A New Privateer

[Poindexter]

A story (and game) I have been working on for a few months and continue to do so (when I have the time). I would like to thank forum poster Capt. Peter Blackthorne for his insipration and his great prose.

January 1, 1640
St. Kitts, Leeward Islands

“All right, Phillip, wait here. I’ll do this alone.”

“Very good, sir,” Phillip replied. “And may I also state, sir, what a privilege it has been serving under you.”

Drake Williams slowly turned on his heel and faced Phillip with a contemptuous stare followed by a wry smile. “A command of nearly three hours and already I’m a legend? Truly, I was unaware of my capabilities.”

Phillip grinned widely basking in the sarcasm. He then looked up, squinting into a comfortably warm late afternoon sky. “And your fourth hour is quickly approaching. I quiver with anticipation.”

“Captain” Drake Williams and his newly appointed captain’s mate Phillip Rousseau had been meandering around St. Kitts’ shoreline alehouse for nearly half an hour doing their best to blend in with the crowd of off-duty sailors, merchants and traders, along-shoremen and prostitutes. In the sunlit public streets, Drake reasoned there would be a better chance of foiling any nefarious deed that may happen to visit him than in the dank and smelly innards of a Caribbean hovel that posed as a social drinking establishment in these parts. But he knew he was going to have to go in there soon.

Almost four hours had passed since he led the mutiny on the Revenge. Setting her despised former captain adrift was not a popular decision on the ship but Drake felt it necessary. As deeply hated as he was, Captain Woolaby had given Drake an opportunity he could not pass up - the chance to get the hell out of the New England colonies and away from its smothering Puritanism. Woolaby was also an Englishman which probably did more to spare his life than any good deed. Drake Williams was a intensely patriotic young man. Though he was a colonial by birth, Drake drew significant pride from his roots. Even when very young he knew that he would always defend the English crown and her interests no matter how insignificant they may be. Not that the English cared one whit about Drake at the moment.

Now if he could just screw up the courage to enter this smelly armpit of an alehouse, all would be well.

Mustering all his derring-do, he finally approached the alehouse entrance and inhaled deeply in an attempt to clear his head, willing himself to go forward. Bad idea. This close to the alehouse smelled like putrid vomit. Drake then heard a gentle but distinct warbling whistle from some distance behind him. He turned slightly and in his periphery spied Phillip leaning next to a large tree on the opposite side of the street with the pedestrian mob milling between the both of them. He was gently nodding toward the alehouse entrance, letting Drake know that the coast was clear - or was he telling Drake to get a move on? Drake subtly inclined his head in acknowledgement, unconsciosuly adjusting his short ponytail of hair, then slowly entered.

[Poindexter]

Fortunately, it wasn’t nearly as rank on the inside as were the outskirts but in fact seemed quite hospitable. As Drake entered he walked over a large oval shaped rug that appeared to be made from a pelt of some large, unfortunate animal. The rug covered a stone floor with a myriad of rocky stone shapes that were mortared together with a weathered and hardened dark brown mud. The stone pattern continued up the far wall in the shape of a very large chimney which sported a moderate fire, more out of need for light that heat. Scattered around were about a dozen circular wooden tables with wooden chairs, nearly all covered with empty and near-empty mugs of the local ale. At two tables closest to the fireplace sat ten roguish and rough looking men of various skin colors and dress drinking, talking loudly, and carousing. One of the men, who had apparently finished some off colored story or joke, threw his head back and guffawed loudly. Four other men close to him joined in the boisterous laughter with one in particular reveling in the story. He had tilted back in his chair precariously and was laughing so hard that he eventually lost his balance and fell flat on his back, one of the chair legs breaking under the impact. The mug full of ale he was holding flew out of his hand as he vainly attempted to right himself. The mug clattered across the floor and, fortunately, rolled right to the feet of the barmaid who picked it up and began wiping it down with a dirty cloth and with an indifference which implied that this was simply another day at the alehouse. The rowdy bunch quieted down for a short moment as they gazed at their fallen comrade, then exploded into another bout of uproarious laughter. The fallen man, whose pride was not in the least bit wounded, also joined in the whooping.

Drake walked toward the bar where the alehouse keeper, and old bald man with a short white moustache and beard framing a mouth that clearly had few teeth within it, had been eyeing the rowdy group since Drake had walked in.

“Regulars?” Drake asked the alehouse keeper.

“Aye, they be that. A wee too regular,” he answered never taking his eyes off the group. After a moment, he finally turned to Drake and his face softened slightly. “Forgive me, young laddie. My twilight years are seein’ me lose what wee bit o’ sanity I had in me youth. What’ll ye have?”

Drake smiled, no offense taken. “Information, sir” He hitched himself a bit, elbows on the bar, assuming a conversational appearance. “I’ve recently come into...a bit of a predicament. I’ve recently acquired a sloop, well worn but capable, and am looking for something...anything to help me ply a trade in these waters. But these waters are unknown to me.” Not entirely true, Drake said to himself. Woolaby had made several trips through the Caribbean in the past but none that kept him any longer than a day on land.

“Are they now,” replied the alehouse keeper, idly scratching his beard. “Well, ye might be in luck. Seein’ as you appear ta be of - nobler status that most,” casting a glance back at the rowdy group near the fireplace, “I’d recommend presentin’ yer case to the gov’ner of St. Kitts...Cavendish. Fer the past weeks, he’s been givin’ out letters of marque ta them he sees ta be in a position ta help him.” His tone changed slightly, his voice becoming a bit more serious. “Yer ship...does she have guns?”

“Eight,” replied Drake. “Is that a requirement?”

“Oh, in these waters, aye. You’ll be needin’ t’defend yerself from all manner of ruffians in these parts, lad.” He swept an arm through the air in a grand gesture, his reach taking in the confines of the Caribbean. “Scoundrels aplenty around to take yer ship from ye, understand?”

“Without a doubt,” said Drake furrowing his brow in mock concern, noting the irony.

The conversation continued for another few minutes with the alehouse keeper’s idle talk allowing Drake to piece together the dynamic life of this part of the world - subjects such as England’s present peace with the Dutch; the power of the Spanish and the undeclared war being waged against them from the other European nations who laid claim to these waters; and how the entire area was swarming with smugglers, privateers operating with barely legal commissions, angry Indian natives, and, of course, pirates. Drake thanked the alehouse keeper for his time and information. It would, he hoped, be enough to get him a head start on whatever the Fates had in store for him.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to show my thanks with a few gold coins, kind sir,” Drake told him. “But, alas, I am nearly destitute at present. Only a hundred gold coins and most of that must go to pay shore merchants for supplies.”

But the alehouse keeper seemed to take little offense. He was simply grateful to have a young ear actually listening to him for once. However, Drake did make him an offer that he reasoned would be of more value to him, in the short term at least, than anything a gold coin could buy. He moved a bit closer as if to whisper something very confidential and the old man obligingly leaned inward. Drake made a quick nod of his head to the rowdy group of men sitting near the fireplace and muttered,“How’d you like me to take some of these blokes off your hands?”

Even the barmaid standing at the far end of the counter, who overheard the whispered comment, looked more than relieved.

[Poindexter]

Phillip passed the time simultaneously keeping watch on the alehouse entrance and the Revenge moored securely at one of the dock cleats about three hundred yards away. She was a relatively small ship, no more than fifty tons. She had a single main mast which carried the mainsail and a topsail, both squared. A fixed wooden boom jutted abaft the main mast which carried an aft sail, also squared but longer at the foot than the head. From the forcastle jutted a long fixed bowsprit which carried three traingular sails: a jib, flying jib and staysail. On the her stern was a slightly raised quarterdeck which housed the cramped captain’s cabin. She carried eight cannon which ran the length of the main deck, four guns to either side, a little dull from disuse and exposure but still operable. But firepower had never been her greatest asset. It was her maneuverability and swiftness even in calms that made her though her top speed was no more than fourteen knots even in the strongest of tail winds. Her lightness made her depth of keel shallow, thus allowing her to run right in shore most of the time and which had allowed her to anchor right next to the pier.

