10

Captain Teeth

“Eze pull the gangplank. Master of Sails, are we ready to weigh anchor?” I shout the final orders to leave Trinidad’s harbor. By now, half the boats docked on their pier have spotted the Spanish Galleon on the horizon, but Patricia’s Wish can outrun them all. Instead of a massive slaver’s vessel, like the Whydah , our girl is an English man-o-war we stole in Carolina. She’s faster, sleeker, and turns on a needle. We will engage with the Galleon first and, by the law of the sea, be the ones to plunder her. Whether or not the Galleon has treasure, she will fill our larder and armory.

Sometimes the best booty is found in the kitchen, not the cargo hold.

“Sails unfurled, Sir. Throw the lines, lads,” Chub yells in response to my order. The pirates who untied the sails scramble onto the deck to untie the tow lines that hold us to the docks.

“Stop, stop,” yells a daft wench from the boardwalk. She holds her modest dress to her knees as she runs toward the boat.

I do a doubletake. She’s the spitting image of my Sabs, but Sabs wouldn’t wear a high collar like that—not when she claims I mistook her for a strumpet. This irritant’s hair fans over her shoulders, where Sabs’s hair hangs around her hips. It’s the same color…is blazing red a common color in the Caribbean? What am I saying? Sabs wasn’t raised in the masses of the Caribbean—she’s a Kraken, so ask my arse if there’s a redheaded island somewhere.

“Permission to board,” she yells while stepping onto the gangplank.

The insolence!

“Permission denied,” I shout to Eze, who obediently pulls the gangplank toward him. Irritating woman rides the gangplank as it’s yanked aboard. She wobbles on worn shoes at odds with her fancy-collared dress. “We weigh anchor to engage the Spanish Galleon—not the place for a highborn lady.”

“You can’t leave,” she shouts on the verge of hysterical sobs. Great, a delicate woman aboard is the last thing I need. She storms across the main deck and dares to approach me on the sterncastle deck. I have many female crewmembers who would kill a soldier to protect the boat—women I respect with my full heart—not like this delicate flower. “You must help me find my sister—”

“We must claim our prize, madam! Look around you,” I sneer as I cross by Chub at the helm. “We aren’t errand boys for the harbormaster. We’re pirates!”

“If I help you claim this prize, will you return to Trinidad and help me rescue my sister?”

“No,” I snarl. “Chub, full spin to the east. Master of Arms—is the crew equipped?”

“Aye, aye,” shouts Barrel, who runs our armory. Blimey, a sword in every hand and a single shooter in every holster. Finally, someone who recognizes what must happen before they are told.

“Master of Cannons—"

“Four balls each and stocked with powder,” yells the new gunnery we picked up in Aruba. What’s his name? Did we rename him? Avast ye, I’ll have to ask Chub when we’re counting our spoils.

“Don’t open the hatches until I give the order,” I command. Chub gives me a wink and a nod in my peripheral vision. After months of studying, I finally learned Captain Magda, Captain Branko, and Ol’Blackbeard’s maneuvers. If I have to spend another minute at the map with the little figures, I’ll lose my temper and blow the models to smithereens. However, the toil will be worth it if our boat is in one piece after today’s battle.

“Please—” Oh hell, is she still on deck? We’re at seventy yards and closing in. At twenty-five yards, I’ll give the signal to turn and fire.

“You belong in the kitchen—”

“Well, I never—”

“The kitchen is where we have a false wall with a safe room for delicate people. Catalina will let you in and take care of you. Don’t be difficult and go,” I shout in her face. She squeezes her eyes shut as locks of red hair blow backward.

“If it’s all the same to you,” she says, smoothing her lacy collar against her neck. “I’ll stay by your side. If you die, you can’t retrieve my sister.”

“Bloody hell,” I reply, smearing my hand down my face. “If you stay by my side, crouch below the railing. I’m the target for their cannons, but your red hair makes you an easier mark.”

Finally, the wench shows some sense and pales at my warning. With one last nod to Chub, I stomp across the deck to the front of the boat. My little shadow crouches lower than the railing as she shuffles behind me. I’ll taunt the enemy from the forecastle deck by swinging out on the bowsprit to distract the snipers and cannoneers. Other boats sink when their captain is shot, but my quartermaster is the real brains behind this operation. Patricia's Wish will continue her attack as long as the enemy fire doesn’t hit the helm he holds or the kitchen where his lady love resides.

