Chapter 240: Peace and Calm, While It Lasted

James stood at the wheel, dressed for a war that had apparently misplaced its appointment.

[Discretion]’s black wool caught what little sun the day was willing to give, gold thread at his cuffs reflecting it back. The brim of his hat kept his eyes in a neat shadow and [Verdict] hung at his left hip, [Counterargument]’s four barrels at his chest, and between them he had enough firepower and ill temper to start a small war with a fishing village.

Even then, the Caribbean stretched out blue, flat, and entirely uninterested.

Four months of chairing assemblies, discussions over drainage ditches, and being called in to decide whether a chicken was livestock or company had left James badly in need of trouble, with teeth.

Today the sea offered him nothing more dangerous than a breeze strong enough to complain about. Even that seemed reluctant.

As it turns out, a legendary pirate could dress himself like the end of the world and still spend an entire afternoon bored out of his skull.

"Grey!"

The navigator appeared with a chart tucked beneath one arm.

"Take the lass for a wee spell."

"Captain, please, I swear I still don’t know how the bloody thing stays afloat with all that iron stuffed in her."

"Then you’d best find out while you’ve got hold of the wheel, lad."

"I’ve been hearin’ you tell me that for months now, Captain. Usually while I’m already holdin’ the damned wheel."

"Aye, and look how far that wisdom’s brought you."

Grey took the spokes, grunting about impossible ships and ungrateful captains, while James went looking for trouble. The horizon had clearly decided it wouldn’t be providing any.

He found the first bit near the mainmast, where Doyle had Greasy Pete backed against a coil of rope and was holding up a corked jar full of faintly green liquid and, more troublingly, faintly moving.

Doyle raised it toward the light like it was a crown jewel. "Come now, Pete, root come straight outta the damn marsh. Mashed the stuff, ran it through the still twice over, and I’m tellin’ ye, Pete, there ain’t a drop o’ rum from here to the far end o’ the Caribbean fit to stand beside this beauty."

Very desperately, Pete tried to create distance from the jar. "Ain’t been a rum fit to stand beside that red batch neither, and that left half me bloody eye clickin’ and winkin’ like it belonged to the Devil fer a month."

"That red batch near took the hide off ye, Pete. I was testin’ a new brew then. This here one’s a triumph."

"A triumph, is it? Then what’s supposed to make this muck worth drinkin’?"

"Only numbs the tongue, mate. Ye’ll still be feelin’ the rest o’ ye by night."

Pete watched the jar warily.

"We call that an improvement, do we?"

"A mighty considerable one, I’ll have ye know."

By then, James was happy to watch and enjoy the spectacle.

"Only numbs the tongue, Doyle? Fine recommendation for a drink, might put it on the label."

"Thinkin’ I’ll christen it Sweet Reprieve."

"Reprieve from what?"

"From sobriety, mostly."

Pete only then noticed the entire exchange was being watched by his captain, and he wasn’t about to be called a coward over swamp liquor. He snatched the jar before his pride had time to reconsider and drank.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then his whole face clenched as though he had bitten through a lemon while being struck by lightning. His eyes went wide and crossed, watering freely, and when he opened his mouth to swear, all that came out was a mangled croak, like a drowned parrot trying to curse the Devil himself.

He managed, jaw hanging slack on one side. "Ith... ith gone numb. Whole thide o’ me fathe. Ith actually gone numb, Doyle."

"Told ye so."

"Ith bloody awful."

"Aye, but damn me if it don’t work."

Pete staggered away, prodding his own cheek with two fingers like a surgeon checking a corpse. James left Doyle standing there looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Cudjoe was a little farther in the deck, standing over Farrow with a slate in one hand and worn down patience.

"A damned number, Farrow, that’s all I want. How many o’ the guns stand ready to fire."

"Forty ready outright, four needin’ a bit o’ tendin’, and Contrary Kate’s gone sulkin’ again."

"Quit speakin’ of her like she’s some sulkin’ lass."

"She ain’t fired true since Havana, and I’ll not be tellin’ ye that’s a small matter."

"Give me a bluidy number."

Farrow kindly explained. "Contrary Kate’s one o’ the forty, when she feels like earnin’ the name, and Merciless Mary’s carryin’ the other four on her back, seein’ as she’s the only one o’ the lot still ridin’ high since Havana."

