Chapter 85: The Captain’s Excellent Taste
James headed down the last stretch of dock toward the two ships that rested beside one another.
Bonnet stood on the Fortune’s deck in his fine coat, paying the heat no more notice than if it had been a cool spring breeze. Mary Read spoke to him at length while pointing toward the starboard cannons.
He listened without interruption, offering the occasional thoughtful nod that James had learned it normally meant, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about, but do carry on.
James smiled to himself. Good enough. If it kept Bonnet occupied, it probably kept him out of trouble.
He heard voices a few seconds after.
"That one goes tae the Rose."
Cudjoe caught a sailor shambling with an entire wheel of cheese tucked beneath one arm. The man slowed, glanced first at the Rose, then at the Fortune, as though genuinely uncertain which ship he had been sleeping at for weeks.
"Already knows the Rose’s riggin’, no sense breakin’ in a stranger tae relearn what’s already learned."
The sailor accepted the verdict with a weary nod and continued toward the Rose, never once surrendering his cheese.
"He knows a ship’s rigging, Quartermaster. Rigging is rigging."
Whitlock stepped neatly into the path of the next man to wander by. The fellow was dripping seawater from hat to boots despite standing on a perfectly dry dock. Whitlock watched him for a thoughtful moment before giving a small, decisive gesture toward the Fortune.
"Captain Bonnet would benefit more from having men who already know what they’re about."
The sailor changed course without so much as asking why.
"The Rose’ll still have seasoned sailors."
"Not the ones ye keep stealin’."
Whitlock ignored the complaint entirely. Another sailor attempted to slip between them carrying some alive creature beneath his coat. Whatever it was objected loudly enough to make the fabric wriggle.
"Fortune."
The sailor opened his mouth as though to protest.
The unseen creature let out an indignant squawk.
He sighed, accepted that the matter had apparently been settled, and trudged toward the corvette.
"Allow me to relocate them."
Cudjoe muttered some curse under his breath. He waited until a lanky deckhand wandered too close, caught him by the back of his belt with one hand, turned him around as effortlessly as a barrel on a dolly, and sent him toward the Rose with a light shove between the shoulders.
"There. Happy?"
"Delighted. As for Grey, there’s no reason for him to keep splitting himself between two decks now that Crick has the Fortune’s stars well in hand."
"Aye, thank Christ for that."
Cudjoe watched another sailor hesitate halfway between the two gangplanks.
"Rose."
The fellow nodded solemnly, adjusted the bottle tucked into his waistband as though that explained everything, and continued on his way.
"He’s been mutterin’ at me all week like it’s somehow my fault the man can’t be in two places at once."
Behind them, Ezra and Silas Hollis crossed the gangplank between the ships while fighting over whose knot held better. The disagreement was old enough that neither man seemed to remember how it had started, only that they weren’t finished with it.
James reached Cudjoe and Whitlock before either noticed him.
"How’s the sortin’ comin’?"
Cudjoe shrugged, "Slow. Every third man thinks he should argue after I’ve already made up me mind."
Whitlock simply nodded, "I’ve discovered that most disagreements end rather quickly once a man realizes I’ve already counted their share of the loot."
James grinned.
"Relentless, the pair of you. How much longer?"
"Two days, maybe less. The lot’s still sleepin’ off whatever they spent their signin’ coin on."
"Let ’em have the time."
He clapped Cudjoe on the shoulder. "A man’s earned one chance to drink himself stupid. We’ll sail once they’ve staggered aboard and remembered which end of the ship belongs in the water."
"A generous policy."
Whitlock didn’t bat an eye.
"I’ve adjusted the payroll in case several decide never to return."
James laughed, then crossed the gangplank onto the Rose, leaving the two men to their work.
Only a handful of sailors remained aboard. The rest were somewhere in Nassau, either drinking until they forgot their own names, spending their pay in the company of women determined to relieve them of their silver, or waking tomorrow beside a pig with no clear memory of how either had arrived.
Briggs stood near the mainmast watching two young lads coil rope, offering little more than the stern grunt whenever they made a mistake.