About a dozen other ships were moored around her, mainly English merchantmen and sloops but occasionally a Dutch standard was seen flying in the scattered forest of masts. While he waited for Drake to return his thoughts had begun to wander. He was beginning to come to grips with the knowledge that he and Drake would be doing this for many years to come - always going ashore in the Caribbean, anywhere for that matter, with eyes in the back of their heads. Phillip chuckled at that thought. Was it any different serving under Captain Woolaby’s tyranny? The entire crew, even those few who never grumbled aloud about their servitude to the hated captain, always felt that Woolaby’s wrath would visit them at any moment for whatever reason. The crewmen he had lashed to death, of course, were in no position to question their plight. So was this life going to be any worse?

Phillip’s musings had made him unaware of a figure approaching behind him, deliberately stealthy, until the figure stopped so close to him that parts of their clothing actually touched one another. Phillip continued looking out over the harbor, blissfully unaware. A gravely, low voice simply said, “Phillip.”

Instantly knowing that certain death was only a few moments away Phillip nearly jumped out of his skin. He ran around shrieking in decibels that would have cracked china glass, flailing his arms around his head and sides as if to fight off an onslaught of angry hornets. After rolling around on the ground for a few seconds, a pale and quivering Phillip looked up and finally saw his would be attacker. His eyes focused, then began to burn with rage.

“Oh...God damn you, Drake! Why in bloody hell do you insist on doing that?” he spat.

Drake, standing with arms crossed, looked back at Phillip with his most innocent of facades. “Oh, Phillip, Phillip...it is as grand as a free night at the theater watching your performances,” he said simply. Grinning, he began walking toward his first mate with an outstretched arm. Phillip huffed loudly, glaring at Drake then whipped his right arm around to slap his hand to Drake’s forearm clasping it tightly, hoping like hell the impact stung him. Drake showed no reaction as he pulled Phillip up to his feet. “Seriously, though,” he continued, “I know how much you despise that but I did it to prove a point.”

Phillip began brushing off residual dirt and grass from his clothing. “Really,” he said with a dubious voice. “And what might that be? Not to be distracted by bright, shiny objects?”

“No, no,” said Drake. Then he firmly grabbed Phillip’s shoulders with both hands and turned him to where he and Phillip were face to face. He had a most serious look about him. “Phillip...you...must...understand,” - he emphasized the words with gentle shakes of Phillip’s shoulders - “and I mean this honestly...”

Drake paused, his and Phillip’s eyes locked together. “Yes?” Phillip said finally.

“...I so enjoy doing that to you. I never tire of it.”

Phillip sighed in exasperation and shook Drake’s hands loose from his shoulders. “Dear God, you are such a bastard.”

Drake threw his chest out straightening to his full height and shook a scolding finger at Phillip. “That’s Captain Bastard to you!”

“I stand corrected. You are the captain of all bastards.”

Drake slapped a hand on Phillip’s shoulder gently shaking it in part apology and part affection. The two then began walking toward the dock where Revenge was moored. “So did you find what you needed in there, sir?” asked Phillip reverting back to his role as captain’s mate.

“Plenty,” said Drake. He began counting off points of interest using the fingers on his left hand. “First, I need to see the governor here. He has it within his power to make us ‘legitimate’ as long as we serve under his flag. And, as confirmed by the barkeep, the English are cozying up to the Dutch and think the Spanish are bastards. For the moment, at least.”

Phillip understood too well Drake’s last statement. Peace and loyalties in the Caribbean changed as often as winds in a storm at sea.

“I was able to glean some information from a shady character about his recent visit to Nombre de Dios,” Drake continued shrugging, “though I’m not sure if that’s going to help us much right now as we have no plans of going anywhere near the Spanish Main. But it was information I did not have to pay for so I will not complain.” Drake paused for a brief moment as he filed through the list in his mind. “Ah, and the tavern keeper also said St. Eustatius’ shipwright could fit us out with bronze cannon. And I was able to persuade ten men to join our crew. One of them assured me he could vouch for eleven more, but we’ll see.”

Phillip had continued nodding in approval of Drake’s list as they walked, eyes watching the ground but not focusing on any one thing as he assimilated the information. “Very good, sir,” he concluded. “What orders shall I give the men when we arrive aboard?”

“Tell the quartermaster...wait, who is our appointed quartermaster again?” The responsibilities of command were all so new to him.

“Damian, sir. Walpole,” Phillip answered.

“Yes! Tell Mr. Walpole to prepare the ship for new arrivals, provision, and prepare to cast off in an hour. I won’t be dawdling long with this governor. And fill him in on the details of what I’ve relayed to you. Give him permission to pass it on the crew if he deems it prudent. And make sure he knows to not spend every last coin we have! God knows we need as much as we can spare.”

“Understood, sir,” said Phillip. Arriving at the wooden loading pier that ran down the larboard side of the Revenge, Phillip now wondered why Drake had accompanied him back to the dock if he was in such a hurry to see the governor. “Beg pardon sir, but why are you returning to the ship?” he queried, stopping short of boarding. “Your orders have been made very clear to me.”

Drake stepped onto the deck of the Revenge without stopping and began heading for Captain Woolaby’s cabin...his cabin now, he reckoned. He shouted loudly over his shoulder, “I have to change into something more ridiculous before I meet this governor.” And then, even louder, “He’s probably some bloody poofter anyways, right men?” Most of the crewmen on deck who heard the captain broke out in hearty laughter, grumbling affirmations.

[Poindexter]

What a magnificent estate. Absurd opulence has clearly not gone by the board.

Sitting in one of the elaborately carved oak country chairs placed along a large panoramic window that looked out over the St. Kitts harbor below, Drake gazed around the surroundings of the governors waiting room. It was quite a spacious affair. The waiting room merged into to the main living area which was alive with the skittering of numerous servants and butlers but was separated by strategic placement of dense potted native ferns and flora, enough to give one a sense of privacy but which could also be moved to open up the room for large gatherings. The high walls were decorated with many large paintings one of which was clearly the governor himself, placed in such a way as to dominate the viewers eye no matter where he or she may be located in the room. It would be interesting to see how close the portrait matched the man and whether he came off as important as he obviously thought of himself. Or how important the artist thought him to be. Especially if he was paid a king’s ransom in wages, Drake mused.

The luxury that surrounded Drake made him even more conscious of his attire, specifically its shortcomings. The elaborate change of clothes he had planned wound up being nothing more than donning a red, tight-fitting jerkin with a high neck collar which was fastened over his unwashed and stained linen shirt, itself missing more than a few buttons. He still wore the same breeches and knee high “bucket-top” boots that he had worn for many months. They were showing obvious signs of long wear and fading due to excess exposure to the sun. He had reasoned that ex-captain Woolaby had a collection of high quality clothing stored in his cabin but was disappointed to find that almost all of the garments had been vandalized by the crew during the mutiny. Apparently the men didn’t want Woolaby to take anything with him when Drake had decided to set him adrift. The only thing salvagable was this red wool jerkin only because it had been accidentally tossed behind Woolaby’s writing desk, out of sight of the furious crewmen.

I can’t blame them for ransacking the place, Drake concluded. Woolaby had already taken so much from them.

Gazing at the articulately detailed chadeliers that ran the length of the entire room and admiring the plush European furniture, Drake was finally startled out of his reverie when the sharp voice of the governor’s servant reached his ears, echoing slightly in the cavernous room. “His Excellency the Governor will see you now, sir.”

