Perhaps this was
the moment my mother feared would come to pass when she wept against my
shoulder the day I boarded ship and we set sail from Bristol. Perhaps she could
see the danger in such youth as mine, and in a face that was as innocent as it
was fair.
The crew I
joined were kind, and accepted me without question. Our captain was a godly
man, and I can say with certainty that no man on board that vessel ever made a
move or gave a glance in my direction that was in any way untoward. But my time of grace couldn’t last.
The fateful day
things changed, I faced a truth about myself. I realised that I was not merely
younger and softer than the men I had worked alongside these past months, but
less brave too. I knew myself for the greatest coward that ever breathed, as
the last burst of cannon fire rocked our ship, and the clatter of grappling
hooks filled the awful silence, for I hid behind a coil of hemp rope and an
empty barrel amidship. I did nothing but watch in frozen terror as men came
swarming over the side and our bosun’s hoarse cry of warning was cut short by a
vicious sabre thrust.
Almost
immediately, I was discovered. Wedged in my rough woven prison, with hard board
digging into my tailbone and spine, there was no possibility of escape. All
around was the ring and hiss of metal blades as they slid and danced in battle;
the shouts and screams and rattling final breaths of my fellow crewmen as they
fell, one by one. But they seemed to fade away as I looked up at the weathered
face above me. My heart stuttered, and my blood chilled. There was no hope to
be had here, no kindness in the dark eyes that held mine. This was no man of
mercy, no saviour or benefactor. Leading a crew of renegades and murderers like
his called for a hardness, a calculating coldness that I’d never in my
sheltered life met with before, and this man looked to be hard to his pirate
core.
I shivered, and
for the barest fragment of a moment there was something…something that softened
those firm lips and brought an assessing gleam to dark eyes. And then nothing.
Coldness again.
My attention was
torn toward the staggering gait of Mr Blunt, our Mate, passing my hiding place as
he stumbled aft bearing nothing but a shipwright’s axe with which to defend
himself. Blood streamed from a head wound, and he collapsed to his knees only
feet away.
My eyes returned
to the pirate captain looking silently down at me. He paid no attention to the
wounded man; took no notice as one of his own men ran past, and dispatched our
ship’s Mate with a savage-looking cutlass and a blood-curdling cry.
The attacker
turned, breathless and exultant in victory, and took in my cowering form and
the man standing over me in a single glance. A flicker of emotion crossed his
face. Was it understanding? Pity? “Cap’n,” he said with a respectful nod, and
strode off to rejoin the battle.
The pirate
captain had a sword in the scabbard at his hip, though he showed no sign of
drawing it. Still, I could not help glancing in that direction. Why did he
merely stand there, blocking my escape? Why did I still live?
“Do you…do you
mean to kill me, too?” My voice was a whisper, a breathless shadow, my body as
stiff and unmoving as the wood at my back. My eyes darted to his face once
more. The signs of a hard life were marked on its planes and contours, but he was handsome too,
with that faint smile curling his lips. His must have been a life filled with
barbarism and cruelty, for a man did not last long in a buccaneer’s world
without such traits. But at this moment, as he saw the fear etched into my
still features, his gaze gentled. There was a strange light in his eyes, and I
wondered if he was capable of kindness.
“I have another
use for you,” was all he said.
The battle was
soon won. The outcome, in truth, had never been in doubt. The clanging of swords and screams of anguish faded, to be replaced
with a sickly silence. And then began the calls to and fro, as the pirate crew
moved the bodies of the dead aside to clear a path to the hold, and began to remove
everything of value in our cargo. Once emptied, our ship, my home for more than
five months, was readied for scuttling. My belongings may have been meagre, but
they were all I had. Soon, they would be at the bottom of the ocean, together with the bodies of many a man I had called friend.
The pirate crew skirted around our silent tableau as they worked, with a glance or
a nod for their captain. And my terror steadily grew. Men I had laughed with,
men who had treated me with kindness lay where they’d fallen, or were pushed
against the railings, limbs askew. But I had been spared. My pretty face, my
soft skin and my youth, had saved me. But for what fate?
Those dark eyes
still played across my face in seeming fascination, as if this pirate king had
not expected to find one such as I on board ship, and was wondering at his good
fortune. I have no doubt he read in my eyes both my weakness and my fear, for
he reached out to me with a hand that was long-fingered and strangely elegant.
He smoothed his thumb across my chin, nudged my cheek with his knuckles.
“Fear will only make
it worse,” he said softly.
“Cap’n?” came
the call at last, and he turned away, to where a swarthy man with arms as thick
as my thighs stood waiting by the foremast. “We’re ready to sink ‘er.”
He nodded once,
a silent acknowledgement, and then swung back to me. He held out his hand, but I, mistrustful, would not reach out to him. He then reached for me, plucking me from my place of failed concealment with hands
that I could have no doubt knew how to wield a sword, how to strangle a man in
combat. Hands that on me, were firm and strong, but surprisingly gentle.
“Come,” he
said. “There’s nothing here for you now, boy.”
_____________________________________________________________________________
About the author
Adina West is the Sydney-based author of the Dark Child digital serial and Dark Child Omnibus. You can find her lurking online at the following places.
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Website/Twitter/Facebook/Goodreads
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