Chapter 45
Rackham had no problem counting the votes of his small crew of twelve.
The votes were unanimous, all hands raised as everyone stood on the sleek oak main deck in the blinding sunlight. Mary sat with her spine against the rail. She felt light, the queasy nerves she’d tried to hide abated, especially now that they were safe in the calm, open sea.
“Shipmates!” Rackham bellowed, raising a squat bottle that glinted in the late August sun.
“Your vote settles it. As captain, I therefore rechristen this sloop—all twelve tons of her, four long ranges and two swivels, as well as a shapely hull—for our own purposes.” He paused for dramatic effect and laughed, then popped the cork.
“Welcome to the Revenge, the fastest ship in the Caribbean!”
A deafening cheer rang out as the crew clinked their pewter mugs around the single mast of the sloop.
The Revenge was longer than the Ranger, but with her slender build and shallow draft, they could sneak into almost any cove or beach, leaving the navy’s men-of-war or heavy two-mast vessels and schooners in their wake as they reached speeds of fifteen knots or more.
Mary smiled when she saw Thomas grinning in the thick of the fun, whistling a song of celebration and brushing shoulders with the men who esteemed him again. She hoped this might heal his wounded pride. Who might Thomas be if he could forgive himself?
A father?
A wave of sorrow swelled in her heart. He was not Bjorn and never would be.
Thomas was his own person. It was hard to imagine him taking responsibility or looking out for more than his own hide.
But maybe she hadn’t imagined it hard enough.
He had, after all, stepped up to help Anne despite the risks.
Thomas, whistling a lullaby to a child in that rich, melodic voice. His strong arms cradling an infant instead of a fishnet.
She closed her eyes, resting her palms on the knees of her canvas breeches, and tried to picture the life growing inside her.
Hello, there, she tried.
I’m so pleased to finally meet you.
Pressure built behind her eyes, and she inhaled sharply, blinking the sudden emotion away.
What was she doing? She worried that thinking of it, talking to it, might somehow snatch the dream away.
She drew her attention to the taut sail of the single mast. Yes, focus there.
Clever, really, for Rackham to steal this ship of all ships—a vessel careened and scrubbed of barnacles only days prior.
Even without that added advantage, the William—or, rather, the Revenge—could fly compared to a merchant ship.
The shallow draft made them swift but also savvy.
They could pull into any harbor, escape any predator.
Steal back the fighting chance I lost after Bjorn.
A chance, Mary recognized, as the one her own mother had sacrificed everything to give her. By God, where was Ma now? Despite Mary’s searching, she and Bjorn never found her. And yet, Mary still hoped.
“Cheers,” Anne said, pulling Mary from her thoughts. She handed Mary a decanter.
“I don’t drink.”
“I know. It’s water.”
Mary eyed Anne with surprise, then accepted it with gratitude. Anne took the seat next to her on the deck and spread out her indigo skirt while stretching her legs. “How are you feeling today?”
“Well, for once.” Salt breeze, fresh air, a sense of expanse and openness.
Routines she knew so well she could manage them in her sleep.
She’d always felt at ease with herself aboard a ship with a compass in her grip.
Maybe it was having a pirate for a father.
Maybe it was the fondness she felt for Captain Southwick and his kindness after losing Ma.
Or, maybe it was her, pure and simple.
“No one else knows?”
Mary shook her head, understanding that Anne referred to the pregnancy, and in turn, her sex. She tucked a stray black hair into her shoulder-length braid.
“How much longer will that last?”
Mary exhaled. She did not have an answer.
“You can trust this crew.”
“Yes, I believe so.” Without trust, any crew like theirs was doomed from the outset.
They already had one woman aboard the ship without complaint or superstitious drivel, though Anne only had minor responsibilities and got saddled with meal prep at every opportunity.
Maybe they’d suffer another female after recovering from the shock.
Then again, Mary had no interest in being thrown on meal duty.
She repressed a gag, imagining the cramped quarters and pungent fumes of the galley.
“You can trust me,” Anne said, swirling the contents of her mug.
The corner of Mary’s lip tugged up. This again. “I know.”
They exchanged a look that made Anne smile. Her eyes crinkled, and she drew the dagger from her belt. “You said you would teach me how to use this.”
“I did,” Mary said, taking a swig of water.
“Will you?”
Mary wiped her mouth. “Rackham hasn’t taught you how to wield a blade?” If such a little dirk could be called a blade.
“No.” Anne cursed and her chest fell. “He doesn’t think it necessary. He says he is the only protection I need.”
Mary suppressed a scoff of annoyance. “A lot of help that was with Bonny.”
Anne shrugged.
“Have you told Rackham?”
“Not yet,” Anne said, glancing at the pack of men to ensure no one would overhear.
“Then that makes two secrets between us,” Mary said, taking the blade from Anne.
She balanced it on one finger, then tossed it in the air, catching it by the handle—an old trick Captain South-wick had taught her.
It was one Henry had especially appreciated.
She wondered where Henry Danby was now. Every day she regretted the fact that she wasn’t able to find where he was stationed after losing the inn.
She shook her head. That life was over. Why did it always insist on springing up unannounced? “And will Rackham approve of my teaching you?”
Anne’s mouth twisted. “I get a say, do I not?”
“It’s your life. I think you do.” Mary shuddered to think what would have happened to her in the army if she’d been treated as a fragile woman.
“Then I say we begin,” Anne said. “If you aren’t too ill, of course. I feel well enough this time around, but bloody hell, I remember what it was like when I didn’t.” She grimaced.
They looked up in time to see Rackham glance their way, shifting his gaze between them. His radiant grin wavering for a heartbeat before he raised a second bottle. “Come, Bon! Join us. Sing us a song. One of the Irish ballads.”
Summoned to his side, Anne moved to join the noise and festivities.
Howell was already sloshed, flat on his back, while Thomas and Featherstone debated the worth of the hold’s contents.
Earl retrieved his fiddle, and Fenwick—also known as “Old Dad the Cooper”—tapped his foot to the folk tune despite being three times older than most of the crew.
Mary remained seated. She studied the blade Anne had handed her and ran a thumb across the steel edge. Anne’s knife was small, but sharp.