Drake rose and walked into the governor’s stateroom, the servant standing aside and bowing slightly as Drake walked past. It was another elegant room with many windows that ran the length of the far wall which was painted a deep royal blue. Through the windows could be seen an elaborate water fountain which marked the center point of a finely stoned pathway that led to the main thouroughfare about fifty yards away. A choice selection of exotic ferns, palms, jasmine and hibiscus were interspersed in finely landscaped beds scattered over the lawn, which was itself meticulously manicured. Several large palm trees gave any visiting guests or patrons proper shading from the Caribbean sun. A half dozen stone benches were also strategically placed throughout the yard.

A rhythmic clattering of shoes informed Drake that the governor was preparing to enter. As he did, Drake inwardly smiled. The governor actually did seem to favor his portrait except that he was obviously a foot shorter in real life. His lanky, thin frame; his white and curled wig, which was long and worn past the shoulder; his justaucorps worn over a clean, ruffled shirt; his dark striped leggings and buckled, low-heeled shoes; all were remarkably close to the likeness hanging in the other room. Definitely a king’s wage for the painter, Drake surmised.

“Captain Drake Williams,” announced the governor’s servant, “may I present His Excellency Sir Clarence Cavendish, Duke of Albemarle and Governor of St. Kitts.” Drake and the governor exhanged reverant bows. The servant then took up a position to the right of the governor, both men standing. It was then that Drake noticed the governor had stopped looking at him directly and now seemed interested in contemplating Drake’s attire, moving his head slightly from side to side as if looking for something. Drake tried to fight off his embarassment. He knew his first impression wasn’t going to be one for the history books. For a moment he thought of offering an apology for his ensemble but the governor spoke before he could get a word out.

“You are a captain, Mr. Williams? Forgive me, but I am unable to recognize a badge of office on your person. No epaulette.”

“My apologies, your Excellency,” Drake answered, straightening a bit. “I am a captain by courtesy at present and non military.”

The governor’s eyes met Drake’s and softened in realization. “Ahh, I understand completely” he said, the faintest hint of a smile forming on his lips. It became clear to Drake that his explanation, and variations of it, had obviously been relayed to the governor many times in the past by many other patrons. “A minor matter of contention. You are the commander of your ship. That is all that matters,” he concluded.

Drake, not knowing what else to do or say, simply nodded in ackowledgement. Cavendish turned then began slowly walking toward one of the huge panoramic windows that framed his personal Garden of Eden outside, pondering as he looked out over its expanse. A few quiet moments passed, then he turned to Drake. “My fountain garden, it pleases you?”

“It is an incredible sight, your Excellency. Were I fortunate enough to be a man in your position, I doubt I would ever tire of it.” That wasn’t hyperbole or meant to flatter. Drake meant it.

Governor Cavendish smiled, proud but appreciative at the same time. “I have been governor of this island for several years now, honored to serve His Majesty in this part of his realm. I have molded it into the prosperous, bustling community that you saw when you landed here. Merchant trade has increased five-fold over the last three years, new colonists are arriving every few months, sugar is produced in abundance in the valleys, and through our peace with the Dutch we have made it more diffcult for the vile Spanish to wrest these islands from our rightful ownership by force of arms.” He paused, turning back to face the view outside. “But for all my honorable and rightful service to the Crown, it is this,” - he raised an arm indicating the fountain garden outside - “that truly pleases me most.”

Drake continued to stand in place, not sure of what to say next. Governor Cavendish helped him.

“Captain Williams, do you also yearn to serve His Majesty as I do?”

Finally they were getting down to business. “Indeed, sir,” Drake answered. “Eagerly.”

Cavendish walked toward Drake again, stopping directly in front of him.

“Very well.” The governor’s tone then changed into one of well rehearsed formality with a touch of practical businessman. “Captain Drake Williams, I, Sir Clarence Cavendish, Governor of His Majesty’s island of St. Kitts, Commander-in-Chief of all His Majesties forces within the said island and the waters surrounding it present to you this Letter of Marque and Reprisal, commissioning you, your ship and crewmen to wage hostilites against any and all enemies of His Majesty’s empire.” As if on cue, Cavendish’s servant immediately produced a rolled parchment. Cavendish took it from him, unrolled it, and began reading.

“I have in the good conduct, courage, and fidelity of you,” Cavendish continued, “to put to sea for the guard and defence of England’s interest, and of all vessels trading to or about the same; and in order thereunto to use your best endeavours to surprise, take, sink, disperse, and destroy all the enemies ships or vessels which shall come within your view, and also for preventing intended invasion against said places; and you yourself are to observe and follow all such orders as you shall from time to time receive from His most excellent Majesty, his Royal Highness.” Cavendish then reached over and took the parchment from his servant and presented it to Drake who gladly accepted it, then bowed before Cavendish in humble gratitude. Finally...finally after all these years he had finally been given a charge to defend England.

“I pledge to you and His Majesty that all enemies of England are now enemies of mine,” Drake said in a low voice and with an intensity that surprised even him.

Cavendish slowly nodded in a fashion reminiscent of a father who was about to send a son to war. Which, in fact, is what he was doing. “You speak as one in whom the fire of patriotism burns brightly, Captain Williams. All who serve the Crown would learn much from such devotion.” Governor Cavendish gently placed a hand on Drake’s shoulder, causing his servant to look at him in mild surprise. Such a display of affection, though mild, was quite unlike the governor. Then again, few in the governor’s employ were eager to fight under any flag at all.

Drake, now officially a fully commissioned and legitimate English privateer, was eager to head back to the Revenge and wreak havoc on England’s enemies becoming a rich man in the process. “By your leave, Excellency, I must return to my ship and prepare her for departure.”

“A moment please, Captain Williams,” interrupted Cavendish, stopping Drake in mid turn. The governor made a glance toward the rear windows and the fountain garden outside. “Would you be kind enough to accompany me to the garden for a brief walk before you depart?” Drake paused, unable to hide his hesitation from the governor. It had already been nearly an hour. He needed to get back to the Revenge before, he feared, the men decided to vote another captain.

“Excellency, it is with heavy heart I must decline your generous offer. I fear my men will depart without me if I fail to arrive within the half hour.”

Cavendish dismissed Drake’s remark with a wave of the hand. “Nonesense, dear fellow. Your men will wait for your arrival, I guarantee it. Besides, my time with you will be short, I promise.” Cavendish began walking purposely toward the twin French styled doors that opened onto the garden. He turned to Drake before opening them. “Come...please,” he said in a softer voice.

Drake let his breath out slowly. How was this governor going to guarantee that his ship and crew would still be docked after he left? Would he purchase another sloop and populate it with other bored and disgruntled swabbies and landsmen? What was this delay about? Just so Governor Cavendish could prance around his garden with an admirer and engage in idle chit-chat? He really didn’t have time for this. But something told him to entertain the governor’s wishes regardless. After all, he had gotten the commission. And his friend Phillip would be able to keep the crew at bay if he failed to show on time, for a little while at least. He was good at that sort of thing. His skills with a cutlass, however...that was another matter.

“Very well, Excellency,” he finally said. “I suppose I could spare a few extra moments.”

“Excellent!” Cavendish exclaimed in a quiet voice. “And Bellamy, see that we are not disturbed.” The governor’s servant bowed in acknowledgement.

