Before the Mast: Chapters one and two

Riley

:The coming tide

December, 1702 - Hardyshire, Wessex

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“How long will you be?” Mariah asked as she ran her delicate fingers across Jarec Riley’s chest.

“A year or two I reckon,” he said with a sigh, “three at the most. I wouldn’t be surprised if the captain keeps us longer. It’s a lucrative business and any captain in that trade wouldn’t pass up an opportunity that’d allow him to line his pockets with extra coin.” She frowned as she sat up in the bed, the sheets covering her bare breasts.

“A year’s far to long, Jarec. What if my father decides to marry me off to another man? In four years I may be too old for such things.”

“Patience, Mariah!” he exclaimed with a sense of urgency, pulling her hands and placing them gently on his chest. “When I return we’ll live like royalty! Who knows, I may have enough to afford a ketch of my own. It would bring in enough profits to-”

“Four years is long enough!” The girl forced her hands back to once again cover her bosom with the bed sheets. She shivered from the cold. “I don’t want my lover to live a life at sea. It was never my intention to marry a sailor.”

“You don’t understand, Mariah. By the time we marry the sea will be far behind me.”

“But you just said-”

“I know what I said!” Jarec yelled as he emerged from the bed, the outline of his naked body casting a shadow on the wall of the small room in the dim candlelight. “It’s just a dream is all.” He looked back at the girl and smiled. “I just want you to be happy.”

She sighed again. “I am happy, Jarec. I’m happy just being with you. You don’t need to go to sea to make a life for yourself - a life for both you and I -, let alone with some wretched ketch!”

“Mariah,” started the young man, “my father was penniless and out of work before he met my mum. With nothing to lose, he went to sea. In a few years he became master of a merchant schooner then rose to own a small trade fleet of his own. Mariah,” he said with a gleam in his eyes, “he founded a damn seaport on the Guinea Coast!” The girl just snared.

“You mean a seaport that died out just twenty years after it was founded? Is that what you aspire to do, Riley, establish a colony doomed to fail?” After she said this it was easy to tell that she had offended Jarec. She half regretted saying anything.

“Evermond only failed because my father was killed!” he was practically in the submissive girl’s face. He felt that his anger was truly justified. “It wasn’t his fault that he lost the cargo. The captain thought it was a good idea to sail the convoy straight into a hurricane!”

“But your father did not die in a shipwreck.”

“He was shot Mariah! Shot! He did absolutely nothing at all!” Realizing that he was aggressively perturbed she crawled to the other side of the bed and rested her arms on his shoulder. He pulled it close to him and kissed it. She came in closer, pressing her curves against Riley’s naked body, slightly stirring him in spite of the fact that they had lain together just a quarter of an hour prior. He held her in his arms for a while longer. He finally said: “If I do ever start an empire of my own I promise that I’ll be careful as to what captains I hire to man my ships.” He smiled. “That’s where my father fell short.”

“I’m sure you’d be an able enough captain, Jarec,” she whispered seductively, running her hand down the man’s thigh towards his swelling flesh below. “And I’ll be your shipwright.”

“And why do you say that?” he asked quite curiously, a puzzled look on his face as he tried to figure out what his love was saying.

She smiled in the same seductive manner that Jarec knew so well. “Because I know how to raise a mast.” The two looked at each other for a brief moment before breaking into a fit of laughter. She gave Riley a playful punch on the shoulder. Once the laughter died down, she removed her hand right before it reached his growing bulge. “But I won’t be raising anymore masts today.” She smiled and he shook his head with a look of forced sarcastic dismay. He took her hands and put them in his again.

“Perhaps I will be a captain, Mariah. I’ll have a merchant fleet large enough to rival the King’s navy! And you, my love, will be the wealthiest woman in all of England - the envy of all of the fine ladies at court and the covet of all of the men. I am doing this for you, Mariah.”

She shook her head with a smile. “You miss the point, Jarec. You don’t need to captain of some ship or king of some trade cartel to make me happy.” She embraced him and started rubbing his back. “All I need is you, my darling. I’m content living a life such as this; a life with you. I know I am not much, but I can be your treasure. I’ll be a good wife. I promise.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Jarec said, shaking his head at the thought of abandoning his desired domesticity. He wanted to be with Mariah, yet he was not content unless he gave her a life of promise. He wanted to raise his children as he was raised for the first decade of his life, only he didn’t want to rob them of a life of privilege, as he was prematurely, or, worse yet, raise them in an environment of perpetual poverty. “I care for you and the moment that we are in, but this bliss won’t last forever. I want to support both you and our family. I can’t do that on my current wage. That’s why I must go. The end justifies the means. The means shouldn’t last forever, my sweet.”

“You have a fine job, Jarec. Continue your work as a journeyman. You do blacksmithing well and, God willing, you’ll own your own shop within the decade.”

“Damn it Mariah, do you want to be living as paupers for the rest of our lives? I want to give our children the life that I was deprived of nearly nine years ago. I want to make up for what my family lost!”

“You can’t make up for lost lives Dear.”

“I’m not talking about lives! I mean the wealth that I was entitled to - the wealth that we could’ve used to make a good life for ourselves.”

Mariah closed her eyes and shook her head. “If it wasn’t for your deprivation you would have never met me.” Jarec let out a sigh.

“I know,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

She kissed him on the lips.

“There’s no need to apologize, Love. I was merely stating that there are other options, other paths for you to follow. Blacksmiths make more than you give them credit for. Sure we won’t be kings, but we will be comfortable.”

“And how do you suppose I’ll set up a shop? I know nothing of the business aspect of the trade. I just craft.”

“What about your master?” she asked as she looked out the window in the direction of Peter Smith’s shop, which was partially visible through the fog despite the darkness, lit up by the lamps of the nearby village.

“What about him?”

“He has a shop.”

“So?”

“You’re his successor, Jarec. He has no children of his own. Once he’s old he’ll hand it over to you.”

“Blacksmiths don’t make shyte around here, Mariah,” proclaimed him sternly. “Besides,” he continued, “all of the local shops are being bought out. I don’t know how much longer Peter has. He’s heading out to sea.”

Mariah grimaced.

“Is that where you got this crazy idea of being a sailor? Did your master drive you into this madness?” Jarec nodded. “I knew it,” she muttered quickly. “I’m going to have to have a word or two with that man. If he thinks he can drag my love out to sea, he is wrong.”

“Don’t be silly Mariah! I choose to go. Don’t you see? I am doing this for you.”

“But I don’t want this! This is about you, not me. I can’t stop you from going, Darling.”

The girl could see tears forming up in his eyes, she rested her head on his shoulder, her golden locks brushing up against his forehead. He reached out his hand to rub her head before he kissed it affectionately. “I love you Mariah,” he said. “I just want to make you happy.”

She smiled sincerely. “I’m happy here my Love. Yet I am also happy when you are happy, when you are pleasured by both the bountiful and ecstatic fruitions of your life - those of which bring you euphoria - and my mouth.” He grinned at her, planting another kiss upon her luscious, red lips.

She sighed.

“Fine,” she snapped finally, “you can go.” He perked up at her inexplicably unexpected approval. “I believe that what you say is true. You do it out of love, and I can understand that. It does mean something to me. While I am content with the life that we lead and the life that we shall lead as husband and wife, it fills me with joy to know that you plan on making a means for us to live a comfortable life.”

