The Noble Pirates by Rima Jean

the hatch. I didn’t want to be down there. I wanted to be on the deck to better see what was happening. Luckily, Griffith had me packing cartridges and running them onto the deck almost immediately. The Royal James fired across the merchantman’s bow and the vessel lowered its flag in a show of submission. It was a smaller ship with far fewer guns, so surrendering was, in my humble opinion, a prudent decision. Even so, the pirates fired their muskets into the sails, banged their cutlasses against the gunwales, and let out bloodcurdling war cries. I crouched against the bulwark and covered my ears, terrified. I couldn’t imagine what the men aboard the merchantman were thinking.
    The ships were alongside now, and the pirates, still howling like animals, threw their grappling hooks onto the prey, as well as grenades and fireworks so that they could board under the cover of smoke. From the forecastle, the pirates leaped onto the merchantman, armed with pistols, cutlasses, and boarding axes. I peeked over the gunwale at the chaos, fascinated. It was one big game of intimidation, since the pirates didn’t want to engage in battle any more than the prey.
    I stood, possessed by a sudden urge to join the pirates on the captured ship. In the many weeks that had passed, I had learned a lot about sailing, ships, weapons, and battle. I had, by some miracle, acquired my sea legs, and was fairly confident in my abilities to handle a pistol. Plus, I didn’t want to be left behind on the pirate ship by myself.
    Had I been on cold medicine, I would have blamed that for this irrational, ludicrous impulse. With my heart pulsing in my ears, I drew my pistol, cocked it, and ran up to the forecastle. I paused only long enough to assess the distance between the ships and, without thinking about the consequences, jumped over the space.
    I made it – barely. I plunged headfirst onto the deck, unable to see because of the smoke that swirled aboard the merchant ship. As I landed, my pistol went off. I lay on the deck, disoriented, when I realized I was covered in blood. It wasn’t until I felt the searing pain in my left arm that I realized the blood was my own.
    I had just shot myself.
    Major fail, Sabrina.
    Chapter Thirteen
      Two strong hands seized me before I had time to assess how badly I was hurt, and I turned to see England’s face. Concern and fury fought in his expression. He carried me with purpose, taking long strides through the smoke, as though he knew where he was going. He burst into the captain’s cabin – a more luxurious place than the cabin aboard England’s ship, for sure – and set me on the pillowed bunk. He tore the sleeve of my shirt from the wound, then wrapped the cloth around my arm in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Then he drew his weapons and left.
      I tried to sit up, tried to look at the wound in my shoulder. I was getting dizzy, and found that looking at my injury was making me feel faint. The door to the cabin flew open, and in walked an ashen-faced man carrying a chest, England behind him, holding his pistol firmly against the man’s back. England ordered, “Clean yer fucking hands and get the ball out of the lad’s arm.” He looked at me. “Tell him what to do, so he doesn’t butcher ye.” Then he left again.
    The man shook as he opened his chest, bafflement and fear on his face. I was breathing hard. “What ship is this?”
    The man, presumably the doctor or surgeon of the merchantman, stammered, “‘Tis the snow Cadogan from Bristol.”
    This was it. “Do you have water and soap?” I asked, in a hurry to get this over with, the pain choking me. He nodded, and I directed him to scrub his hands clean, and to disinfect his instruments with soap, water, and alcohol before using them. He seemed puzzled by my demands but did not object. Once done, he unwrapped my makeshift bandage and examined the wound.
    “‘Tis just a flesh wound. But I’ll have to get the ball out,” he said.