Of Magic and Rum (Beyond a Contemporary Mythos)

Chapter 4

“We—” I peel the banana in my hand and take a bite before propping my booted feet atop my desk. “—have a stowaway on board.”

Ragnar has just walked into my cabin, more than likely to tell me we’re close to shoving off, and I didn’t let him get a word in edgewise before spilling that little gem.

“Well, shit.” Ragnar eyes me quizzically, no doubt confused by my nonchalance.

With my boots crossed at the ankle, I bounce the top one, eating another bite of banana and smiling. “And I’m fairly certain—it’s a woman.”

“Twice the shit. Want me to find them? Toss them off the ship before we set sail?” Ragnar juts a thumb behind him.

“You’ll do no such thing.” I stand and swipe the small bottle of milk I procured for Truffles, snatching his pewter saucer from a desk drawer.

Truffles scurries from his pillow, not caring if Ragnar is in his presence. The cat’s eyes grow feral at the sound of metal hitting wood.

“What would you do with her then? Especially if she’s a woman?” Ragnar’s narrow eyes squint, making one wonder how he sees out of them like that.

Squatting, I set the saucer filled with milk on the floor at Truffles’ feet—a coveted snack he gets when we’re in port and only enough to last a day because we don’t have the means to keep it from spoiling. “Let them stay. They’ll be desperate to keep up appearances, so they’ll do the chores none of the crew likes doing. If they cause trouble, we toss them overboard. Simple as that.” I slap my hands on my knees and rise, grinning like a damn jackal. “But I do so hope it’s a woman.”

Ragnar clucks his tongue and bends sideways to watch Truffles lap at his milk. “Intend to bed her, do you?”

“Perhaps. But I thought more about how much easier it’d be to orchestrate her to our will. It isn’t often I can ensure someone won’t turn on me from sheer charm.” I scratch the coarse hair on my chin.

“Oh, yeah? You mean like you charmed Mary?” Ragnar does a snorting chuckle.

“Mary is different. She stood in line for recruitment, and I told her there was no sense in disguising herself. Only after she was on board did the little hellion reveal that meat and tackle weren’t her preferred variety of sport.”

Ragnar absently stares into the distance. “I swear I’d propose to that woman if that weren’t the case.”

“Marriage,” I grumble, all but gagging at the prospect.

Ragnar nudges me. “You’re telling me a decade from now when piracy becomes but a distant memory, and believe me, it will, you never see yourself settling down?”

Me? A husband? The idea seemed borderline absurd.

Moving to one of the porthole windows, I press my forearm above it and stare at the unusually calm blue water. “The sea is my mistress, Ragnar. And she can be a jealous wench.”

“Three pieces of silver says you’ll be settled down within two years, conventional sense or not.” Ragnar’s massive, tanned paw appears in front of me, the brown leather band around his wrist etched with old runes taunting me.

I glare as I turn to face him, sneering at his palm. “You’re out of your mind. And do you even have that many pieces of silver?”

“What do you care? You’re going to win, right?” The skin beneath his left eye twitches.

And this is why Ragnar is my second in command.

“Fine. Agreed.” We smack our hands together, shaking right as the ship lurches.

“Better get these fjolser working the sails, the lazy maggots.” Ragnar pulls his tunic taut, a slight wince pinching his features.

After snatching my frock coat and slipping it on, I exit my cabin with Ragnar at my side.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to confront this person? Flat out ask what they’re doing and if they’re a woman?” Ragnar asks as we make our way toward the helm.

“It’s all about giving them a false sense of security.” I spy our crow’s nest man sitting with his legs dangling from the edge. Pointing at this, I elbow Ragnar in the ribs.

Ragnar grunts but looks up, his entire demeanor changing within an instant. He waves his arms, waiting for him to look down. “Squid, what the hell do you think this is, a tea break? Get your ass moving on those topsails.” His words travel across the deck, and he gestures at the topsails.

After Squid focuses on Ragnar’s face, he jerks to attention and scrambles across the riggings, his bare feet gripping the wood as he passes.

