Page 76 of Of Magic and Rum
The anguish in his voice makes my throat squeeze. No.
Turning, I run to a kneeling Jack with Duke propped in his arms. Blood spurts from his mouth, and he has so many splinters sticking from his chest and stomach that it’s a wonder he’s still breathing at all. Tears prick my eyes, and I slowly sink to my knees, helpless and hollow.
“Duke, you hold on until Aranck can take a look at you. You stubborn old bastard, can you hear me?” Jack shakes Duke, panic flaring as he looks for Aranck.
Duke chuckles and coughs, spraying more blood over his shirt and beard. “Jackie boy, if the cannon fire wouldn’t have gotten me, my body was close to doing it its damn self.”
“What?” Jack barks.
Duke winces in pain, and I stroke his sweat-stained forehead, hoping it’ll comfort him.
“Consumption. I’ve known by days were numbered for some time now.” Duke smiles at me and places a shaking hand on my thigh. “You take care of him, Anne. He’ll need you far more than he’ll be ready to admit.”
Jack sniffs once and holds Duke closer. “You knew, and you didn’t think to tell me? To prep?—”
“Jack,” Duke interrupts him. “I didn’t tell you because I wanted to die a pirate and not some old man having a coughing fit on his deathbed. If you knew, you would’ve ordered me below deck instead of letting me fight. Don’t try and deny it, son.”
Son. The word strangles my heart.
“Have I ever told you I hate how you’re always right?” Jack cracks a small smile and wraps his jacket around Duke when he starts to shiver.
Aranck arrives but frowns, bowing his head, knowing he can do nothing for him. Mary, Ragnar, and most of the crew have gathered in a circle around us. No one wears a hat, and everyone is stone-cold and silent.
“You remember which direction is north?” Duke asks, his voice cracking.
Jack sniffs again, and his jaw tightens before he points to the sky.
A final chuckle floats from Duke’s throat. “Don’t get lost without me,” are his final words before his body stills and the light flickers from his eyes.
“Not possible,” Jack whispers, his head held low, Duke still cradled in his arms.
Tears roll down my cheeks. I’ve been around so much death, but never like this. Mortal demise, though a natural part of life, is depressingly poetic.
Mary kneels beside me, her eyes glistening with tears, but none fall. She reaches for Duke’s glasses, delicately slipping them from his nose. She folds the stems and slips them in her pocket. With a still hand, she closes Duke’s lids.
“I’m so sorry, Jack,” I whisper, not knowing what else to say.
Jack’s sadness turns into irritation in a blink, and he clings to Duke. “You didn’t do this. What do you have to be sorry about?”
“I know he was like a father to you. I’m just sorr—”I rest my palm on Jack’s cheek and stop myself from apologizing again.
Jack softens against my touch but goes rigid moments later. “No. Hewasa father to me. Just one more fucking thing England has taken from me.”
I know that look in his eye. He’s going to want revenge. He’ll crave it at any cost.
“Jack, let yourself grieve before you think what you’re thinking.”
Jack rests Duke on the deck and slowly rises. “Prep him for a water burial. Come get me when you’re done.”
Jack takes one final look at Duke before he turns from us and heads toward his cabin. I chase after him, wishing nothing more than to comfort him, to offer an ear or a shoulder. But when I follow him into his quarters, he doesn’t so much as glance at me before slamming the door behind him.
They all will die. Maybe all at once and it may also take years, but each person aboard that ship is responsible for the death of a man I considered a second father. He. Is. Gone. And they’llpayfor it. We all knew the risks of agreeing to be part of a pirate crew. Most days, we can avoid the inevitable, and then there are days like today when we become part of pirate jargon. And if I’m being honest, longer stretches of time without incident trick you into believing you’re unsinkable. But it wasn’t me they took. It’s far worse.
I’ve been standing in my quarters with my forehead against my arm, pressed to the door, for too many minutes to count. It’s not until soft fur brushes the insides of my calves that I even bother to open my eyes.
“Truffs,” I grumble, turning my back on the door and letting my body slide until I sit in a defeated slump on the floor. “I feel like shit.”
My cat purrs and saunters onto my lap, kneading the tops of my thighs much like he’d done to Duke’s stomach. The memory initially angers me, but watching Truffles curl into a secure ball on my legs melts some of it away. Sighing, I beat my skull against the wood behind me, my sinuses burning and stinging. Maybe this is why the likes of Low, Roberts, and Blackbeard became merciless. When you don’t give a shit about anyone or anything, it’s harder tofeelit.