“Mariah.” Jarec stood up and rested his hands on her shoulders, looking at her beautiful face as opposed to her large breasts below, “I won’t go if you do not wish me to. I will stay here with you.”

“I know you want to go, Jarec. I won’t stop you. I support you in your endeavors. While I would like to believe that it would be a realistic option for us to live off of one another’s poetry and prose, such is not possible.”

Jarec Riley elicited a half smile. “Prose and poetry come from experience, Darling. When I return I’ll have enough tales to write a book! I’ll die at a desk with a pen in my hand, the way that God intends me to.” Mariah snuggled herself into his arms and he pulled her ever close. She draped her leg across his lap, causing his stirring to return once more.

She looked up at him and he suddenly became memorized as he gazed into her deep, grey eyes, just as he was the first time they had met.

It was nearly two years ago. He was sixteen and she a year younger than he. The first Tuesday of every other month there was a dance that was held at Pemberly Hall, the social hall two towns over. It was his first time to a dance and he was sure to wear his finest clothes for the occasion. It was there that he met a kindly trio: a farmer’s son who went by the name of Andy, a tall, large breasted girl by the name of Jan, and Mariah, who was the shyest of the three. Throughout the night Andy and Jan drank and made conversation with Jarec. Mariah just sat in the corner. In spite of her beauty, no man came over to ask her to dance. A majority of the young men who frequented the gathering were too busy trying to get their pricks under the skirts of the more promiscuous lasses. Mariah was approached several times but declined the invitations to go out behind the building and “have a go in the snow.”

An hour into the dance, Mariah, who finally worked up enough courage, came over, assertively took the hand of Jarec Riley when he wasn’t expecting it, and danced. It was very sensual. It wasn’t the bawdy dancing that he had partaken in before, but a dance that meant something very special. In return he had built up enough courage to ask her to one last dance before it was time for her to leave with Jan, who was her cousin. She pressed up against Riley then and there who became almost entirely aroused and in love at the same time.

He left, only discerning her first name: Mariah, which he believed was a fitting name worthy of her extreme beauty. Two more months passed and when the day of the next dance arrived, she was not present. It took several inquiries to find out who she was and where she lived, but he finally found what he was looking for, leading him to a village on the edge of Wessex. Her father was the owner of a decent-sized farm, one that was not unlike the other arable establishments that covered Wessex like a swarm of locusts on a cornfield. There was not a single patch of land that did not belong to some farmer, or that wasn’t part of town limits. But the folk of Wessex liked their lifestyle. The Wessex culture was one of a kind. The men were all farmers with their own way of life. All of them lived there because they were trying to make a conscious effort to be as far from the madding crowds as possible.

Wessex was a nice place.

His inquiries ultimately bore fruit. Mariah Reade was the daughter of a local landowner, not a wealthy man but more well off than most farmers in Wessex. Being the youngest child, Mariah would need to be married to a good man of decent financial standing, something that Mr. Haythem Reade was able to overlook since Jarec was still a lad. It would be a few years before his daughter and Master Riley to wed.

The both of them were surprised when he showed up at the door of the nice house, Mariah especially since she did not anticipate a man she had danced with two months earlier arriving on her doorstep in hopes of perusing a courtship, which both she and her father eagerly agreed to. Now, two years later, while still practically children, Riley being eighteen and Mariah being a year his junior, the two of them were practically inseparable. The were idealistic the both of them, always discussing their hopes and dreams for the future, agreeing to satisfy them for each other. He said that the two of them would be together.

They wouldn’t be.

He would be at sea for three years and Mariah was most afraid that she herself would fall for another gentleman in his absence. Yet Riley trusted his pseudo betrothed enough to want to believe that she would wait for him. A life without her seemed unbearable, and he didn’t even know if he wanted to go to sea given her travesties in regard to the fact. But still she urged him to do so in spite of her discomfort. His future, their future, lay across the sea, manifesting itself in the bountiful harvest of a sailor’s wage, which was not as bountiful as Jarec would have hoped.

Jarec shook his head again, clenching his head as a slight migraine behind his eye came on. He lay back down on his bed and took a deep breath. Mariah smiled. “You’re mad,” she said, lying on her side facing her lover resting her head on her hands seductively, her beautiful body in all of its naked blissfulness.

Jarec Riley grinned from ear to ear as he ran his hand through his brown shoulder length hair. “So I’ve been told, my love. But a madman cannot do what is mad on his own. He can only control his own madness, yet it is the madness of others that truly make an impact on the world, even if it is done in a mad fashion. A single man’s madness can only go so far. Only collective madness can make a true difference.”

“Such as our collective madness?” Mariah giggled. Jarec smiled again, tweaking her nose before she crawled in close to him. He held her tight as she lay beside him.

“You may be mad as well, Mariah, but it isn’t the same. My ,madness is peculiar. You of all people know that I have patterns…I go from sadness to being a total maniac.”

“As do I, my love. Tis’ one of the things that makes us so alike.”

Jarec sighed as he stared out of the window. He could notice the rain beating down on the pains. “Sometimes I feel that we are too alike Mariah. It is as if you and I are the same piece of a larger puzzle. I love you, but sometimes I feel like I need to be truly complimented. Don’t get me wrong, I still want you and you alone.” Despite the comment his lover smiled.

“You are a great lover, Jarec,” she said earnestly with a hint of seduction. “But I still agree. You and I have something different - something special. Perhaps it is our madness.”

“Aye,” agreed Riley, pulling the lass in ever close. “Our collective madness precedes us. I do not want to dwell on the subject though, Darling, my madness is neither approved nor endorsed by Peter.”

“Your master isn’t here right now, Jarec.”

“Trust me,” the boy said with a smile, “he is. He always knows where I am.”

“You make me smile, you silly man. We’re in your own damn bed!” She laughed rather loud following her saying of this. Luckily Peter Smith wasn’t in the house that doubled as both the blacksmith’s and living quarters, enough for three or four people. It was only used by Jarec and his master. They were all who were there.

Up until four or five years ago Smith had a prominent business in Bristol, the town where he chose to settle. He worked as a sailor in his younger days and accumulated enough money to invest in his own shop near a set of roughhouses that lined the wharf, one of which once belonged to the Riley family.

Peter’s own father had been a blacksmith and taught his son the noble trade. Against his father‘s wishes Smith went to sea at a very young age, spending over twenty years before the mast. Blacksmithing being his only other skill, he took it up when he finally decided it was time for him to throw away his sea legs. Old Smith was long dead and his shop was converted into a cheap brothel, forcing Peter to establish his own business in Bristol. Eight years later he found a young boy hiding under a table. The boy had lost his family that night, right before his own eyes and refused to talk for nearly a fortnight due to his expected and justified shock and trauma. For those two weeks all the boy did was stare at the golden locket that he wore around his neck, caricatures of his parents inside. He felt partially responsible for not only the murder of his parents, but also for the death of his uncle, grandfather, and Aunt. His sister, only five years older than he, was not killed. The men made him watch as one of them, a Spaniard who was called “Raymundo” by his comrades, forced himself onto his sister, her cries echoing throughout the dark halls of what had once been the Riley family’s sanctuary.

