CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH

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   Jack was issuing orders even as they hauled him into the captain’s cabin and draped him over the freshly made bed. “Hare, make sure they make th’ tattresses from the Redow,” he mumbled. “’F‘is naval appoints are anythin’ like his privates, we’ll appreciate… th’ lushuries later.”

    Sirene looked at Tortuga as she threw the coverlet over Jack. “Tell me, was he always this way?”

    “Givin’ ordah’s in his sleep.” He nodded. “It would be best if you stay here until t’ings ar settled. Dere be too many questionable elements on board as of yet. I’ll set da Irish boy to attend, and Anjali…”

    “When you’re done with her,” she said, shooing him out. “Go, you have a lot of work to do and little time left, as well as a lot of catching up, I understand. Just get us under way as soon as possible. There is a warship out there looking for pirates and she out-guns the Redoubt.”

    He nodded. “T’ank ya for da warnin.” He glanced over her head to the bed. “Take care a him.”

    “Wench!” Jack bellowed. “Get yer fins over here. Where’s tha’ bottle?” he mumbled, starting to get off the bed.

    Sirene left Tortuga to close the door, as she sat on the edge of the bed, cradling his head and helping him drink. “Only a little,” she warned.

     “It hurts, woman,” he snarled, fighting her ineffectively as she took it away from him.

    “That is enough. No more,” she grunted, struggling to get it out of his reach. “You need to be sober in the morning. Jack!” she squealed, when he started making grabs for other things. “All right, that does it. Either settle down, or I’m leaving.”

    He glared drunkenly up at her. “Where ye gonna go?”

    “Out the window for starters,” she threatened, dangling the pearl in front of him.He stared sideways at it like a parrot trying to get it to focus with one eye. “What about th’ rest ‘v ar accordin’ly?”

    She watched as he wavered like a snake charmer’s serpent. “Is that all you cling to me for?” she scowled. “That damned treasure?”

    “No,” he said, reeling her in. “There’re other… reasons… soft, seawatery reasons,” he said with a sigh.

    Burying his face in her cleavage, he breathed deeply. She rolled him over and climbed into the bed with him, sitting back against the wall that served for a headboard. He wrapped himself around her, pillowing his head on her belly.

    Jack suddenly had a moment of sobriety.

    “Never ask a drunk t’ explain ‘mself. Unless yer jest wantin’ t’ amuse yerself. Though why I’m’s drunk as I am on half a bootle is be-beyon’ me.”

    “When was the last time you ate?” she asked calmly, stroking his hair.He was silent for several minutes, then gave a soft chuckle. “That’d explain it.”

    “That, and you want to be drunk,” she added.

    “No. I want to be unconscionable…conscionanmint…damn it.”

    “I know what you mean,” she said, laughing as she ran her fingers through his damp locks.

    “Hmm, that feels nice,” he mumbled. “Gonna need an eye patch fer a while.” He frowned, his hand drifting to the bandage and the stitching hidden beneath. “Can’t hardly call me ‘andsome n’more. …Not that no-one never did.”

    “I’m sure the ladies did,” she offered.

    He rubbed his cheek against the indigo fabric of her dress. “Not really. Bloody Mary, now tha’s a good name. Mad Jack? Can’t say as I’m fond of it… makes me sound like a rabid dog and now… now they’ll not call me anything but. Hardly handsome any more.”

    “Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she answered, combing out his hair with her fingers. “I think you are still quite dashing, a bit more roguish now, perhaps, but handsome still. I never liked Handsome for a name, anyway; sounds too vain,” she mused. “Amber fits you better.”

    He regarded her with his uncovered eye. “Amber Jack?” he frowned. “Like the fish?”

    She laughed at his expression. “Have you seen your tail?”

    He sat up unsteadily and scowled. “Have you?”

    “No,” she replied, tried not to laugh. “But Skilly described the entire …change.”

    “Skilly?”

    “The dolphin?” she reminded him.

    “Oh. …Skilly?” he repeated with distaste.

    “That’s the best way to say it in the surface tongues. Well, the shortest way. It’s actually Skilliweha.”

    He lay down on the pillow next to her and stared at the timbers above the bed, trying to gauge the distance to the lamp swinging there with only one eye. “Damn, but this is going to take some…clam, climb, acclimating.” He stared silently for a few moments more, aware she had rolled onto her side to watch him. “So what’d it look like?” he finally asked.

