Free Pirates! by Celia Rees Page A

nothing about himself or Graham. ‘The captain is a fair man, so he would probably be spared, put in an open boat, the passengers along with him.’ He laughed, although I did not think pirates any laughing matter. ‘Your brother might not fare so well. He treats the men like servants and no sailor likes that. Captain’s the only one allowed to order them about. That’s until they go on the account, then the captain is not much different from the men.’
    ‘On the account?’
    ‘That’s what we call pirating. They ain’t all bad fellows. They call themselves gentlemen of fortune, and some are exactly that.’
    ‘I am the only woman on board. What about me?’
    He patted the hilt of his sword. ‘I would skewer any man who came near you until they were heaped up in piles.’
    ‘Give me a blade,’ I said, joining in his banter, ‘and I’ll do that for myself.’
    ‘You can use a sword?’
    ‘Tolerably. I learned to fence with my brother.’
    ‘I see.’ He rubbed his smooth-shaved chin. ‘I’m glad that we are on the same side, then. What a surprising young lady you are, Miss Kington.’
    A watch was kept at all times, but although we saw ships on the horizon, none approached us. No black hoist bore down upon us. We had fair winds and good weather. We began to pass small islands surrounded by crescent-shaped reefs. They were uninhabited, but we stopped to take on water if they offered it, and whatever else they could provide by way of fresh produce.
    I felt none of Broom’s predicted excitement when we sighted the northern coast of Hispaniola. Neither did I share in the celebrations of the other passengers. Great bowls of punch were prepared and endless toasts drunk, chiefly to friendship, as is often the way on voyages, vows of undying affection made between men who will likely never set eyes on each other again. I thought them fools and kept separate. Instead of joy and hope, I felt a great weight descending. Journey’s end was nearing. The next island would be Jamaica.

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    It was unto the West Indies
our gallant ship did steer ...

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    Chapter 9
    The town of Port Royal lay at the end of a narrow spit that arced from the land like an arm flung as a defence from the sun. The bay that lay on the inside of it was deep, the water clear as crystal. The anchor ran straight down, scattering shoals of bright fish, sending them feinting and glittering like shards of falling mirror, until the flukes came to rest, catching on the fat lumps of coral that studded the white sand fathoms below.
    The scene on shore was as busy as the Welsh Backs in Bristol. Ships stood at the docks. Wharves and warehouses lined the quays, but the men and women toiling to load and unload the cargoes were slaves. Sweat glistened on black skin. The female slaves laboured alongside the men, heaving sacks and rolling barrels, or moving with slow and stately grace, one hand held high to balance the great burdens which they carried on their brightly turbaned heads.
    Behind them, the town spread away from the waterfront, mounting the hill in a tumbled pattern of wooden huts and red-roofed, white-painted houses crowded one upon another.
    There was a carriage waiting for us.
    ‘Thomas, this is my sister, Miss Nancy,’ my brother said as he handed me into the seat behind the driver. ‘You are to take her to Fountainhead directly. I have business here in town.’
    He left us with a slap to the nearside horse’s flank. The animal was nervous and skittered sideways, knocking against its pair.
    ‘You all right, Miss Nancy? Horses didn’t jar you?’
    ‘I’m perfectly fine, thank you, Thomas.’
    He nodded, satisfied that no harm had come to me, and called a boy to hold the horses as he got down to load the luggage. Thomas was a tall man and powerfully built. He lifted with ease trunks that it had taken two men to carry off the boat. He said little, just swung himself back into his seat, and we were away.
    We were traversing the narrow spit