided among the crew. But Howel was not ready to celebrate. He laughed and drank with his crew, ready with his smiles, but I saw it was a facade: he was thinking about his next prize.

I waited until he’d had plenty to drink – and I’d had quite a bit myself – before approaching him. I was hoping the effects of the alcohol would have mellowed him, loosened his tongue, as it had that night at the Black Dog Inn.

He was sitting on a hogshead on the deck, a bottle between his legs, watching as his men danced and sang drunkenly. The French ship had several musicians on board – a fiddler, drummer, oboist, trumpeter, flutist – and now the Frenchmen sat sweating, playing a steady stream of French and English sea shanties for their intoxicated captors. Howel swung his legs, a crooked smile on his lips, his eyes half-shut, taking a swig from his bottle every now and then. He saw me approaching and his smile faded, just a bit.

I sat next to him, and after pretending to watch the crew’s antics for a few minutes, said to him, “Congratulations.”

He looked at me briefly. “Thankee.”

I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Howel, what happened? Why do you suddenly hate me?” I blurted, standing before him.

His eyes widened. “Hate! Egad, Sa – Will! I’ve no hatred for you.”

“We were friends, you and I,” I said, becoming increasingly angry. “And now you won’t even look at me.”

Howel looked around, then said softly, “I thought we discussed this. We cannot be friends.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I insisted. “You may as well get used to having me around.”

He looked directly at me now, his pupils dilating. “And why is that, pray tell? Why have you followed me?”

“Because you need me,” I said, snatching the bottle from his hands and drinking from it myself.

“I’ve no need for a guardian angel,” he grumbled. “You’ll get yourself killed on me account.”

“That’s fine,” I said tartly. “I haven’t got anything better to do. May as well become a pirate.”

He chuckled, shook his head. “You are… like no other woman I’ve ever met.”

I grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He looked at me suddenly, hopping from the hogshead, and said, “Could you accompany me to the cabin, please?”

I was confused as I followed, my heart palpitating nervously. Clearly, he was taking me to the cabin for its privacy. What did he have to say to me? Maybe this was the part where he made love to me. My stomach tightened. I was getting too hopeful.

To my utter disbelief, I was right.

Sort of.

With the door closed, Howel turned to me, his expression lustful, and grabbed my arm. He pulled me up against him with a jerk, pushing the hat from my head. He weaved one hand in my hair as the other groped my butt. He pulled at my scalp so that I was looking up at him and then he breathed, “Why are you here, Sabrina? Why? I am a pirate now, as you predicted, and as such will lay me hands on whatever I please. Is
this
what you want? Tell me, pray, why you followed me!”

I could smell the liquor on his breath, see the haziness in his eyes. This wasn’t right. No, as a matter of fact, it was all wrong. I wanted him, there was no doubt, but… not like this, not angry, not pushed to the edge. The whole being “ravaged by a pirate” thing wasn’t working out for me. I began to try and pull away, shaking my head. I felt the tears spill down my cheeks against my will. I was done playing games. “Because I love you,” I said, my voice cracking inconveniently.

His grip on me slackened, his body straightened away from me. Sadness flashed across his face, and he said softly, “Ah. So the truth finally emerges.”

God, he was infuriating!
That
was his reaction? Oh, poor Sabrina, I thought so? Tsk, tsk… Just one of the many women who throw themselves at me constantly? I let out a strangled cry and, seeing nothing but the red of my fury, slapped Howel across the face – hard.

His head snapped to the side and he blinked, his mouth slightly ajar. Then he looked at me, bewildered. “What the fuck was that for?” he asked, his voice surprisingly calm.

“That,” I spat, “was for being a prick! A self-righteous, pompous prick! Why did you do that to me? Were you trying to force my hand? You big bully!”

“I did that to you,” he answered, “because I had to know.”

“Oh, good,” I retorted venomously. “Now you know. Not that it changes a single thing. And tell me, what would you have done had I been receptive to your uncouth advances? Huh? Would you have laughed at me? Oh, poor Sabrina, she actually thinks I want her!”