    She gave him an amused half-smile. “Like an amberjack.”

    He glared at her and rolled onto his belly, wrapping his arms around the pillow, burying his good eye so he could escape the view of her delectable body lounging next to him. Her reaction when he was struck touched him in a way he wasn’t ready to explain to himself. He was surprised that the pillow smelled of her. It must have been taken from the Ambition, he thought.

    “Your belly is white, silver in places,” she explained. She set her hand on the small of his back and ran it down toward his knees. “You have a dark stripe about a hand’s width here. And right along here,” she said, drawing a wide line with her fingers from his hip bone down the side of his thigh, “you have this stripe of gold that runs all the way down. But there are other reasons,” she added, softly stroking his arm.

    “Like what,” he mumbled into the pillow. He wasn’t entirely sure he was sober enough… or was that drunk enough… to discuss the colour of his ‘tail’.

    “Well, your trademark, for one,” she said, giving a tug on the sash at his hips. “Your glow.”

    “Only you can see that, luv.”“True. Well, we shall see what sticks. What is it they say? We can run it up the flagpole and see who salutes?”

    He groaned into his pillow, fighting sleep. Something deep inside him told him it was not safe to sleep. There was too much to attend to and drunk or not, injured or not, his instincts said get up and do them. The alcohol weighed him down, effectively pinning him to the bed, but it could not make him surrender the fight.

    “Sing fer me?” he asked suddenly. “Make me sleep.”

    It was an unusual request. The last person who had asked her to sing for him was her father. Sirene made herself comfortable, pulled the blanket up to his shoulders and sang a high, wordless melody that her mother used to sing to her nearly half a century before.

    Her voice was beautiful and carried easily. It filled the room, soft as the wind on a quiet sea. Jack felt it penetrate his mind, lifting it up and floating away on the lilting waves.

    There was a shift of the ship and a deep report as the cannons went off, echoing against the arms of the cove’s mountains. He jumped and glanced around. He resisted Sirene’s hands on his head, drawing him near as she sang. It was not until he felt the vessel turn and her sails fill that he lay his head down and allow her singing to carry him away.

    Sirene stayed with him for several hours, until she heard the eight bells tolling midnight. She untangled herself, peeked under his bandage, and saw the reddening edges around the neat stitches. She sighed, kissed him and slipped away, turning to examine the cabin. It was a wreck.

    It must have been a beautiful room once. There were high, wide windows from one end of the stern bulkhead to the other. No doubt they ran past the rest of the aft cabins as well. She was a large Portuguese caravel, perhaps built for some Spanish nobleman and was slightly redesigned with the luxury of aft cabins. The bed was the simplest affair in the room, and seemed to have been built into the ship itself. The ribs of the ship ran up the outside wall and formed the frame line. There was no footboard to speak of, just her old sea chest from the other ship, and there were attachments along the ceiling beams running from the ship’s ribs to hang curtains, though there were none present. The curtains had been torn and had fallen in several places and no one had bothered to repair or rehang them in years.

    There was a decidedly unpleasant smell of old rum and musty things, and other… issues she did not want to consider. The cabinets were sturdy, old, black, Spanish wood and beautifully carved. They would only need minor repairs to the doors and a little polishing. There were a few musty, disintegrating books in one of them hiding a black glass bottle of an unidentified liquor and a woman’s earring. The dust was several layers thick and gave evidence that the place was poorly used and certainly not as it was meant to be. Examining one of the lamps she was horrified to discover a mummified apple. Frustrated, she began cleaning.

    She was interrupted an hour later by a soft knock on the door. She paused in her dusting to open it, holding her breath in an effort not to sneeze. Seeing Anjali in the companionway, she stepped out and closed the door behind her, giving in to the sneezing fit. Anjali nodded patiently.

    “It is like that all over th’ ship. Th’ captain’s gonna be in a royal piss when he see her by day,” she said.

    Sirene leaned against the door, catching her breath and took a long look at Anjali’s glow. “Are you all right? Have you and…” The look on the woman’s face made her stop. “Don’t tell me there was another reason he did not come back for you…”

    She shook her head quickly. “Th’ reason I was set off th’ ship after th’ change o’ captains… we lost…”

    Sirene nodded. That explained the change in her colours. “How is he taking it?”

