Art:AADM/Second round/Aboard the Crimson Corsair

The Short
= The Entry = I still feel a cold shiver run along my spine when my thoughts stray to the moment I first laid eyes on the Crimson Raider – straining at her mooring ropes as if anxious to seek adventure, sails rustling in the salty breeze, stately masts lifted high toward the heavens, brass gleaming in the radiant morning light; her crew scurrying about singing merrily as they worked, as if she were something other than some old funeral barge shrouded in decay, waiting to ferry her ghastly crew on their final voyage; but I get ahead of myself – that was before I’d secured a berth amongst her buccaneering crew, before I’d met Captain Baltizar, before I’d discovered the truth she was hiding.

I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was the end of November. The year was 1680. I’d arrived in Port Royal after a long and arduous sea journey, three days prior. My pieces of eight and I had parted ways mid-voyage thanks to an all-in on an Ace-Jack two pair. Life lesson? Do not attempt to win back in Baccarat what you have lost in Poker. If you DO attempt it, confine your betting to money; do not wager your possessions. Needless to say, the evening, and consequently, the rest of the voyage didn't quite work out as I had planned.

So there I was, in the most expensive city in the world, with nothing to call my own except the clothes on my back, and those were beginning to reek, not a little. There was nothing to do for it but to find a job. "Edgar," I said to myself, "This is what you get for running away from home. You've set out to find your fortune, and what better way than to start from scratch?" So I tightened the sash on my swashbuckler’s jacket, ignored the rumbling in my stomach and walked through the city, attempting to find a job. Three days later, much the worse for wear, I found myself on the docks again.

I had fallen asleep on some fishermen’s nets with the assistance of a considerable quantity of swill (procured in exchange for my hat) and the morning light was not welcome to my dilated pupils. I lay there for a moment, disoriented – the lovely dream, of dancing with Sylvia at the Rutherfords’ Christmas Ball as Jason watched on in a jealous rage, faded as the smell of rotting fish worked its way into my nasal cavity. My surroundings and financial circumstances reasserted themselves on my consciousness. Day three of the job hunt – might as well start with the wharf. I picked myself up, half-heartedly attempted to pat my filthy attire into some semblance of decency and started towards the group of sailors loading and unloading commodities on the pier. And there she stood - the Crimson Raider, the name painted in red and black upon her hull. Midshipmen were carrying crates up the gangplank, moving them this way and that at the behest of an extremely tall, swarthy man, who strut about the deck with an air of authority.

“Watch how ye bump that, lad, or I’ll give ye what for!” he yelled, and the offending ‘lad’, not a day under 35, grinned cheekily back at him, neither stopping his whistling, nor changing his handling of the crate he carried. “Ye filthy swine! That cloth will nae be worth the whip I lash ye with, if ye get a spot on it!” Another crewman flashed him a smile and carried on his business. I leaned against a stack of hemp, watching. Apparently the gruff manner was all bark and no bite. Either that, or he held no actual power, for all his lording it over them. Interesting. Very interesting. The crew moved swiftly, loading barrels and crates, never standing still or empty handed, but more of their own volition, than in obedience to his acerbic tongue.

The rest of the wharf was still waking up; the crew of the Crimson Raider was the only one that seemed out and about in full force. I wandered down the pier to see if there were any jobs being advertised on the notice board. There were a few listed and I scanned them, looking for something that would suit. As I looked at the board, a shadow loomed over me. Now I’m not a short man, about a hundred and eighty centimeters, but I could feel his breath on the top of my head. I turned, and there stood the man from the Crimson Raider. He grinned at me, his smile revealing a mouthful of uneven, yellowed, chipped teeth. He took a step backward, and I was left squinting at him in the morning light. “Ahoy matey!” said he.

“Hello!” I said, “um, Ahoy!”

“Ye looking for employment then, on that thar’ notice board?”

“Yes, yes I am.” I replied, feeling unusually stupid.

“Ever sailed the seven seas?”

“Only as a passenger. Are you… looking for people?”

“Aye, that we are. Walk with me? The Captain could find a use fer the likes of ye…”

“Right-o, old chap.” I said, pleased with the way things were going. This was more like it! I was being sought out! I suppose I should have heard warning bells, but all I could think of was wages, food to fill my growling stomach, and a clean bunk to rest my sorry, hung-over skull on.

We walked in silence back down the way I had come. As we boarded the Crimson Raider, my nameless friend turned and raised his voice, hollering at the crew, who were rolling the last few barrels on board. “Thas’ it me hearties! Stow the goods and secure the hold, and then ye have shore leave for five hours! The Bosun’ll sound the whistle at a half past twelve, and again at one. If ye aren’t here by then, we sail without ye, mark me words! Now go an’ kiss yer wenches goodbye, ye scurvy scum!”

Guffaws and applause rose up from the crew, along with cheers of “Huzzah for the First Mate!” and within minutes, the deck was cleared. I stood there, shuffling my feet, my bladder reminding me that I hadn’t performed my morning ablutions.

