The ship lurched to the side as a strong wave hit it, sending half the crew skidding across the deck. The lookout, halfway up the mast, barely kept his grip, shouting: “They’re coming around! Guns a-ready!”
Émile pressed his hand down on the captain’s chest, thick blood flooding out between his fingers, and tried not to let his expression give away what was coming next. Hamlin choked up a dark red sludge, then nodded to Émile like he thought he’d be fine in a minute…and then went limp.
“He’s dead,” said a deckhand, voice trembling with fear. “The captain’s dead!”
“Comin’ in fast!” shouted the lookout.
Émile let go of his commander, checking over his shoulder at the pirate ship off to port, lining up to blast them all to pieces. He looked up at the mast, sails torn by musket fire and shrapnel, and the world came into proper focus.
“Fly the white flag!” he yelled, getting to his feet and striding to the upper deck. “All hands stand down! Pull back the cannons and—”
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” snarled Crosby, the First Mate, storming up from below-deck. He had a gash on his temple that was bleeding steadily, but the redness of his face was the more striking colour. “You’ve no right to—”
“Captain Hamlin’s dead,” said Émile, calm and steady. “The ship is—”
“The ship is mine now, stowaway. Not yours.” He waved his arm over his head and yelled: “Guns ready, on my mark!”
Émile didn’t touch him—he didn’t dare touch him in a situation like this—but blocked Crosby’s way. “We won’t win.”
“We will. We always do.”
“No, Hamlin always did. Without him—”
“He’s just one man,” said Crosby. “The crew, the officers, me? We can handle ourselves regardless. If you’re too scared to fight…” He pointed off the port bow. “…feel free to go.”
He pushed past, screaming orders to a crew still stunned by the death of their leader, and the impossible odds they now faced. Émile saw a man struggling to unsheathe his sword because his hands were shaking too much; another was checking his pistol again and again and again and—
The pirate ship would be in position at any moment. Once it was, they were done.
Émile dashed for the mast, leaping up onto the scaffolding and climbing as fast as he could, until he reached the first perch. He grabbed hold of the rope that held their flag, and pulled it down, barely keeping his balance as he did.
“Stop that!” shouted Crosby. “Someone stop him! Shoot him!”
One of the sailors took aim with his musket, but didn’t fire. He was giving Émile time to work.
There was no white flag—to have one was a bad omen—so Émile stripped off his shirt and tied a messy knot to the rope, and hoisted it to the top, where it caught the wind and opened wide…a bright white marker, stained with their captain’s blood.
“God damn you, stowaway!” snarled Crosby. “What have you done?”
“Saved your lives,” Émile muttered to himself, and climbed back down to face his punishment.
As the pirate ship drifted closer, Émile’s anger got the better of him. There he stood, on the bow of the Archimedes Fish, a pistol in one hand, and a sabre in the other, facing the enemy all alone. By design, of course: Crosby had tied his ankles to the railings, and strapped the weapons to his hands, to make him an appealing target. If it weren’t for the look of grating displeasure on his face, he might’ve looked threatening. But as it was…
The pirate captain laughed—a big hearty laugh—as they drew nearer. “Ah, a welcomin’ party, I see.”
“Aye, sir,” sighed Émile.
“Pistol’s empty, I assume?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Well then,” said the captain, hanging off the edge of his deck, holding onto a rope for support. “We can talk like civilized men. You got a name, sailor?”
“Émile Deschênes,” he said, with as much of a bow as he could manage.
The captain slapped his chest with a grin. “Captain Harold Gant,” he said. “At your service. Though, of course, not really.” He laughed. “How surrendered are you, Mr Deschênes?”
Émile glanced over his shoulder at the spots where his shipmates were hiding, waiting for him to be killed so they’d have a reason to attack. Not that they really wanted to attack, but Crosby—who was hiding below-deck—was quite insistent that blood would be shed.
“Largely,” he said.
“Largely, hmm,” said Gant. “Well how’s this sound: you can either be all surrendered, or you can be largely dead. The choice is yours.”
The sailor nearest Émile, who was hiding clumsily behind a riser, whispered urgently: “Say yes. Say yes!”
Émile sighed, shrugged. “Alas, sir,” he said. “My captain has not authorized me to negotiate on his behalf. But, sir, if you’ll allow…” He aimed his pistol-wrapped hand down toward the pirate ship.
“Careful now, Mr Deschênes,” said Gant, somewhat playfully.
“Your guns, sir,” said Émile, pointing at the cannons tucked inside the ports along the side of the hull. “Spanish-made, yes?”