    “As well as men do. He’s up on deck brooding. I came to check on you and th’ captain. How is he?”

    Sirene sighed. “He is going to be in a lot of pain tomorrow, and I think it’s getting inflamed.”

    Anjali punched the bulkhead in frustration. “Is there anything we can do? Short o’ keeping him drunk? I’d ask th’ doctor, but he asked t’ be put ashore wit’ th’ others an’ in accordance wit’ th’ captain’s orders...”

    “You did the right thing,” she said, placing a hand on the darker woman’s broad shoulder. “He did all that can be done by man. What remains can only be handled by a woman of the sea.”

    Anjali stared at her in such an odd way Sirene suspected she knew something. “What can you do? Change him an’ take him into th’ depths?”

    “How much did he tell you?” she asked her in a low voice in Malagasy.

    “Nothing. But I saw what he became because of that necklace of yours, and he said that was your secret. Now tell me what can be done?”

    “The pearl does not confer the natural healing of a mermaid in the sea, nor does it grant him the power of my voice. I cannot heal him outright nor guarantee his sight, but I can help with the pain, …and maybe the inflammation.”

    Tortuga stepped out of the shadows near the companionway door, arms crossed and a scowl on his face. “Then do it, white witch.”

    She glanced up, wondering how she had not noticed his approach. “I will have to get off the ship. Show me a chart of where you are headed. I will meet you there as soon as I have found what I’m looking for. And the fewer crew who know, the better.”

    Anjali nodded. “Then you best go out the window,” she said, and opened the door to the starboard cabin.

    This room was a little larger than the other, though its appointments were more lavish. Tortuga turned up the lamp and locked the door behind them.

    “This…” Sirene began.

    “Is a mess, I know. I’ll be fixing that shortly,” Anjali snapped, mumbling in Hindi about the disgraceful condition the whole ship was in.

    “No, I meant, this is the senior berth. I am curious why Jack chose the one he did,” she explained.Anjali looked at her as if it should be obvious. “Have ye taken a good look at that bed? He always chose that cabin. Tortuga and I have slept in this one ever since we married. Captain felt it proper we have our own private berth. Though it smells like Fenning’s been holin’ up in here.” She scowled and opened the window.

    “I’ll get a rope,” Tortuga said.

    “No hurry,” Sirene replied. “I’ll need one when I return, but I don’t need one to get out. Do you have the charts here?”

    The man nodded stoically, and unrolled the one they had been using before. He pointed to a cove on the next island over. “Can you find dat, mermaid?” he sneered, not quite believing.

    She took a close look, committing the shape of the land to memory. “I should. Hopefully it will not take that long. I’m going back to the reef near Nag’s Head. We shouldn’t be too far out. We’ve been tacking, haven’t we?” He nodded. “I could beat you to the cove if I wanted. But I’ll find you. Anjali, if you see any whales or dolphins, start looking for me,” she instructed as she headed for the window. “I trust you’ll look after the captain in the meanwhile, and fill in this giant of a man you call a husband while I’m gone?”

    She nodded, but stopped her before she could climb onto the sill. “Are you going to go in that?” she asked, pointing to her dress.

    Sirene looked down. “It will slow me down, and might catch on the reefs,” she mumbled, unfastening it.

    The laces were still damp and swollen from the salt water and refusing to untie or give. Anjali grabbed her knife and moved to help while Tortuga stood back with his arms over his chest and watched stubbornly. Sirene arched her back to give access to the laces, as the woman cut her out of the dress.

    “That’s the second time I’m going to have to replace those things,” she sighed.

    “Why do ye wear th’ damned thing then? Would think it makes fer clumsy swimming,” she commented, peeling her out of it.

    “It does,” she agreed, not minding Tortuga’s eyes over her body. “But I have to wear something. It is easier to hide what I am from the crews if I’m not striding naked across the decks when I come back on board.”

    “When you get back, I will give you some clothes,” she said, in a tone that was not to be argued with.

    Sirene looked over what the woman was wearing. “All right. I like this bodice,” she said, running the back of her fingers over the taut fabric. “Something in this style would do. But I must have a skirt. I can have nothing between my legs, or I won’t change if I fall overboard.”