[Poindexter]

Drake and Governor Cavendish slowly made their way down the stoned pathway that led to the fountain, Drake walking slightly behind the governor’s right, letting him take the lead. They walked in silence with the governor occasionally holding his head back, deeply inhaling with eyes closed and face content, the smells of jasmine and hibiscus permeating his senses. Drake also found it hard not to let himself relax in these surroundings. It was imcomparably beautiful here and a man would have to be either blind or dead to not be affected by it. Mostly dead, actually. The governor finally stopped and took a seat on the lowest tier of the sprawling fountain motioning Drake to sit next to him. Drake understood why. The noise of the running water would help drown out whatever the governor was about to tell him.

“I told you I would be brief, Captain Williams, so I will do you the courtesy of getting to the matter quickly,” he began. “I have a small favor to ask of you.”

“A favor already, and I have yet to leave port,” Drake said, half-joking.

“Indeed. I need for you and your crew...” Cavendish stopped for a moment quickly turning his head from side to side, confirming that no one was close by. “I need for you to assist me in installing a loyal governor in San Juan.”

When Drake’s head finally stopped spinning he did his best to try and articulate sounds that formed words the governor could understand. “S-San Juan...the Spanish city of San Juan...a new governor installed...in San Juan?”

Governor Cavendish showed no signs of frivolity. “Yes, the actual Spanish city of San Juan.”

“Excellency, why would you have me undertake such a mission? I am but one sloop with sixty odd men to take on the guns, militia and navy of a Spanish city.” Drake began to stand up. “Frankly, sir, your request of me will be impossible to achieve at the present time. I bid you good d-.”

“Please Captain Williams,” Cavendish interrupted. “Do be seated and hear me out.” Drake balked, every muscle in his body tense with adrenaline and anger. He fought the urge to knock out this governor and weigh anchor immediately. To hell with his letter of marque. He would go full blown pirate if this is what it meant to be “legitimate”.

“Captain Williams, please sit!” Cavendish said loudly, all pretense now gone. Drake, giving the governor a sidelong look of mistrust, slowly seated himself again. “I have no desire to see you wage war on the Spanish without reinforcement. Another vessel in my employ, the brig Panther, has been ordered to blockade San Juan. With the both of you supporting one another I would surmise your chances of success to be far greater. According to other sailors I have conversed with...”

Spanish smugglers, Drake presumed, and not to be trusted.

“...San Juan is rather lightly defended by militia and her artillery are few. The time to take this city and claim it for His Majesty is now...now, while we are still at war with Spain and her influence in the Leeward Islands is weak.”

Drake shook his head in incredulity. “Sir, I must continue to strongly protest this course of action and again am forced to remind you of my current vulnerable state. I have no sailmaker among my crew and the sails of my ship are worn and need replacement. I cannot even afford fine grain powder for my cannon. My reputation is nonexistent. I will be no match for the fleet of warships which the Spanish will surely send after -”

“You have the full support and resources of England at your disposal,” interrupted Governor Cavendish, “and my word that I will personally recompense you any losses you should suffer.”

Drake sighed heavily. It was obvious that Cavendish wanted this badly and Drake really did want to help him. But the stakes were just too great. If he wound up botching this mission, Drake feared his crew would mutiny again and overthrow him. And not even Phillip would be able to sway them this time. Drake needed a guaranteed success immediately to gain the crew’s confidence and cement their loyalties. A nice, juicy Spanish trade galleon would do nicely. But taking on a full blown invasion of a Spanish city, no matter her size, was inconceivable.

“I am truly sorry, Excellency,” Drake said, finally standing. “I cannot accept your proposal. Good day.” He bowed slightly to the governor who said nothing and simply looked at Drake with a blank expression. Drake turned and began walking down the path that led to the main thouroughfare which would take him back to the docks and the waiting Revenge. He had only taken a few steps when Drake heard the governor say to him, “Your ship will not be allowed to sail from this place, Captain Williams.”

Drake slowed his stride as Cavendish’s words sunk in, then he finally halted. He stood still for a moment, his back to the governor. Was that a threat? As if reading his mind the governor said, “Oh, I assure you that I do not boast idly, Captain. Your ship and crew will not be allowed to leave St. Kitts. Well...you may leave but will not travel far.”

Drake turned quickly to face the governor and began purposefully walking toward him, a scowl on his face and rage in his heart. “You do boast, Governor. For if you do not then your appointment to this island will be at an end shortly I assure you.”

Governor Cavendish appeared completely unfazed by the threat. “Captain, I am sorry it has come to this but I must insist that you help me. Because if you do not, the Panther has orders to fire on you and sink you as soon as you weigh anchor.”

“Then her captain is a fool, as you are. We will fight her and take her to the bottom with us. That I also assure you.”

Cavendish chuckled. “You make many assurances, Captain. Unlike you, however, I have the full support of England, His Majesty and many influential financial backers. You have the assistance of an inadequate ship and a motley crew of criminals and mutinous merchantmen.” The governor slowly began to stand, facing a seething Drake. “I wonder which of us truly has the capability of carrying out his promise.”

“I will,” Drake answered with a growl. “I will be alive and you will not.”

Cavendish sighed and shook his head dejectedly, as an elder may do to a headstrong child who has much to learn. “Please, Captain. I have been threatened with death by dozens of men over the years, most in better positions than you to carry it out. Suffice it to say that I have powerful friends who have placed the greatest of...trust in me and they will protect their interests with the most furious of exertions.” Drake said nothing but took a step closer to Governor Cavendish. The governor took a slight step back while holding up a hand in defense. “Now, now captain. Hear me out before you do something that I assure you will not be pleasant for you.” Every muscle in Drake’s body was tense and tingling, waiting for a cue to snap into action and break the governor’s neck with one quick maneuver. And still Govnernor Cavendish acted oblivious to Drake’s demeanor, which infuriated him even more.

Cavendish cocked his head slightly for a moment, as if in thought, then focused again on Drake. “I will make you one counter offer, Captain Williams. Consider this. Accompany the Panther to her blockade of San Juan, pluck a few Spanish prizes if you are able, and return any cargo you acquire back here. You will receive standard rates of payment and I will even sweeten the deal by forgoing my percentage of the profits. I will further give you six months to complete the transfer of power in San Juan. Hopefully, this will give you the time to garner the...reputation you need. Will that be sufficient for you, captain?”

Drake cooled down slightly at the governor’s counteroffer. Six months just may be enough time to prove to the crew that he was capable of command and, even better, that the men would earn wealth in return. A lot could happen in six months in the Caribbean. The Dutch or the French may decide to go to war with England, upsetting the governor’s personal plans. Pirates could ransack St. Kitts. A sea storm could render St. Kitts useless as a merchant port. The latter would be out of Drake’s control, but the others...that was a different story. But Drake had to get off this island alive, and if agreeing to Governor Cavenish’s offer made that possible then it was a good offer.

“Very well, sir,” Drake finally said. “I agree to your terms. Six months, no longer.”

The govnernor smiled and extended his hand toward Drake who hesitated, finally accepted it and both men shook hands sealing the deal.

“You are a wise man, Captain Williams. I am grateful you have agreed.”

“I still doubt the wisdom of my decision, Excellency, and your wisdom in suggesting it.”

Governor Cavendish continued to smile as he spoke. “I’m sure. But you have chosen wisely. Because if you fail, then I will revoke your letter of marque, brand you a pirate and make you an enemy of the Crown to be relentlessly hunted until you are caught and hanged as a traitor.”

[Poindexter]

(duplicate post)

[Poindexter]

“Captain! You are well!” Phillip shouted as Drake walked down the pier toward the Revenge. Drake didn’t acknowledge Phillip’s hail, looking sullen and gloomy as he boarded the sloop. He quickly unbuttoned his jerkin, shook it off his shoulders, and slammed it to the deck in anger. Phillip took stock of Drake’s obvious unhappiness, but pressed on as Drake continued walking toward his cabin. “We were beginning to worry, sir. Most of the men were preparing to go ashore and look for you. They were concerned that something unpleasant had befallen you.”

