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He tucked the gun away and folded his arms on the table.

“Pull up a seat, Mr White.”

I blinked, my heart rate slowing, but hesitated because I didn’t understand what was happening.

“Sit. Down.” Captain Martin said, as one of the crew members grabbed a chair and scraped its feet over the floor so that the thing rammed into my leg.

I sat.

“I said you can come aboard,” the captain repeated.

I nodded, licking my cracked lips. I realized at that moment that I’d almost hoped for the bullet.

The captain lifted his hand and whistled a sharp note.

“Bring Mr White some ale, and more for me. And a bowl of stew for him too.” He ordered in a gruff timbre. “He’s crew now, and I’ll not have him starve.”

A fortunate thing I was sitting, because the thought of food and ale made me lightheaded. And now I felt bad about dousing him.

“I’m sorry…” I muttered, gesturing to his soiled clothing, and he laughed.

“Cooled me off.” He waved a hand in the air. “I’m sorry I almost shot you.” He glanced at his crew and turned back to me. “Have to keep up appearances, you see.”

I nodded.

The crew went back to their discussion as if Captain Martin hadn’t almost blown a man to bits in front of them. Perhaps indicative of the life I’d be leading that the possibility of bloodshed didn’t cause a stir.

Captain Martin held my gaze. He pulled the coin purse from his pocket, hefting the little sack and stroking the leather.

My breaths quickened and my cheeks flushed.

“Simon Bartholomew White, you have a fair set of bollocks on you,” he said, grinning.

He fondled the pouch, toying with the coins inside, as I felt a swelling in my groin. Then he tossed the bag toward me. Instinctively, I caught it and held the leather purse in my open palm with a feeling of disbelief.

“You can keep that.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, my fingers trembling. My brain was hazy with hunger, and I thought I might faint. I tucked the small bag of coins into my pocket as the barkeep, in his soiled apron, sauntered over.

“Here.”

He slammed a bowl of stew and a spoon down in front of me and then a tankard of rich brown ale. He handed the captain a soft cloth.

“Yours is coming in a minute, Din,” he said to the pirate captain, who nodded, wiping at the front of his shirt.

“And another round for the crew, if you don’t mind, Will. We’re pulling anchor tomorrow morning, but we have the night yet.”

The men around us lifted their tankards and shouted “Hoorah!” and “Cheers to Captain Martin!”

Captain Martin smiled at me then with a kindness that took me by surprise. “Drink up and eat your stew, Simon.”

I stared at him, still stunned to be alive and at the mercy of this man who stirred my blood and had offered me hope. Then I wrapped my hand around the spoon and started to shovel the steaming stew into my mouth. The scalding food burned my lips and palate, but I was so fucking hungry the pain didn’t matter. I gulped the stew down, making embarrassing sounds and hissing at the heat.

When next I looked at Captain Martin, he regarded me with a strange sort of pity in his expression. I didn’t have the energy to protest, but I glared at him over my spoon, angry that he had to see me like this.

As if he realized my thoughts, he shifted his attention back to the crew and began to regale them with more bawdy and exciting tales. Mesmerized once again by their charismatic and well-spoken leader, they ignored me as I ate and drank.

Carago had told me that pirates were an uneducated bunch of immoral vagabonds, and most of the crew fit that description. But Captain Martin had a turn of phrase and a way of speaking that made me imagine him in a schoolroom as a child and then, as a young man, learning to read and write and figure, just like the most respected magistrate in the town. How did a man like that end up leading a swarthy crew of misfits that I was soon to join? I was eager to find out, and certain he’d had some kind of a career in the British Navy. He’d abandoned his post for some reason, or perhaps for many.

As the nourishment filled my belly and the ale revived my spirits, a different kind of ache assailed me. I needed to know more about Captain Martin.

*

T he Arrow was anchored offshore. She was majestic and glorious, and contrasted many of the other vessels in the harbour. I’d expected her to be smaller. As I stood on the shore that morning, after a night sleeping under a bridge with a full belly and a destination, I couldn’t help being impressed at the size of her.