Peter gave the lad a very good home, even going as far as taking him on as an apprentice. For another three years they worked in Bristol, the lad getting a hand of everything. Their obscure respite was cut short when a shady group of ruffians came in and torched the place; men who claimed to be old “friends” of Peter’s. Luckily the two of them, the smith anticipating the incident, escaped just a few hours prior with all of there belongings, which carried on a cart that was pulled by Pete’s old mule Gilgamesh.

At nearly fourteen by the time this had happened Jarec began to realize that there was something about Peter that seemed awfully queer. Not wanting to offend his master, who had been ever so kind to him since that night in the winter of 1693, Jarec did not bother asking who those “friends” of his were. He considered that they had probably been shipmates at sea who had yet to settle some kind of quarrel. That aside, Jarec was glad that they were able to leave Bristol behind them, a city that housed many terrible memories for him. He liked Wessex. It was quiet. It was egalitarian. It was home.

The village in which he and his master, who disliked being addressed as such, lived was built by a man named Tom Hardy twenty decades ago. While Wessex, a small county in western England, was around for many centuries, it was this Mr. Hardy who transformed it into a large agricultural center. With the new innovative technologies that had emerged since, the Wessex economy increased tremendously.

“And what has that old pirate been up to these days?” Mariah asked Jarec.

“Cryptic as always,” he replied as he smiled back at the girl who crawled back under the covers and turned on her side. “He’s more cynical than usual to. Must be in his old age.”

The two of them often joked about Peter’s piratical status. He had the makings of one: the rugged looks, the nautical personality, and his secrecy. He just had the saltiness of a sailor about him. It was funny. Even though Peter was most certainly never a gentleman of fortune, Jarec had erroneously believed the possibility of such when he was much younger. Of course he had never approached his master on this topic. He was a very secretive man who liked his privacy. Plus, Jarec had no desire for a beating, even though it was unlikely that Peter would ever do such a thing. He was a gentle man, Peter, especially for one in such a rough profession. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. That is ultimately what convinced Jarec that Mr. Peter Smith most certainly was not pirate. That aside, no one really knew who Peter Smith actually was, not even his adopted son.

“When does it depart, Jarec?”

“When does what depart?”

“The ship, of course,” she exclaimed, startled that Jarec seemingly had no clue as to what she spoke of.

He just smiled. “It’s a ‘she,’ Mariah. Ships are a ‘she‘.”

“I’m sorry, Darling,” she submissively apologized.

“Why do you always apologize, Love? There is nothing you have to apologize for at all.”

The girl sighed, curling herself into a little ball in-between the sheets. She pulled the boy back down to her. All she did is shrug before changing the subject. “Have I ever told you how amazing of a man you really are?”

The sudden pragmatic shift in conversational direction caught Jarec off guard. “You’ve implied it, I suppose, but I’ve never heard those exact words come out of your mouth.” She grinned seductively. “But what does make me so great, I wonder? I’m simply a blacksmith’s apprentice and soon to be sailor. My skills are quite average, as is my physical appearance. People like me come a dime a dozen.”

“Tis’ neither your trade nor your looks, Darling. It is about your poise; your assurance; your confidence. I am not saying this because I love you. I am saying this because I know that you are bound for greatness.”

“And what does greatness look like?”

“Honestly,” she said with a shrug, “I have no idea, if you want to know the truth. Greatness is subjective. Some see greatness as the accumulation of wealth. Some see it as the merit of honour upon the fields of war. And others yet see it as the obtainment of intellectual enlightenment.”

“What about infamy?”

She was startled by his suggestion. Surely he couldn’t be implying that notoriety was a form of greatness. “And how would infamy fit into all of this? Greatness isn’t measured by foul deeds!”

Jarec Riley grinned nefariously, snickering deep down within his own conscience but hiding the sneer from the girl. “But didn’t you just say that greatness is subjective?”

She gaped again, surprised at the sudden change in her lover’s attitude. “Marauders and thieves do not deserve greatness, regardless of their feats. Hurting others is not a way to achieve-”

“What about greatness on the battlefield, Mariah? You mentioned that earlier.”

“But that’s during war!” she proclaimed in frustration. “Those who harm others and think for themselves shouldn’t be allowed to gain prestige in any sense of the word.”

“Sir Henry Morgan would disagree with you there,” said Riley, referring to the famous privateer renowned for his exploits just half a century prior. “He’s gained fame and recognition from both bandits and gentlemen. Shades of grey exist all around us, Mariah. One who is considered to be great by some may be seen as a horrendous person by others, such as the Spanish viewed Mr. Morgan. Even taking the question of nationality out of the subject, these shades are ironically clear as well, in these other senses. A hero of the people is often seen by the law as an outlaw in spite of his good doing to the common man. Morality cannot be measured by the law. It is held in different standards by each and every man.”

Mariah shook her head soundly at her friend, not as upset as before but still adamantly objected to the stance that the man was taking. “Are you saying that morality is relative? Is there a justifiable reason for everything?”

“Not necessarily. Yet everybody often has their own reasons, regardless of whether or not you or I see said reasons as morally right.” There was a pause and for a moment the two of them just stared at each other, glad that they had one another despite their differences in opinion. “Mariah,” Jarec said, not taking his gaze off of her. “Have I ever told you how amazing of a woman you are?” She nodded with a smile, not saying a single word. “And it is not because of your beauty. It is because, in spite of our separate views, you are so very intelligent. Our minds are in a constant intercourse with one another I feel. Our bond is strong. I just hope it remains strong while I am at sea.”

“As do I my love,” she replied earnestly. “But for a second back there, I was starting to become convinced that you were making an attempt to justify piracy. You weren’t considering-”

“Of course not, Mariah. You know that is not the man I am - who I am. Besides, piracy is a dying breed. The age of the buccaneers and corsairs is over. You start to hear less and less about them as the years progress. Why, I haven’t heard a single thing about them since that rascal Kidd was hanged in London last year.”

“As have I, Jarec. By the way, didn’t you say that he was a distant relative of yours?”

“Aye. I met him once when I was a lad. He was me mum’s second cousin, I believe. From the Scottish side of her family. I share his blood, but not his foul passions. As I said earlier, piracy is a dying breed. I wouldn’t be surprised if they are all but gone by 1715, when the Caribbean will be under unopposed control by the English, as it should be.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Dear. I just hope that you stay safe while you are at sea. I wouldn’t want you sailing back into port with a black flag hung from the mast of your ship.”

“I can promise you that that won’t happen.” He could hear sincere concern in her voice, reassuring the fact that Mariah Read did care for him very much. She had always been good to him. While her father was oblivious to the fact that they had lain together many times within the past year or so, her family was very fond of him and in support of a union between the two souls especially given the promising possibility that he would become a Smith in a region that had a shortage. Still however, neither of them knew how her parents would react to his sudden change in career choice. The both of them were concerned that perhaps her father would marry her off to some farmer or another mediocre sap of the sort.

“When do you leave?” she asked in a worried voice that was full of both hopeful promise and haunting despair. “I do not know if I am ready to have the sea take you away from me just yet.”

