My heart is pierced by Cupid,

I disdain all glittering gold,

There is nothing can console me,

But my jolly sailor bold.

Crimson waves danced in Morley’s eye as the metallic crunch of the flintlock’s hammer bounced off the walls of the damp cavern. The captain stood proudly at the base of his prize, yet his face flushed with rage. He clutched a fistful of gold with pride in one hand, the brazen weapon aimed towards the fleeting dinghy with the other. He stood motionless, his mind fighting an internal battle of rage and complacency, as he watched the small boat shrink on the horizon.

“Don’t waste the shot, cap’n. You’ve only got the one.”

Morley’s finger tightened against the hair-thin trigger as the words slithered into his ears. With the sights held steady on the drifting target, he turned his heated gaze to the raspy source: a scrawny man, thin as bones, sat below him on the cavern floor, nursing a large gash in his chest. “Oh?”

“You’ve only the one,” the man repeated before meeting the captain’s gaze. “There’s six of ‘em on the boat. It’d take a miracle to hit ‘em all.”

“A miracle?”

“Aye,” the boney man grimaced as he returned his attention towards his wound. Growing annoyed by the red liquid leaking from his breast, he ripped off a hunk of his blood-stained shirt and jammed the makeshift rag into the oozing hole. “A real act o’ God, I’d say. And I don’t reckon he listens much ta the likes of us. But I dunno. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“Lucky?”

“Aye, cap’n,” the man continued, hoisting himself up from the cavern floor and cracked his long thin neck. “Luck might be on yer side, but ye still have to account for the fact that you might miss entirely.”

“Miss?” Morley’s face grew hotter with each word the man uttered. His finger itched upon the trigger, impatient in its wait for its master’s call.

“Could happen. Would take a mighty impressive shot to hit em, sir. It’s merely a pistol, ya know. Not like ye got a rifle or somethin’. Ye only got that there flint, and they’re a ways off.” The man leaned out the cavern window, shielding his eyes from the beating sun, and mentally calculated the distance of the dinghy. “That’s more than just a couple yards, cap’n. And they’re gettin’ further away with each second.”

“Is that so?”

“Aye,” the man whistled before pushing himself away from the opening. Pleased with the advice he had given, a satisfied smile covered the man’s face. “So, as I said before, don’t miss.”

“Miss?” Morley chuckled, lowering the flintlock from the dinghy and setting the sights on his new target. “I don’t think I will.”

“… And he was never heard from again.”

“That can’t be the ending! How did he escape?”

“It’s just a story, Peter,” Diane replied, kissing the child on the forehead as the book snapped shut. “Get some sleep.”

“But Mad Eye Morley was the greatest pirate to live!” Peter exclaimed, leaping upright and flailing his pudgy arms about in an invisible sword fight. “He can’t just be stranded on some island!”

“Shh. That’s enough,” Diane hushed, her thin lips quivering in a vain attempt not to smile. She tucked the child in one last time before lifting herself from the bed and headed for the door.

“… Them bloody traitors,” the child muttered under his breath. He flipped his body away from the door and pulled the sheet close to his chin. “I’d have the lot of ‘em walk the plank!”

Diane’s back slumped against the thin batten door as it closed behind her. Her slender fingers ran along the frail skin of her face and through the auburn curls of her hair. Her emerald eyes widened and her cheeks flushed pink. Her lips twirled and her soft giggle filled the dimly lit room.

“That boy and his imagination.”

Diane’s smile grew larger as the words danced in her ears. “He’s a good kid,” she said, making her way across the creaky floorboards and taking a seat next to her father in the parlor. “Probably gets these grand ideas from his pop.”

“Bah,” the old man snorted, a puff of creamy white smoke exploding from his nostrils, the cloud hovering in the stale salt-filled air. A thin straight-paneled dublin bobbed between the man’s weathered lips, the small ember illuminating each wrinkle upon his face. “Most likely got them from those stories you keep reading him.”

