Page 5 of Of Magic and Rum
Duke shakes his head and beats a forefinger atop the desk. “And I suppose you want me to back you on this?”
“I’d owe you.” Leaning on the desk’s edge, I catch his gaze. “This’ll be the big one, Duke. Mark my words.”
“Jack, you owe me enough favors to last me the rest of my life.” Duke scratches Truffles’ back, trying to hold back a smile but failing.
I give a lopsided grin. “Then what’s one more, eh?”
“Fine. But if this winds up to be some wild goose chase, I’m never doing it again. Understand?” Duke points a stern finger at me.
Still grinning, I hold my hand out to him. “You won’t regret this.”
We shake hands, and I make my way to the helm to steer us into the port of Nassau.
Our boots hit the docks no sooner than most of the crew make their way to the island’s local brothel.
I follow in their wake, meeting Omar, the brothel keeper, at the front. After plopping several coins into his palm, I lean against one of the tables. “Whatever they want, yes? That should cover it.”
Omar tosses the coins in his hand, jingling them and holding them to his ear. “Oui monsieur. But Jack, you don’t wish to partake?” Omar’s voice is rich with a French accent, and his deep purple jacket is trimmed with gold filigree, which shifts as he swivels, referencing the establishment. “We have a new girl. Scarlet hair like you wouldn’t believe. I know how you prefer the red-haired ones,oui?”
“You’re not wrong, but Omar—” I bow and steeple my fingers. “—I don’t have to pay for it.”
One of the whores eyes me from across the room, biting her lip and pulling the dress further down to accentuate her tits.
“Trust me,” I emphasize.
Omar sticks out his bottom lip, adjusts the powdered wig atop his head, and sighs. “I can’t deny that. I swear there’s a shift in the winds every time Calico Jack steps onto the docks here in Nassau. You’re like a curated fine wine on an island full of years old Sercial.”
Blinking, I clap Omar on the shoulder. “I have no bloody idea what that comparison means, but thanks all the same, I believe?”
“A compliment of the highest order, Captain Rackham. I assure you.” Omar’s obsidian eyes scan me up and down, his fingers playing at the frilly lace peeking from his jacket sleeves.
Giving him a two-finger salute, I turn for the door. “Need fresh air. I’ll be waiting outside. Be a doll and send them out when they’re finished?”
“Of course.” Omar bows before zipping his spine straight, pointing across the room. “Giselle, it’s not been but five minutes. What are you doing out here already?”
Giselle rolls her eyes and throws her hands to her hips. “He fell asleep.”
Grinning, I exit into the warming sun, heavy scents of rum and brine in the air. I prop a foot against the building and slip the map from my inside jacket pocket, resting a rolled cigar between my lips. The taste of tobacco relaxes my mind, but I never find it necessary to puff on it.
Rejuvenation should’ve been a forethought, but my mind is far too occupied to relax. This jewel will put the crew of The Revenge in the history books should we find it. Riches and glory are at our grasp, but I still need to convince them it isn’t another one of my “outlandish desires for adventure.” I do not doubt that every mythical item I’ve researched exists. They’re more challenging to find than sunken Spanish gold but far more valuable.
“Hi, Jack,” a woman’s voice croons across the way. She wears a floral print gown, her light blonde hair pulled into sectioning ringlets. She’s waving at me with a laced, glove-covered hand and twirling the ivory parasol with the other.
The calluses on my palms scrape the worn leather map, and I offer a tightened smile, irritated by her interruption. A wave is all I can muster. “Good afternoon. Fine day we’re having, hm?”
A subtle frown pulls at her lips, but she nods and continues her merry way.
Fuck. I know I’m consumed by something when the company of a beautiful, interested woman becomes secondary to the task at hand.
Ragnar exits first, adjusting his shirt within his trousers and stretching his arms to the heavens. Red soon follows, combing both hands through his greasy blonde locks before securing the dirty powdered wig askew atop his head. Jac Gog, or Glog as we’ve all come to call him, joins us a breath later, his pale cheeks turned rosy and a sheepish grin lighting his face. Glog became our ship’s cook when we were last docked in Port Royal. We didn’t often recruit in Jamaica, considering the risks, but Glog came to us saying he wanted to be free after leaving Wales, but all he could offer was a strong back and decent meals. How could we have said no to that?
Sighing, I search the group of men as they arrive, missing one particular crewmate. “Where’s Mary?”
I’ll never hear it down from other crews about my recruitment of Mary Read. God forbid a woman on board. Most sailors are an overly superstitious lot, but they don’t believe in magic. Go figure. Mary is more ruthless and loyal than half the men on my crew, and so long as she swore the oath and did her duty, I didn’t mind a woman in our ranks. Besides that, Ilovewomen.
“Hasn’t come out yet. No surprise there,” Ragnar said, chuckling.
Ducking back into the brothel, I survey the varying doors leading to rooms on the ground floor and upstairs, with abalcony and additional rooms. “Mary,” I shout, waiting for a door to creak open.