“Two fortnights. The captain plans to sail south in mid January. But don’t worry, I am sure that we will see each other from time to time. The chances of us making port in Bristol once or twice a year is very likely from what I have gathered.”

“Do you promise?” She asked, sounding very much like a little girl. She was a little girl.

“I promise,” was all he replied.”

She smiled the same seductive smile that Jarec Riley loved and cherished oh so very dearly. She softly and inquisitively whispered, “Shall we consummate that?”

“Only if you would like to.” She said not a word. Closer yet she came to him before climbing atop the lad, mounting him gently.

Drummond

:An unfair trade

December, 1702 - Somewhere off the coast of Martinique

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“That’ll be fifty for the sugarcane and forty for the sandal,” Wickers said as leaned in close to the candlelight. “That’s the going price.”

“Per ton?” Edwin Drummond inquired as he dipped his quill into the black ink as to copy down the words of the captain, refusing to take his eyes off of the parchment on the table in front of him.

“Of course it is!” the captain snapped annoyed at the younger man who did not bother to gaze at the expression on his face. Edwin quickly scribbled it onto the paper as to not forget the exact details that Wickers recounted. He was a short tempered man and the slightest misinterpretation of his words by any one of the crew or his associates ignited in him the fury that he was ever so famous for. Being a man who liked to please the man, Edwin made an effort to pay close attention to the demands of the man as to not compromise the merit of his position. Ever since his desertion of the Royal Navy, leading to his ultimate joining of the crew of the Jackass, he had quickly risen to a decent position that he had no desire to lose. Over the past year Wickers had taken a liking to the man in his own peculiar way. While he didn’t necessarily like Edwin, he trusted him enough to handle the ledgers and books that were necessary to keep track of his numerous transactions throughout the Antilles as well as document previous ventures. While there was no official position aboard the Jackass, Edwin figured that he was the closest thing to one.

It was because he was literate.

None of the crew, aside for maybe Mr. Hackney, knew how to read or write, making Edwin a particularly important asset.

“I would think that you would’ve been able to agree on a higher price, especially given the embargo on English goods.”

The captain sighed, arrogantly giving a grimace that Edwin knew very well. While most of the crew were either too stupid or too disconnected to understand its meaning, the young man knew that it meant “you are an imbecile and a fool.”

“It isn’t a matter of the embargo but rather a question of being able to find a suitable buyer. Monsieur Ducas is the only man we were able to convince to purchase the cargo. It was as high as he was willing to go. Negotiations did not go as well as I would’ve hoped.” He paused for a moment, turning around to look out the small porthole in the rear of his small cabin. The sky was dark, the sun having set hours ago. The only source of light was the full moon that hung high above. It was just enough to illuminate the shore where the transaction would ultimately occur, but it was dark enough to allow the rendezvous to be subtle as to not attract the attention of the authorities or the brownnosing fishermen who wouldn’t hesitate to draw attention to the trade and alerting the guards in the nearby town. This was probably motivated by the fact that such men were unable to afford the merchandise that Wickers was delivering. The first rule of delivering contraband: maintain absolute discretion. Ironically this sometimes meant being as conspicuous and overt as possible as for the guards to overlook their pretended foolishness. In spite of the risk however smuggling was a lucrative business, and Edwin knew it.

“I regret meeting with Ducas myself,” Wickers continued, “I should’ve let you handle the negotiations. As much as I hate to say it, you are a rather talented rhetorician.”

“Thank you, Captain Wickers. I take your compliment with the utmost obligation.”

“Don’t get too cocky Thatch. You’re a useful asset to me, but do not forget that you are expendable. There are better men than actors I could replace you with. The fact that you are literate makes up for that fact.”

“With all do respect Captain, you shouldn’t forget the fact that my acting has gotten you out of numerous predicaments. It’s been a skill I’ve had practically since birth.

“A useless skill,” declared the seasoned sailor with bitter contempt. “I have no idea why people even bother perusing it. You know that distant uncle of yours? The playwright? Perhaps the biggest imbecile in all of English history!”

“Be careful what you say, Captain. Mr. Shakespeare was highly respected in his time. Ever since his success my family have been heavily involved in such arts.”

The captain, being an insecure man often threatened by the success of others, laughed mockingly in spite of himself with the apparent attempt to offend Edwin. While smart enough to hide it outwardly he smiled inside. Drummond was far from offended by the tasteless remark. As a matter of fact he actually found it amusing. He was both comfortable and proud of who he was.

He was a showman at heart.

“You made the right choice taking up this profession despite the risks. That much is commendable. I may even have the capacity to respect you if you didn’t waste your time reading your bloody plays.”

“If I couldn’t read,” Edwin countered, “You wouldn’t be as successful as you are. Admit it, I’m an important accomplice.” Wickers tried to speak but was unable to speak. While he would refuse to admit it, he knew that Edwin was right. He was too proud to admit that much. It was satisfying to know that he was able to get one over on bastard. Captain Wickers quickly changed the subject.

“How’s the crew been, Thatch? I trust they’ve calmed down since the incident with Hendrix?”

“Indeed they have,” he lied, wanting to spare his employer from the actual details.

Wickers was a constant joke amongst the crew of the Jackass. In private they constantly mocked him through both jests and obscene impersonations. All twenty-two of the crew were in on the jocular subject, but they all knew that if the captain found out they would be at risk of punishment. Just two weeks earlier a new addition to the crew, a middle-aged man named Hendrix, made the mistake of composing and performing an entertaining but tasteless song about the captain who, when he found out, ordered the poor man keelhauled. None of the crew wanted to perform the deed as the sailor was a very likable fellow. Holding him at gunpoint, Captain Wickers forced the de facto boatswain, a somewhat portly Irishman by the name of Charles Smee, to cast him overboard. Lucky for Smee the crew did not hold a grudge against him for carrying out the deed but rather blamed the captain for murdering their friend. While the rambunctious commotion died down within the past couple of days, there was still a bitter attitude that a majority of the men had for the captain. It was quite justifiable in Edwin’s opinion.

There was talk of mutiny among the more outspoken members of the crew but Edwin doubted that they would actually follow through. Not only were they an unorganized bunch, but they were also poor fighters who, in addition, had virtually no sailing experience or leadership qualities. Despite his many faults Wickers was a very skilled smuggler, but also very sneaky. In order to appear a certain way around the authorities in some of the ports he visited he occasionally informed them that there were members of his own crew who secretly dealt contraband. He pretended to do his sovereign duty as to give the law the illusion that he was conducting legitimate business. He was clearly a suspicious man so he did all he could to disguise himself.

Edwin was just about the only member of the crew who was able to effectively handle a blade. Although he had no formal training, his grasp of stage fighting was developed enough to be able to handle himself in battle.

Edwin Drummond.

He was a surprisingly tall man, over six feet, who happened to appear quite intimidating, although he had the reputation of being a very kind and sensible man. Already in his mid-twenties he possessed a surplus of sailing experience, which he acquired during his time in the Royal Navy.

Born in Bristol he was raised by his parents, both actors, and demonstrated a talent for such at an early age. His father, the son of a thatcher (who also bore the name Thatcher) was apprenticed to a playwright as a lad and ultimately married his daughter. When he was younger Edwin dreamed of becoming “the greatest actor in all of England.” He had since given up on that dream.