Gant’s smile twitched. He watched Émile a little closer, now. “How’d you figure?”
“They’re firing high,” said Émile. Clipped our crow’s nest, when I suspect you wanted the mast. And the scarring, there, along the portals…” He gestured toward the black burn marks, and the chipped wood that had been blown off the tops of the frames. “The cannons are mounted wrong. British mouldings, yes?”
“Aye,” said Gant, growing more and more intrigued.
Émile nodded. “They’re set too low. If you don’t fix it, it is only a matter of time before one comes loose and backfires.”
Gant observed Émile carefully. So very carefully. “Terms of surrender, Mr Deschênes: you all bring up the cargo worth takin’ and set it out for transport. We see so much as a razor on ‘em, and we’ll do it the conventional way, understood?”
“Understood, sir,” nodded Émile. “And thank you for your mercy. We’ll start unloading immediately—”
“Oh, not you, Mr Deschênes,” said Gant. “You leave that to the rest of ‘em. You need to tell me what else I don’t know ‘bout the things I’ve stolen.”
Émile had never been on a pirate ship before. He’d seen plenty, mostly from afar in a bid to out-run them. He’d even been on deck to see the sinking of two, the sight of which still haunted him. But to be inside one was something altogether different.
Gant’s ship was like a floating museum of eclectic nonsense. If there were chests of gold anywhere, they weren’t on display. What was on display were stacks of Persian rugs; a pile of chandeliers that were likely too tangled to ever be undone; crates of tobacco of various origins; an ornate dining set that seemed like it was plucked straight from Versailles; a room full of ladies’ dresses; and more bottles of rum than even seemed possible. The sheer diversity of the loot made it clear Gant was both prolific, and not at all discerning. He took whatever crossed his path, and figured the rest out later.
“Yer gawkin, Mr Deschênes,” said Gant, with a grin. “Not how you expected the other half lives?”
“You have quite the collection,” Émile said, as they passed a huge stack of elephant tusks. “Bound for New Orléans?”
“And others besides. You know your way around the sea. French navy?”
“British,” said Émile, simply.
“Captive?”
“Non, monsieur. Not in the way that counts.” He cleared his throat. “One of the benefits of having no one trust you is that any time you get too good at something, you are pushed off to do something new. It teaches you how to listen, how to learn.”
“Jack of all trades,” said Gant. “I could use someone like you ‘round here.”
“I already have a ship, sir.”
“Aye, and they tied you to the rails in the hopes you’d be shot. I’d say they’re right done with you.” He paused, a thought coming to his mind. “What’d you do, to cross your captain so?”
Émile remembered Hamlin coughing up blood, dying in pain and confusion.
“I surrendered the ship, after he died,” he said.
Gant watched him a moment, like he wasn’t quite sure.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, finally. “It’s a dirty business, takes too many good souls. We’ll say a prayer for him tonight.”
“Tonight?” asked Émile.
“Aye, at dinner.” he noticed Émile’s confusion and laughed. “You don’t think I’d send you back there, do ye? No, sir, this is your ship now. Once we get that cargo loaded, you’ll never see those bastards again.”
He continued on, leaving Émile alone for a moment, struck dumb by the odd turn of events. But then he realized he shouldn’t dawdle, and raced to catch up.
“How much do you know about British patrol zones?” asked Gant. “South Atlantic.”
Émile dug back into his memories. “They shadow the trade routes, mostly. They concentrate on certain ports at certain times of the year, to avoid the weather.” Gant looked bored by this, so he added: “But their schedule is rigid. They sail in patterns, so if you can spot the course of one—”
“You can slip right through the rest, eh?” said Gant. “Then that’s what you’ll do. Spot the course, and—”
He was interrupted by the sound of a man screaming, so sudden and primal it made him pause. His face darkened and he stormed down the hall, kicking in the door to the brig and shouting: “God dammit, I said no more chances!”
Émile arrived a second after, and froze in shock. Inside the brig, there weren’t the usual assortment of prisoners and negligent sailors—not even one. Instead, the place was full of half-naked Africans, chained together and to the floor, cowering against the walls as one of Gant’s sailors wound back to whip the man who’d screamed—the poor wretch was lying on the floor, trembling in agony, his back split open from the earlier lashes.
Émile couldn’t move. He didn’t know what to do. One of the captives, a girl of ten or so, was staring at him like he was the devil come to devour her. Her eyes cut into him.
