“This will hurt quite a bit, so be a good lad, now.”
I felt the sweat roll down the back of my neck and bead my brow. Oh, why didn’t I just keep my happy ass on the pirate ship? I bit my own torn shirt as he used forceps to extract the ball, which hurt like a son of a bitch, but didn’t take as long as I thought it would. Or maybe it was because I had temporarily passed out. I opened my eyes to see the doctor holding smelling salts beneath my nose, my arm throbbing but wrapped in clean linen.
He offered me a drink from a bottle of wine, which I happily took. He had a strange expression on his face as I drank deeply, as if seeing me for the first time. “You’re a woman,” he said, wonderment in his voice. While I wanted to ask him how he came about that revelation – maybe he’d peeked down my shirt while I was out, the dirty bastard – I was more concerned with the whole “brutally tortured and killed” thing that was supposed to happen any moment now.
“What’s happening on deck?” I asked weakly, hearing the angry cries of the pirates.
The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know, but we should, perhaps, stay here…” He was terrified.
I stood unsteadily, my head reeling. “You can stay, then,” I replied. “I’m going up.”
The doctor made no move as I struggled to get up and out of the cabin, my left arm hanging limply at my side. The wine was beginning to work. As I entered the waist of the ship, I leaned heavily against the bulwark, going unnoticed by the men gathered there. The smoke had dissipated some, and I could see that the pirates had surrounded a well-dressed man, apparently the captain. He was a stocky fellow with a mean, pock-marked face, and he looked utterly mortified, sweating like a pig. Behind him, his crew stood weaponless, watching the proceedings silently. I noticed that, apart from the occasional flashy sash or waistcoat, there was little to distinguish the crew of the merchantmen from that of the pirate ship. If anything, the pirates looked to be in better shape. Hmm. Make that much better shape.
Jameson pushed past the crew to stand before the captain, his large jaw thrust forward, his face livid with rage. I had never seen the man so angry before. England stood behind him, his eyes darting from his quartermaster to the merchant captain. Suddenly Jameson threw his head back and laughed aloud. “Ah, Captain Skinner! Is it you?” he said, approaching the cowering captain. Jameson poked himself in the chest with his forefinger. “It’s me! Thomas Jameson. Yer old boatswain. Remember? I am much in yer debt, and now I shall pay ye all in yer own coin.” Jameson then approached England and spoke softly to him. England nodded, then stepped before the miserable crew of the Cadogan .
“Tell us true, ye men!” he said loudly. “Is this Captain Skinner worthy of living? Or does he treat ye like the dregs of society? Ye be the deciders of this man’s fate. If he’s a fair captain, he lives. If not, he dies.”
I saw the faces of some of the crew light up, and others lift their heads with interest. They murmured among themselves, and one man stepped forward. A burly sailor with a nose that had been broken a number of times, he had a murderous glint in his eyes. He said, “He’s as big a son of a bitch as ever lived, and he deserves to die!”
This was met with fervent cheers, from both crews. Only a few Cadogan men hung back, their mouths shut. Captain Skinner began pleading as they ripped his shirt and jacket from him and tied him to the windlass. The brutal captain was gone, replaced by a groveling, desperate sailor. My palms grew moist and I felt ill, but I could not drag my eyes away from the scene. Jameson pulled out his cat o’nine tails – a whip with nine knotted tips – as the men began throwing bottles at Skinner, his cries lost in the wind. Jameson then ordered the pelting to stop, and he began to lash the captain mercilessly.
The cheers and curses
I felt the sweat roll down the back of my neck and bead my brow. Oh, why didn’t I just keep my happy ass on the pirate ship? I bit my own torn shirt as he used forceps to extract the ball, which hurt like a son of a bitch, but didn’t take as long as I thought it would. Or maybe it was because I had temporarily passed out. I opened my eyes to see the doctor holding smelling salts beneath my nose, my arm throbbing but wrapped in clean linen.
He offered me a drink from a bottle of wine, which I happily took. He had a strange expression on his face as I drank deeply, as if seeing me for the first time. “You’re a woman,” he said, wonderment in his voice. While I wanted to ask him how he came about that revelation – maybe he’d peeked down my shirt while I was out, the dirty bastard – I was more concerned with the whole “brutally tortured and killed” thing that was supposed to happen any moment now.
“What’s happening on deck?” I asked weakly, hearing the angry cries of the pirates.
The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know, but we should, perhaps, stay here…” He was terrified.
I stood unsteadily, my head reeling. “You can stay, then,” I replied. “I’m going up.”
The doctor made no move as I struggled to get up and out of the cabin, my left arm hanging limply at my side. The wine was beginning to work. As I entered the waist of the ship, I leaned heavily against the bulwark, going unnoticed by the men gathered there. The smoke had dissipated some, and I could see that the pirates had surrounded a well-dressed man, apparently the captain. He was a stocky fellow with a mean, pock-marked face, and he looked utterly mortified, sweating like a pig. Behind him, his crew stood weaponless, watching the proceedings silently. I noticed that, apart from the occasional flashy sash or waistcoat, there was little to distinguish the crew of the merchantmen from that of the pirate ship. If anything, the pirates looked to be in better shape. Hmm. Make that much better shape.
Jameson pushed past the crew to stand before the captain, his large jaw thrust forward, his face livid with rage. I had never seen the man so angry before. England stood behind him, his eyes darting from his quartermaster to the merchant captain. Suddenly Jameson threw his head back and laughed aloud. “Ah, Captain Skinner! Is it you?” he said, approaching the cowering captain. Jameson poked himself in the chest with his forefinger. “It’s me! Thomas Jameson. Yer old boatswain. Remember? I am much in yer debt, and now I shall pay ye all in yer own coin.” Jameson then approached England and spoke softly to him. England nodded, then stepped before the miserable crew of the Cadogan .
“Tell us true, ye men!” he said loudly. “Is this Captain Skinner worthy of living? Or does he treat ye like the dregs of society? Ye be the deciders of this man’s fate. If he’s a fair captain, he lives. If not, he dies.”
I saw the faces of some of the crew light up, and others lift their heads with interest. They murmured among themselves, and one man stepped forward. A burly sailor with a nose that had been broken a number of times, he had a murderous glint in his eyes. He said, “He’s as big a son of a bitch as ever lived, and he deserves to die!”
This was met with fervent cheers, from both crews. Only a few Cadogan men hung back, their mouths shut. Captain Skinner began pleading as they ripped his shirt and jacket from him and tied him to the windlass. The brutal captain was gone, replaced by a groveling, desperate sailor. My palms grew moist and I felt ill, but I could not drag my eyes away from the scene. Jameson pulled out his cat o’nine tails – a whip with nine knotted tips – as the men began throwing bottles at Skinner, his cries lost in the wind. Jameson then ordered the pelting to stop, and he began to lash the captain mercilessly.
The cheers and curses
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