“The same stories you read to me,” Diane corrected.

“Is that so?” A twinkle formed in the man’s eye as he looked at his daughter with admiration. He ran the tip of his finger along the chiseled edge of his pipe, puffing along in thought. “It’s about time you had a youngin’ of your own, wouldn’t you say?”

“What?” The syllable exploded from Diane’s lips as her brow narrowed in confusion.

Her father’s eyes softened at the response. He lowered the pipe from his lips and offered a grin. “All I’m suggesting is that it is time to start thinking of your own interests. Time is a fickle beast that waits for no one.”

Diane shifted in her seat, finding her chair rather uncomfortable with this particular conversation. “Where is this coming from? I thought you needed my help with Peter.”

The old man’s grin faded, his gaze turning firm. He bit back his lip in protest. His fingers danced about the bowl of his pipe as he contemplated his next words carefully.. “I appreciate everything you have done for the boy. But he is no longer a bae and you are not his mother. It is time to think of yourself.”

“I have thought for myself!” Diane huffed, the tension in her voice raising. “He will be home soon.”

“I know,” the man’s words fell silent, his attention falling back to the dublin balanced in his hand, the ember now faded to a soft cinder. He brought the rod back to his lips, fanning the flame with two fingers in a vain effort to breathe life back to the dying ember.

Two sharp raps on wood broke the unnerving tension that had filled the room. “Were we expecting company?” Diane asked, glancing at her father in confusion.

“I don’t believe so,” the old man said, hoisting himself from his chair with a grunt. “It’s a bit late for company.” He placed the smoldering pipe atop the mantle before hobbling over to the door, his cane clipping across the floorboards as he shuffled along. Frost filled the room as the man opened the door to reveal two men in uniform standing outside. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

“Is this the home of Miss Diane Seegar?” the stout man of the pair asked. He lowered the scarlet cavalier from atop his head and clutched it close to his chest, his fingers dancing uneasily along the brim.

“Aye. I’m her father. What business do you have with her?”

“I’m sorry to report, sir,” the man on the right interjected. His nose twitched furiously with discomfort as he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled a waxed envelope from within. “The Ivory Lilly is no more.”

“What is this you speak of? No more?”

“Pirates!” the stout man enthusiastically proclaimed, his voice echoing throughout the still night. Realizing the level of enthusiasm was higher than intended, his face ripened to that of a burgundy tomato.

“Yes,” his comrade continued, shooting a glance of disapproval at his embarrassed partner. “Pirates attacked the ship. They took the cargo the crew was transporting from the East. The Ivory Lilly was not much of a vessel. Bastards sank it as they left.” The man’s hands trembled as he handed the father the sealed parchment. His lips quivered in fear as the following words stuttered to escape. “They left no survivors.”

“I see.” The color faded from the old man’s eyes as the words fell from his lips. He clutched the parchment close to his chest, his thumb slowly tracing the wet wax of the delicate seal. He nodded his respects as he backed slowly inside the small cottage. “Thank you,” his voice broke as the door swung shut.

“What was that about?” Diane asked before the old man could turn. “What did they want?”

“I’m sorry, darling.” The man’s cane quivered in his hands as he hobbled towards his daughter. “I’m so sorry.”

Candlelight flickered across the parchment as a hardened finger paced across the dotted markers, slowly tracking the narrow trail. Where are you? The sullen captain withdrew a compass from his pocket and placed it upon the vellum page, his gaze still locked on the faded lines.

“Cap’n! You’re gonna want to see this!”

With a grumble, the captain rose from his seat. “What is it this time?” he muttered with a scowl before making his way to the door. A grim, musty scent of scorched wood greeted the man before he had completed his journey. He stopped his advance mid-step, twirling on his heels to peer out the cabin window behind him. A blanket of thick black smoke had settled atop the churning sea, engulfing the air around the ship. How did I not notice this?