Unable to preserve the family business after his parents died he enlisted in the Royal Navy, a choice he later regretted. In order to avoid ridicule from the rest of the crew, as his name was slightly well-known, he went by the alias “Ed Thatch.” He made many attempts to jump ship but the officers refused to permit him to. He did not understand why they did this. It was his choice to join up so he should have been able to leave when he desired.

He did not much care for how he and the rest of the crew were treated, especially after he was punished for his heroism. When his ship engaged a Dutch vessel off the coast of Africa he saved the captain’s life from the hands of the Dutch captain. The commanding officer was not pleased with Edwin’s intervention, foolishly mistaking that he had the situation under control. In turn he flogged Ed for insubordination.

He finally deserted when they made port in Port Royal where the captain was tasked to deliver a hefty payload of building materials that were to be used to assist with the reconstruction of the town, which was destroyed by an earthquake back in 92’.

Along with five others Edwin snuck into the desolate city before making his way to the north of the bay to the newer port of Kings Towne, which had since replaced Port Royal as the island’s colonial capital even though the governor still maintained a permanent residence in the older town across the harbour.

Men were sent after them and only Edwin and another sailor by the name of Jameson Hackney managed to evade capture. They suspected that the other men were taken back to the Man of War and hanged from the yardarm.

Because of his showmanship Edwin was able to disguise himself as a drunk puppeteer, successfully fooling the press officers.

It was there where Drummond and Hackney met a Dutchman named Jakob Van Hoorne, a successful smuggler conducting business in Jamaica, using his illegally obtained money to fund the reconstruction of Port Royal as to boost his influence on the island. They were recruited in his operation, based from a small, obscure smuggler’s camp on the far side of St. Eustatious. Unfortunately both men were assigned to work on the barque Jackass, captained by good old Cap’n Wickers.

It was almost as bad as the Royal Navy.

Suffice it to say, the pay was decent. When not at sea Edwin lived in a small room he rented at the tavern in the smuggler’s den. He once more went by his birth name, but everyone called him “Thatch” all the same.

Wickers slyly smiled at Edwin. “The time’s growing near. We only have a small window of opportunity to pull this charade off. We don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Edwin cringed. “We were nearly boarded by that French brig at Guadeloupe. If it weren’t for the squall we’d probably be rotting away in some French prison somewhere.”

“We have Mr. Hackney to thank for that,” Wickers stated passively acknowledging the Jackass‘ helmsman as close to admiration as possible. It was not often that he praised members of his crew. He deemed them all lesser than he. To him they were expendable.

Edwin changed the subject. “So when do you plan on heading to shore, Captain?”

“Actually that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It has come to my attention that part of the reason the last deal failed was because it was I who handled it. I am unable to put on as good a mask as you.” Edwin’s initial thought was that Wickers was up to something. He had drastically shifted from displaying contempt towards his talent to praising it, even saying that it surpassed his own, which wasn’t even there to begin with. Even though he probably knew it inside, the captain never admitted that others possessed skills that surpassed his own.

Wickers was clearly up to something.

Yet Drummond played along, putting on a mask of his own as to appear oblivious to his captain’s inference.

“We want to be as covert as possible. The froggies have constant patrols along the beaches and we want to make sure we do not, under any circumstances, attract their attention. Because of that I have decided to send only four men on two boats, a dingy and the sail barge harnessed to the stern of the ship. It will take four or more trips to carry all of the merchandise. We won’t clean out the entire hold as that would take to long and will be risky since dawn will be far behind by the time we’d finish the transportation. Because of the patrols I’ve decided to send only those whom I trust most.” Edwin knew what was coming next, but he played along nonetheless.

“And who are these fellows of which you speak?”

Wickers smiled. “That’s where you come in, Thatch. I’m entrusting you to make sure that the transaction goes as planned. You can easily play the part. I know you can tell when someone is bluffing, so I figured you’d be the best to send along.”

Edwin smiled inside.

“We’ve already began loading the cargo and it should be ready to be delivered within an hour or two. In the meantime, I suggest you get some rest.”

______________________________________________

Following his meeting with the captain, Edwin went topside to see what was going on. There were only about six men; four of them were loading the cargo onto the boats. He smiled after he noticed Mr. Smee passed out near the forecastle, a bottle of rum in his hands. Turning his gaze to the stern he saw Hackney sitting down near the wheel, hands between his knees with his own bottle in his left hand.

Hackney was the helmsman aboard the Jackass, and a damn good one too. The two of them had been shipmates during their time in the Royal Navy, both having deserted after going ashore while stopped in Jamaica.

He was a relatively tall man, although not as tall as Edwin, and had a certain poise and assurance about him. Onboard the Man of War he was an assistant to the navigator, occasionally tasked with the duty of piloting the ship.

Despite his being born into poverty, Jameson Hackney had both the look and the attitude of nobility. His voice was very smooth; his accent sounded uncannily upper-crust; he still wore the same crimson coat that he wore while he was in the navy, still in the habit of routinely washing it. He always liked dressing his best. Only tonight, he was seemingly out of character. All he wore was a dirty cotton shirt and a pair of trousers. His black shoulder length hair was matted and caked with sweat as opposed to being lush and neatly curled as it usually was.

“You look out of place,” Edwin said as he approached the stern. “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” Hackney retorted in a tipsy sounding voice before taking a swig of his rum. “Just thought I’d change things up a little. We don’t put out to sea for another day or so. I just figured I’d relax is all.” He handed the bottle to Edwin who took a drink before handing it back to his shipmate.

“It doesn’t look like I’ll be getting any shuteye tonight,” declared Edwin, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes. “The captain’s having me lead the party ashore.”

Hackney grinned maniacally at the man as he shook his own head. Even in the darkness Edwin could see the dirt on his face. “That can only mean one thing, Thatch: the captain is trying to get rid of you!”

“Nonsense, Jameson! As much as the bastard says otherwise, he knows just as well as any bastard that I am a valuable asset to this crew!”

The helmsman smiled again, this time more subtle. “Keep telling yourself that, Thatch. You know what the captain does. If he thought that you were a valuable asset he wouldn’t risk the possibility of you being captured by the Froggies. As much as you deny it, Mate, you’re expendable.”

“I appreciate you’re trying to look after me Hackney, but I refuse to believe that Wickers is stupid enough to risk my own safety. Van Hoorne knows my worth. He’d have the captain’s head if he knew he’d let something happen to me. The man may be a rash and stubborn ass, but he is nothing if not intelligent.”

“My eye!” exclaimed Hackney in what seemed like half a laugh and half an interjectorily expression. “Neither Van Hoorne nor the captain give any regard to us. Wickers thinks only for himself and his own bloody interests. These are treacherous islands Thatch. All one can care about in these waters is himself and himself alone.”

“I care about you Hackney. We’re shipmates, remember?”

“To the end,” he said with a warm smile as he again passed Edwin the bottle.

The two of them were silent for a few minutes, letting the cool breeze and mist of seawater fill their senses. It was a beautiful night - cloudless, cool. Even though both men found it a relatively uncivilized place they loved the sea with a burning passion. “The sea remembers everything,” Edwin’s father used to tell him. For several years he had been a sailor, briefly taking a respite from the stage, cruising around on a ketch in the North Sea working as a cooper, sojourning in the cold ports of the North.