Her hull and rails were painted a bright, rich red with a stripe of yellow between the gun decks. Her masts were black and sturdy. Even in mid-repair, she was beautiful.

As I gazed, transfixed, at the ship that was to be my home for the foreseeable future, a man bumped into me from behind, and I scrambled for balance.

“Pardon me.”

The man was carrying a pile of rolled sailcloth and gazed at me with recognition. “Oy, you’re Simon White, ain’t you? The captain said to look out for you.”

“Aye.”

I was wary of the captain’s men, unsure if they wanted me aboard or would rather see me starve in Port Royal. But this fellow, with curly brown hair and a substantial beard, smiled warmly.

“Name’s Martinéz. She’s grand, isn’t she? The Arrow .”

“Aye.”

He lowered his voice. “Stolen from the British Navy.”

“Ah.” That made sense.

“Come on. I’ll take you to Donatello, who’ll have somethin’ for you to do.”

“Donatello?”

“Quartermaster. He runs things.”

“Oh. I thought that Captain Martin—”

Martinéz laughed. “Oh, he’s in charge, but Donatello does most of the hands-on work.”

“I see,” I said. “Does the captain have a connection to the British Navy?”

Martinéz gazed at me with respect. “Aye. He used to be an officer, but he got tired of the job. Wanted more of a free way of living, I suppose you could say.” He waggled his eyebrows.

“So he turned pirate.”

Martinez shook his head. “Oh, no, don’t call him that. He won’t like it, even if that’s what he is.” Martinez held up his hand. “Now, I don’t mind the term, myself. But he calls himself a privateer, e’en though he ain’t got a writ from any government. He’s a proud man, Captain Martin.”

We stared at each other for a moment whilst I tried to process what he’d said.

“Never mind. I’ll let him explain his thinking. Though you won’t see much of him, I expect. Donatello will probably have you working below decks until he finds out what you’re made of.”

Perhaps I was lucky that the Arrow was so large, as her substantial size meant they could always use an extra hand. I was determined to prove useful.

The crew had recently availed themselves of a trio of goats and five chickens, of which I was promptly put in charge by Donatello because, when asked, I admitted to some experience with animal husbandry. Unfortunately, that had largely involved cows and horses, but I’d figured I could extrapolate my knowledge to goats and chickens without too much of an issue.

I might have overestimated my skills and underestimated the challenge of keeping three goats entertained and in line in small quarters.

*

I ’d hoped to be able to learn more about Captain Martin once I was aboard his ship. In fact, I didn’t get near him for weeks.

The Arrow pulled anchor and sailed out of Port Royal the day I boarded, and low winds meant we didn’t make huge gains for that first week. Even during the second and third week, the ship meandered among the islands in the southern Atlantic Ocean, minding her own business and steering clear of any encounters. She flew a Dutch flag as a decoy, so nobody dared approach us, and we minded our own business. I was relieved, although the rest of the crew grew bored with the situation. There was much work still to be done on board. The major repairs had been completed while at anchor, but there were countless minor tasks and maintenance work to be continued. The exciting and adventurous stories I’d heard of a pirate’s life had not materialized.

“Excuse me. Pardon me,” I stammered, pushing my way through the deckhands as they tried to swab the foredeck.

“Bloody hell, boy, get that feckin’ goat outta here!” A burly, tattooed man yelled.

“Not again!” someone muttered. “Can’t ye keep her tied up or somethin’?”

“Sorry, sorry. Excuse me. Lillith, get back here! Leave them be,” I shouted, dodging bodies and trying not to slip on the soapy boards.

“Jesus, the bloke’s gone and named the beasts,” someone else said.

“He’s touched in the head, I reckon,” a fellow laughed.

I turned my head to give the man a piece of my mind and lost my footing, falling onto my arse and sliding until I was flat on my back. A massive shadow blocked the sun.

“Simon Bartholomew White, what the fuck are you doing?”