“False sense of security, Captain?” Ragnar repeats.

Twirling one of the several rings on my fingers, I squint at the horizon. “Yes. Right now, they’re probably thinking, I did it. I’m on board, leaving port, and haven’t been found out. And if it’s a woman, she must feel even more victorious that no one has discovered her.”

Ragnar adjusts the twine holding his hair back. “And this is why I’m a quartermaster.”

“And a bloody good one at that. Far better than I ever was, I assure you.” I ascend the stairs to the wheel, resting my hands on the knubs.

Ragnar gives a half grin and drums his fingers on the hilt of his cutlass. “You also hated Vane as your captain.”

I scratch the corner of my brow with a knuckle. “True words, friend.”

The oars pull us from port and closer to open water. As the sails unfurl and the crew ties and readies them, I watch intently for the wind to pick up. Once the fabric snaps taut, catching the breeze, I bark, “Pull in the sweeps.”

A wide grin graces Mary’s lips from nearby as she helps the crew with the rigging before diving into her role as boatswain, directing what each crewmate should do with the lines. Despite her edgy nature, Mary insists on wearing skirts over trousers. She also wishes to keep her skin porcelain with no chance of tanning and wears long sleeves and a brimmed hat to always shade her face.

Memories of the day we recruited Mary Read still surface all these months later. She’d dressed herself in baggy clothes and a wide-brimmed hat, which she pulled over each side of her face. Her hair had been lopped off by a ragged blade and haphazardly shaved in the back, scattered tiny scabs where she’d nicked herself on the back of her skull. With her wide-set, sharp jawline, and thicker eyebrows, she could pass as a young boy at first glance given enough dirt. She’d gone so far as to smear manure on her clothes, masking her scent, but her voice, as deep as she tried to make it, gave her away for me.

She’d become instantly afraid and defensive, pulling a knife on me that I countered with, blocking her arm and hiding the dagger from the view of anyone else. Her fear morphed into surprise, laced with confusion and anger. I’d asked her two simple questions: Can you fight for your life? And are you willing to swear by my ship’s code? Given she answered yes to both within seconds, I told her she was more than welcome aboard and that disguising herself wouldn’t be necessary. No superstitious nonsense allowed on The Revenge—at least to the point of disrupting the crew.

As soon as she set foot on board, she started to wear the skirts and half-corsets and let her hair grow, rebelliously refusing to cut it even when it got as far as her ass. Mary is a kindred spirit if there ever was one, and her benefit to the crew was on par with at least a dozen other men I could’ve hired—no regrets there.

“Know which way you’re headed, boy?” Duke asks, joining me at the ship’s wheel and patting my shoulder.

I rub one callus against the smooth wood, glaring at the setting sun behind us. “East I’d imagine?”

Duke snorts and spits into the ocean. “That was an easy one.”

“Were you able to chart any potential intersecting trade routes?”

“Considering we’re crossing damn near the entire Atlantic Ocean, we’re going to run into several merchant ships on routes from Africa, America, England, and the Caribbean.” Duke pulls a small journal from his pocket. “They should be carting everything from rum, iron, gunpowder, and spices. You name it, and it’s on these ships. Just a matter of timing and picking up the speed when we can, Jack.”

“And that’s what I love to hear.” Grinning to myself, momentarily satiated by the calming scents of salt and tar lacing the air, my grin widens when the wind rustles through my hair. The sails snap open and taut, hurtling us faster. “Mighty good sailing wind today, hm, Duke?”

Duke closes his eyes, letting the breeze puff his beard. “That it is, Captain.”

Ragnar is speaking with our stowaway, pointing in one direction and back to a wooden bucket and scrubbing brush. Ragnar’s hands fold over his chest, and the “cabin boy” furiously nods, being sure to keep their chin tilted downward. Ragnar rubs his neck before turning away and busying himself with the next task.

“Keep an eye on the wheel, would you, Duke? And be sure to keep heading due east.” I wink at him, ignoring Duke’s middle finger blatantly saluting me.