Both Edwin and Hackney knew this well. Countless stories were buried deep inside the mind of the Caribbean Ocean, some no one will ever know, save for the sea itself. It brought both life and death. It was the force that made the very world go round’.

The sea remembers everything.

Save for a few large ports, the Caribbean and her children, the various islands that were scattered across her wet, blue womb, remained relatively uncivilized. Drummond and Hackney liked that. Civilization was for pompous fools who were afraid to get their pretty little hands dirty.

As they continued to converse the few crewmen loaded the boats with the crates of goods, evenly distributing them between them as to avoid weighing them down. They had made that mistake once before. Wickers had those responsible shot.

“Do you ever want something else, Thatch?” asked Hackney. “Do you ever see yourself as doing something else - another life perhaps?”

“Aye,” replied Edwin nodding. He scratched his head. His black hair, even darker than his friend’s, was starting to grow out again, almost reaching his shoulders. He could already feel his whiskers returning. They grew fast. He hated them. Edwin rarely had time to shave. One time he had to wait a whole month to shave. It just three weeks he had a decently sized black beard. He hated how it felt.

Hackney and Smee often made jokes about how he should braid it, light it on fire or put fuses under his hat to scare the hell out of any guards who may try and confiscate the merchandise during a transaction. “Become the devil,” they would say to him playfully. “You’ll be the most feared smuggler on this side of Barbados.” They said he’d probably scare Wickers enough to make him jump overboard. Edwin would have nothing of it. As much as he thought he’d enjoy playing the part, being a showman and all, it was not in his nature to scare people who didn’t deserve it. Not to mention the fact that he absolutely hated his beard.

“It’s in my blood to become an actor, Hackney,” said Edwin as he pensively gazed out toward the sea, the dark outline of Martinique visible through the darkness.

Jameson nodded as he snatched the bottle from Edwin’s hands and took a drink that drained nearly a quarter of the bottle it seemed. “Sometimes I wish that I stuck with the navy. I could’ve risen to quartermaster if I had the mind to do so. Sure the captain was a fucking son of a whore, but at least I could’ve merited some respect.”

“You’re mad, Hackney,” Edwin responded, quite surprised at his peculiar and unexpected remark. “We’re free from the tyrannical abuse of the British military, living free lives here and now.”

“We’re not much better off, Thatch. There’s still a hierarchy at hand. We serve a new king: Jakob Van Hoorne, one of the most powerful men from here to San Juan!”

“It’s better than the damned navy, Hackney! It’s a lesser evil. What would you do instead? Turn to piracy?”

Hackney smiled. “Don’t think that it hasn’t crossed my mind. While it’d probably be a last resort, I always have an open mind.”

Thatch laughed. “And where the bloody hell would you go? Very few pirate havens exist in these waters. Port Royal’s been destroyed and the French have restored order to Tortuga. Aside from a few shantytowns, there’s no place in the sea for pirates anymore. They’re a dying breed. The age of the buccaneers and corsairs is over. You start to hear less and less about them as the years progress. Why, I haven’t heard a single thing about them since that rascal Kidd was hanged in London last year.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, man. I’ve been hearing rumours that pirates have been flocking to Nassau, an insignificant little town in New Providence. We may have another Port Royal on our hands.” Hackney said this with a wide grin on his face, his large, protruding chin expanding as he did so.

Edwin took a look back at the stem of the ship where Smee was passed out. “Say, Mate,” Edwin said as he pointed towards him, “didn’t Smee sail with pirates for a time. I thought he mentioned it at some point. You talk to the man more than I do.”

“Indeed,” Hackney proudly and reverently confirmed. “Just for a year or so. It was with a captain of a sloop called Danger, I believe. The captain’s name was Smith. Smee told me that the crew disbanded in Bristol. That was before old Smee signed onto a merchant ship. Little did he know but it was actually owned by Van Hoorne. That’s how he wound up here.”

Edwin looked up at the stars and smiled, chuckling slightly.

“What’s so funny?” Hackney asked.

“Oh, I’m just thinking about where you could set up your own shantytown if you were ever a pirate?”

“Where’d you propose, Thatch?”

“A bayou in French Louisiana.”

Hackney shuttered with fear but then began to grin. His grin became a smile and then a slight laugh. “You know how much I hate crocodiles,” he said. “When I was a boy back in Wales I met a man with one hand. He said a crocodile bit it off. In the place of it he wore a metal hook. It was the most putrid thing I’d ever seen in my life!”

“Come now, Hackney.” Edwin waved his hand and tried to calm his mate down. “The chances of you losing your hand are next to nothing, especially out here at sea. Besides, if you did happen to lose your hand you could always get a metal hook for yourself!”

“And what would you suppose I could do with a metal hook?”

You could always use it as a dagger. You could be ‘Captain James Hook, the scourge of the seven seas!’”

“Oh, so we’re coming up with alias’ now, is that it?” Hackney ran his dirty hands through his even dirtier hair. “How about you? What about this one, eh: The black bearded showman! Mr. Ed Thatch!”

Edwin shook his head with a warm smile, amused by the banter that was being exchanged. “Now that would work,” he said softly, “that is, if I actually liked growing it out!” The two of them laughed again. Edwin moved on to the next subject, clearly enjoying the game they were playing. “I know what I’d do. That English colony, North Carolina, I hear it’s a rather nice place. There’s some obscure outer banks up there. That‘s where I‘d set up operations”

“Well, I know what my ideal hideout would be. It’d be an obscure little island nestled somewhere in the archipelago. I’d set up a nice little port. The island itself would be complete with mermaids for my men to fuck to their hearts‘ content as to sate their desires, and bloody savages for them to fight so they wouldn’t lose their touch.”

“How does one fuck a mermaid, Hackney?”

“I have no idea.” They laughed.

“Ah,” Edwin said with a smile. “A magical far off never land somewhere up in the stars.” Hackney then looked up towards the second star to the right of Polaris and smiled. “A true paradise of rapine and debauchery.” The both of them laughed again, Edwin giving Hackney a playful punch on the shoulder. He reached out to grab the bottle of rum but Hackney pulled it closer to him and finished what was left.

Right at that moment the hatch on the Jackass’ quarterdeck burst open and the two sailors turned to see Captain Wickers storm out of it, giving no regard to those who were asleep. “It’s time,” he said lightly kicking at Edwin’s side.

“The cargo’s all loaded, Captain.” Wickers nodded.

“I expect you to launch within the next ten minutes or else we’ll miss the opportunity to finish the transaction by morning. The other three are already getting ready and will meet you on the quarterdeck momentarily.” He then turned to Hackney and gave him a look of disgust. “Mr. Hackney!” he lowly yelled. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Drinking, Sir. Got nothing better to do. I figured-”

“You figured wrong, Mr. Hackney. If you’re not going to sleep then inspect the helm. If Thatch fails we’re going to have to make a run for it. I want it to be in tip-top shape if there is a need to make a hasty retreat.”

Hackney elicited a mock salute. “Aye, Cap’n.”

