Chapter 47
As the crew surveyed the loot they brought back to the Revenge, Mary’s heart sank like a sounding weight.
So little. So pathetically little in the hold.
Howell tipped his flask and gurgled the contents as Fenwick rested his bad knee.
“All that, and only a pile of wool and linen to show for it?” said Earl with a hard frown. Mary suspected it was the scout’s first time waging battle.
She glanced around the dim hold, the stench from the bilge water beneath them.
Thomas massaged his right arm, strained but not injured—she’d made sure of it.
He, like most of the crew, was more of a sailor than a soldier; she’d kept him within her sight during the entire siege.
Anne sat off to the side with her lips pressed tight.
She hadn’t spoken a word since the raid.
Howell belched.
“Well done, Read,” Corner said, clapping Mary on the back with enough force to leave a bruise. “We led them well.” His bluster did not match the mood.
“Aye, well done, Read,” Rackham said, billowing up the crew alongside his quartermaster. “Next time, we’ll seize more. But this is a fine start.”
Mary didn’t know what sort of “fine start” Rackham had in mind.
But for her, it required more than a few bolts of rat-eaten cloth that would fetch a few coins apiece.
She’d pitied the crew on the pink. They’d surrendered immediately, as anticipated, and no physical harm came to them.
But this pile of goods would mean more to them.
Her stomach sloshed like a swamp.
Mary rose abruptly. “Need some air,” she said, making her way for the ladder.
As she climbed from the hold to the lower deck to the main deck, she studied each stair in front of her, focusing on anything but the bile rising in her throat.
When she was out of earshot and in the open air, she ran, emptying her guts over the side of the Revenge.
“Are you all right?”
Mary spun around. “It’s you.” She heaved again. “You scared me.”
Anne grimaced. “You’re sick.”
Mary pressed her forehead against the cold rail and unfastened the heavy brace of pistols and the cutlass at her side.
They clinked against the cedar boards. She was sick.
Every other hour she was sick. Part of her wanted to tear her hair out and throw herself over the side of the sloop to end the agony.
The other part knew that this nausea meant that her baby was real.
Somehow, in some awful way, this feeling—the illness—brought her comfort. It meant she wasn’t dreaming.
She didn’t expect Anne to understand. Then again, maybe she didn’t have to explain.
“I’m sorry,” Anne said. “It isn’t easy.”
“No.” But what had ever been?
“Were you scared?”
Mary rubbed her throbbing forehead. “Yes.”
“But you led them.”
“I’m no stranger to fear.”
Anne held out a waterskin. The compassionate gesture stirred something gentle inside Mary. She accepted and drank the water in slow, tentative sips. “And you,” Mary said, returning it, “are angry.”
Anne’s cheeks reddened as if on command, making her freckles more visible. Did Anne have no experience hiding her emotions? What must that have been like?
“I felt like a mouse being stuffed below deck,” Anne said, “wondering who would come back dead or alive. But the Articles say a captain’s orders during a raid are beyond challenge.”
“True. But it’s not just that. Rackham did what he thought was best for you and the mission. You’re angry. You’re always angry.”
Anne’s eyes narrowed. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are,” Mary pushed. “And you fear your anger.”
The conversation died when the sound of boots pounded against the main deck, a group gathering around the raised platform of the helm. Meeting adjourned, apparently. All contents tallied and accounted for.
Mary glanced up. Rackham approached, his attention rapt on Anne and her flattering indigo dress. That crinkle in his forehead, the intensity of gaze—so eager to make things right. Anne seemed less impressed. She didn’t return his look.
“Captain Rackham,” Mary said, squaring her shoulders. She hoped she appeared stronger than she felt. “As you well know, a small crew requires everyone aboard to be equipped for a raid. According to the Articles, all of us must be armed and ready to strike at any given moment.”
“That code is for pirates.”
“Which Anne is.” They all were.
His mouth twisted. Mary played to his pride. “I commend your quick thinking, protecting our liabilities today. But what of the next time?”
Anne cursed and balled her fists. “I can fight.”
“No, you can’t,” Mary and Rackham said at the same time. And Mary knew that Anne knew they were right.
Rackham sighed and adjusted his tricorn. His eyes pled with Anne. “I can’t lose you, Bon. Your safety is everything to me.”
If this was how Rackham behaved now, Mary had no trouble picturing how he would act when he found out about his child.
Little wonder he’d forced Anne ashore against her wishes during the first pregnancy.
How much longer could Anne hide this one?
She had to be three months along by now.
Mary wondered how long Anne, and herself for that matter, could hide their conditions under layers and loose-fitting clothes.
Anne was small, but surely Rackham would soon notice changes in the woman he shared a bed with.
“And who’ll keep me safe if someone comes aboard while you’re off pillaging? If a ball goes through your chest?”
At the image of a shot tearing through flesh, Mary winced.
“Bon … I’m sorry. I only meant—”
His fussing threatened to make the bile rise again.
Coddling and favoritism were luxuries Bjorn and all of her superiors had never afforded her—stances that would’ve gotten her slaughtered.
“Rackham,” Mary interrupted. “Anne is capable of dying like the rest of us mere mortals. If you love her, you’ll prepare her for the worst, should the worst ever come.
Will you be seeing to the rest of Anne’s training, or shall I? ”
After a dramatic sigh and slight hesitation, he gave a solemn nod. “I will.”