“Turn the sails south,” I yell as my boots hit the forecastle stairs. The order repeats across the boat, called out by those on the deck as they tug the lines holding the sails and those on the ratlines as they kick the booms holding the fabric. The last to call the order is Chub, who tilts the wheel to turn the ship’s rudder. The boat turns left and circles the Galleon like a shark.

“Are you going to ram her or fire at her?” The wench breaks my concentration with her nattering, repeating the same question until I’m compelled to answer her.

“Right now, we’re stopping the prize so she can’t use her momentum to jog away. See? She’s dropping anchor,” I reply, handing the wench my spyglass.

“Their cannon doors are open,” she says with a gasp.

As I rip the spyglass from her gloved hands to see for myself, she yells over my shoulder. “Drop the anchor! Open the doors and ready the cannons!”

“That’s my job! If we drop anchor, we’ll have to raise it before we board her,” I whisper through clenched teeth. I shake the spyglass at her like a paddle I’m threatening to spank her with until she pries it from my fingers. Then, to my deck, I yell, “Open the doors and ready the cannons. Don’t drop the anchor!”

The message loses something when it’s halfway down the deck before the words leave my lips. I scowl at the irritant stealing my thunder, but she’s looking through my spyglass. My pudding-headed mateys drop the anchor chains on deck and scamper back to their position inside the gunnery’s trench.

The Spanish Galleon quietly awaits her fate. Her doors are open, but her cannons aren’t at the ready. She’s waiting for our Jolly Roger to climb the flagpole or another Union Jack. If she fires at us and we’re English, a peace treaty will dissolve. If she fires at us and we’re French, they will be rewarded when they return home. If we raise the Jolly Roger or a Yellow Jack, they will open fire to defend their lives. Our captain’s quarters have a closet full of flags. We have switched sides with the treaties as often as landlubbing mollies change their wigs with the fashion.

“What are you waiting for?” The wench whispers, handing me the spyglass for a glimpse before she rips it from my hands again. “Why isn’t their captain on the deck?”

“What do you mean? If they’re military, their captain is the sailor with more feathers than a peacock sticking from his hat. If they are merchants, the captain—"

“There is a feathered hat on deck, but it sits on a man without medals on his uniform. The man covered in finery ditched his hat in favor of the crow’s nest,” she says, handing me the spyglass.

Well, shiver me timbers. She’s as sharp as she’s tenacious and irritating. Captain hides amongst the crows while some poor sod wears his ostentatious hat on deck. That yellow-bellied criminal isn’t worth the bullet, but I can’t have him surprising us either.

“Greenhorn, snipe their scout,” I shout. The message travels across the ratlines and up the sails to Greenhorn, who sits in our crow’s nest with a long rifle.

What I wouldn’t give for an experienced man to be in Greenhorn’s place?! In the good ol’days, we had Sharp as our sniper. True to his name, Greenhorn’s young age and lack of practice with a rifle take center stage when he misses the shot. The bullet doesn’t just sail into the abyss but rips a gaping hole in their main sail that would attract the attention of anyone for miles…not excluding the turkeys on deck.

They spring into action, readying cannons, locking doors, and running to their battle stations. Their planned battle positions give away their training as military, but they don’t wear uniforms or carry navy-issued weapons.

“Raise the Jolly Roger,” I yell in unison with my female shadow. Bodies scramble like ants across the Galleon’s deck as I gaze through the spyglass. The captain in the crow’s nest spins around with his arms whirling. Perhaps he’s considering flying off his doomed vessel? “Greenhorn, fire again! Her doors are open!”

As Greenhorn misses a second time, splintering the bottom of the Galleon’s crow’s nest, the Spanish fire her cannons. The shots drop into the drink a few yards from our hull.

A warning shot.

“Fire!” I yell, and our cannons shoot true. A line of fifteen holes mars the side of the Galleon. More people scurry from hole to hole inside the boat.

“Fire!” The second command to fire comes from the wench, and I’ll be a grogblossom if my nutmegs don’t follow her orders as true as mine. Even Greenhorn shoots one more time. Their Captain falls from the Crow’s nest to Davey Jones’s locker.