Wickers began walking back towards the hatch that led to the lower deck of the Jackass. He turned around once more to look back at Thatch. “Mr. Drummond,” he said, addressing him by the true name that anyone rarely cared to refer to him as, “ten minutes and I want you cast off, do I make myself clear?” Edwin nodded and the captain smiled. “And Thatch,“ he started as he started climbing down the ladder to the lower deck, “Godspeed.”

Edwin didn’t know if he was being sincere or sarcastic. Frankly, he didn’t care.

He turned back to his friend.

“I should get moving, Mate. It’s only five or six hours till’ dawn. We need to be well out of here by morning.”

Hackney nodded understandingly. “I understand, Thatch. Best of luck to you.” He reached out his hand and shook it. “And I do hope I am wrong. I hope the deal goes well. I hope you make it back here safe.”

Edwin didn’t say anything; he just looked at his friend and nodded solemnly. The last he saw of Hackney was when he climbed back down the ladder to the hold.

Already at the starboard edge of the ship he could see the three other men beginning to loosen the ropes of the longboat loaded with some of the goods. He walked over to the trio. Two of them he recognized but the third was a new face to him. The man seemed to have a Celtic air about him, which was elaborated on even more by his faint, red hair.

“Are ye gentlemen ready?” he asked them. “We have a long night ahead of us.”

The stranger eyed Edwin up and down with puzzled curiosity. “Are you the one leading this excursion?” he asked eagerly. He was clearly new at this line of work. “Edward Teach?”

“Edwin Drummond,” he corrected, “but most people call me Edmond Thatch. It’s a pseudonym I picked up while serving in His Majesty’s Navy.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” the man said swiftly, fearing that he had offended the man. “I always seem to botch the good names of honest gentlemen.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. There’s no harm done, Mate.” The other man seemed to lighten up a bit, even going as far to give Edwin a slight smile. “I haven’t seen your face around here. Are you new?”

“Ah yes!” exclaimed the other excitedly. “Mr. Wickers hired me back in Montserrat. He said I’d make an excellent fellow to go ashore and assist him in his transactions.”

Edwin pondered this for a moment. While the young greenhorn was unable to see such, Edwin instantly realized what Wickers had done. He was most likely taking advantage of the man’s naivety with plans to use him as bait if something were to go wrong. Edwin didn’t bother mentioning that to the newcomer. They first had to get through the delicate task that lay before them.

“Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” Thatch asked with a warm smile.

“Edward,” he replied as he returned Edwin’s smile. “Edward England.”

________________________________________________________

The four of them were divided between the two boats that were to carry the contraband from the Jackass to the beach. Edwin and Mr. England manned the skiff with the small sail, while the other two, a young man named Jamie and an older one called Job, manned the other craft.

It did not take them long to reach the beach. Monsieur Ducas was already awaiting them, bearing a very inpatient look on his face.

“You’re late, Monsieur,” the Frenchman began with an astonished look of exasperated annoyance. “You were to have arrived hours ago! I’ve been standing on zis’ beach since after midnight. I’ve been watching zat’ ship of yours bobbing up and down in ze’ water for ages. Zat’ is your ship, no?”

Edwin nodded. “Yes,” he said cautiously. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Monsieur Ducas?”

The man seemed to lighten up a bit, changing his expression from one of disdain to an uncannily warm smile. “Please, Monsieur, call me Kermit.”

“That’s an Irish name, is it not?” inquired England in an enthusiastic voice, happy to make a connection that had something to do with his home nation.

“Oui, Monsieur. My mother’s father was called McDermott. I’m of Brittany, so.”

England was all the more pleased with himself for having made a single connection. Judging by the youthful look on his face, Edwin could tell that the lad rarely made any such connections throughout his short time in an unfamiliar Caribbean.

“We better be quick, my friends,” said the Frenchman as he eyed the goods on the boats. “Is it all here?”

“Aye,” replied Edwin as he shook his head. “We have it. We’ll have to go back and get the rest. Shouldn’t take more than two or three more trips back to the Jackass.”

What ensued was tiring, the constant ferrying of cargo between ship and shore. The Frenchman had refused to conduct any negotiations with the smugglers until all of the cargo was accounted for. By the time dawn approached, Edwin was tired and he himself also noticed lines forming beneath the eyes of Mr. England, who gazed longingly back toward the Jackass.

“Is that everything, Monsieur?” Mr. Ducas asked as he cautiously looked over the crates after they were subtly carried onto the beach by the other two men.

Edwin cringed as he ran his eyes across the portion of beach where the crates had been put down. “Aye. It’s all of it here. Now, if you’ll be so kind, we’d like to make the exchange here as fast as possible. Dawn is fast approaching.” It was very true. The dim, haunting blue of the early-morning was already visible. Edwin was not sure how realistic it would be to finish the transaction before the sun was completely visible, but he decided that, this time at least, he would give Wickers the benefit of the doubt. With luck, they would be back onboard the Jackass within the hour, that is, if the French patrols didn’t notice them once the sun rose. They were all tired and ready to head back to the ship. Edwin truly hoped that nothing would go wrong.

“Dawn is nearly at hand, Englishman. Are you ready to get on with business?” Ed nodded. “Very good. Now, what did we agree the going price was?”

Edwin took a look at the ledger that he took with him. It was quite heavy. For some reason, Captain Wickers thought it a good idea to keep records in larger books, as it would make better to see the handwriting in it. He thought it could help people better read. He knew nothing. He also thought that, the smaller the book, the more liable it would be to become lost. He was a lazy sod, he was.

“Fifty per ton for the sugarcane, and that’ll be forty for the sandal.” Kermit smiled.

“Right away, Monsieur.” He ran over to the wagon that he had brought over with him. Also there were several slaves, which Edwin assumed were there to load the goods. Ducas yelled at one of them to give him something. The man quickly jumped up onto the wagon and grabbed a medium-sized chest. He handed it to Ducas, who in turn brought it to Edwin and sat it down at his feet. “Tis’ all here, Englishman.”

Edwin was confused. Surely this man couldn’t have remembered the previously established price that was set prior to the exchange. “Excuse me, Monsieur, but I thought you asked for the price we were offering? Why just bring us a chest?”

Kermit laughed. “Oh, all you Englishmen, always being so precise and cautious. There should be more than enough in the chest. Consider it a gift for your hard work.”

Edward leaned in to Thatch’s ear. “Somethin’ seems a bit screwy, here, Ed.” Edwin nodded, but said not a word.

“Generosity, Sir?” he asked with a raise of his eyebrows. “I thought that this was a transaction.”

“Come now, Smuggler. Have you never heard the term ‘as generous as a Frenchman?’”

“No, I do not believe I have, Monsieur.” Ducas smiled widely. There was definitely something off here. Edwin had remembered the Captain telling him of how staunch and penny-pinching of a man this Ducas was. The man before him was just the opposite. It did not seem to make very much sense. Even though Wickers was a bastard, he was no liar. If ever he had something to say, he’d be honest about it, though most of the time his truth was brutally displayed

Ducas seemed to be a nice, well-intended man, putting aside the fact that he made dealings with smugglers, but not everything was what it seemed, in the eyes of Edwin. While he couldn’t necessarily call a bluff, Thatch could plainly see what Ducas’ game was.

Ducas was a terrible actor.

Edwin smiled and decided to progress the conversation, hoping to find out as much about this man as possible. “Thank you, Monsieur.” It was a reaction, the thank you. It was something that Ed’s father had always told him.

