“Who the devil are you?” he demands of us.
“We could ask you the same question,” I reply, as cheerful as I can muster considering my not-unsubstantial distress. “What cause have you to be boarding our ship?”
“Your ship?” the man repeats.
“Well, my father’s ship,” I amend.
The officer’s eyebrows seem to be climbing to his hairline. “Your . . . father’s?”
“I certainly wouldn’t be sailing a ship belonging to my mother.” I flash him a bit of the dimples posthaste. He frowns.
“You fly no colors.”
“Beastly storm winds whipped them right out from over us. Thought about running up my most English-looking coat as a standin to avoid precisely this sort of brush, but didn’t want to sacrifice one of my fine jackets. I had them all tailored in Paris and they’re positively macaroni.” I step forward—nearly straight out of my shoes, which are as large on me as the coat—and hand him the leather skin dug up from the selfsame trunk from which Felicity’s dress was plundered. It’s full of travel documents, much like the ones my father bestowed upon Lockwood for the three of us before we departed. It was a gamble, hoping the luggage would yield such, but Luck apparently realized she owed us a good turn after sticking us with these son-of-a-bitch pirates.
The French officer takes the papers from me and shuffles through them. “James Boswell, ninth Laird of Auchinleck,” he reads.
I spread my hands. “That would be me.”
“You’re Scottish.”
“Do I not sound it? Must be all these months in France.”
“And this is . . . ?” His eyes drift to Felicity.
I had been hoping he wouldn’t ask, so I say “Miss Boswell” in a tone that reeks of of course.
“And this is a ship of . . . your father’s?”
“Not entirely—he chartered it for our travel across the Mediterranean. We’re touring, see, and I put up a fuss about being made to travel on a common ferry between Dover and Calais—all those people, you know, utterly filthy and so cramped you can’t breathe, I was positively gasping the whole way and I had no intention of tolerating those circumstances again for weeks on our way to Italy.” Keep talking, I think as he stares at me, his gaze glazing. Keep talking and tell him so much that perhaps he won’t notice it’s all a crock. “So I wrote to Da and positively begged him to charter me my own vessel and as I’m the eldest and he’s never been able to say no to me—I could ask that man for anything, honestly, there was a rug in the king’s palace in Paris and I swear to God I told my father to write to the king himself—”
“That’s enough,” the officer snaps, bundling up my papers and thrusting them back at me. “We will be searching the ship.” He signals to his men, but I step in his way.
“On what grounds, sir? We are a legitimate operation.”
“These waters are thick with Barbary pirates. By order of the French king, we have a right to make certain that you are not among them.”
“You have no such right. We are not French citizens, and most certainly not pirates, and we have provided you with the necessary travel papers to verify our identities. You hold no jurisdiction over us.”
“Have you something to hide?” he challenges.
A good deal of stolen cargo, no papers verifying our charter, and also there’s Percy lurking back there with the crew, I think, but I raise my chin and play the small-minded tourist. “My father told me before I left I was not to bow to the whims of foreigners who would endeavor to take advantage of me because I was a young man far from my homeland. Of Scotland.”
The Frenchies haven’t moved. They’re all looking to their commander, and he’s still looking to me like he can’t quite work out this nonsensical tableau. The silence stretches like taut, fraying rope. “And tell me, Mr. Boswell,” the officer says at last, “when your father charters you a ship, does he always enlist such a filthy colored crew?”
That gets a chortle from his men. At my side, Scipio seems to rise a few inches taller, hands clasped behind his back.
“Please apologize to my captain, sir,” I say.
Now it’s the officer’s turn to laugh. “I won’t apologize to a colored man.”
“Then you’ll leave my ship, please.”
“Don’t be absurd. We’re servants of the crown.”
“And I’m an Englishman—Scotsman—and have no obligation to comply with French seizure. You board my ship with weapons drawn, accuse me of piracy, and insult my upstanding crew. I’d like you to apologize, or leave this ship at once.”
The officer makes a rather grand sniff, then extends a gloved hand to Scipio. “My apologies . . . sir.”
Scipio doesn’t take it. “Thank you. Now please leave my ship.”
The officer looks like he’s ready to give Scipio a telling-off, but then he remembers we are not his men. His mouth curls; then he gives us both a curt bow. “Apologies for the trouble, Mr. Boswell. Thank you for your cooperation.”
I don’t dare believe we’ve gotten away with our ruse until the navy frigate is nearly as far away as it was when first spotted. Scipio keeps his spyglass trained upon it until it’s out of sight, then at last calls all hands to stations.
I expect a word of thanks from him, or at the least some sort of manly, approving nod, but instead he calls to Ebrahim, “Stow our prisoners below.”
“Prisoners?” I repeat, but Scipio doesn’t hear me. Ebrahim reaches for my arm, but I pull away from him and shout after Scipio as he pulls himself up onto the ratlines. “A bit of thanks would be good.”
He stops and looks down at me. “For what?”
“For saving your skins.”
“You were saving yourselves, not us.”
“You’d be captives of the navy if it weren’t for my sister and me—” I start, but Scipio jumps back to the deck and faces me.
“There is nothing good about watching another man claim your ship because your skin is too dark to do it yourself,” he says, each word a glancing wound. “So in future, you needn’t demand apologies on my behalf. Now, you’re underfoot.”
Before I can speak, Ebrahim grabs me with one hand and Felicity with the other—she gives a bit of a yelp when his fist fastens around her wounded arm, and he lets go, then grabs Percy instead—and drags us away from the captain.
Prisoners once more.
It’s clear solely from the absence of a proper prison on board that these men are not pirates. We three are taken to the gun deck and ineptly knotted at the feet to one of the long-nosed cannons, which seems like a bad choice for several reasons. Ebrahim doesn’t even stand guard—he stays just long enough to toss a leather skin of surgical tools at our feet with a grunt of “For your arm” at Felicity.
And then he leaves us to our own devices beside a store of gunpowder and flint and a cannon, thereby solidifying our captors’ reputation as the worst pirates in the history of the Mediterranean.