I work my way around the deck, ensuring I’m sufficiently hidden from our cabin boy’s view should they risk a glance around. If I were them, I’d assess every crewmate and note who I should potentially stay far away from or, better yet, look for possible allies. But this person is so concerned with shading their face that they scarcely look up from the floorboards. They’re on hands and knees, scrubbing the deck with their sleeves pulled over their hands, exposing only their fingertips. When they dunk the brush to clean and re-wet it, they’re careful not to get their hands equally wet. Curious. Every time a brisker wind gusts over the deck, the cabin boy stops and covers their face with an arm. Even more curious.

I’m leaning on the mast, hidden partially by a stack of wooden crates and a coiled pile of rope, positively transfixed on our mystery person, when a hand pats my head from above. Either it’s Squid or a giant bird. I pray for the former before looking up. Thankfully, it is Squid. “Yes?”

Squid blinks rapidly and points to the north, circling his eyes with each hand and pointing again before scurrying back to the crow’s nest. Squid hasn’t spoken but three words since joining our crew: rum, cat, and rope. We are still unsure if those are, in fact, the only words he knows or if he chooses not to speak because he also can’t hear very well. He prefers to be alone and makes one hell of a climber, which suits his crow’s nest role.

“Ragnar,” I shout, spying the cabin boy, snapping their attention my way, while I look in the opposite direction. “Keep an eye north. Squid spotted something.”

“Aye, Captain,” Ragnar yells from across the deck.

Cutting my eyes back to the boy, I see them jolting, catching only a glimpse of emerald eyes—very familiar green eyes. I edge closer with my hands folded in front of me. The boy lifts a pail sloshing with brown liquid—the latrine bucket. They grimace and struggle to get to the boat’s edge, turning their face away as the contents empty into the ocean. If only they accounted for the wind’s direction. Some of the liquid mists backward and speckles the boy’s shirt. The boy gasps and drops the bucket on the deck, immediately inspecting themselves, pulling the shirt away from their body, but as they turn, the fabric pulls taut along the backside, revealing luscious curves . I can’t help the devious grin playing on my lips. The boy is not only a girl but a woman , after all.

“Captain,” Aranck, our crew’s healer, beckons from my side. “We have a man who is suffering from severe gout and isn’t responding to the normal herbal remedies. We may need to remove his foot.”

Aranck’s stony features harden, his nose’s downward slant accentuated by the frown pulling at his mouth. I’d met Aranck when I sought solace on the banks of America during a trip back from Europe. He’s a member of the Cayuga tribe, and I spent weeks with them learning of their cultures and traditions, earning the serpent tattoo circling my left arm, tapped and inked by Aranck himself. When I’d announced my departure, Aranck asked to come along, if only to journey with me for a year. He wished to see the world and couldn’t do so within the confines of the land. Given our friendship and the healing skills he learned from his grandfather, I welcomed him with open arms. One year has turned into several now.

I scratch my prickling scalp before answering. “Do what you must. Tell Ragnar I approve an extra ration of grog for the poor bastard. Keep him below decks until it heals. If it heals.”

Aranck gives me a solemn nod before disappearing.

In the distance, Mary is between commands, the ship at full sail and charging through open water like the beauty she is. There are blissful lulls in moments like these—when the wind is right and blowing in one direction. And the sky is clear as Caribbean waters boding no incoming hazardous weather. Sailors cherish these breaks. I catch Mary’s gaze and motion her over.

From here, I can see Mary’s lips thin with reservation, but she still answers my plea and walks across the deck until she’s standing beside me. “Yeah, Cap?”

“Why don’t you go introduce yourself to our new cabin boy?” Jutting my chin at the person now looking around like a lost pup with shit on her shirt, I roll my bottom lip between my teeth, ignoring how chapped they feel.

Mary frowns, and her head flinches backward. “Of course, but seems an odd order. Any reason?”

“Perhaps.” I snicker and make a walking gesture with my fingers. “Off you go, then.”

I sit back to watch the show from afar, ignoring the well-deserved eye roll from Mary.

Another woman aboard my ship. Jack Rackham, you lucky bastard.