“There is no such thing as ‘acting,’” he would say. “It is reacting.”

Edwin was reacting.

“So, Englishman, do we have a deal?”

“I suppose,” said Edwin snidely, “but I noticed that you have not yet examined the cargo.”

Ducas was startled by this comment, caught off guard. Edwin thought that he had him, but the Frenchman composed himself again. “I, well, simply haven’t had a chance to look over it yet! I am sure that you would like to be leaving now. My slaves can take it from here.”

Ducas reacted terribly to Edwin’s comment, but it seemed to have fooled the others. “We should get going, Ed,” England said to Thatch, “We need to be well out of here by morn.” Edwin just shook his head and raised a hand as to subtly communicate with young Mr. England. Edwin assumed that perhaps this Ducas was trying to cheat them. If so, he was doing a poor job of communicating his desire for the smugglers to leave with the “payment.” Edwin was smarter than to fall for something along those lines.

“Again, Monsieur Ducas, it would please me if you examined the cargo.”

“And it would please me, Englishman, if you took a look inside the chest.” This caught Drummond off guard. Not only was he surprised by Kermit’s quick reaction, but also by his request to look over the payment. He wouldn’t be trying to cheat them if he were asking for Thatch to inspect such, would he? Edwin could still sense that Ducas was hiding something, but was not sure what. “If you insist, Monsieur.”

Edwin lifted the heavy chest, which seemed to be filled with quite a bit of gold, and set it down onto one of the boats. Breaking the lock, he opened the chest. He was surprised by what he saw.

“Rocks?” he asked, as he looked back towards Ducas, who grinned deviously, as if he knew something that Edwin did not.

He did.

Inside the chest were rocks, all different sizes, shapes, and variations. They were nothing valuable, just simple stones that could be found anywhere on Earth. Was Ducas trying to cheat them? But, no. No, if he had wanted to fool them, why would he have asked them to open the chest before they returned to the ship? It made absolutely no sense.

“What game are you playing at, Frenchman?” Edwin calmly, but sternly exclaimed as he grabbed a few stones from the chest and tossed them into the water. He slowly turned around. “Is this some bloody joke? Surely you’re mad if you hope to pay us with this!”

“I regret to inform you, Monsieurs, that I am unable to provide full payment.” He brusquely smirked. “Now, I would like to bid you a-”

His speaking was cut off just as Edwin unsheathed his rusty blade and pointed it towards the man.

“Now, Monsieur,” he said as he raised his hands, “Let’s not be so hasty. You’re a sensible man, and I would like to avoid trouble if necessary.”

Edwin grimaced, clenching the blade tightly as if it were a daughter’s hand. “Then you should’ve thought about that before trying to pull something over on us, Mate. You’ve crossed the wrong band of smugglers.” Edwin Drummond towered over the man, giving him an intimidating snare. His intent was to frighten Ducas, which he succeeded in doing. He was proud of himself. Of course he meant no real harm to the Frenchman. He was just playing a role.

“Be the devil.”

Hackney’s voice echoed through his ears.

It was starting to work.

“Ed, what do we do?” asked England, obviously growing anxious as a result of the unfavorable scenario. Things were not looking good.

Thatch turned back around to the lad and mumbled, “Not now, England. I’m trying to resolve this.”

His sudden change in attitude as he turned back towards his friend seemed to calm Ducas, who was now unconvinced by Edwin’s attempted charade.

“Ahem,” coughed Kermit as he smiled, joining his hands between his legs, casually implying that he wanted to continue the conversation. “May we continue. Aren’t you going to interrogate me, Englishman?”

“Why in the hell did you bring those bloody fucking stones?”

“It was all a part of the deal.”

“What deal?”

“The deal?”

Edwin hadn’t the faintest clue as to what Ducas was referring to. Captain Wickers had said nothing of this. Surely he would have, that is, if he actually did trust Edwin Drummond enough to carry out this task. Perhaps Hackney had been right. Maybe the captain was trying to get rid of him.

No, that wasn’t it.

There was definitely something more to this, something that he couldn’t read.

“Oi, Thatch,” started England, “are we gonna cut his little fingers off?”

“I’d like to,” Edwin retorted, “but I do not think that’ll serve our purposes.”

Edwin raised his blade and began walking toward Ducas. In an instant, the Frenchman drew out a flintlock pistol.

“Not so fast, Mon Amie,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he pointed the gun in Edwin’s direction. “You’ve now asked all the questions you needed too.”

“What’s going on here?” Edwin asked. “I demand an answer!”

“Demand?” asked the Frenchman both rhetorically and condescendingly. “The Englishman thinks that he has the leverage to impose ultimatums!” He laughed as if there were others around to take his side.

“What is going on?” insisted Edwin.

“What’s going on? Why, Monsieur, I am going to pull the trigger, of course!” Ducas cocked the pistol.

Edwin gaped open his mouth before turning his gaze a quarter of a mile down the beach where he saw a collection of French soldiers on horseback. “Even if you do shoot me, wouldn‘t you alert them?” He nodded behind him as to point out the soldiers. Kermit Ducas just smiled.

“I’ll take my chances.” He grinned another nefarious grin and, just when Edwin thought that the man was going to shoot him, he saw the Frenchman point the pistol away from him and fire it into the air instead.

“Here!” he yelled, waving his hands, “they’re over here.” Edwin saw the soldiers turn and begin riding towards them.

“Are you mad?” Edwin exclaimed. “You just gave yourself up!”

The riders were on them now, and the man who appeared to be the commander dismounted and smiled at Ducas. “Good work, Kermit. Are these the smugglers you spoke of?”

“Indeed, Mon Capitaine. These are Van Hoorne’s men.”

“Very good,” replied the captain, “Congratulations are in order. You‘ve done your nation a great service this day.”

Now Edwin understood. Ducas had sold them out. He was playing them the whole time, just waiting for the right time to reveal the details of his little charade. It had worked, the confusion delaying even Edwin’s own reactionary skills. It was rather embarrassing.

“You bloody bastard!” he yelled at Ducas. “You fucking bastard!”

The sly Frenchman ran his fingers down his chin and gave Edwin a smoldering look. “I was told that I could keep the cargo,” he said, “and that way I wouldn’t have to pay you.”

In a way, part of him respected Ducas’ cunning and dishonesty, thinking in terms of the concept of the ends justifying the means, but Edwin quickly came back to himself. He had allowed himself to become caught up in this unexpected trap. But was it really unexpected?”

Perhaps Wickers knew the possibility and consequences of the deal going sour, perhaps…

Wickers.

“The cur,” Edwin cursed to himself. He had been played for a fool by Wickers. Even though the captain most definitely did not arrange this, it was possible that he was expecting something along the lines of such, willing to sacrifice both a portion of his cargo and crew to escape from French waters where he knew he was hunted by privateers. Perhaps Hackney was right. Maybe he was expendable.

He felt sorry for himself, but he felt more sorry for Edward England and the two others. They hadn’t expected a thing, even while he considered the possibility. He should have adhered to James Hackney’s warning.

The last thing Edwin saw as he was led away by the French troops was the outline of the Jackass, sailing off into the sunrise.

She had cut anchor.