The Noble Pirates (36 page)

I breathed hard, watching as Blaine slowly killed Taylor. My body was wrapped in pulsing heat, my thoughts occurring to me at a sluggish pace. My brain was like that piece of crap Packard Bell from the early ’90s that my parents still owned. Think, Sabrina. If I manage to scream, Blaine will be stopped. If I keep quiet, Taylor will die. If Taylor dies, maybe, just maybe, I can convince Blaine to spare Howel Davis.

The future may be set in stone, but I was compelled to act. Even though I knew that every choice I made would inevitably lead to Howel’s death, I did not know what those choices were, and I could not let that stop me from doing
something
. Now, my choice was hardly an easy one – Jack Blaine or Ned Taylor. Pick your poison, Sabrina.

And
quickly
.

I was silent, horrified, as Taylor crumpled, his face purple, his eyes locked on me. After what felt like an excruciatingly long time, Taylor stopped struggling and slumped to the floor. Blaine released his grip and stood, looking no more put out than if he had killed a mosquito. He lifted Sophie’s photo from the ground and dusted it off, then squinted at me. “Ye see what ye had me do, lass? Now, why’d ye have to go and do that?”

“I don’t have the time or the energy to banter with you,” I replied, a bead of sweat running down my nose, my eyes fixed on the corpse that was just moments ago, Ned Taylor. “They’ll hang you for sure now.”

Blaine smiled – an ugly, sinister smile if ever I saw one. “I’ve enough allegiance from Taylor’s men that I can take the fort.” He considered for a moment. “But then, you would know that it ain’t me time yet, eh? The Devil will have me soul, but not yet.”

Here was my chance. “Jack Blaine,” I said, leaning against the wall, trying to stand. “If you spare Howel Davis, I will tell you your future. If you don’t, I will die with him, and my knowledge with me.”

He crossed his arms on his chest. “How will I know what ye say is truth?”

“How will I know you won’t kill Howel?” I retorted.

Blaine was silent, absently nudging at Taylor’s body with his foot. I winced. “Aye, then,” he said. “Ye have me word I’ll spare Davies. I’ve nothing against ‘im – ‘twas Taylor that wanted ‘im dead.”

I tried to think, rubbing my eyes with my filthy palms, the fever sounding a high-pitched alarm in my ears. Did I have a choice, at this point? I only had one card to play, and I wasn’t certain Blaine wouldn’t kill me as well after I had given him the advantage. “I want to know he’s still alive before I tell you anything.”

“He’s alive,” Blaine said, his eyes twinkling with malice. “Ye have me word –”

“Your word is shit,” I hissed. “You know it, and I know it. And I don’t know as much as you seem to think I know.”

“I want more than the date of me death from you,” he said. “I want everything ye are. If sparing Davis’ll keep ye alive, then so be it.”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. “You will be captured in March of 1720, hung and gibbeted in Jamaica.”

Blaine smiled as if none of this was surprising to him, as if he’d prepared himself for it. “And tell me, lass, is Davies to die on this day? Ye would know it better than me, ‘tis certain, that.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him dully. “Not if you keep your word,” I said, unconvinced. I would die trying to change history, even though I no longer thought it could be done.

Blaine tucked the rope he’d used to kill Taylor into the waist of his breeches. He’d heard my doubt. “Aye, of course.” He smiled. “I’ll be off, then.” Blaine glanced at Taylor’s body a last time. “I’ll leave Ned here to keep ye company for a time.”

I heard the door slam shut and Blaine’s laugh echo eerily down the hall. As I glanced fearfully at Ned Taylor’s blank, staring eyes and contorted body, I became grateful that the fever would send me, once again, into oblivion.

For if it didn’t, this experience most certainly would.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I thought I was dead.

  The darkness rarely receded now, and the line between reality and illusion was gone. I thought I looked at Ned Taylor’s body, only to find that it was Howel Davis. The body shuddered and twisted and the flesh melted from its bones, like in a horror flick. I imagined that I screamed, but no sound came from me.

