Chapter 127: Guns From a Drowned Queen
Sam poured himself a cup before anyone could object to which bottle he’d stolen from, then set it on the table between them.
"Right."
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Before the rum finishes what the sea started, I’d best tell ye plain. Concordia’ll have to wait a spell."
James lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"My lass took her share o’ that storm same as the rest of us."
Sam jerked his head toward the waterfront beyond. "She’ll need a careen and a carpenter’s blessing before I trust her past the reef, let alone all the way out to whatever paradise you’ve gone and built."
Before James could answer, Sam went on. "And there’s the cargo besides. Some fortune’s sittin’ in barrels down in my hold, and not a shillin’ of it’s worth anythin’ till somebody buys it. Can’t very well carve my name on your rock while I’m still playin’ with another man’s sugar."
James waved a dismissive hand. It didn’t trouble him in the least.
"The Rose needs some care too, near enough. Looks like we’ll both be rottin’ in this harbor a good while yet."
Thatch had taken up the spot at James’s shoulder the moment he’d pushed through the crowd, and he’d stayed there ever since. Now he gave a sound halfway between a laugh and a grumble.
"Aye, must be nice."
He folded his arms. "I’ve known exactly where yer rock sits since before Black Sam here owned a ship worth boastin’ about, and I’ve never once heard the words ’carve yer name beside mine’ come out o’ yer mouth. A man could take that personal."
James snorted. "You’ve had the run of the place longer than he’s known it exists, Thatch. What more d’ye want, an invitation with a wax seal and a bloody band?"
"A letter’d be a start."
Thatch pointed his bottle toward Sam. "Instead he gets the whole speech, long-lost brothers and all, while I get a location and a shrug. I’ve sailed beside ye since that Spanish business, ye ungrateful bastard, and Sam’s known ye all of five minutes."
James chuckled.
"You’re the man who knows where the bodies are buried, Thatch. Thought that spoke for itself."
"Bodies don’t buy rum, Calloway."
"Aye, fair enough."
James’s grin widened. "Then come yourself, soon as the Revenge can cross open water without ye prayin’ over every wave she takes. I’ll even let ye carve somethin’ a sober man can read on the stone."
Thatch tried to keep hold of his scowl, but the grin won out.
"The day she’s fine and dandy, I’m sailin’ straight for yer rock, invited or not."
Bonnet cleared his throat. The polite little reminder somehow washed through the tavern’s roar.
"If it would ease anyone’s mind, I should be delighted to serve as guide once we all find ourselves upon the same patch of sand."
He folded his hands together. "I have grown rather fond of the place. The tavern, the storehouse, the stone with everyone’s names carved into it, which I confess affected me rather more than I expected."
He paused.
"Naturally, I shall omit the brothel from the tour. There is nothing there left worth seeing."
James only spread his hands.
"Give it time. Even dust finds tenants eventually."
The laughter around the table faded enough for Sam’s next question to carry without him raising his voice.
"So what’s James Calloway meant to do with himself till then?"
He tipped his cup toward him with no trace of mockery in the gesture. "Sit here till the shipyards finish, drink through his coin, and keep that fine woman o’ his warm?"
"He doesn’t keep me anythin’."
Anne cut in, eyes bright with mischief. "I’m perfectly capable of keepin’ myself warm, Bellamy. He just gets to enjoy the heat."
Sam barked a laugh and lifted both hands.
"No offense meant, lass."
Anne leaned back, easy swagger and sharp grin.
"Then mind ye don’t make a habit o’ it."
James clicked his tongue and gently squeezed her thigh beneath his hand before lifting his eyes to Sam.
"Sittin’ still’s never agreed with me, Sam. Ask anybody unlucky enough to watch me try."
Cudjoe knew exactly what he meant.
"There it is."
He set his cup down carefully. "Out wi’ it, then. What’s rattlin’ around inside that skull o’ yers now?"
"I had Grey check for me where that old duchess went down."