The sailor looked on the spot at Gant’s outburst. “Pardon, captain, he wouldn’t—”
“Then we’ve a rule for that, don’t we?” snarled Gant, and stormed into the room, grabbed the whipped man by the arm, and dragged him out the door, right past Émile. “Come on, Deschênes!” he shouted. “The tour continues!”
Émile followed Gant through the ship, up to the deck, pausing only briefly as the African stumbled and had to be righted again so he could walk.
“Slaves,” said Gant, bitterly, over his shoulder. “A dirty business, but a business all the same. Trouble is, I’ve no patience for foolishness, and foolishness is all they bring. So the second they act out…” He shouted it again, for the whole crew to hear: “The second they act out…” He shoved the African off the edge of the ship, and into the sea. “They’re done! Understood?”
Émile was shaking with horror. That poor man, beaten savagely, and then just…drowned. It was—
“Ah good,” said Gant, looking across at the Archimedes Fish. “Makin’ progress after all. What’re you carting?”
Émile was so dazed, he didn’t hear. Gant’s tone got a little less friendly: “Deschênes! What’re you carting?”
“Textiles and sherry,” he said, vacant. “A little tea.”
“Tea, hmm,” said Gant. “We’ll have to sample that together.” He clapped Émile on the shoulder. “But first, fix up those cannons for me. Next time I try to cripple a ship, I want it done right.”
“Aye, captain,” Émile said, blankly.
The pirate crew, much like every crew he’d ever known, distrusted him on sight. At first, they didn’t let him touch the cannons—despite their captain’s orders—so he had to explain the mechanics from a distance. But after they saw how the Spanish metal was angled the wrong way, and how the British mouldings were starting to crack, they stopped being quite so obnoxious, and gave him room to work.
He couldn’t shake the memory of that girl’s piercing eyes, carving into his soul. She wasn’t angry with him, or even scared…it was like she knew him, knew him well enough to understand how much he hated what was happening to her, to all of them…and she wondered why he didn’t do something to stop it.
He worked harder, worked faster, and fixed the cannons up again, and tried not to think of what came after.
“Ah, Mr Deschênes,” said Gant, up on deck an hour later. “Time for a final good-bye.”
The last of the crates were being moved from the Archimedes Fish to the pirate ship, where the crew was cracking them open, greedily hunting for whatever treasures they could find. Émile’s old crew, meanwhile, stood in a bunch, up on the deck across the way, looking very much like they’d prefer death to losing that much income in one go.
“Cannons went well?” he asked.
“Aye, captain,” said Émile, still not quite alert. “Aligned and ready.”
“Good,” said Gant. “We’ll discuss your title at dinner, but for now—”
“Actually, sir,” Émile said, and Gant paused, irritated at the interruption. “Beg your pardon, sir, but I…” He stared at the ground, tormented by the words on his tongue. “I think I’d like to go back.”
Gant burst out laughing. “Back? Back there? They want you dead, Deschênes!”
“I know, sir. I do. But Captain Hamlin gave me a home when no one else would—”
“As I’m offering, too! Gods, man, don’t do this. You know what’s coming. I know you do.”
Émile looked back over at the Archimedes Fish, at the men all assembled there, and felt a twist in his stomach. He was trading one Hell for another. But…
“I understand, sir,” he said. “But they’re my family, and I…I’m sorry, sir. I am.” He offered his hand. “Thank you for your mercy.”
Gant spit at the floor by his feet, turned and stormed away. “Send ‘im back and push off!” he shouted to his men. “We’re done here!”
Émile was handed a rope and given seconds to swing across before the pirates opened their sails and took off, sending a strong wake out that rocked the Archimedes Fish violently from side to side. He nearly fell, right after landing, as the rest of the crew crowded around him, not quite sure what to say.
“You! Stowaway!” shouted Crosby, pushing through he others, face still fuming red. “You’ve some nerve coming back here! It’s your fault we’re cleared out—of goods and food!—you traitorous fool!”
“Apologies, captain,” said Émile—the show of respect caught Crosby off guard. “I did the best I could with the cards dealt. But if I could make a request, sir…”
“A request? You’re in no position to—”
“Lifeboats, sir,” said Émile, urgency to his voice. “Deploy the lifeboats.”
Crosby sneered at him, getting right close to his face before snarling: “If you think—”
“They’re turning!” shouted one of the sailors, pointing off to port where, a good distance away, the pirate ship was angling itself once again, coming into firing range.
Crosby was trying to process the injustice when Émile repeated, so strenuously: “Lifeboats, sir. “Deploy the—”