Drake stopped at Phillip’s last statement some of the tenseness in his body easing a bit. “The men wanted to come look for me?” he asked.

“Yes, they did. Nearly the entire complement, sir, as I said,” Phillip answered with a look of mild confusion on his face. “Naturally, Mr. Walpole could not let that happen as there would be no one left to prepare the ship for sail. But, I must admit, I found it difficult to persuade them to stay on board. I managed it though, sir.”

All the tension that Drake had been carrying with him since the governor’s visit now drained away. The crew...his men...they all wanted to fight for him - and with him. He struggled with the urge to set sail immediately for San Juan and personally plant an English flag into the chest of her Spanish governor.

“You did well, Phillip, thank you,” he said softly. “And so did the men.”

A moment later Damian Walpole, the ship’s quartermaster, trotted up to Drake and Phillip breathing heavily. “Captain, the ship is prepared and ready to sail at your command.”

“Did our new deck hands arrive as planned?” Drake asked.

“Aye, sir. Crew complement is now sixty-one head.”

“Provisions?”

“Taking into account the new hands, sir, enough to last us about three months.”

“Fresh water?”

“Nearly the same, sir. Our new arrivals revealed a spring nearby and we were able to fill a few barrels.”

While speaking to Damian something caught Drake’s eye in the waters beyond. A two-masted vessel nearly twice the size of the Revenge was moored about a cables length away, not next to a pier but about one hundred yards out to sea such was her size. Several of her crew were seen moving around on her deck in preparation to sail. To anyone else the scene was no different on the dozen other vessels in the harbor at the moment but this one in particular caught Drake’s keen eye. The ship was sporting two flags. One was the well known cross of St. George, flapping in the offshore breeze at the main topmast. The other was a pennant flying from the top foremast, slightly fresher than the faded English standard. The foremast pennant sported a coat of arms that Drake recognized. It was the governor’s seal, a design which he had noticed hanging on a wall while he had been admiring the swanky interior of his villa. It was the Panther.

An uncomfortable feeling washed over Drake as he felt that many eyes had been watching him as he was going about his business though he had no way of knowing for certain.

Drake turned his attention back to his quartermaster. “Well done, Mr. Walpole. Pipe the crew to assembly, if you please. I want to explain our situation to them.”

[Poindexter]

January 15, 1640
Thirty miles west of the Virgin Islands

Thanks to favorable winds Revenge and her unwanted companion Panther, sailing parallel to them a thousand yards away, were making good time. Drake took selfish pride in the fact that while both ships had all of their canvas flying, Revenge was slowly outpacing the larger brig. He made a point for the Revengers to make a great show of spilling the wind so Panther could keep pace, shouting orders over the water in her direction in the hopes of irritating the Panther’s captain. The crew, of course, loved it.

The Revengers had been performing well despite the troubling story that Drake had recounted regarding Governor Cavendish and his ultimatum. To the contrary, it had seemed to galvenize them. Drake was finally beginning to realize that the crew trusted him most highly. They knew he would not carelessly throw their lives away for personal gain and had their best interests at heart. They knew that Drake was very bitter about the pact he had been forced to make with Cavendish and that their fate was tied to his because of it. Phillip had constantly been reinforcing the fact that the men genuinely wanted Drake to lead them, but Drake somehow found it hard to believe. He was a mere lad of eighteen years in charge of many men older than he and with years of seamanship that made Drake seem a novice to life at sea. A few had even crewed vessels that had sailed around the world, making Drake’s foray into the Caribbean seem like a jaunty holiday by comparison.

From his postion on the quarterdeck, Drake was brought out of his reverie by a loud noise above him. Looking up, he noticed the topsail flapping wildly. Rope that secured a corner of the sail to the topmast had snapped and the topsail was fluttering uncontrollably in the strong winds.

“Mr. Walpole!” he shouted. “Clew the main topsail before she gets away from us!”

“Right away, sir!” replied Walpole, followed immediately by “Bosun! Get your men’s bleedin’ asses up that mast! If she flies free, I’ll be drinking your share of grog tonight!”

Several men immediately began shimmying up the ratlines like starving monkeys heading up a bananna tree, the boatswain barking orders and shouting encouragement as the men worked to secure the sail. Drake watched the crewmen work with a mild look of disgust. He felt Phillip approaching behind him but did not turn to acknowlege him.

“Damned sails. They’re as threadbare as the bedsheets of a worn out whore,” Drake said. “And obviously the quality of our cordage isn’t far behind that.”

Phillip snorted, chuckling. “A ship is only as good as her crew, captain. That makes us truly formidable, does it not?”

Drake shook his head, watching the progression of the topsail repairs. “How will our enemies know of our formidability if we do not have the sails to run them down? I fear threatening gestures from the main deck and hurling salty language will not be enough to force a vessel to heave to. Not even a French vessel.”

Unseen to Drake, Phillip looked out over the starboard side and set his eyes on the Panther. “Our escort appears to have quite an abundance of fine cloth, captain.” Drake turned his head slightly in Phillip’s direction not liking where his train of thought was taking him. “The men would support you if you decided to - change our present course of action. Especially after the story you told them.”

“You know I will not wage a war with England,” Drake answered simply.

“Yes, so you have told me many times.” A pause. “And yet has it not been Englishmen who have so far given us the most difficulty? Captain Woolaby, Governor Cavendish...one a sadist, the other a self-absorbed opportunist. Both are men with too much power and easily corruptible values.” Drake could not fault Phillip’s logic. So far their interactions with the English had not been the best. But he stood firm.

“Two bad apples does not mean the entire barrel is spoiled.”

“True,” answered Phillip. “But that does not mean that rot has not begun to set in.”

Drake turned to face his first mate. “You Frenchmen. Always finding fault with the English,” he said.

“They are an accursed and damnable race of savages unworthy to breathe incorruptable French air. You should not dispute me on this fact.”

“Oh, I am in no position to dispute you,” Drake said, amused. “You are more experienced at being French than I.”

“I feel I must also voice my concern, sir, about us not heading to St. Eustatius straight away to secure the bonze cannon available there,” Phillip stated. “Quality cannon would be -”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Drake cut Phillip off becoming a bit exasperated with his friend. “And if I could also fetch a frigate, I would. But we are nearly destitute after purchasing supplies for this little excursion. Besides, as you yourself implied, are we not formidable? What need for bronzers then? No, we will make due. It’s either that or back to the merchantmans life.”

The topmastmen had finally gotten a hold of the tempermental sail and nearly secured it when a another crewman’s yell briefly stopped everyone in their tracks. “Sail ho! Spanish on the rise!” It was Dominic Neville, one of the boatswain’s men straddling the topmast yard. Drake quickly glanced up then tried to follow Dominic’s gaze as his eyes played over the horizon. He raced up to the forcastle with Phillip right behind. A crewman ran up to him with Woolaby’s spyglass, an old and barely useable instrument, the glass almost completely fogged and unusable at certain angles of the sun. As he peered through it his eyes actually managed to catch a glimpse of what appeared to be a vessel - two vessels, actually. Small specks that seemed to blink on and off, sails flashing as they captured the suns rays.

Drake cupped hands to his mouth and shouted to Neville, “How many? Can you make out their lines?”

Neville concentrated on the small shapes, allowing his experienced sea-eyes to settle on the curves of the approaching vessels. Seconds went by, then an answer, “Two ships, Captain. Square riggers. Trade galleons likely. Definitely Spanish, sir.”