“Full sails to her. It’s time to go on account!” I yell. The enemy fires, and the stair railing to the forecastle deck explodes to shower us in splinters. The wench grabs my elbow and presses against me. Her eyes are round with fear on her whitened face .

“You didn’t say you would board her! I thought if you made enough holes in their boat, they would hand over the loot!”

“Which is why I’m the Captain,” I sneer, shaking her off my arm. “Ready the lines to tie the prize to our decks. We’re taking all she has before we sink her.”

My crew cheers as my female companion cries into her gloves. I shove her toward the kitchen as I leave the forecastle deck for the ratlines. My longsword cools my palm as I unsheathe it from my belt. A good captain always leads the charge over the rail—even Magda the she-devil flew into enemy territory first. My crew pats my shoulders and shakes my free hand as I pass. I’m fifteen feet off the ground when the irritating wench joins me. She’s commandeered Chub’s cat-o-nine tails as her weapon of choice…odd. Why she wouldn’t grab a pistol on her way to the kitchen is beyond me.

“It’s not too late to hide below with Catalina—”

“If you die before rescuing my sister, I have nothing,” she says with a firm set to her mouth and fire blazing in her eyes. We drop from the rigging into the gunnery trench. My crew stares at the wench as if they’ve never seen a woman before. “I have nothing to lose. ”

“Suit yourself,” I quip as my crew tosses the gangplanks between the two boats.

Ropes armed with wicked hooks sail from the gunnery trenches to the neighboring deck. Anticipation of the fight buzzes amongst me hearties, connecting us with a bolt of lightning. The smell of blood, sweat, and gunpowder fills my nose as my body remembers every passage I’ve had over the rail. The boat rocks and groans as she fights the tethers like a bucking horse unwilling to shed her freedom without a battle.

“Hold steady,” I warn my young, inexperienced crew. I love every one of them, and if one of their empty heads pops above the railing, the enemy will blow it off. “Wait for the quiet.”

Enemy sailors yell at one another in Spanish. Their boots thump on their deck.

My hair whips around my head, so I tuck the errant strands behind my ear…

Greenhorn mistakes my tick for a signal. He climbs on a line from the crow’s nest and soars over our heads to the opposing boat. With his single-shot pistol in one hand and the rope in the other, he will hit their deck with one chance to kill every enemy aboard. His sword is sheathed in his belt. My jaw hits the bilge as I helplessly gape at the blooming idiot. His roar is drowned out by a chorus of gunfire.

“Charge,” I yell to send our crew over the railing to help him. Bodies cross the gangplanks, jump from our rigging, and fly across the ocean as pirates fling themselves onto the Galleon.

Shots ring out over my head as Chub fires a long gun from behind the wheel, and Catalina fires her long gun from behind the kitchen door. He’ll spank the daylights out of her for joining the fray. But when she sends Greenhorn’s grappling opponent to the pearly gates, I thank my lucky stars she didn’t listen to Chub. The poor youngster had no idea of his error until his boots hit the deck. His vacant stare and slow movements undermine his bravado. He will go into shock before this battle is finished.

My sword clangs as it cuts through the brass cups of the soldier’s swords. Each man is disarmed and dispatched in seconds—that’s why I’ve held onto this sword for my entire career. I stole it from a drunken ogre and built my upper body muscles until I could carry it one-handed. Under Blackbeard, my skinny frame swung the blade wildly with two hands and my eyes closed. Now, the blade doesn’t leave my right hand as I stare down my next opponent…as the life drains from my current one. Speaking of my next opponent, what happened to that irritating wench? Is she cowering in the gunnery trench, crying into her skirts?

I rear back to slash the man who locked swords with me across the throat and dodge the spurt of blood from his jugular before daring to scan the decks.

A pair of officers stand back-to-back in front of the captain’s quarters. Don’t they know the captain fell from the crow’s nest into the drink? Or do they hide another secret to this Galleon that’s not military but full of soldiers? Two soldiers flank me with sissy-pitched battle cries. I behead one with my longsword before firing my one-shot pistol at the other.

Sigh. Time to reload the little bastard.

I better help Eze, who’s engaged them in combat with the help of a handful of his closest mates. Once you fly the ratlines and share a sail with a group of guys, you’re brothers. However, my green mateys are no match for officers who carry colonial cup hilt rapiers with steel hilts. Those don’t snap under the pressure of our thicker swords and axes.