Near the stern, Grey had spread his charts across the timber again, complaining with himself as he worked through whatever problem had claimed his attention now that nobody expected him to navigate two ships at once.
Higher up, moving along the main course with confidence, Anne worked a line through the rigging. Most sailors spent months earning that kind of surefootedness.
She no longer looked anything like the woman who had served drinks behind a tavern bar.
The loose blouse was gone, replaced by a dark wine-red waistcoat pulled snug over a figure no tailor on God’s earth could ever hope to hide. On it, brass buttons fought an impossible battle down the front while sturdy leather breeches clung just as stubbornly below, beside a broad belt that rode low on her hips with a knife hanging against one thigh.
She’d tied her copper hair back with nothing more than a strip of leather, though half of it had escaped to dance in the sea wind.
Anne crossed the yard without once looking down, her hands finding each knot as though she’d spent years aloft.
James watched another moment before calling up.
"Since when do barmaids climb a ship like they were born to it?"
Anne glanced down but finished tying the knot before answering. Then she swung onto the ratlines and dropped lightly the last few feet to the deck.
"Since this morning."
She held up one hand, fresh blisters already hardening across her palm.
"Told you I’d learn quick."
"Told me quick."
James looked her over with open approval. "Didn’t mention ye’d be outclimbin’ the lads before supper."
Anne shrugged. For her, it was almost modest. "Most of them climb like they’re afraid the mast’s about to bite them. Wasn’t difficult to look good beside that."
James couldn’t hold back his laugh.
"Best not let Kit hear you say it, the lad still thinks he invented climbin’ aloft."
"I met the boy early. He couldn’t tie his own boots without narrating it first."
James watched her for another moment before his attention wandered past her shoulder.
Only then did he really look at the two ships together for the first time since they had returned from Andros.
Weeks beneath the Caribbean sun had bleached the canvas into a tired yellow that looked as though it had given up on being white years ago while tar streaks ran down weathered planks, and from a distance the Fortune and the Rose looked about as threatening as a pair of bloated fishing boats.
"That won’t do."
Anne followed his gaze.
"What won’t do?"
"They look like somebody dropped ’em in a muddy puddle and forgot about it."
He nodded toward the ships. "You’ve got a better eye for these things than me, what would you paint the lasses?"
Anne folded her arms. "Black, so you can hide the stains, scorch marks, and from a mile away it looks like a ship meant for war instead of somethin’ a fishwife drifted out to sea."
James considered that with all the seriousness it deserved.
"A fair point, but hear me out. Gold."
Anne didn’t even look at him.
"No."
James laughed, "You haven’t heard the whole idea yet. Every inch of her, bright enough that they’ll know exactly who’s about to rob them before we’ve even run out the guns. Think of the terror."
She snorted.
"I was thinking more of the laughter."
"The laughter will fade, gold will last forever."
"Until the first broadside, you mean."
James waved that aside. "Fine. Pink, then, bright pink. Every Spaniard we rob can crawl back to Havana and explain how a ship the color of his wife’s undergarments relieved him of His Catholic Majesty’s silver."
Anne stared at him, unsure if he had been hit at the head somewhere in Nassau.
"I’ve changed my mind. Black, so nobody can see the shame."
He could almost see her fighting not to laugh.
James smiled, "I guess you’ve got the worst eye of anyone aboard."
Anne nearly chortled, "If I let you anywhere near a paint order, we’ll spend months sailin’ around in a rose-colored joke."
She shook her head, though she still hadn’t managed to erase the smile threatening the corner of her mouth.
"Give me a day. I’ll think of somethin’ that won’t get us laughed out of every port."
"Take it up with Cudjoe when ye’ve got it."
James turned back toward the water. "He’s the one who controls the purse. Try not to start a mutiny over the price of paint."
"I make no promises."
"Aye. I wouldn’t expect ye to."
Anne made as though to return aloft, then thought better of it. She came to stand beside James, leaning against the weathered timber with surprising familiarity.