Felicity falls upon the surgical kit, withdrawing a curved needle and a skein of black thread. “That was a rather good plan, Monty,” she says, and I’m about to swell with pride, but then she adds, “Except we’re still hostages.”
“Well, now it’s your turn to come up with something, darling. I’ve rather pulled my weight for the day.” I tug at the ropes keeping Percy’s feet bound to the cannon and they loosen. The tar-dip on the ends is sticky from the heat. “That prick of a captain would be on his way to the noose if it weren’t for me.”
“He’s been rather decent to us, considering the situation,” Percy says. “He trusted you.”
“And then told me off for it. It was good of me to help him!”
“Maybe so,” he replies. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard for him to witness.”
“What’s hard about it?”
“Well, do you think I enjoy being mistaken for your manservant everywhere we go?”
“But you’re not my man, so what does it matter?”
“If he doesn’t understand it, don’t explain it to him,” Felicity mutters. I glower at her, though she’s focused upon getting her needle threaded and doesn’t notice.
But Percy says, “It’s good of you to stand up for me when I can’t do it for myself. But it’s difficult that you have to. And I’d expect the captain feels the same. Especially when it’s his prisoners who have to come to his rescue.”
Which still doesn’t entirely make sense to me—perhaps it can’t. I tug at the knot again, and it comes undone with little fight. Percy kicks his feet free, then gives me a weak smile. “Nowhere to run.”
“We could lead a mutiny.”
“Against pirates?”
“We’re quite piratical ourselves, Captain Two Tooth. And now we have a cannon.”
“And some length of rope.”
“And with your brains and my brute strength and Felicity’s— Dear God, Felicity Montague, are you sewing yourself shut?”
Felicity looks up, innocent as a schoolgirl. She’s got the bloody cravat unwrapped from her arm, sleeve pushed up, and that wicked needle buried in her own arm around the gash left by the splinter—already sewn half shut while Percy and I were distracted. “What? It needs to be done and neither of you knows how.” She dips the needle out and pulls tight so that the ripped edges of her skin meet. I slump backward against the cannon to keep from keeling over in earnest. “See if you can find Henry a couch before he’s overcome,” she says to Percy, though he’s looking nearly as horrified.
After two more neat stitches, she knots off the thread and cuts it with her teeth, then gives her embroidery an examination, looking pleased as Punch. “I’ve never actually done that on a person before.” She glances up at us—Percy looking very obviously away and me swooning against the artillery.
And rolls her eyes. “Men are such babies.”
25
After some time alone with the guns, the sound of boots on the stairs announces our benevolent captain’s approach. We all three look up as he halts a few feet away and gives us a peery up-and-down. None of us stands. It’s a gesture that passes for defiance but is mostly exhaustion.
To my surprise, he sinks down too, elbows resting upon his knees so our faces are level. He looks very young in that moment, though he’s got at least a decade on Percy and me—perhaps more. He looks, also, profoundly weary. Ferocious pirate gone again in an instant.
The first thing he says is, “Thank you. For helping us get away.”
After the snappy retort I received on this subject before, this feels like a trap, so I just nod.
“Perhaps we can come to an agreement,” he goes on. “Explain why you’re running, and I’ll tell you about us.”
“You first,” Felicity interrupts, though I was ready to spill. “Every book I’ve ever read has taught me not to trust a pirate to hold his word.”
Scipio’s eyes flit to her, and her chin rises. “That logic would be sound,” he says, “except you were right—we’re not pirates. We’re privateers. Or we were, until recently. My crew and I were employed by an English merchant during the war with Spain. He had us issued letters of marque so we were legally permitted to seize Spanish vessels that attacked his ships in the Caribbean.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“The English crown withdrew all letters once the war ended, though we didn’t know that until we were arrested for piracy when we tried to make port in Charleston. Our employer wouldn’t pay for us—he freed his captain and the other officers, and left the rest of us to rot. We were there for a year when pirates raided the town and we were able to escape. We took a ship. This ship. And since we had no letters of marque and needed funds and had a difficult time finding legitimate work for . . . obvious reasons, we thought we might take up the piracy we’d been accused of. We’re . . .” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “New at it.”
“Was ours the first ship you’d ever seized?” Felicity asks.
“Piratically? Yes.”
“Why not return to your employer and get the letters reissued?” I ask. “He doesn’t need to bail you from prison any longer.”
Scipio doesn’t say anything to that.
“You weren’t employed, were you?” Percy asks softly.
“No,” Scipio replies. “We were enslaved. Even though he wouldn’t pay for our return, we still belong to him. And I’d take a noose as a pirate before I’d go back to living a slave.” He rubs his hands together before him, then looks up at us. “So, where is it that you run from?”
“There’s a French duke who is after us,” Percy replies.
“Have you offended him?”
“We’ve stolen from him,” I say.
“One of us has stolen from him,” Felicity amends.
“Well, that one of you sounds as piratical as us. Why were you stowed away upon the xebec?”
“We need to get to Venice—truly,” I say. “We’ve something to be done there.”
“Do you expect us to take you?” he asks. “If you aren’t to be ransomed, Venice is off our route.”
“We could compensate you,” I say.
“Your ransom would similarly compensate us.”
“My uncle,” Percy says suddenly.
I look over at him. “What about your uncle?”
He’s sat up straight, brow furrowed in thought. “He could issue you letters of marque, as payment for your taking us to Venice. That’s far more valuable than ransom.”
“Who’s your uncle?” Scipio asks.
“Thomas Powell. He serves on the Admiralty Court in Cheshire.”
“No. Thomas Powell? Are you in earnest?” Scipio laughs—a deep, resonant rumble. “You look nothing like him.”
“There’s a reason for that,” Percy replies with a small smile. “Do you know him?”
“Our first ship made berth in Liverpool and he was one of the magistrates that oversaw our charters. He was always good to us, your uncle. Some of those admiralty men are bastards to Negro sailors, but he was kind. Makes more sense why now. Damnation, Thomas Powell’s ward. What are the chances?”
“He wouldn’t care that you were a colored crew—he’d get you the letters of marque,” Percy says. “Valid ones, in exchange for transporting us.”