    “Sarong,” Tortuga said.Sirene tried to picture herself in the garment, and ended up with a flash of the huge man in one and tried not to smile.“I think that would do nicely. Thank you,” she said, grabbing a small drawstring bag and sitting in the window. “He left about an inch in the bottle, less what Mary drank. So, you who have seen him drunk can gauge how long he’ll be out,” she said, dumping out the contents of the bag into Anjali’s hands. It was several Dutch coins and a few loose gemstones.

    “One bottle?” Tortuga snorted. “He should still be lookin’ fahr more.”

    “Well,” Anjali piped up, “it has been almost three watches since his last meal.”

    Tortuga frowned at his wife. “An’ why is dat?”

    “Well, he was spending every chance he got with…”

    Sirene smiled and tipped backwards out the window. She was aware of the two of them sticking their heads out the window just before she was folded into the ship’s wake and the change was upon her. It was like shedding a corset. Her lower flesh melted and merged, the long, rigid bones giving way to articulated cartilage ribs and smaller bones. She almost tied her tail in a knot, so glad was she to be free of her legs.

    She rose to the surface, floated on her back in the moonlight and arched her tail upward just to see it again. The silver-white under scales positively glowed, even under the half moon, fading into the darker blue of her dorsal stripe. She curled up, peering at the moon through the translucent fan of her caudal fin. She sighed deeply, expelling the air from her lungs and continued backward into a dive, plunging into the depths.

    The pearl floated against her breast, the chain at her neck rolling just below her gills. She refocused her sight and searched for the nearest array of colour that would mark the reefs. Not seeing it, she stopped a passing grouper to ask. It regarded her with disinterest, spun in one direction and swam for a foot or so before turning back the way it had been going. She sliced through the dark water, revelling in the feel of it surrounding her body completely unfettered, angling ever downward as the creature she was looking for lived on the bottom.

    She scoured the seabed for the better part of an hour. She managed to snag a small parrotfish and ate it as she searched. She had forgotten how long it had been since her last meal. Other fish darted around her looking for scraps, tickling her sides, picking at her flowing hair. She spun, shooing them off with a giggle and saw the black-tipped fin and sleek white underbelly swimming over her. She glared, watched it cautiously. Its glow showed her that it was curious, maybe even a little hungry as it circled back.

    As it darted past her a second time she slapped it on the gills, lashing her tail in warning that she was not to be messed with. The shark half turned, regarded her warily and then swam off. As she looked about for signs of other reef sharks, she saw a tinge of something green that caught her eye under some fan coral. She drifted near, being careful as the creature she was hunting was dangerous.

    As she bent back the swaying pink lace, she saw a large brown and white snail dart out and attack a clownfish. Keeping her eyes on it, she opened the bag. Lying near the snail was a piece of the fan coral that had been broken off by some passing aggression, and Sirene picked it up. She used it to scoop the snail from the seabed and tossed it up into the current, snagged it in the bag as it floated back downward, and tied it closed. Looping the strings on her wrist and keeping the arm as far out from her body as was feasible, she darted after the Mercy’s Ransom at high speed, skimming just below the surface.

    It was nearly dawn when she sighted the caravel and the smaller brig tagging along beside her. She swam to the stern, found a rope ladder dragging in the water from the larboard cabin, and climbed up it quickly. She entered the open window and pulled the ladder up after her.

    She was surprised to find Hare had made a bed by the sea chest and was sound asleep. From the look of things he had done some cleaning.

    She crossed to the table and set the bag on it, noticing that Anjali had left a few things there for her. She dried herself with a towel from the Ambition. Price had always been touchy about her dripping in the cabin and kept plenty in stock for when he let her swim. She set it on the chair when she was done and picked up the batik dyed sarong, she tied it around her hips. It was long enough to wrap around her twice and fell to her shins. She then put on the light green Indian top. It was beautiful though simple cotton, with great care taken with the very basic embroidery. The choli was also a little big on her. She sensed something moving beside her.

    “Fancy a short life, Mr. Hare?”

    The boy snatched his hand back from the bag. “Just lookin’, ah was, ma’am. Honest!” he exclaimed.

    “Curiosity killed the cat, Mr. Hare,” she said calmly. She fetched a scrap of paper from the reorganized cabinet and wrote down the things she would need. “What is in that bag will kill you if it stings.”