Somewhere in the haze between life and death, a sweet dream. Howel Davis came into the cell, his face contorted with worry. Without a word, he scooped me up in his arms and carried me hurriedly into the light.

So real. I rubbed my face against his damp shirt, taking in his scent…

But this was not him. It was not his smell, not his touch, not his heartbeat. And yet it was so very real. I came back to life, if only for a moment. I could suddenly hear the roaring, feel the jostling as whoever held me jogged, and for once I knew it wasn’t merely in my head. I opened my eyes to see pandemonium, an inferno curling around us, the flames reaching for us. I didn’t have the presence of mind to be afraid – I was just curious, wondering if I had finally arrived in Hell. The man who held me breathed hard, gripping me tightly against him as he dodged the fire, his sweat running from his neck onto my hands, my face. The smoke burned my lungs, and I coughed.

His voice boomed in his chest, against my ear. As we moved away from the fiery chaos, I peered hesitantly into his face, at his wide, flaring nostrils and tightly grit white teeth. “John Roberts,” I heard myself croak.

He looked down at me for a split second, then began shouting urgent orders over the crackle and thunder of the fire. I was hustled into a boat, passing from hand to hand, and finally felt the familiar rocking of the sea.

When I opened my eyes again, I was lying in a bunk, listening to the familiar creaking of a sailing ship, watching as a lantern swung from a rusty hook above me. I was on the
Royal Rover
. I sat up suddenly, confused and afraid. What had happened? Where was Howel Davis? My memories were so broken and incoherent – Jack Blaine, Ned Taylor, John Roberts…

“Ah,” a voice said from a corner of the cabin. “She finally emerges from the fever.”

I gasped, turned to peer into the dimness. I knew that voice. Roberts sat on a low stool, his elbows resting on his knees, his dark face even darker beneath the brim of the hat. I saw the difference in his appearance almost instantly – the red-feathered tricorn hat, which he removed as I stared; the clean crimson waistcoat; the soled leather shoes. I swung my legs over the side of the bunk abruptly, my head spinning. “Where’s Howel?”

Roberts didn’t flinch. “Calm yourself,” he replied. “You are still weak from the malaria.”

“Answer me, damn you!” I replied, catching my breath and leaning against shaking arms.

“Howel Davis is dead,” he replied evenly, his black eyes meeting mine. “He was shot to death attempting to rescue you.”

I stared. Surely he was kidding. Surely if it were true, this man would not be looking at me so calmly, so heartlessly. Oh, God. I’m going to faint again. I noticed Roberts had prepared himself for this and held a small tin of smelling salts loosely in his palm. I shook my head, my mind refusing to accept it. I was finally thinking somewhat clearly now, and it didn’t make sense. Howel would have prepared himself, knowing I was being held captive on Prince Island. He would have done something to try and prevent it, right? “No. Tell me what happened. Exactly what happened.”

“Sabrina,” Roberts said, his voice hard, his eyes never leaving mine. “He’s gone. The sooner you accept it, the better.”

“
No,
” I repeated, my throat closing. “Tell me
exactly
what happened.”

“I wasn’t there,” Roberts answered. “Walter Kennedy is the one you should be asking.”

“Get him in here then!” I cried shrilly, growing angrier, more panicked by the second. I felt nauseous again, feeling hot and then cold in turn.

Roberts stood, looking distinctly annoyed with me. Here he was, telling me Howel Davis was dead, and he had the nerve to look
annoyed
with me? The big son of a bitch –

“Cap’n?” Walter said as he stepped into the cabin, looking over at me nervously.

I turned on Roberts, my head spinning, shivering from the hot and cold flashes. “Captain? You are captain now?” Jesus, I couldn’t faint, not right now. A groan left me and I gasped, “Did you kill him, you bastard? Tell me!”

His expression barely changed, revealing a hint of scorn behind the coldness. “Kill him?” he echoed. “The fever must have damaged your brain, woman. I did not kill Howel Davis. Jack Blaine, with the help of Ned Taylor and the governor of Príncipe, did that.”

I looked at Walter desperately. “Is he really gone? Please tell me what happened, Walter.”

