Page 18 of An Imperfect Scoundrel

“Yes, Captain.”

It was difficult to judge Mr. Johnson’s reaction to the change in plans, but as his second mate said nothing more, Cedric assumed he agreed with the decision to postpone their strike until they had the cover of darkness.

“Gather the crew,” Cedric said, curbing the politeness that had crept into his speech in the ten days he’d spent around Rowland and Mrs. Taylor.

He climbed to the main deck, berating himself for caring about the opinions of Mr. Hayward and Mr. Johnson. These men were unruly, callous, and violent. They expected him to lead with intimidation and cruelty, punishing anyone who failed to meet his expectations.

If his plan was to succeed, he couldn’t show anyone mercy, despite that it sickened him to think of the people who were going to die over the course of this ordeal—with the exception of Mr. Cheswick, who deserved the punishment he was about to receive.

He needed to prevent as much harm as possible.

“I realize many of you have never sailed under my command before,” Cedric said, once the men were assembled on the main deck. His gaze moved across the faces, seeking the ones he recognized.

“Those of you that have sailed with me know how I expect captives to be treated before they are exchanged for ransom. Violate my rules, and I’ll throw you overboard. If you’re fortunate, I’ll shoot you first, so you won’t drown.”

Silence followed his words.

“I have three rules. First, every male passenger will be given the decision to either join our crew or die. If they choose to join the crew, they will be treated justly.”

A low rumble started at the back of the group and rippled toward the stern. Cedric held up his hand, silencing the growing objection.

“Wickes,” he yelled out, pointing at the cook. “What’s the complaint with my ultimatum? I expect the crew prefers to outrun the Navy. To do so, we need more hands unless you all wish to hang…”

“Will we be sharing our spoils with the captives who agree to sail with us?” Mr. Wickes said, his voice holding a microscopic wobble.

“No. They will receive their lives. That is payment enough.” His reply quelled the dissent, and he glanced at Mr. Hayward, whose face expressed the same worry he felt.

Mutiny was indeed possible with this group.

Cedric cleared his throat, then continued speaking in a clear, direct tone.

“Second, we don’t take children. If there are any aboard the Crescent Rose, they are to be placed in a lifeboat with any elderly or infirm passengers and set adrift prior to the transfer of prisoners. I will slit the throat of any man who raises a fist to a child and leave that man’s body on the deck to burn when we set the Crescent Rose aflame. Is that understood?”

A collective agreement rose among the men. That rule was rarely met with resistance. None of these men wanted to act as a nanny or a nurse. The next one however…

“Lastly, you will not touch any of the female captives.”

Several, but not many, curse words met his statement.

His gaze slid across the group, noting those who appeared angry by the restriction. These were the men who’d cause trouble. Catching Mr. Hayward’s eye again, he nodded once, indicating Mr. Hayward should climb up the shroud on the mainmast. Once his first mate was in place, pistol drawn, Cedric pulled his gun as well and aimed the muzzle at the loudest protestor.

“Evans,” Cedric called out, silencing the man’s griping. “At this moment, two pistols are pointed at your black heart.”

Mr. Evans swallowed, his gaze searching the men around him for the second gun. When he noticed Mr. Hayward’s position above them, he paled.

“I want every man aboard this ship to understand this rule, for it will cost you more than your life if you break it. No woman held aboard this ship for ransom is to be harmed, not one mark. They are worth more than all of you.” He cocked back the hammer on his pistol. “Consider this… will your fellow crewmates accept that their share is smaller because you needed a release?”

He wasn’t certain which man struck Mr. Evans, but he stumbled forward, his body jerking like a marionette, and crashed to his knees. Pain flickered across his face, and he bit his tongue, holding in the scream.

“Evans understands the consequences,” Mr. Johnson said, grabbing a fistful of black hair. Yanking Mr. Evans’ head back, Mr. Johnson slid the blade of his knife across Mr. Evans’ throat without drawing blood, but the action was just as effective.

“Do any other men have a complaint regarding this rule?” Cedric lifted his gaze, releasing the hammer on his pistol. “If you do,”—he pointed toward portside— “there’s the exit.”

Not one man moved. Those who had protested remained silent, and Cedric returned his pistol to its holder.

“What about the ship’s crew?” A question whipped up from the center of the group. “Are you giving them a choice?”

“We can’t trust them,” a second man said.