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Captain Betts

I squirm in my seat as the itchy colonial furniture scratches my arms. Why didn’t I listen to Chub when he suggested I wear a jacket?

The humid Boston breeze threatened to choke me on deck, but it was infinitely more refreshing than the stale air in this fancy parlor.

My three-cornered hat squeezes my head. The sword holster slung around my hips cuts off circulation at my waist, no matter how I sit.

I can’t get out of this house fast enough.

It cements my decision to captain a pirate vessel instead of settling in a coastal hamlet as some guy’s wife.

He could be the greatest man who ever lived, and I would still suffocate.

I would be like the woman across the desk—nervously pretending to cry into her handkerchief when I suspect she orchestrated this whole arrangement.

Dripping in jewels, I doubt she’s done an honest day’s work or said an honest prayer in her life.

She may look down her nose at us, but she pays me because she can’t get her hands dirty.

Well, everyone needs a dirty pirate at some point in their life.

“So you understand why we can’t have him return to Boston…ever,” her husband says. What was his name? Harry? Henry? No, Humphrey. Humphrey and Adeline Astor. “The scandal must die—oh, bad turn of phrase—”

“Our reputation won’t survive much more!” Adeline fills in the gap with a genuine sob.

Chub kicks me when I roll my eyes. My sister, Sabrina, had a worse reputation than their son’s.

And we lived on an island half the size of Boston.

Talk about a breeding ground for gossip.

If I could salvage my reputation as a pious woman through charity work, then these bilge rats could do so much easier.

With their money, they could transform the lives of all the street rats on the continent.

Imagine the number of children they could house in this mansion!

“We are happy to clean the vermin from ye bilge,” Chub replies for me. The pair wince at his Irish brogue, and I’m offended on his behalf. “He’ll leave Boston today and never return. You have our word on it.”

“No offense,” Humphrey says, “but the word of an Irish pirate isn’t worth much in New England.”

“If you don’t want us to dispose of him, just say the word, and me hearties and I will be on our way,” I say, infusing my voice with boredom and annoyance.

The annoyance is authentic. They see our red hair, hear Chub’s brogue, and assume we’re beneath them.

When we reach the pearly gates and the saints judge us, we will see who’s beneath whom.

The pirates who rescue the slaves, the exploited people, the lost, and the orphaned…

or the aristocrats who use their wealth to hire assassins to take out their sons.

Chub stands and dusts his knit cap on his pants, spraying their oak desktop with a layer of sea salt.

“No, no, please,” Adeline says, reaching for Chub. He raises his eyebrow at the pudgy, feminine fingers extended his way. “We’re surly because we are so distraught our fate has come to this.”

Never the fate of her son. Self-righteous picaroon.

“Then let us sign the contract and be out of your hair,” Chub replies.

“Half up front,” Humphrey says, curling his lip in disgust. He lobs a bag of coins at Chub from his top desk drawer.

My quartermaster counts the money without a clink of the coins.

“Half will be delivered to your address on Trinidad—care of Maude’s Tavern—after you send proof of his—his—extermination. ”

What kind of rat would drive his parents to exterminate him like vermin?

I never inquired into the crimes Hybris Astor committed to ruin his house’s name.

If he’s a violent man, he will lose his head sooner rather than later.

But what if he’s decent? My hand shakes as I sign the contract, full of legal jargon, I can’t read.

Chub spent the last few nights teaching me to make my mark and reading the finer points of the contract to the crew.

On Patricia’s Wish , we unanimously agreed to off Hybris. I’m just the signatory.

Maybe it was the need to buy food with the money…

or maybe it was the universal hatred for blue-blooded aristocrats that motivated the crew.

The plantations of the South soured their opinion of continental farmers for most of me hearties.

My background doesn’t give me an opinion either way.

..I could take this Hybris as another matey or take his head.

“Is your son upstairs?” Chub asks, pocketing the coins.

He’s anxious to deliver the money to his wife, Catalina, who shops in the market.

The longer this goes, the longer she’s waiting with the anxious, suspicious vendors.

We’d never rob an honest land merchant—it’s bad for survival to have fewer ports to restock when the weather or the sweet trade’s rough—but we’re pirates with reputations of our own.

