The Huntress ✓

23. Fe Fi Fo Fum and a Bottle of Rum

Bronte paced nervously on the deck of the Huntress. Coming here was a mistake. She clasped her hands behind her back and stared out toward the town. If Sam took any longer primping she might give the order to weigh anchor and be done with it. It was close to dusk and the damp, hot air pressed on her from all sides, making her hair stick to her forehead. A bead of sweat rolled down her back and she anticipated the cooler night air, bringing relief when the sun finally gave up the day ... but dreaded it at the same time.

The crew voted to find port to spend the loot they'd recently procured from a Spanish vessel. Bronte couldn't help but smile as she remembered how Sam had surprised her yet again.

Sam had voiced a complaint from one of the new crewman about sharing the ship with 'that devil of an albino'. She deferred the situation back to Sam—after all, he was quartermaster.

He'd handled it in an unexpected way. They'd been shadowing a Spanish vessel for a time and were soon to close on it. He made every sailor cover himself in whitewash. Then he had everyone stand on deck making ghostly and devilish noises as they passed. When it became clear they meant to board, the Spaniards evacuated in a manner Bronte had never seen from a vessel not afire, leaving easy plundering for the pirates.

Jamaica was near so they decided to go to Port Royal. Bronte had mixed feelings about it from the start. Her mother was somewhere on the nearby shore. She wanted to see her again with every fiber of her being, but dreaded it just as much. Bronte began pacing again. Would that man never be satisfied with his appearance? She wanted to shout at him to hurry but didn't because she feared he might. She was a mess.

Bronte had always intended to return but now that she was here, doubts crowded her mind. And what was she going to do about Sam? Ask her mother to keep the secret? Or finally be out with it? Would Sam abandon her if he knew what she really was?

She kicked a crate lying on the deck into the mainmast and it splintered into pieces.

"Blazes! What'd that poor crate ever do to you?" Sam chuckled as he finally scurried up the ladder. He was freshly shaved, and his curly hair was still damp from its washing. Black boots shined with fresh polish, and a crisp cream shirt hung loosely over his broad shoulders, lace edging the cuffs and collar. Bronte couldn't help but think him handsome as he flashed a generous smile at her.

"Fire and torment, you took your time! I nearly abandoned ship and left you to primpin'!" She tried to look impatient.

"I can't disappoint the ladies. They prefer a man with a bit of style, you know. They'll wonder what they ever did before ol' Sam showed up." He strutted up beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll send a few your way."

Bronte rolled her eyes but barely suppressed a smile. He thought he knew so much about women yet couldn't tell one stood right in front of him. "I assure that will be unnecessary; I prefer to acquire my own company." She was already swinging over the side and down the accommodation ladder to the waiting dinghy.

The night was well on its way as they sauntered down the street together, taking little notice from the inhabitants. Indeed, there was nothing strange about a couple of seamen heading to the taverns and brothels.

"This place looks lively." Sam stopped before the first tavern, leaking sounds of swearing and laughter into the streets.

"No, there's another, down a ways, I heard was better." Bronte hoped she could find the little tavern she sought. She hadn't been there since she was a child and found the town of Port Royal was very different.

For one, it'd grown immensely. Even so, the town seemed—in a way—diseased. Filthy streets full of dirtier people crowded around the circular harbor, following the shoreline as closely as they could. When the Crown of England started giving Letters of Marquee to enterprising sailors promising not to attack its own, the town had boomed with marketers trying to get in on the booty. Everyone crowded in closely to the harbor, each wanting to be the first place a privateer went after disembarking with a pocket full of gold. They offered mostly liquor and women, with a dash of gambling. The lack of variety didn't seem to keep the gold from flowing freely.