Page 11 of Of Magic and Rum
As soon as she set foot on board, she started to wear the skirts and half-corsets and let her hair grow, rebelliously refusing to cut it even when it got as far as her ass. Mary is a kindred spirit if there ever was one, and her benefit to the crew was on par with at least a dozen other men I could’ve hired—no regrets there.
“Know which way you’re headed, boy?” Duke asks, joining me at the ship’s wheel and patting my shoulder.
I rub one callus against the smooth wood, glaring at the setting sun behind us. “East I’d imagine?”
Duke snorts and spits into the ocean. “That was an easy one.”
“Were you able to chart any potential intersecting trade routes?”
“Considering we’re crossing damn near the entire Atlantic Ocean, we’re going to run intoseveralmerchant ships on routes from Africa, America, England, and the Caribbean.” Duke pulls a small journal from his pocket. “They should be cartingeverything from rum, iron, gunpowder, and spices. You name it, and it’s on these ships. Just a matter of timing and picking up the speed when we can, Jack.”
“And that’s what I love to hear.” Grinning to myself, momentarily satiated by the calming scents of salt and tar lacing the air, my grin widens when the wind rustles through my hair. The sails snap open and taut, hurtling us faster. “Mighty good sailing wind today, hm, Duke?”
Duke closes his eyes, letting the breeze puff his beard. “That it is, Captain.”
Ragnar is speaking with our stowaway, pointing in one direction and back to a wooden bucket and scrubbing brush. Ragnar’s hands fold over his chest, and the “cabin boy” furiously nods, being sure to keep their chin tilted downward. Ragnar rubs his neck before turning away and busying himself with the next task.
“Keep an eye on the wheel, would you, Duke? And be sure to keep heading due east.” I wink at him, ignoring Duke’s middle finger blatantly saluting me.
I work my way around the deck, ensuring I’m sufficiently hidden from our cabin boy’s view should they risk a glance around. If I were them, I’d assess every crewmate and note who I should potentially stay far away from or, better yet, look for possible allies. But this person is so concerned with shading their face that they scarcely look up from the floorboards. They’re on hands and knees, scrubbing the deck with their sleeves pulled over their hands, exposing only their fingertips. When they dunk the brush to clean and re-wet it, they’re careful not to get their hands equally wet. Curious. Every time a brisker wind gusts over the deck, the cabin boy stops and covers their face with an arm. Even more curious.
I’m leaning on the mast, hidden partially by a stack of wooden crates and a coiled pile of rope, positively transfixedon our mystery person, when a hand pats my head from above. Either it’s Squid or a giant bird. I pray for the former before looking up. Thankfully, itisSquid. “Yes?”
Squid blinks rapidly and points to the north, circling his eyes with each hand and pointing again before scurrying back to the crow’s nest. Squid hasn’t spoken but three words since joining our crew: rum, cat, and rope. We are still unsure if those are, in fact, the only words he knows or if he chooses not to speak because he also can’t hear very well. He prefers to be alone and makes one hell of a climber, which suits his crow’s nest role.
“Ragnar,” I shout, spying the cabin boy, snapping their attention my way, while I look in the opposite direction. “Keep an eye north. Squid spotted something.”
“Aye, Captain,” Ragnar yells from across the deck.
Cutting my eyes back to the boy, I see them jolting, catching only a glimpse of emerald eyes—very familiargreeneyes. I edge closer with my hands folded in front of me. The boy lifts a pail sloshing with brown liquid—the latrine bucket. They grimace and struggle to get to the boat’s edge, turning their face away as the contents empty into the ocean. If only they accounted for the wind’s direction. Some of the liquid mists backward and speckles the boy’s shirt. The boy gasps and drops the bucket on the deck, immediately inspecting themselves, pulling the shirt away from their body, but as they turn, the fabric pulls taut along the backside, revealing lusciouscurves. I can’t help the devious grin playing on my lips. The boy is not only a girl but awoman, after all.
“Captain,” Aranck, our crew’s healer, beckons from my side. “We have a man who is suffering from severe gout and isn’t responding to the normal herbal remedies. We may need to remove his foot.”
Aranck’s stony features harden, his nose’s downward slant accentuated by the frown pulling at his mouth. I’d met Aranckwhen I sought solace on the banks of America during a trip back from Europe. He’s a member of the Cayuga tribe, and I spent weeks with them learning of their cultures and traditions, earning the serpent tattoo circling my left arm, tapped and inked by Aranck himself. When I’d announced my departure, Aranck asked to come along, if only to journey with me for a year. He wished to see the world and couldn’t do so within the confines of the land. Given our friendship and the healing skills he learned from his grandfather, I welcomed him with open arms. One year has turned into several now.
I scratch my prickling scalp before answering. “Do what you must. Tell Ragnar I approve an extra ration of grog for the poor bastard. Keep him below decks until it heals.Ifit heals.”
Aranck gives me a solemn nod before disappearing.
In the distance, Mary is between commands, the ship at full sail and charging through open water like the beauty she is. There are blissful lulls in moments like these—when the wind is right and blowing in one direction. And the sky is clear as Caribbean waters boding no incoming hazardous weather. Sailorscherishthese breaks. I catch Mary’s gaze and motion her over.
From here, I can see Mary’s lips thin with reservation, but she still answers my plea and walks across the deck until she’s standing beside me. “Yeah, Cap?”
“Why don’t you go introduce yourself to our new cabin boy?” Jutting my chin at the person now looking around like a lost pup with shit on her shirt, I roll my bottom lip between my teeth, ignoring how chapped they feel.
Mary frowns, and her head flinches backward. “Of course, but seems an odd order. Any reason?”
“Perhaps.” I snicker and make a walking gesture with my fingers. “Off you go, then.”
I sit back to watch the show from afar, ignoring the well-deserved eye roll from Mary.
Another woman aboard my ship. Jack Rackham, you lucky bastard.
I take a moment to survey what crew I can before blending in with everyone else. The deck is bustling with activity, and the realization of the melting pot that is a pirate crew has me reeling. A tall, broad man with umber skin and a shaved head leads in pulling a rope. The man behind him, nearly a foot shorter, has sepia-toned skin, and his hair is a mess of tight black curls. Leading the rear is the man in the red coat and powdered wig I’d seen with Jack earlier. An older man in his sixties or seventies hobbles past me on one leg, his ghostly pale skin turning pink in spots where the sun hits most. He exhales deeply, revealing toothless gums on the top and only two teeth on the bottom. He drags a rag over the sweat on his head and neck before continuing.
Pirates are so far ahead of their time, and they don’t know it. On a pirate ship, your ethnicity, age, culture, or religion doesn’t matter. Because here, everyone ceases to be anything but a pirate, and those around you are yourcrew. Follow the ship’s code, uphold your duties—and you’re free. And on Jack’s ship, it doesn’t matter what gender you are either if I heard him correctly saying “she.” But I won’t reveal myself. I can’t. It’s far easier to fade into the background as just another pirate boy.
The quartermaster gave me my duties, which, not surprisingly, are peon level. I’ve scrubbed nearly every inch of the deck, emptied the latrine bucket, managing to give my shirt a revolting poop smell, and now, my throat is throbbing, begging for something to drink. But I know I can’t simply help myself to a drink. They ration it as any well-run ship does. But when did they divvy it up?