My gargantuan friend turned back towards me and gestured with his neck, asking me to follow him. We entered the cabin, set in the center of the main deck. My eyes took a while to adjust to the dark… the two windows on either side were hung with heavy maroon velvet drapes, the floor was covered in part by a matching Persian carpet. Front and center was a large ornate mahogany desk, covered with maps and parchment, an inkwell, quills and bits of rock that I assumed were meant to be paper-weights. A lantern, suspended above the desk, threw light upon the organized chaos and the chairs that surrounded the desk. The back of the room was shrouded in shadows. A large wood-and-paper screen, stretching across the breadth of the room, cordoned off the back of the cabin, and soft light filtered through the pattern here and there. I could hear hushed voices.

My chaperon cleared his throat, and the voices stopped abruptly. “Captain, I’ve brung him.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Brung him? They’d discussed me?! Voices started up again, an argument conducted in whispers. Someone obviously won and a steady click of boots against the wooden floor drew closer to us, from the back of the cabin.

A rasping voice accompanied the boots. “Ye ‘ave, ‘ave ye? Thank ye Parth.” I ventured a quick glance at my companion – Parth. He was glaring disapprovingly at the back of the cabin. Confused, I shrugged and turned back to the opening. A face, half-lit, half in shadow came into view. I remember gulping and taking a half step back. It was, after all, the most beautiful ugly face I had seen, its vile savagery writ in every line. I’d peg him at about forty, shorter than me, but not by much, and thick set. His nose had obviously been broken, and not set, at least twice. A patch covered his left eye and an angry scar ran from his forehead to halfway down his cheek, via the eyepatch. He grinned at me, friendly like, but it did nothing to set me at ease. Teeth missing, a gold bit here, silver there. Wrinkles, beetling brows and a beard covered the rest of his face, and for that I was thankful.

“Ahoy! My name is Argemon,” he said. “And ye are?”

I didn’t think to lie. In retrospect, perhaps I should have. “Edgar Stanhope.” I instinctively extended my hand, and after but a moment’s hesitation, he shook it, mashing my bone and sinew, in enthusiasm. I winced.

“From which port do ye hail, and how many years are upon ye?”

“Um, I’m twenty five, twenty six in January, and that’s less than a month away. As for where - Derbyshire, England. Bretby, if you know the area. Hardly a port, far from it!” I chuckled alone in the gloomy room. Good Lord. I was shocked at my own blabbering. Come on, Eton boy! I pulled myself together, cleared my throat, and fell silent. Argemon was still grinning at me, unblinking, a rather disconcerting sight. Behind me Parth too, was silent. He seemed to be occupied with alternately glaring at Argemon and the offending partition. Mad as hatters, the two of them looked.

“Um, so, are you looking to recruit for, uh, your crew?”

Argemon gave a start. “Oh. Oh. Aye! I s’pose we are at tha’…” He glanced behind him before continuing. “We’ll have ye werkin’ the stations, see, to get a feel fer ‘er, and see what suits ye, and what yer good at. As fer pay, board and lodgin’ are provided fer, ye get a share of the profits same as the rest’f us.” He looked me up and down, like a farmer buying a horse. For a minute I thought he was going to ask me to open my mouth, to take a gander at my teeth. “Ye look healthy, and strong enough to survive. Ye any good with a sword?”

“I tend to think so,” I said, grinning lopsidedly. I shouldn’t have tried it. It only seems to work on women.

Argemon snorted. “By the time we’re done with ye, we’ll think so too, eh, Parth?”

Parth grunted back.

“So are ye interested, lad?”

“Yes, I do believe I am.” I replied.

Parth led me off the Raider, and we both pretended I had to go pick up my belongings. After a quick run to a nearby privy, I spent the rest of the morning swaggering about Port Royal role-playing a swashbuckling seafarer (which is rather more challenging when you don’t actually have a sword). I returned to the docks to find the crew once more aboard the ship. The Bosun’s whistle sounded, and I wandered on, trying to stay out of everyone’s way. Parth was back in form, hollering at the top of his voice, and this time the crew jumped at his every word. “ALL HANDS ON DECK!” he roared. “Man the sails! RAISE ANCHOR!” He spotted me and hollered, ”NEW BOY. HELP!”

I followed the line of his pointed finger, and joined a line of sailors, starboard side. We stripped down and began, pulling a line here, easing one there, as I literally learned the ropes. Honestly, I have no idea what I spent the afternoon doing, but it involved a lot of heaving and pulling, and scurrying here and there in obedience to Parth’s orders. My fingers were chafed and raw by the time we eased up, three hours later. Not a speck of land broke the perfect blue horizon, and Parth called a halt to work. “DOGWATCH!” he called, and some men I hadn’t seen before came up and took over our stations.

A young lad handed the first shift bowls of broth, a bit of cheese and some bread. I followed their example - donned my jacket once more, sat myself down on the deck between two guns and proceeded to demolish the first food that’d been offered me in three days. “Arright me hearties, its time! I think ye can bring her out now!” said Parth. The boy who’d handed us our meal let out a whoop of glee and ran below deck, emerging seconds later with a roll of cloth. He clambered up the main mast using hands and legs all monkey-like, ignoring the rope ladder, with no regard for its considerable height or the considerable stain he’d make on deck, should he err. A few minutes later after a bit of fiddling, he gave a shout and hopped into the crow’s nest. Parth, standing at the base of the mast, yanked at a cord and a glorious flag unfurled. A cheer rose up from the crew - except for me, for the inky black of that flag seemed to blot out the overhead sun. Tattered and proud, she flew, far above the deck, the Jolly Roger.