Dammit, a short soldier rushes me, and I’m forced to wrap my arm around his neck. With my sword sheathed, a cotton wad in one hand and my pistol dangling from the other, I snap his neck with my elbow.

“Boys,” yells the wench as she races past me. “Yoohoo, boys!”

She skids to a stop before the officers. The sailors and pirates are a foot taller than her, but her dainty, feminine voice halts them mid-battle. Tucking her cat-o-nine tails under her elbow, she rips apart her blouse and tears down her chemise with both hands. Sweet, innocent cotton flutters to the deck like the white flag of surrender…taking the tongues from every man’s mouth. With deadly accuracy, she unfurls her weapon and wraps the leather around the sailors’ necks. As they watch her dairy swing with hungry eyes, she tightens her noose and cracks their necks.

Bloody hell. The two bodies fall into the arms of my pirates, ending the battle before it starts.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“My sister,” she says with a shake of her head. “She likes to flash the smarts out of men’s heads for sport, but she isn’t a pirate if that’s what you think.”

“And the cat-o-nine’s work? Did she teach you that as well?” If I hadn’t found my lady love, the wench’s mysterious sister would be right up my alley. As it stands, Sabs and Catalina would love to make friends with a woman like her.

“Oh no, that move was instinct,” the wench says, accepting Eze’s help to rewind her weapon. “My other form is a Kraken. This boat is yours to loot, and now you can help me save Sabrina. She’s in trouble and sent me—her sister, Bettina—to you.”

“Sink the boat—we’re returning to Trinidad!” My crew freezes in place and looks at me with a thousand questions swimming in their eyes. Out of respect, no one voices their objections, but I owe them more than a barked order. “Got ahead of myself. Eze and your lot—check what the officers protected in the captain’s quarters. Barrel, take a group and empty the armory.”

“I’ll lead Greenhorn and the group on the forecastle deck to clear out the kitchen,” Chub says from behind me. Catalina stands in his place at our helm with the master of cannons, who I still can’t name. “You don’t have to ask. A quality quartermaster reads the mind of his captain.”

Bloody cheek.

A strumpet from Maude’s tavern spills out of the captain’s quarters and onto the deck. She holds her dairy in one arm while yanking her corset down to cover her marriage box with the other. Her rouge and lip smear blot the wooden planks—probably leaving permanent circles behind.

“Please, Teeth,” she begs until I bristle at her using my familiar name. “Please, Captain, have mercy. I was hired on as their doxie less than a day ago. I’ll tell you everything I heard them say if you let me live. I’ll service your crew. I’ll kiss your toes—”

I back away as she crawls toward me. With her familiarity, I’m sure she’s ridden my sugarstick in the distant past. She’s a pitiful creature really, slinking along the floor like a used handkerchief. Eze approaches her on silent feet. His dagger is poised above her head as he awaits my signal. She hasn’t a clue how close she is to death’s door.

I peek at Sabrina’s sister with a side-eye. She winds her whip around her elbow as if the fate of this woman is none of her concern. My future sister-in-law is cold as ice.

“We will take you back to Trinidad where you can return to Maude’s employ—” I pause for Eze to sheathe his dagger “—but stay away from my toes and quarters. Eze will be your shadow. Give him the secrets you overheard and whatever else you planned to share with me.”

I don’t know who is happier, the former doxie or my ratline climber. He’s taken more shifts watching the wheel while we parlay ashore than any other crew member. It’s time to give him a job that’s not a hardship to even the scales. As the pair scramble across the gangplank, I supervise the looting of the ship.

“Do you have a plan to rescue Sabrina?” Please say yes. Please let this irritating wench say she needs firepower or blades to cut down foes to size.

“Then what would I need pirates for?” The hope shining in her eyes is sharper than her cutthroat fighting style.

“Chub,” I call as he approaches the gangplank with a flour sack on each shoulder. The top of the burlap is chin height despite its lofted perch on my friend. What he lacks in height, he more than makes up in brains and brawn—which is what I need. “We’re meeting with Bettina in the captain’s quarters once we cut this boat loose. We need a plan. Sabrina’s in trouble.”

“Aye, aye, Captain!”