    He straightened up. “Then howsit t’ be helpin’ th’ captain, ma’am?”“By not being the only fly in the ointment,” she replied, handing him the paper. “Can the cook read?”“Ah don’t think so.”“Can you?” she returned.

    “Mostly.”

    She pointed to the paper. “Then collect those items for me.”

    He trotted off, and she looked in the cabin for other things she would need. She opened the bag with a pair of knives, not coming in contact with it if she could help it, and dumped the rather irate mollusc onto the table. It righted itself and started to feel its way across the table when she put a knife into it. With a little work, she forced it out of its shell and began to carve it into strips, which she set aside. She very carefully removed the venom sack.

    Hare came in and set things out on the far edge of the table away from what she was doing, but close enough for her to reach. She scraped the sack into the mortar he brought. She set one of the knives down, reached for one of the snail strips and popped it into her mouth.

    “Aww!” Hare recoiled in disgust.

    “What?” she asked, offering him a piece. She laughed as he moved farther away. “The French eat them,” she commented, “so I don’t know why it bothers you, being raised on a French island.”

    “Aye, but they at least cook them farst,” he said, grimacing.

    “Fine, then go back to sleep or find something useful to do.”

    He went back to his makeshift bed and curled up. “In case you need me,” he explained when she stared.

    Sirene went back to mixing the ointment, adding the things that had been brought from the galley in careful proportions to the amount of venom she had collected. All the while, she nibbled on the snail meat. When she was done she had a cream that smelled faintly of fish oil, which she was careful not to touch as she poured it into an empty chalcedony cosmetic pot she had found in the cabinets. She carried the mortar to the bedside, sat next to him, and watched him sleep.

    Jack woke as the ship was working its way through dangerous shoals to a harbour no British warship would ever be able to reach. He looked up and saw Sirene sitting on the bed looking longingly down at him. She smiled, an expression as radiant as the sun itself cresting the horizon just beyond view.

    “Mornin’, beautiful,” he grinned, wincing as the expression pulled at his stitches.

    She ran her hand over his forehead, feeling a slight warmth near the wound. He rolled onto his back as she began to take the bandage off to look. He watched her face, gauging his condition by her expression. Her eyes darted over the wound, and she gave a tiny frown. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it felt, he thought. “How is it?” he asked.

    “Only mildly inflamed. How does it feel?”

    “Like I was sliced open and sewn back together,” he quipped.

    She glared at him. “Be serious. How badly does it hurt?”

    “Not as bad as ma’ head,” he answered honestly, sitting up.

    “Hangover,” she muttered. “I’ll give you a taste of the dog that bit you in a minute.”

    “That’s hair o’ the dog,” he corrected.

    She folded a small square of cloth several times, and used it to wipe the inside of the mortar clean of the last of the ointment, and held it up to his face.

    “What’s that?” he asked suspiciously, sniffing.

    “That,” she responded, “is going to sting a little, then tingle, then you won’t be able to feel your face the rest of the day.”

    “Really?” He looked interested. “Where’d ye get it? And why’s yer hair wet?”

    “I made it. From things I went hunting for below. It is very potent. I only want you to use this when you have to, and never with your bare hand. It will numb anything it touches. Try not to get it in your eyes or your mouth, it is poisonous.”

    “Can it help m’ head?”

    She dabbed the cloth across the wound. “Nothing can help that, luv.”

    He gasped as the stuff began working. “Wench. I meant my headache.”

    “I know what you meant,” she replied, grabbing the nearly empty rum bottle and handing it to him.

    When someone knocked on the door he doubled over, clutching his skull. Sirene called out, and Tortuga poked his head in.

    “Captain?” he called softly.

    Jack glared at him. “Ye be knowin’ how much I had last night, why’d ye go poundin’.”

    “I barely touched it,” he said, scowling with disapproval.

    “What d’ ye want?” Jack demanded sourly, chugging the last of the rum.

    “Ya wanted t’ see da Ambition’s new captain as soon as we were safely hahbored. Well, he’s heah.”

    Jack cursed. “Ah, gimme a bit,” he groaned, preparing to roll out of bed.