I felt a presence to my left. Whipping my head around, I beheld Argemon - he wasn’t smiling anymore. His grim visage didn’t exactly inspire confidence. My mouth went dry. “The Captain will see you now.” The… Captain? Then what in the seven seas was he? I rose mutely, and followed him to the main cabin. It seemed much colder than it had this morning, and more sinister, but at least the curtains were pulled back, and light filtered into the cabin. A short, lithe figure stood at the starboard window, looking out at the men working. Long burgundy hair, secured at the nape with a thin leather band, a shirt made translucent against the light, and a thin frame visible therein, in a silhouette. I confess I admired the view, despite my predicament.

Argemon cleared his throat and announced me. “Captain Baltizar - Cabin Person Stanhope.”

“Ah, yes, Edgar - our young friend from the docks.” A sweet, strong voice issued from the youth at the window. I froze as the figure turned. A sweet, strong female voice! And one who was barely twenty, by the looks of it. What the devil?!

She smiled laconically. “Surprised?”

I remained silent. She stalked across the room and sat down in the large comfortable-looking leather chair behind the table, swinging one leg over the arm. She was watching me, her green eyes catching the light, eerily catlike. She began toying idly with an ivory paper knife. I stubbornly held my tongue, determined not to break the silence, as she evidently wanted me to. Pretty women annoy me - they seem to think everyone will go slack-jawed and weak-kneed around them, dancing to their tunes – and this one was definitely pretty. With that long neck, those high cheekbones and rosebud lips, I’d even call her beautiful. Hah. Probably thought she could get away with murder… probably had, too. I shuddered. She interrupted my thoughts.

“Well I can’t blame you, you came to Port Royal to find your fortune, and oh no! You’ve been kidnapped by pirates! What would the Earl of Chesterfield say if he could see you now…”

How could she possibly know who I was? If she knew of my father, then how much did she know of me and my… past? My blood boiled. “Look here, Baltizar,” I began, when a stinging blow across the side of my face broke my sentence off. I tasted blood on my lips, and there was a buzz in my ear. I wiped the blood away, trying not to touch my hot cheek. “That’s Captain Baltizar to you.” Argemon purred, softly.

I began again. “Captain Baltizar, I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I want no part of it.” Generation upon generation of male chauvinists formed my lineage and their indignation sang in my veins.

The woman, no, the pirate in front of me smiled smugly. She looked positively evil. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk, and steepling her fingers. “Well, Edgar, my dear, you really have no choice. I have need of you, and your life is pretty much in my hands at the moment.”

You’ll forgive me, but I felt a little desperate. “I challenge you to a duel!”

She laughed. I could hear Argemon giggle too. “You signed on as a member of this crew. Therefore, you are subject to its laws. I am the Captain. If you challenge the Captain, that counts as insurrection. Ye get the plank. Savvy?”

I sighed. “What do you want of me?”

She fell silent, her green eyes held mine a good long while, and when she spoke, it wasn’t an order, but a request. “I have need of a well-spoken, intelligent, well-read man of good breeding, who inspires confidence and has a certain air of… respectability about him.” Oh good grief, I thought, not again! Not when I’ve just managed to extricate myself from the betrothal to Sylvia, and the abominable arranged marriage my father had in mind for me.

“Well Ma’am, I’m flatt…” Argemon cuffed me again. I turned and glared at him. “Captain.” He said, smiling mirthlessly.

“Captain,” I continued, “I’m flattered, but I’m really not the marrying type.”

She goggled at me for a minute and then burst into peals of laughter. I could hear Argemon snickering to my side. The door behind me opened, and Parth slipped in, bending to save his head from a bumping. “What’s all this then?” he asked.

Argemon stopped snickering just long enough to say, “Edgar ‘ere thinks Red wants t’ marry ‘im!!”

So there I stood, surrounded by three pirates who were in splits over something I didn’t find funny in the least. I could feel myself blushing and I felt not a little defensive. “It’s not that funny.” I muttered under my breath.

They finally stopped guffawing. ‘Red’ cleared her throat. “No, you fool, I don’t want to marry you, I want you to be my front.”

“Your… front?”

“Yes. Piracy is a rather risky profession. High mortality rate, see. We’ve a fancy to being privateers. Now, your stupid British don’t take women seriously, and I’d rather not deal with the Spaniards. So. You are going to get me a Letter of Marque.”

“I… am?!”

“Yes. You will meet our contact in five hours. Guv’nor Morgan’s aide is wenching at Tortuga, tonight.”

I recognized that name. Governor Henry Morgan, Lieutenant-Governor of Jamaica - notorious privateer, ingenious and daring, his exploits spoken of in hushed voices and never in polite company except to censure. My heart sank.