The Huntress ✓

11. Able-bodied Seamen

After finally completing the alterations to the Huntress, which mainly involved removing partitions from the hold to make room for foreseen treasure, Bronte and her shipmates sailed off into the bright morning sun in search of Tortuga and a pirate crew, the wind favoring their voyage. The time passed slowly and it was with great relief they land after five days. The sun sipped below the horizon as they sailed into the harbor. Bronte's spirits rose as she and Sam disembarked to celebrate ashore.

As they entered the nearest tavern, The Listing Sailor, Bronte paused while the familiar odors of sweat, leather, rum and vomit, and the sound of raucous laughter and heavy celebrating washed over her. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, revealing a modest sized room furnished with harvested pieces of dis-serviced ships, full to the brim with filthy, rank, foul mouth pirates accompanied by lewd, brazen women busily pillaging every last piece of eight from the gentlemen of fortune. She grinned and clapped Sam on the back as they moved toward the bar. He ordered a tankard of rum and she made do with warm beer. Sam was already eyeing a scantily clad woman as Bronte found a table with a passed out sailor atop. Grabbing him by the back of his shirt, she pulled him off the grimy table and let him thud to the floor with a feeble groan as she dropped into the chair, nudging him farther away with her boot.

Sam fell into the chair beside her, tangled in a buxom blonde. Disgusting. Bronte resigned herself to a night of celebrating alone. It was just as well. She could scope out potentials from the crowd for her crew. Scalawags of every shape, size, and age were drinking away their latest plunder: Robbery on the high seas was a non-discriminatory profession. It didn't take her long to realize this wasn't the best atmosphere for identifying any talent other than who could drink the most rum and stay upright; which, she thought wryly, wasn't really a bad item for a pirate to have in his credentials.

Abandoning any effort to that end, she reluctantly sat watching Sam as he charmed every woman in the place. They soon left the other men to themselves, fawning over Sam like a school of barracudas. Just when Bronte was sure she couldn't stand another minute of the ridiculousness, Sam realized his captain was companion-less and produced a bosomy red-head seemingly out of thin air.

"Here Bron, take this one. I've got my hands full with Desiree here," Sam generously offered as he flung the woman into her lap.

Eyes darkened with charcoal and cheeks and lips stained poppy clashed brilliantly with her untidy hair. The harlot grabbed onto her like a drowning sailor thrown a life-line. Out of pure reflex Bronte stood to her feet and dumped the woman onto the floor, drawing the attention of the drunkards immediately surrounding her. The red-head stared up at her, her painted lips gaping in surprise at the profound and unquestionable rejection. Blood rushed to Bronte's face, dismayed at suddenly becoming the center of attention and at a loss to explain her behavior. A moment later she scanned the room and was relieved to see most of the buccaneers had quickly returned to their drinks. Sam missed the whole display, having immediately and industriously re-engaged with Destiny, or Desiree...whatever her name was.

There was, however, one set of eyes, glittering with malicious humor, still watching intently from a lonely corner of the tavern. An uneasy feeling crept over her as she met his gaze. She couldn't help staring at the stranger for a prolonged moment, intrigued by an unusual feature. A guttering lantern hanging near his table illuminated dirty-blond hair tied back at his neck, a clean shaven, sharply-angled jaw under a thin-lipped mouth, and a narrow pointed nose. But what caught her by surprise were his eyes. They were each clearly a different color, one a steely blue-gray and the other brown. He shifted and the corners of his mouth turned up wickedly at her extended perusal, a barmaid finally breaking the contact by stepping between them to deliver a bottle. The man spoke to the barmaid briefly and as she turned away Bronte realized he wasn't alone. In the very shadows of the corner sat a woman, wearing black and heavily veiled.