    Sirene helped him, holding him steady while he reacquainted himself with the sober pitch and swell. Tortuga offered his help, which was refused. After a moment he even untangled himself from Sirene.

    She looked the big man over in the captain’s light. He dwarfed Jack. She barely came to his chest. She noticed that his hair was different. The night before it had been in dreadlocks like some of the Jamaican natives. Now it had been elaborately braided close to his head and fell in beaded strands past his shoulders. She smiled.

    “I think I like it better this way,” she said.

    He followed her gaze and smiled. “M’ wife… didnah like da dreads.”

    Jack staggered over to the cabinets looking for usable paper and ink. “I imagine it be impossible t’ braid it the way ye like it by yerself. By the way, Sirene, what are ye doing in Anji’s clothes?” He turned as he found something useful as well as the ship’s old articles. “Not that I don’t like them. On the contrary. But they hardly fit.”

    She shrugged, clearing the things she had used to make the medicine off the table. “About as well as Ambrose’s shirt fit you. Any port in a storm,” she purred, feeding him a piece of the snail strips.

    He chewed, and frowned. “What was that?”

    “It’ll help your head,” she lied. She put her things away and stood behind his chair when he sat. “Do you want me to leave while you do this?”

    “Actually,” he said, snagging her by the waist. “I’d like ye t’ play secretary.”

    “She da wrong sex,” Tortuga said bluntly, and left.

    Sirene giggled as she sat down next to Jack and pulled the papers over to her, making sure the quill was sharp. “So what am I writing?”

    “Whatever we agree t’. An’ methinks we’ll look inta getting ye some that fit when we arrive in Tortuga.”

    She did not have time to ask him to explain as the quarter-master was leading two of the pirates from the other ship into the cabin. They both looked up to see Mr. Towers strutting in with one of the Mercy’s old crew close behind him. They both glared at Sirene, but said nothing. Sirene took note of their guarded manners and the spikes in their glows that warned they were in belligerent moods. Jack stood, and gestured for them to sit at the table.

    “Captain,” he said, genially.

    Towers nodded as he pulled a chair out. “Commodore,” he said, watching Jack’s reaction carefully.

    Jack would have raised an eyebrow, except that part of his face wouldn’t respond. “Please, sit down. And I’m not a commodore.”

    The two men looked at each other before taking their seats.

    “Admiral then,” he scowled.

    Jack gave a half laugh. “No. I’m still a captain, same as you.”

    Now they were confused.“So who is th’ admiral o’ th’ fleet? Her?” he sneered, pointing to Sirene.

    “No one. There is no fleet,” he explained.

    “What? Then why ar we here?”

    “To forge an accord. An agreement of non-interference and mutual assistance.” They stared blankly, thoroughly disarmed. “Lemme explain how this works. Ye and me, we sign this piece of paper which’ll detail what we’re agreein’ to.”

    Towers sat back in the chair and folded his arms. “Which is?”

    “One, should our wakes cross, we meet in friendship …or at least non-hostility,” he added as an afterthought. Sirene began writing. “To trade information, goods, warnings, etc. Buy and sell supplies if needed. Two, simple non-interference. If one ship runs across the other engaged we do not intercept or otherwise interfere without an agreed upon signal, say flag at half-mast or non-present? Or unless said ship appears to be in dire straights or otherwise captured, or closely thereto.”

    The two men conferred, giving Sirene time to catch up. Towers leaned forward.

    “At which point, ye get what? Fifty percent of th’ plunder?”

    “Nay.” Jack frowned. “That would be inequitable. Ye do most o’ th’ fightin’ and I get half th’ prize? Nonsense. Twenty. And this works both ways, ye know.”

    “Twenty percent?” he echoed, in disbelief.

    “Aye. O’ course, injury pay fer th’ rescuing crew should come out o’ th’ rescued ship’s eighty percent. And one full share fer every man lost in th’ aiding. It only be fair,” he added, spreading his hands innocently.

    “Aye… only fair,” Towers said.

    “Of course, should we enter a fight together, that be a fifty-fifty deal.”

    Towers leaned back, regarding Sirene for the first time, and then glanced back at Jack. “So why d’ we need th’ paper?”

