Page 84 of Of Magic and Rum
“The man’s made a name for himself. Known as Calico Jack. I figure they mean to make a spectacle of him to discourage others from treating piracy as a popularity contest.” The man shoves a leather-bound portfolio under his arm.
As much as I loathe the idea of them trying to humiliate Jack during his walk to the gallows, I know he won’t give them the satisfaction. Iknowhis charm will win the crowd along the way. And I know the more time they take to finish the deed, the longer it gives me to rescue him and the crew.
Pulling my jacket around me tighter, I keep my chin low and follow the people chitter-chattering and whispering about the soon-to-be hanging pirate. Some gather streetside while others have tied off smaller boats in the river. It’s sickening how many wish to witness a man they’ve never known meet his end. And I’d kill them all for it if I could.
“Here comes the cart,” a woman in a white bonnet and apron shouts across the road. She points, and everyone pushes and shoves to get the best view.
I let them elbow past me, a deep frown forming once Jack’s face appears. His head isn’t lowered, and a cocky grin plays on his lips. Jack’s kneeling in a rickety wooden cart with a coffin resting beside him. The chaplain and executioner flank the cart, walking alongside it, and two soldiers lead, with one trailing behind it. Soon, the rest of The Revenge crew, minus Mary, parade behind Jack in shackles.
Now is not the time. Too many people surround him in close quarters here.
Keeping hidden behind the sea of bodies, all edging their way forward to catch a glimpse of the infamous pirate, I stay in time with the cart, not tearing my eyes from Jack. He’s not going to like it, but this may need to wait until the last possible moment because it’s when there’ll be the fewest people standing in our way.
“Why’d you do it?” A random man standing on a bench asks Jack.
Jack chuckles and lifts his dirtied hands, covered in irons, for the crowd to see. “I was an Englishman like the rest of you. And I told jolly ‘ol England to suck my cock.”
Gasps and hoots of laughter fill the air. A woman in a corset dress and tavern apron walks alongside the cart and pours him a cup of something amber-colored before handing it to him with a grin.
Jack bows his head to her. “Appreciation.” He downs the drink, tossing the mug to the crowd upon finishing it.
Theyfightover it—shoving, punching, and pulling.
The procession continues for nearly an hour, and what they hoped to make into a humiliating, dehumanizing, torturous parade for Jack is the exact opposite. Because he’s Calico Jack Rackham for a reason. He says everything they wish to hear, flashing the grin that’s had me melting even when I couldn’t stand him, and he never lets his confidence falter. They’re praising him as a hero by the time he reaches the docks and have given him so many alcoholic beverages he begins fake drinking them so as not to be sloshed for our escape.
They line the remaining crew shoulder to shoulder at the dock’s edge, facing the awaiting noose to watch their captain hang. I swivel on my heel, searching for any sign of Omar’s “distraction,” but nothing from the cheering boisterous crowd seems out of the ordinary. Propping against a pole so as not todraw attention to my jitters, I flick my thumb over the dagger’s hilt nestled safely in my belt.
They’re leading Jack off the cart now, and my heart races. He’s only paces away from me, and I can’t act yet. Must. Wait. And I don’t want him to notice me because I don’t trust us to maintain neutral faces. One moment lingering on the other too long or one change in demeanor could make this all for nothing.
Keeping my face hidden from the crowd, I wedge between two people on the dock’s edge with a prime view of the noose hanging over the water. The rope’s length is far shorter than the average noose, which makes a pirate’s death longer. There’d be no chance of their necks snapping, and they’d sway and slowly suffocate. Nausea curdles my stomach, and I press a hand there.
The chaplain recites a prayer to bless Jack’s soul in the afterlife, and Jack squints at the piercing sunlight inching through the clouds. “You’re wasting your time there, mate.”
The chaplain ignores him and continues from a small red bible he holds in his withered hands. Jack rocks on his heels, waiting and still smiling at the adoring crowd. Some people beg the executioner to spare Jack’s life, while others shame the marines standing by him.
Once finished, the chaplain slaps the book shut and turns to Jack. “Any last words?”
I’m honestly shocked they allow this.
Jack scratches his chin and addresses the townspeople instead of the officers. “They call pirates low-life degenerates, but what’s trulycriminalis that you can fight like a man and still be reduced to dying like a damn dog.”
“Amen,” a man with a shaved head wails from behind the crowd, laughing and firing a round from his flintlock into the air.
Everyone shrieks and drops to their knees, shielding their heads with their arms. The marines point at the executioner, encouraging them to see their job through before sprinting afterthe—distraction. What starts as a single man raising turmoil through the on-lookers turns into three, four, and soon a dozen pirates are running through the streets of London, firing pistols that harm no one but still evoke fear.
My eyes snap to the executioner tossing the noose over Jack’s neck, and I fight people who are trying to flee in the opposite direction. Panic consumes me, and I’m slamming my shoulders into them with such force that a shooting pain spikes down my arms. The executioner tightens it around Jack’s neck, and in a moment that splits time and space, the world slowing, Jack’s body drops from the blocks. I kick the man in front of me behind the knee, toppling him to the ground and using him as momentum. Jumping from his back, I grab my dagger and throw it. I hold my breath for the few seconds it takes to slice through the rope, Jack landing in water up to his shins, coughing and gagging.
The executioner leaps down, but Jack already has the knife poised in his grasp, and after a few dodges, he slashes it across the man’s throat. I hurry across the dock and climb to where Jack stares bewilderingly at the small blade. He’s more attuned toitthan the man who was about to hang him gurgling and spurting blood behind him.
“Jack,” I breathe out.
His caramel eyes lift to meet mine, and a tiny smile cracks the corner of his lips. Jack shakes the dagger at me and laughs. “Cuttingit a little close there, weren’t we, love?”
“Are you dead?”
Yanking the dagger from his grasp, I secure it in my belt.
Jack feels himself, ending with cupping his crotch, and replies, “No.”