Captain Martin stared at me from above.

He wasn’t wearing his jacket, and his faded cotton shirt gaped open, revealing a tawny chest feathered with dark hair. His long black locks were tied with a ribbon, but loose strands draped rakishly around his comely face. He looked like a disgruntled angel come to carry me to hell.

By now I was in fine condition, a regular diet of bread, cheese, and meat giving me a more manly shape. I’d regained my energy and ability to function. And also my contrary attitude.

“I’m trying to catch that fucking goat,” I said, sitting up and checking to see if I’d hurt myself. Before I’d finished a mental inventory of the pains assailing me, Captain Martin grabbed a fistful of my shirt and pulled me up with the ease of a man used to physical labour.

“I thought you said you knew how to manage animals.”

“Well, I do,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest. “But, apparently, not goats. Turns out they’re bleedin’ arseholes with shit for brains.”

Captain Martin’s lips quivered with either fury or amusement, and I couldn’t for the life of me tell which.

At that moment, Lilith gave a tremulous bleat from somewhere ahead. We turned toward the bow, to see the blasted white and brown creature tangled in ropes and chewing on the edge of a sail.

Captain Martin levelled a stern eye to me, and a part of me rose to greet that look. I wouldn’t dare to say which part. Now that I was feeling better, my other appetites had returned in full force, which was dangerous on a ship full of men. However, I only had a yearning for one of them.

“Go get her. Put her somewhere secure. Then come to my cabin, Mr White.”

Oh, fuck it. Was he going to make me walk the plank?

“This ain’t my fault. I’ve tried my best to—”

“I’m not discussing this here,” he said and walked away.

“Yes, Captain,” I said, my face red from the running, the tumble I’d taken, and the rampant lustful thoughts that assailed me.

Why did I have to be like this? Another man would be quaking with fear at being caught failing at his duties. But all I could think about was that I’d finally have a private audience with the captain. Hopefully, I could convince him of my worth so he wouldn’t toss me overboard.

I took the thin coil of rope out of my belt loop and attached the clasp to Lilith’s halter.

“Come on, you lousy trollop. You’re getting me in bad with the captain and everyone else.”

I tugged on the rope, but the goat planted her feet and bleated, calling everyone’s attention to my predicament.

“He can’t even get a goat to move. How’s he gonna survive when there’s more at stake?”

“What was the captain thinking? Allowing that man on board. He’s barely bigger than a lass. And less useful, if you get my meaning.”

“Oh, aye. Although Captain Martin might not agree. And I can tell you what he was probably thinking.”

Laughter.

I glared at the offending animal and channeled my rage and annoyance into my voice.

“Come the fuck on, you cunt!”

I gave the lead rope a huge tug, and the beast finally budged, dodging past me, bleating and pulling me along as she headed for the door to the stairs.

“For fuck’s sake,” I hollered, tripping over my feet and almost falling as I held onto the rope for dear life and ran back with her to the holding pen.

The two other goats, Monty and Gordon—neither of them near as much trouble—were happily munching on some branches. I took Lilith into the pen and tied her to a beam. She bleated happily and joined her friends in stripping leaves and chewing on the bark.

“Good. Stay the fuck here now. I’m trying to make a good impression.”

She bleated what was probably an impertinent response.

“Right,” I said, clapping my hands together.

Anticipation and excitement filled me at the thought of speaking to Captain Martin in his quarters. I wished I’d some cleaner clothes to wear.

I hadn’t had a good wash since I’d first come on board, when I’d been provided a tub of cold water and some clothing: a pair of simply made trousers, a length of rope for a belt, and a linen shirt, along with a pair of leather shoes that fit all right, but which I never wore.

I’d got a wool jacket, too, for colder temperatures, and I couldn’t fault the captain’s generosity. I’d worn the clothes for three weeks, and since I worked with animals, they were probably a bit ripe. But there was nothing for it, and I had to show up to the captain’s cabin in the only togs I had.