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.”
“Don’t you think he’d be less inclined if it was asked as ransom for his nephew’s return? He’d withdraw them as soon as we’d left the harbor.”
“What if we offer it as a reward instead of a ransom?” I suggest, and Percy nods. “If you get us to Venice, we’ll write to our families and tell them how you rescued us. From pirates, even, if you really want to go for the drama. They’ll be so grateful they’ll offer you anything, and all you need ask for is letters of marque to sail as privateers under the protection of the English crown.”
Scipio runs a hand over his beard, looking at each of us in turn like he is searching for a definitive reason to either trust us or strap us to a cannon and fling us over the rail.
“You could get a ransom for us,” Felicity pipes up. “But they won’t issue letters of marque to our kidnappers. And that’s far more valuable.”
“I’m sure we could console ourselves with a good deal of money. And I’ll be much less moved to compassion if I find out this is all a con.”
“We’re not lying,” I say, though it sounds feeble.
“I’ll have to consult my crew—”
“Aren’t you the captain?” Felicity interrupts.
“We’re more of a democracy. Though if none of them protest, and if you—” He scratches a hand through his beard. “You really think you can get us letters issued?” he asks, and Percy nods. “Well, then we’ll take you to Venice. We can facilitate your return to your families from there.”
I’m about to extend a hand of accord to him, but Felicity has a few more terms. “You’re not to mistreat us on this voyage,” she says. “We’re not to be kept as captives.”
“Then, in return, you’ll stay out of my crew’s way, give them your respect, and cause no havoc,” Scipio counters. “Any whiff of ill intentions toward any of us from any of you and I’ll shackle you to the masthead. Do you agree to that?”
“Agreed,” we three chorus.
Scipio helps us unwrap from our imitation bindings, then leads the way up from the gun deck so we can make our proposals to the crew. Felicity follows close behind him, her surgical kit rewrapped and clutched close to her chest the way some girls might cling to a favorite doll. Percy and I bring up the rear.
As we climb the steps, Percy nudges me with his elbow. “You’re daft, you know.”
“Am I?”
“James Boswell. Rooking the navy. Making deals with pirates.”
“Well, they’re not pirates. And”—I poke him in return—“the deal was mostly your doing.”
“You’re still daft.”
“Are you complaining?”
“No,” he says, giving a quick tug on my sleeve that turns into his fingers pressed into my palm in a way that makes me weak in the knees. “I sort of love it.”