    Jack leaned forward on the table and indicated his eye. “’Cause The Brotherhood of the Coast ain’t quite th’ Brotherhood we used t’ be. This way, there be no fights and no question o’ what’s who’s when th’ time comes ‘cause it’s all in writin’ and all signed and legal like. Or as close to it as we come,” he laughed.

    The others laughed, too.

    “Lack of trust,” the other man said, with a smile that had nothing to do with the joke.

    “Yes and no,” Jack admitted.

    “Why d’ ye not want a fleet?” he asked.

    Jack looked the other man over carefully. He was of indeterminate race and country, a typical pirate in these waters. Probably an expatriate of some kind.

    “Because I be not a greedy man. I want what’s mine, and no more. I don’t fancy spending th’ rest o’ m’ days on the sea warrin’ wi’ me own kind ‘cause ah spread m’self too thin. That’s why England’s gonna lose her colonies eventually, and Spain.

    ‘Cause th’ kind o’ men that cross an ocean to make their homes don’t like takin’ orders from a king they can’t see, not fer very long. Same goes fer them so called ‘pirate admirals’. I know I would chafe under an’ admiral and takin’ more than half o’ plunder I didn’t earn seems somehow wrong. Not to mention, impossible to enforce.”

    Towers spoke again. “You sound experienced in the matter.”

    “Boy, I been on these waters fer more’n thirty years; maraudin’ twenty o’ that. Name me one pirate who can boast of a career half as long.” He glared with his good eye.

    Towers leaned back in his chair arrogantly. “Speaks of lack of success to me. How can we be sure ye’re not jest settin’ us up fer somethin’ later?”

    Jack sighed. “If I wanted a continued attachment to th’ Ambition, I’d have made me quartermaster her captain.”

    Both men frowned. “Ye mean that Indian bitch? I thought yer madness was a rumour,” spat Towers.

    “Now let’s keep this civil, shall we?” Jack scowled, resisting the urge to do something rash. “Will ye sign, or no?”

    Sirene slid it across the table to their guests, watching them surreptitiously as they read it.

    “I cannot see how this document can cause us injury, nor be t’ any but ar benefit. We’ll sign.”

    Towers took up the pen and wrote his name, and then passed it to the man with him who scrawled his mark. Jack made a point of writing his name in a neat, attractive script. Sirene then took the document, blowing the ink dry and got up, moving toward the cabinets.

    “Why do you get t’ keep it?” Towers accused.

    “Because it be my idea, and as I gave ye that ship freely, ye can spare me th’ benefit of th’ doubt. Now, if ye wish a copy for yer own boat, I’ll be happy to ask Miss Sirene to draft us another copy.”

    She looked up, expectantly grabbing another piece of paper. The two muttered between themselves.

    “No, that won’t be necessary,” Towers said, getting up. “Now, unless there’s other business?”

    “Yes,” Sirene said casually, putting the blank paper away, but not the document. “You might wish to be careful. I was privy to a conversation between the late Vice Admiral and the captain of the Redoubt. It seems there is another warship prowling these waters, hunting pirates with a vengeance. Keep your eyes out for the HMS St. George, likely coming out of Antigua. She’s a 40-gun frigate.”

    Towers made a rude noise and continued on his way out the door. As he and his companion were shown off the ship, the Mercy’s officers found their way in. Sirene was pleased to note that Anjali was first mate, Marklain was promoted to the boson, and Penn was chief gunner with secondary duties to aid the pilot who was a graying, older man Sirene had not met.

    “Glad to see yer still kickin’ about, Mr. Forrest,” Jack commented, shaking the man’s hand.

    The man chuckled and tapped the deck with his wooden leg. “So t’ speak, sar!” he winked. He turned to Sirene as Jack introduced them. “Pleased t’ make yer acquaintance, Miss,” he said, bowing over her hand. “I’ve known Jack since he wast a pup.”

    “Belay that,” Jack interrupted with a scowling grin. “Let’s get the business over with,” he said, sitting everyone at the table and laying out his orders.

    Primarily, they were to get the Mercy shipshape again, and he was justifiably upset about the vessel’s condition. They were to chart to Tortuga, where they would resupply and repair the vessel prior to ‘intercepting a great prize’ was all Jack would say about it.

    “Why won’t ye tell us?” Mr. Forrest asked. “S’not like ye cain’t trust us.”