Drake squinted though the glass again, his eyes settling on the approaching Spanish vessels much quicker this time. The Revenge, running broad, was approaching them rapidly while the Spanish vessels were having a tougher time of it as they were running close hauled, their small numbers of overworked and underpaid crewmen madly dashing up and down the rigging, trying - but failing - to pour on as much speed as possible. Thinking of the merchantman’s life at sea - his former life - gave Drake a moment for pity, but he quickly forced it out of his mind. He made a quick mental calculation, estimating the Revenge’s speed, factoring in the estimated sailing speed of the Spanish, and quickly formulated an approach plan. “Well done, Mr. Neville,” he shouted. “An extra share of grog for you this night! Get that sail tied down quickly. We’ve work to do for England!”

Damian Walpole had already begun shouting orders, interlaced with off-colored oaths, at the crew who were running all over the ship tightening lines, preparing the cannon, clearing the deck. Drake began making his way to the bow with Phillip following close by. “If we continue to hold the weather gauge,” he related to Phillip, “we should be able to intercept the Spaniards off the eastern tip of Puerto Rico before they are able to run for the open sea. With land on their starboard it will be harder for them to maneuver and easier for us to approach at our leisure. If we are fortunate, we may not be forced to fire on them.”

“More’s the pity,” replied Phillip.

“An intact Spanish vessel will fetch a better price at the shipyards than a holed one, my friend.”

“Captain!” shouted Mr. Walpole. “Panther is signaling!”

Drake’s attention quickly shifted to the brig. Interpreting the signal flags Panther had displayed he found himself unsurprised. “Well, of course you will stand off if we engage the Spanish, you bloody devils,” Drake mumbled to himself. Behind him, he heard Phillip huff in contempt.

“And the English continue to impress us,” he said.

Drake smiled, his adrenaline rising in concert with the approaching galleons. “And that is exactly what I want the Spaniards to be saying shortly.” Then, in a yell that could have been heard in St. Kitts, “Boarders ready! Run up the colors! We go straight at ‘em!”

[Poindexter]

Drake peered over the raised larboard railing of the Vieja Senora and into the sea below. The white, bubbling, foamy area which marked the spot where her dispatched captain now lay quickly began to dissipate as Caribbean water quickly erased all sign of their duel. With the noise of his cascading blood finally fading in his ears, Drake became conscious of his own heavy breathing. Then of the wind buffeting the mainmast sails over his head and of the sea slapping against the Senora’s wooden hull. Then of the roaring of his crew behind him as they cheered their victory over the Spanish.

He shook his head slowly from side to side with a twinge of pity wondering why the Senora’s captain had decided to fight it out with him, outmatched though he was. Why did he not surrender with his honor and life both intact? The “fight” had taken no more than a half-minute with Drake’s lightning fast rapier driving the Spanish captain overboad before he was able to land the first blow. A large portion of the Spanish crew, after seeing their captain dispatched post-haste, surrendered immediately.

The same story was true for the Revenge’s first prize, the galleon Novia de Ruborizacion. A quick boarding action; a brief and pointless sword fight with her captain; her crew surrendering with nine of her mates offering to join the Revenge, making good the losses Drake had suffered. Both ships had little cargo of actual value as far as he could tell - a random assortment of unspectacular goods bound for some godforsaken Spanish destination, a rather generous portion of dried vegetables and salted fish. But they also carried gold coins and between the two captured Spanish prizes Drake found himself no longer destitute, though this first haul would never purchase something as splendid as a governor’s villa. Maybe a corner of the washroom, he thought.

But these thoughts were but a split second firing of the synapses. They were easily superceded by the euphoric and incomparable feeling of victory. A great smile formed on Drake’s face, he whirled in place to face his crewman behind him, and shouted “Huzzah! Huzzah!” while whipping the air above him with swirling motions of his rapier. A cacaphony of huzzahs responded in kind, louder and with gusto. The Revenge had made prizes of two Spanish galleons, her cargo and her gold. And it had all been done without firing a single cannon. Not bad for an hours work.

As Drake unsteadily made his way through the throng of Revengers he was assailed with back slaps, laughter, shoulder shaking, and loud congratulations. In turn, he did his best to complement the well-wishers by making an conscious effort to acknowlege crewman who had fought especially well or had performed some valuable deed that was brought to his attention by other crewmembers who had witnessed it: “A timely arrival, Mr. Jenkins!...Capital effort, Mr. Matthews! An action that will surely make Spanish history books!...Upon my honor, Mr. Porter, I thank you for leaving some Spaniards for the rest of us!”...and so on.

In the bustle of carousing men, Drake happened upon Dominic Neville, the seaman who had first sighted the Spanish. His countenace gave Drake pause. Compared to all those around him Neville remained remarkably still, his stoicism only briefly interrupted by an accidental bump or shove, his eyes looking out over the sea yet focusing on nothing and never wavering. Drake walked up to Neville and regarded him for a few long seconds.

Neville still showed no signs of recognition. Finally, Drake said, “Are you well, Mr. Neville? Have you been wounded?” Though still unmoving Drake noticed Neville’s eyes flutter the slightest bit, betraying his return from the world he had been visiting.

“Uh, yes Captain. I am well. Uninjured.”

“Well, very good then. It would pain me to lose such a fine set of eyes as you possess, Mr. Neville.”

“Thank you kindly, sir,” Neville said, with an almost imperceptible softening of demeanor. Drake stood there for some awkward moments knowing something was amiss but decided not to press Neville. The spectre of battle, no matter how quick and clean, affected men in as many ways as there were grains of sand in the ocean. Neville too seemed uneasy, refusing to meet Drake’s gaze, his eyes darting from side to side whenever their eyes met. Giving up, Drake firmly slapped Neville on the shoulder with a hand, said “Well, carry on Mr. Neville,” and began to walk past him towards the Senora captains cabin to pilfer. Drake had taken no more than a half dozen steps when Neville finally called out “Captain! Please, a word.”

Drake walked back to Neville whose invisible wall had finally collapsed, his former grim and distant visage replaced by a soft, meek, and humble humanity. “Sir, I beg forgiveness for my demeanor. I...it is...” He sighed heavily, shoulders slumping a bit, frustrated that the words would not come.

“At ease, Mr. Neville. Please, speak your peace.”

A pause. Then Neville’s eyes met Drake’s and this time they stayed there. “Captain, I would...I would like to...thank you, sir. For what you have done here today, I mean.” Neville’s lips quivered slightly with emotion.

“Of course, Mr. Neville,” said Drake. “Though I admit I am at a loss at to
what exactly...”

“Hope, sir,” interrupted Neville. “You have...you are....giving us hope. Sir, I have been sailing the seas for nearly fifteen years now, since I was a lad of seven. I served under Captain Woolaby for almost half of that time, sodomite he was. It was not until just a few moments ago, when you saw me at the rail, that I realized...” He trailed off. Drake stood unmoving, unblinking. Neville looked up into the sky, inhaled deeply, refocused on Drake. “Thank you for giving us hope, sir.” With that, he touched a knuckle to his forehead in salute and walked away. Drake’s gaze followed him until Neville was swallowed up in the gaggle of celebrating crewmen.

Then, there was loud shouting somewhere on deck overpowering the boisterousness. It quieted the raucous Revengers for a moment, then the shouting turned to laughter. Then a few men began to cheer. Drake craned his neck in the direction the crewmen around him were facing but could not see what was happening. As he began pushing his way back through the throng more Revengers began cheering. What the blazes is going on? Drake made further attempts to see over or around the crowd, to no avail, as he made his way toward the commotion. As the throng of sailors finally began to thin Drake began to make out spoken words and phrases. And the most common was “Mr. Rousseau.” Drake immediately saw why as he made his way to the front of the group.