James leaned across the table. "By his own numbers, she never reached open water. I’d wager she sunk somewhere along that shallow fringe, close enough for a man to dive her."
Cudjoe’s expression barely shifted, though his eyes said enough.
"So, ye mean to go divin’ on a man o’ war, in some reef water neither of us has charted."
"Aye."
"And ye’re tellin’ me this like it’s a bloody errand."
James shrugged.
"Every adventure’s some errand once you’ve done it enough times, Cudjoe."
Anne looked back at James, interest plain in her expression.
"Now that’s worth hearin’. What’s down there besides the ship herself?"
"Lookin’ for guns, mostly."
James nodded. "Two entire decks of standard navy cannons, if it’s still sittin’ where it landed."
Sam frowned. "Why dive for guns mate? Seems a mighty lot o’ trouble for somethin’ there’s easier ways to get."
James slowly turned his cup against the tabletop before he replied. "Hear, Britain’s left Nassau alone this long because it never seemed worth sendin’ a fleet. A flag like ours hasn’t frightened many men wearin’ crowns."
"Not yet, anyway," Thatch snorted around the neck of his bottle.
"Not yet."
Some crooked little nest of thieves and freebooters tucked up in the Bahamas, far enough from any polite port to be troublesome and too poor in the crown’s eyes to merit a fleet. The war had only made that easier, with ships thin on the ground. London had bigger fires to put out than one ragged island full of men who preferred the sea to the king.
But the sort of raid they’d just pulled had a way to change what men thought was beneath their notice.
James looked around the table. "The Rose’s got guns enough to talk, but ’em argue like drunken cousins. I’d like a mighty battery for once, and nothin’ better than a man ’o war to get one."
Thatch’s grin sharpened.
"If ye’re right, I’d best hurry my own plans along."
He drummed his fingers once against the table. "Revenge has helped me well enough, but she won’t forever."
Cudjoe let out a long breath through his nose.
"So while the captain goes divin’ after drowned queens, the repair and plunder falls to me."
James didn’t even pretend to apologize.
"Same as always."
On him, Anne had already made up her mind.
"I’m comin’."
Mary clicked her tongue with her cup halfway to her lips. "So am I. Some bastard got to keep the pair o’ ye from drownin’ yourselves through sheer enthusiasm."
Even then, the dive could wait until morning. So could every other scheme, bargain, repair, and half-made plan waiting beyond the tavern door.
Tonight belonged to the victory.
Fresh bottles appeared from somewhere behind the bar as though the Drowned Rat itself had decided no pirate ought ever see the bottom of a cup, and rum sloshed across tables already sticky with spilled drink, boots pounded the planks hard enough to rattle the shutters, and somewhere a fiddle had surrendered all hope of being heard over the shouting.
The sailors drank shoulder to shoulder without much care whose crew they belonged to and captains shouted across the room to rivals they would happily rob next month, only to be answered with raised mugs and insults loud enough to pass for affection.
Every telling of the battle grew taller than the last. The sea ran blacker, the smoke thicker, the broadsides louder. Ships that had fired one clean volley now seemed to have fired three and men who’d watched from an entire channel away somehow found themselves fighting hand to hand upon the enemy’s deck before the night was out.
A good victory deserved a better story, and every bottle made certain it got one.
The whole tavern swelled into one great roaring beast of smoke, rum, salt, sweat, and laughter. For one night, at least, there were no captains, no privateers, no runaways, no Englishmen, Dutchmen, Frenchmen, or Africans. Only pirates. Only the Flying Gang.
James lifted his mug.
"To the day the Flying Gang put a piece o’ the Royal Navy on the bottom o’ the sea!"
The tavern answered with a roar.
The cry leapt from one end of the Drowned Rat to the other while mugs crashed together. By the time it rolled back through the tavern, the old duchess had sunk twice over, carried fifty more guns than she’d ever mounted, and fought like the Devil himself before finally yielding to Nassau.
Not a soul present saw any reason to spoil a fine story with the truth.