    Jack sighed. “I have a ship that crews thirty hands currently supporting nearly eighty. Scuttlebutt is the reason I’ll not be tellin’ ye until we’re out of port and on the way. We’ll have t’ thin out the ranks, and I only want those truly loyal t’ remain. I won’t be havin’ a repeat of history.”

    “Neither will da Mercy,” Tortuga muttered.

    Forrest was quick to mutter an ascent.“Explain,” Jack ordered.

    “Well,” Forrest began when Tortuga nodded to him, scratching his thinning hair. “Every since we lost ye, things ain’t been right. She’s been cranky ye’ might say. I’d plot a course straight an’ fair and even helm it meself. I’d take a bearin’ a watch later an’ find us off, onct by as much as twelve degrees. We’ve had guns explode…perfectly sound guns, too. Ol’ Betsy ain’t fired onct since. Light ‘er fuse, and she fizzles.”

    Jack smiled. “I heard Ol’ Betsy during the fight. Why didn’t Fenning get rid of her when she wouldn’t fire?”

    “Fennin’ tried, but we couldn’t get her free o’ the housin’ without takin’ the deck with ‘er.”

    Jack laughed.

    “Ol’ Betsy?” Sirene asked with a smile.

    “The thirty-two that fires from below Mercy’s starboard wing.” He grinned broadly. “We took her a decade back from a ship called the Mary Elizabeth out of Portsmouth. So we called her Ol’ Betsy. She always was a cast iron bitch. But I never had a moment’s trouble with her. Mr. Penn, ye take care of her and she won’t backfire on ye.”

    Penn nodded, mumbling something incoherent.

    “Well, it sounds like the ol’ girl’s missed her master. Which reminds me, do we have a length of chain long enough that ain’t rusting t’ high hell?” he asked Tortuga.

    He shrugged. “Might be some in da crates we took from da Redoubt. You want to change har chains before or aftah we reach port?”

    “Before, if we have the lengths. If not, I’ll wait. Not sure we’ve th’ locks. We can do any work we need to once she’s unchained. She’s lookin’ more ragged than I like. Could use a fresh coat.”Sirene sighed. “We have a problem with going straight to Tortuga.”

    Everyone looked at her expectantly.

    “Unless there is cargo in the hold, and there isn’t much by the manifest, we don’t have the money to refit.”

    Jack frowned. “What about them pearls?”

    She shook her head. “Only worth so much, and you’ll not get everything you’ll need to repair with them. You have timbers below your waterline to replace. She’ll need careening, too.”

    Jack slammed his fist on the table. “Damn it! Didn’t that slob do any maintenance?”

    No one wanted to answer that, but Forrest winced and spoke up. “Captain, last person who tried t’ do repair work on Mercy was snapped off th’ swing by a mako. Hell, two months after we set Anjali off on Guadalupe she nearly gutted ‘erself on a reef she was far too shallow to worry about. An’ ‘twas bloody deliberate, too!” he added, crossing himself. “After that, noone’d touch ‘er. At night we’d hear th’ damnedest noises from th’ bow.” He shuddered.

    “All right, so we have to take a prize before Hispaniola, then,” Jack assessed. “Let’s go hunting!” he said, and dismissed the officers. When he was alone in the cabin with her again, he leaned back against the closed door. “Gods below, I hope she’s got another fight left in ‘er still.”

    Sirene crossed to him, wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder. He slipped his around her waist and pulled her close. “Think ye and yer friends might be able to help us out in that department?” he asked softly.

    She gave a low chuckle. “Aye. In fact, I’ll go myself, and scout the way ahead. See if I can find us a prize she can take in our condition.” They stood that way for several minutes, before she asked, “Why does this ship seem to have a life of her own? The men seem willing to believe every superstition about her. I’m surprised Fenning didn’t abandon her.”

    “Well, one: Fenning never believed …any of it. Except that he was invincible. He thought that tattoo of his would protect him from any harm. He scoffed at any suggestion that Mercy would protect her own. Two…” he hesitated. “I named her for me mother.”

    Sirene asked, “Was your mother alive at the time?”“No.”That explained everything. She gave him one last squeeze and pulled away.“You’re right,” he said, reading her intentions. “We should go up top. Do me a favour?”

    “Aye?”

    “Go to the bow an’ sing that song again?”

    She smiled and followed him on deck.