Free The Swashbuckling Yarn of Milady Vixen by Christopher Newman

me to tell you of the fall of our two heroes, isn’t it? How they perished valiantly in battle, never yielding and forcing their foes to send them hand-in-hand to Hell’s hot embrace. I see the wish in your eyes as clearly as this flagon of rum. Like Romeo and his Juliet, these two should die nobly for love; sadly, this is not the case. I’m sorry if this continuation of my tale ill suits you.
    * * * *
    The stink of stale, moldy straw curling up into her nose was the first sign she was still alive. The dull, thumping pain on the back of her skull was the second indication. Vixen opened her eyes to see the bleary and ill-lit brig her captors had tossed her into. She quickly shut her eyes to avoid vomiting, for her belly rolled like a craft upon rough seas. The vessel’s motion and the location of the holding cell were bashing her to the ground. The rattle of chains to her left made her take note of the manacles around her ankles and wrists. Her legs were hobbled by the short links running from ankle to ankle, much like the bindings on her wrists in front of her. They clinked metallically.
    You see, the brig of a ship is in the prow. Every time it rises and falls upon the waves, it knocks the prisoners contained within to the deck. The captors chose this location on purpose. After all, being jailed isn’t supposed to be a kindness, you understand.
    “Tom?” she croaked past a thickly coated pair of lips.
    “Aye, Cap’n,” his voice came from her left.
    “We seem to still be alive.”
    “I pray this will not be for long. Certainly we will soon be gracing some gallows, if these redcoats bother to wait that long.”
    “It was a fine life.”
    “Especially at the end.”
    A soft sob bubbled up from her chest, but didn’t burst past her bruised and battered lips. Cursing the short, yet passionate length of their mutual affections, she resigned herself to grip Davy Jones’ hand.
    “The prisoners are awake, I see,” a man’s voice interrupted.
    Opening her eyes, the cutthroat commander spied a tall man wearing the scarlet captain’s coat of the Effingham Navy. The white lapels and brass buttons shone vividly in the half light of the brig.
    “So this is the infamous Milady Vixen?” he queried in an amused tone. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, as short lived as it will be.”
    “Avast, ye braggart,” she grumbled. “Go bugger a powder monkey, you lily-livered son-of-a-seahorse!”
    “Such foul language! By my troth, I knew you to be a bloody handed rogue, but I fully expected some manners from a woman.”
    “Who are ye, varlet?”
    “I am Captain Horatio Cockrum,” he said with a false bow. “I am a member of His Majesty of Effingham’s naval forces, at your disposal.”
    “Go jump off the forecastle then, if’n ye want to be disposed of,” she retorted. “I don’t wish to spend my last hours in the presence of some perfumed dandy who chides me for my manners.”
    “I just came here to inform you that a splendid event will be awaiting us when we dock. The gala will be for your benefit, but I fear you and your associate won’t enjoy being the center of attention.”
    “I always knew of my fate—do ye think to frighten me of its reality? Do you expect me to be some timid and fearful tavern wench who will beg and plead for her life? If’n ye do, then ye be a fool and a pitiful barnacle.”
    “Your opinion and insults mean little to me. However, I would be pleased if you would at least have dinner with me—under heavy guard, of course. I would like to hear your tales, as coarse and vulgar as I’m sure they will be.”
    “I have nothing to say to ye.”
    “I am curious, and you’ll be gracious enough to indulge this strange humor that grips me. Or shall I have yonder shipmate of yours flogged until dead?”
    A chill ran through Vixen’s body.
    “Ye blackheart, stow that talk! I will be so inclined to eat dinner with ye,” she answered.
    “Splendid! I shall have a squad come and