Walter removed his hat, strings of greasy hair falling into his eyes. Walter was not a nice man, in my opinion, but he had been fair to me and had, without a doubt, worshipped Howel Davis. Now, there was no mistaking the sorrow in his eyes, in the creases of his burned face. I braced myself for his story, the tears already welling from within my eyelids.

Walter’s grimy fingers tightened their grip on the brim of his hat. “The night you were taken, word reached us that you had tricked Sam and bribed Smith and Withers to take you ashore.” He looked at me with a flash of spite. “We knew not why you would have done such a thing, considering Davies had ordered you to stay on the
Royal Rover
. Davies – he was alarmed but calm at the start, commanding us to search the island, to leave not a single door unopened. ‘Twas not until he learned that Jack Blaine was also on the island that he went mad.” Walter began twisting his hat, clearly perturbed by what he was telling me. “I’d never seen ‘im in such a state. Jack Blaine had you, he was certain of it. You know Davies, Sabrina. You know how he was always plotting, always thinking his plans through. Not now. Without a trick up his sleeve, he had us weigh anchor to give chase to Blaine’s ship, which had left but a few hours earlier. We worried for ourselves, you see, for Davies had all but lost his wit. Then, when we discovered he’d taken you to Príncipe, a sudden calm befell him, as though he understood something none of us knew, none of us could guess.”

Walter paused, thinking back. “Aye, he changed then. He was determined to get you back, and he returned to his plotting ways, a quiet but fervent determination about him. The crew went along with him because they adore him, but also because many of them hold grudges against Blaine, and wanted their revenge. We sailed into the bay at Príncipe, where we found two of Blaine’s ships. We captured one of ‘em quietly, stealthily, and Davies just about tore it to pieces looking for you. Davies woodled the mate until he revealed you weren’t on the ships at all, but that Blaine had taken you ashore.”

Walter rubbed his face, avoiding my intense, wide-eyed stare. “He plotted to try and take the fort by cunning, by dining with the governor as a pirate hunter. Once in control of the fort, he would have the means to find you and destroy Blaine. We had no way of knowing, then, that Ned Taylor was involved with Blaine, or that Blaine had already captured the fort himself. Davies and I and several others, then dressed for our evening with the governor, not knowing ‘twas a trick, thinking ourselves the clever tricksters.”

“No,” I said involuntarily. The tears were running down my face, but I was not sobbing not yet. I had to hear the end of this story.

Walter looked at me with sad eyes, his lids heavy with grief. “We were ambushed. I am the only one who remains.”

“No,” I said again, this time with purpose. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

Walter sighed. “We were told that the governor was visiting his country house but would be back soon, and that we should wait. Davies thought this highly suspicious, and said we should return to the ship. As we left, we saw that an armed crowd had gathered outside, and before we realized what was happening, they fired at us. We pulled our weapons and tried to run, but we’d been surrounded. All the men were shot save me. I managed to leap from a precipice into the sea, and though I was battered for the rocks below, I somehow, by the will of God, survived.”

This wasn’t happening. I was having an out-of-body experience. My voice sounded so calm, so unreal. “You saw him die?” I asked.

Walter stared hard at something behind me, his jaw tightening. “Aye. He was shot five times. And though he drew his pistols and fired back, the fifth shot took ‘im down. But by God, Sabrina, he gave a dying blow so that he’d not fall unrevenged, and he fought like a – ”

“— game cock,” I said, interrupting Walter. I felt empty, dead on the inside. “Where is his body? I need to see it.”

The two men exchanged looks. “I’d wager the Portuguese had their way with it,” Walter replied, his voice hushed.

I felt my sanity unraveling, my tenuous grip on logic slipping. “He knew this would happen. How could he set foot on that island when he knew this would happen?” I said, mainly to myself. I glared at Roberts. “And you have replaced him as captain? The crew chose you – above all the others – to replace him?”

“Davies wanted it that way, Sabrina,” Walter replied softly. “And the crew was happy to oblige him. Cap’n Bartholomew Roberts is, by his courage and skill, best able to defend this commonwealth.”