Four Revengers were holding Phillip Rousseau up in the air, two men holding a leg apiece and two others supporting his shoulders. They were tossing Phillip up and down in celebration as if he were some victorious Roman general come back from campaign. Phillip’s expression was a mixture of bug-eyed wonder and sheer terror. Faint howls of protest emminated from him at every downstroke of his flying body combined with an uncomfortable, nervous laugh. “Ah! Please, gentlemen - Ah! Ah, oh! I beg you leave me be, please!“

Drake could not stifle a wide smile at the acrobatics. “Pray what have you done now, Mr. Rousseau?” he cried as Phillip flew through the air with the greatest of ease. “Did you find the Spanish captain’s goat-faced mistress below and take her as your bride?”

“Nay, captain!” exclaimed the crewman responsible for Phillip’s right leg.

“Mr. Rouss found the rum! Contraband! A king’s haul in the hold, sir! Enough to float the Revenge herself!”

“T’was nothing - ah! - at all, Captain!” exclaimed Phillip as he rode the crest and eddies of his airborne adventure. “I went belowdecks with a few men to clean out any - Careful, mind you! - stragglers and was shown a hidden cache from a Spaniard who apparently thought I - All right! Enough lads!” he cried at last, nearly screeching. The four grateful Revengers obligingly settled Phillip on to firm ground once more, smiling and laughing. Phillip straightened his ruffled and twisted clothing, shooing the men away with sharp thrusts of his hands. After making himself as presentable as possible, he walked toward Drake and finished with a great exhale, “- thought I was going to run him through.”

Drake continued to grin from ear to ear. “My, my. He was truly terrified then?”

“Please, spare me your droll humor on my swordsmanship. I did quite well this day, thank you. Did you not just overhear my having been dubbed Lord Rousseau of the Revenge due to valor in battle? Unofficially, of course.”

“Dear me. Your title does seem a trifle premature, don’t you think Lord Rousseau? I admit to not seeing you until the very end of the battle.”

A wave of the hand dismissed Drake’s quite ignorant observation. “A deft plan of attack takes time to formulate for master tacticians such as myself.”

“‘Daft’ plan did you say?”

“No, no...deft plan. Deft.”

“Daft is more appropriate.”

“And would be to a mere landsman as yourself!”

Both men laughed heartily then tightly hugged, back slapping each other with affection. Their love of dry wit and sarcasm is what first drew them together years ago and what helped them through their harsh servitude.

“Well, my friend, “Drake said, “since you are soley responsible for discovering this fine haul, I will leave it to you to form a party - a responsible party, mind - to see that the Revenge and her gallant crew get the choicest rum for the journey back to St. Kitts.” With a chuckle, he added, “I wager you will have no trouble finding volunteers claiming to be expert tasters, do you?”

[Poindexter]

February 3, 1640
80 miles from St. Kitts

The fourth bell rang and Drake was forced awake again. “Damn,” he whispered. He had been lying on his hammock in the Revenge’s stern cabin for over an hour searching for the rest his body told him he desperately needed, the sloop’s passage gently rocking him back and forth. He found his insomnia odd. Days of carousing, drinking, singing and gambling with the Revengers should have sapped him but he could not quiet his mind enough for sleep to come. The crew had exhausted the rum and Drake had exhausted the sleeping tricks his grandfather had taught him as a boy for those nights he was alone and frightened in his bed. It seemed they no longer worked. He concluded that perhaps he was not that boy anymore.

With a groaning sigh, Drake swung himself out of his hammock and walked to the far side of the cabin - no more than two strides - slightly crouched to keep his head from bumping the deck above. He picked up a small wooden box with the initials “DW” carved on the hinged lid. He paused a moment before opening it, readying himself, then flung the lid open. The stench of the dried valerian roots inside was appalling and despite knowing it was coming, Drake could hold back neither a harsh cough nor the distored, grimacing visage that formed on his face. He quickly took one of the dried roots, brown and frayed like the end of a rope, and snapped the box lid shut with a sharp clap. The noise masked the gentle rapping of knuckle on wood at the cabin door. The rapping returned a moment later and this time Drake glanced toward it.

“Oh, forgive me, Phillip. I did not hear you there. Come in.”

Phillip entered the cabin but almost came to a complete stop after only one step inside. Not even the night breeze that followed Phillip’s entrance was enought to dispel the stench. His expession crumpled into a visage not unlike Drake’s had been moments before. “Good God! From the assault on my senses, I presume you are having trouble sleeping again?” he asked, rapidly waving a hand in front of his face.

“Yes,” Drake answered in a low, gravely voice. “Apparently the peace and contentment of our recent victory is not enough for me so I am forced to rely on witchcraft.” He smiled at the last.

“My apologies. I shall leave you be. Shall I take the next..?”

“No, no, no,” interrupted Drake. “The mixture will not take effect quickly. Stay, I beg you. Pull the door to, mind.” He motioned him to sit on the locker in the corner of the cabin.

“Very well then, as you wish.” Phillip seated himself, slowly exhaling with fatigue as he did so. He was secretly glad that Drake had asked him to stay. The monotony of the watch combined with the after effects of the celebrations had made it difficult for him to stay alert. Though his friend and confidant, Drake would have been appalled to learn that one of the deck hands had caught Phillip - literally caught him - before sleep deprivation sent him plunging over the taffrail. Such a lack of discipline would never do and even if the Revenge wasn’t a ship of the line in His Majesty’s service Drake would command her as one, such was his admiration of service life - albeit one with better pay, better food and less tyrrany. Yes, conversing with Drake would help his mind focus again. Long enough, he hoped, to see out the rest of the watch.

“Is there anything to report?” Drake asked. Phillip felt a slight chill run though him, as if Drake had sensed what he was dwelling on. But Drake showed no signs of precognition and continued with his project.

“All is well, sir. Badgley and Walpole command our two prizes and have not signaled anything out of order. Still no sightings of any Spanish pursuers. We are holding a steady eight knots...of course, we would be faster if we weren’t required to herd these two fat cows back to St. Kitts.”

Drake murmered in agreement. “I would not wish to be one of the poor Spanish sods who had staked an investment in one of those wallowing pigs,” he said with a slight jerk of his head to the stern windows and the prizes sailing beyond them, both now displaying the banner of St. George, mockups created by one of the waisters. “Have we had any further incidents between the men and our new Spanish compatriots?”

Phillip shook his head. “Nothing since that dust up yesterday between one of our larboard gunners and that Spanish gunners mate. A spirited debate about how English gunners shoot straighter but Spanish gunners shoot farther - which eventually devolved into arguments of superiority in conquering the fairer sex. Those who are better - ah - copulators, if you will. The scuffle was broken up quickly enough. Too much rum shared between them, no doubt. But they were disciplined, per your orders. Their share of prize money on this trip will be forfeited and distributed to the remainder of the crew.”

“They should feel fortunate they were not flogged at the capstan,” Drake replied sternly. Then a moment later and in a subdued voice, “No, I should not blame them. They deserve this celebration to kick up their heels. Both for securing the victory and because it is right.” He sat there silent for another moment, contemplating. “No. I will not become another Woolaby. Let our two patriots know I am rescinding their punishment. Their shares are to be reinstated. Just inform them not to let it happen again or they will be set to reeving for a month.”

“Very good sir,” Phillip answered. He knew Drake would eventually come around.

Along with the root, Drake gathered a small metal cup along with a fractured piece of holystone used to scrub the deck and placed them next to the burning candle on the writing table. Then Drake began randomly picking up the half-dozen cups scattered over the table and floor, looking into each one, searching for any remaining rum from the “king’s haul” that Phillip found. Drake poured what remaining liquid he could find into his small cup and examined it. Just enough for one good quaff. It would have to do.

Phillip had been watching Drake in silent fascination while he worked when a thought snapped him out of his contemplation. “Pray tell me, did you learn...this...from the natives in America? I find that after all this time I have never queried the origins of your black arts.”