“His luggage is in the hall…to maintain the ruse,” Adeline says, rushing to the office door.

Of course, can’t have the servants suspecting their owners are murderers!

When she throws the ornate double doors open, a footman almost faceplants over the threshold.

Ha! Her secret is none of my affair…but all of Boston will be atwitter tomorrow.

“I’ll take the luggage to Hybris. My man is outside with a cart,” I say with a smile. If she wants to donate those trunks to Patricia’s Wish to save face, I’ll gladly collect. “Chub, you’re dismissed to see to the supplies. We shouldn’t delay our departure. Where did you say Hybris was?”

“Sissy’s…um…the brothel,” Humphrey whispers, leaning his bald head toward me. He must have gotten a lungful of my fish and seawater scent because he wrinkles his nose. Adeline humfs in disdain at the mention of Sissy’s.

“Do you know the way?” I ask with wide, innocent eyes to stir the shit between the couple.

Adeline gasps and storms out of the room while Humphrey’s cheeks color to apples.

Blimey, there is a history between the couple and Sissy’s.

Did Father introduce Son to his favorite pastime, to the horror of Dear Mommy?

Chub snickers as he follows her out of the home office.

“Have a meal at Sissy’s,” Humphrey says, passing a coin between us.

He places my hands in his and pulls my arms to open my blouse.

As his eyes feast upon my dairy, he falls under my spell.

I never wear buttons because I’ve learned my dairy can get me anything I want on land.

Continental folk aren’t designed to repress their sexual nature, but they are forced to in the name of civility.

I can kill men as they ogle my chest…and they die smiling.

Now, back on my boat, it’s a different story. The crew laughs and tells me to put away my money bags if I try flashing them. Me hearties know better than to fall to pieces over skin.

“I can’t eat in front of Chub and my men,” I whisper as I slide the coin into my sleeve.

“Oh well,” he stammers, completely hypnotized as I shift my weight to make my breasts sway. He pulls a handful of coins from his pocket. My hand covers the treasure as I lean closer.

“Thank you,” I whisper in his ear and take the whole lot. I whirl around to leave just as he gets the nerve to reach for me.

Betts

“What took so long? When you didn’t come out with Chub, I thought I’d have to charge inside and rescue you,” Greenhorn shouts.

The lanky pirate stands a head and shoulders over the landlubbers bustling down the busy street.

Everyone gawks at the dark-skinned islander in front of the posh mansion.

I want to scream at all of them to keep to themselves.

“Help me carry these, you nutmeg,” I shout from the top step. The footman drops the third wooden trunk with a thud and slams the door. Greenhorn and Eze laugh at my expression as the forced breeze from the door blows my hair into my face. “I guess our visit is done.”

“What a success, lassie,” Eze says, using Chub’s Irish nickname for me in his African accent.

The mismatch is uniquely him. Both my helpers joined the boat as youths and have more than a little hero worship for Chub.

It wouldn’t surprise me if Chub was born an adult on the boat and walked from his mother’s marriage box to the helm.

He’s been our quartermaster since the Gods created the seas and pulled the land from its depths.

“Yep,” I say with a grunt as I drag a trunk to the edge of the step. “Three trunks, half the bounty up front, and a palmful of money for dinner at the brothel.”

“But you don’t eat roast pork, dumplings, and applesauce. That’s the going fare this time of year. You don’t even drink ale!” Greenhorn lifts one of the heavy trunks over his head and hops down the stairs as if his burden were a pillow of feathers.

“What are you going to do with the coin, Captain?” Eze answers as he tosses the trunk onto the cart with his left arm.

He wipes his brow with his right arm in a gesture mocking my struggle with the third trunk.

I needn’t have worried about farmers snatching the pair.

Clearly, these men can handle themselves.

“I heard they have a special pie in this town. It’s bear meat with pumpkins and molasses.

I’d like to try a slice. Would you like to join me?

” I can’t keep the giggles from between my words as we trudge down the busy street to Sissy’s tavern.

My diet is almost all fish—raw fish. It’s cheapest to stick to my roots instead of branching out to colonial foods.