Cudjoe exhaled deeply. He had been beaten by a man who had apparently named his cannons before getting around to naming any children.

James caught him instead writing in a small, battered notebook that clearly didn’t belong to the ship’s accounts.

"What’s that you’ve got there, then?"

"Nothin’ worth yer worry."

"Cudjoe."

The old quartermaster sighed. "A tally o’ all the times ye’ve near got yerself killed. Easier keepin’ count o’ that than waitin’ fer Farrow’s skull to crack from countin’ guns."

"How’s it stand, then?"

"More than the guns aboard."

James was still laughing over that when he found Jim holding court over a knot of sailors, deep into a story that had acquired three new Chapters since its last theatrics. With Milagros away chasing custom through Havana and no sister-in-crime aboard to share the sport, Anne had apparently figured the whole contest belonged to her.

"...and there I was, half out a window in Havana, whole bloody household wide awake behind me, a fine lass perched atop me lap, her dress gone to God-knows-where, and I says to meself, ’Jim, me boy, this here is either the finest afternoon a man could hope fer, or the last afternoon he’ll ever see, and either way, by the Devil, it’s worth...’ "

"That’s the wildest tale you’ve managed?"

Anne cut in as she passed with a coil of rope over one shoulder. "A window and a half-dressed lass? Christ above, Jim, you’ve told tales that’ll make a priest choke, but that one wouldn’t frighten a bloody nun."

"I’d dearly like t’ see ye beat that."

"I’ve beaten it already. More’n once, in places your poor little imagination ain’t ever sailed."

The crowd heard blood in the water and closed in at once.

"Then name one!"

Anne rattled off many, each one more outrageous than the last, and made damn certain the whole deck knew who had been involved in them all, their bloody captain. The sailors roared louder with each tale.

Jim’s eyes lit up.

"At last! A proper challenge!"

He straightened, slapped a hand against his chest, and launched into a tale so wild it involved a stolen longboat, a governor’s balcony, three women, a goat, and a night spent dangling from a church bell while the whole town searched for him below.

By the time he reached the part about escaping over the rooftops with the governor’s wig tucked under his shirt, even the sailors who wanted to believe him had begun looking at one another.

Anne let him finish.

Then she delivered the winning stroke without the slightest blush. "With James and the brat, up in the Rose’s royal rigging and near the bloody masthead, where the whole damn ship’s spread beneath you and the sea looks small enough to spit on."

Every head on deck turned slowly toward James. He had been enjoying the contest from a safe distance right up until his own name was dragged into it.

"A captain’s private business, is exactly that. Private." He grinned.

The sailors roared and laughed in recognition, as if game, in fact, knew game.

Jim threw both hands up. "I yield! I bloody yield, ye pack o’ devils! Get the lass a drink, for she’s beaten me fair and square. And get me one too, for the brave and noble effort I made afore she buried me!"

James escaped while the laughter was still going and nearly walked straight into Enzo, who stood over a plate with solemn care.

"Capitano! You arrive at the perfect moment. Behold."

The plate held hardtack softened and pressed flat, salt pork worked through it, and a dusting of red and fragrant spices that had clearly cost respectable coin in Concordia’s new market.

Enzo proclaimed. "Croquette Impériale di Mare. Fit for a table considerably finer than this one."

Kwaku took his bite without ceremony and chewed with calm.

Then, he informed at last, flat as a plank. "Delizioso. Molto memorabile, Enzo. I have eaten worse only from men actively trying to kill me, and even they showed more restraint with the salt."

Enzo beamed as though he had just been awarded a medal.

"You see, Capitano? Even his insults have taste. I am already planning the next one."

James was still laughing when Kit’s voice came cracking down from the masthead, and there was nothing playful in it.

"Sail ho! Three sail, dead ahead!"

Three hulls rode heavy and high in the water, gunports thick across every side. Their colors broke free from the mastheads all at once.

The Union flag.

James lowered his spyglass slowly, and the small, dry part of him that had survived four months of boredom observed that the Caribbean had finally sent its bill. Apparently, one debt collector wouldn’t be nearly enough.

Three ships were bearing down on one lazy brigantine.