Drake smiled, not looking up. He placed the valerian root on the table and began to grind it into the table with the holystone fragment. “No. Though I learned this in the colonies, the root did not originate there. It is native to Europe - and even the Far East, so I’ve heard. I spent a great deal of time with our colony physican when my family moved to Massachusetts Bay in ‘30. Anything to keep me away from a chapel.”

“John...Winthorp was it? The Puritan who founded the Bay colony?

“Winthrop. John Winthrop. He became governor of Massachusetts Bay.”

“Ah, yes, yes. Winthrop.” Phillip continued watching as Drake put the holystone fragment away and gently raked the powdered root across the table and into the small cup. “And your parents died only a short time later, am I correct?”

The cold factualness of Phillip’s query made Drake pause for a moment. The subject of his parents had not been brought up for many years now. Its revelation was followed by a pang of bitterness - towards them - combined with a mixture of guilt and longing. But the hesitation was so brief that Phillip, consumed by his desire for an antecdote, failed to notice. Drake unconsciously adjusted his ponytail before he answered never looking up.

“Yes, they did. My father contracted a fatal fever three months after our settling in. My mother died of the bloody flux the next year.” He poured the rum into the small cup and stirred the mixture with his index finger. “They both relied on prayers to God to deliver them from their misery, alas to no avail. It still pains me to this day - angers me, honestly - that they would not seek my council on natural remedies. Or the doctor’s for that matter. If for nothing more than to ease their suffering. But no, I was only a boy of nine years at the time.” Drake held the small cup over the candle flame, waited, then in a mocking tone bitter with sarcasm he added, “For what is my knowlege compared to the Almighty, eh?”

“Come now, Drake. Surely you cannot still harbor such acrimony toward them. They did what they believed was right and just in the eyes of God.”

“Their faith blinded them to reality,” Drake creid. “Their Puritan pride turned their two children into orphans.” He continued to gently swirl the contents of the cup over the candle flame. He dipped a finger into the mix, noting the warmth, then rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. Not quite ready.

“Nonsense. Your grandfather took you in shorty afterwards, did he not? Along with your sister and aunt, your father’s sibling?”

Drake looked away as Phillip brought up more supressed memories he had successfully, he thought, buried away never to be found again. “My grandfather - he was a good man. The purest, kindest, most decent soul I have ever met, then or now.” He paused, then looked at Phillip. “Oh, I imagine you may be dismissing what I say as the mirth of boyhood or the zeal of youth, but you should not. The man would tear out his own organs if he thought it would save the life of a loved one or a good friend.” Drake glanced into his cup and watched the tiny pieces of powedered root slowly swirl in the liquid, the heat beginning to take effect. “Still, is it not the desire of every child to covet the love of his parents? My grandfather, despite his noble qualities, was not a suitable replacement.” Drake sighed deeply. “Though not for want of trying, rest his soul. I cannot help but love him dearly for that.”

“It would have been my greatest pleasure to have met him,” Phillip said. “You spoke of him with much affection when we first met and also of your sister.” A lull in the conversation allowed Phillip to observe the night sky outside the stern windows, the undulating stars sketching curved shapes on the black canvas of sky in concert with the rolling ship. Every now and then a significant rolling swell would tilt the Revenge enough to where the topsails of the Vieja Senora were visible. Drake finally took the cup away from the candle flame and set it on the table, small wisps of steam emanating from the heated rum. The ship motion and the hypnotic effect of the swirling stars was causing Phillip’s eyelids to buckle and waver. Recognizing it and in a effort to keep his lids from collapsing he blurted out, “And you believe your grandfathers kindess to be the reason for his association with the Marquis de la Montalban?”

“Yes,” answered Drake plainly whose thoughts were now so concentrated inward that he again failed to notice Phillip’s tone or demeanor. Even time itself was an unperceived consideration. “My grandfather was already indebted to this villain even before he took me and my dear sister in. I admit I never quite understood the origins of the agreement.”

“Your grandfather had allowed the Marquis to make a financial investment into his shipping business.”

“That was the substance of it, yes. Grandfather’s shipping business was merely an outfit of two worn sloops and cat - strictly coastal trade and the like. Certainly nothing to make you a rich man. Grandfather was content with living comforatbly. But, the Marquis was a weathy man - very, very wealthy. The kind of weath that stains a man’s soul. A miserly charlatan if there ever was one. Had quite the ruthless reputation. What needs would service him by investing in such a small enterprise such as my grandfathers still puzzles me.”

“Hmm,” said Phillip thoughtfully. “Perhaps he saw some future in colonial trade? It remains a rather untapped market even today. But I have heard there are great prospects.”

“That may very well be. But men such as the Marquis do not make deals in a civil manner. He is shrewed and powerful enough to create his own market where none exists. And those who he does business with are a mere afterthought - a means to an end, nothing more.” Drake held the cup to his mouth, gently blew on the heated rum a couple of times, then quickly tossed the mixture down his throat in one gulp. Phillip watched Drake’s eyes narrow as the vile concoction made its way through his bowels. He made a motion of grinding his teeth as if extricating some stubborn piece of root, licked his lips, exhaled slowly.

“Perfect,” he whispered.

Phillip earnestly desired Drake to continue his story, but concluded he had made him uncomfortable enough for one evening. But what an incredible tale it was. Despite its melancholy nature and tragic eventualities, to Phillip it was utterly fascinating in a maccabre way: the final night Drake and his family sat together for dinner; his grandfathers announcement that they would soon be free of the Marquis’ financial shackles - he was to personally see his ships in port on the morrow; the terrifying noise of the Marquis and his henchmen kicking open the door to his grandfathers home and the announcement that all three ships had been lost at sea; the Marquis then claiming ownership of his grandfathers house, his belongings, and themselves as restitution; the Marquis’ henchmen then seizing his sister, aunt, and grandfather and forcing them into his waiting carriage just outside; and how Drake, refusing the fate the Marquis had in store for him, fled for his young life eventually making his way to the clutches of Captain Woolaby and the oppresive life of merchantman at sea.

When Phillip finally looked up he was momentarily taken aback when he realized that Drake was no longer sitting across from him but was now lying in his hammock once again. He was gently swinging to and fro in concert with the motions of the Revenge, staring at the roof of the cabin - not intently, but thoughtful and unfocused as if the deck above him were invisible. Phillip thought it best to silently make his exit and allow Drake time to settle his troubled thoughts. Which I foolishly brought to light again, he thought, now angry with himself. He is a finer friend than that. I should know better. Without another word, Phillip made his way to the door.

“I will never see them again, you know,” Drake said in a quiet voice that was full of emotion - a multitude of emotions. Phillip, hand on the door, stopped. He turned slightly and his eyes met Drake’s. “Fate has conspired against me - has taken them from me. I am to be alone in this world it seems.”

Phillip simply stood there. It was the most vulnerable he had seen Drake in his life. It was so remarkable to Phillip that for an instant he wondered if it was not the valerian root affecting Drake’s faculties. No, he had seen Drake drink this mixture a score of times over the years. This was that little boy of nine years old again. Or maybe that young man of eleven. Both boys, however, were still carrying the heaviest burden in the world: that of a child who has lost his family and the guilt - the cruel, discouraging, unjust guilt - for feeling powerless to do anything to prevent it.

“You have not lost them, Drake,” Phillip said with such unruffled conviction that Drake felt inclined to believe it. “For as long as you live, they live. And as long as you carry the hope that you will one day find them, then so they also carry the hope that you will, no matter where they may be.”

Phillip walked out of the cabin and gently closed the door.

Less than a minute later, Drake fell into a deep sleep - well before the valerian root should have taken effect.