The captain spun back around and flew to the exit, flinging the door open and thrusting himself into the chaos that had erupted aboard the ship. His crew scuttled about the deck in a frenzy, screaming of ominous omens and bad luck. A group of the men had splinted off from the rest, having hoisted themselves over the side of the hull, greedily reaching out to pull what soot covered trinkets they could reach from the wreckage below.

“Shipwreck cap’n!” A squat man proclaimed, sprinting towards his leader. “Mighty big ‘un too. Looks like they took down a small fleet. There are at least two sloops down there. A frigate, too. Blew ’em right ta pieces, they did.”

Three ships? The bewildered captain stood motionless, observing the wreck in awe.

“The crew is getting nervous, sir. Who’ver blew up these vessels can’t be far. The smoke is still fresh. If they can take down these vessels, what’s stopping them from takin’ down ours?”

Who could have caused this wreckage?

“What do we do, captain?”

“What we do...” A dark figure floating atop the nearby debris caught the captain’s gaze. He rushed to the side of the hull, peering out into the darkness of the hanging cloud. “Benson! My glass!”

“Aye!” the squat man jumped to action, spinning about and darting off to the cabin door. A moment passed before the man leapt back onto the deck, huffing and puffing to catch his breath. “Your glass, sir,” he wheezed, handing the captain a brass spyglass, patinated from years’ worth of work in the harsh environment.

“Man overboard!” A voice wailed from atop the crow’s nest. “Cap’n! I think he’s breathing!”

“Sir, do we take him aboard?” The squat man gasped as the captain extended the metal contraption and brought it to his eye.

The captain quickly searched out his target, locking his sight on a damp mass of cloth, hair, and skin clinging to the charred debris. The mass was relatively still. Only the closest observation could discern a slight bob of the husk inhaling and expelling air.

“Sir?” Benson repeated, looking to his captain for an answer.

“Ay, Benson,” the captain firmly replied, lowering the glass from his eye and snapping it shut. “Bring him aboard. He’ll have our answers...”

Diane placed her palm against the chilled glass window, the heat from her hand breaking through the fog of a life now passed. Three years since word reached her ear. Three long years since he was taken from her.

Sails of blue upon red fluttering against the calm breeze caught her gaze. Her fingers tensed and her brow furrowed with each wave the cloth made against the horizon. No. Not three. It’s been far longer than that. The sea may hold her love in her icy grip, but she is not the cruel mistress who robbed her of him.

She remembered every second of that fateful day: the hustle and bustle of rambunctious dockworkers unloading their haul; the stark stench of putrid seaweed and the sour taste of salt that filled the air; the way the blazing heat of the midsummer sun scorched the top of the churning waves, leaving an ominous emerald glow atop the horizon. But more importantly, she remembered his face, bristling with excitement for the adventure that lay before him.

“They’ll have the pirate threat taken care of in no time,” he had said, brimming with pride. “They only need to make examples of those that lead them and the rest will crumble. Once the head of the serpent is severed, the body will wither.”

“And where is this coming from? Why the sudden passion for politics?”

“I don’t know what you speak of,” Edward said with a grumble, shoving his hands in his pockets and kicking the shells from under his feet with each step.

“You have never spoken of the need to quell piracy in the past,” Diane chuckled, grasping Edward’s arm and pulling him in step with her jolly gait. “Not once have you ever sprouted on about the ‘scourge’ of piracy.”

“They are a scourge,” Edward protested, stopping in his tracks and swinging Diane around to face him. “They are a blight against civility as well as the crown.”

“A blight against civility?” Diane laughed. “If anything, you have been nothing but jealous of them since the moment your ears caught wind of the tales of their exploits.”

“Jealous? How dare you accuse me of siding with those villainous traitors!”

“Admit it, Edward. Seafaring men pillaging the seas in a grand hunt for treasure. Your mouth waters at the mere thought of the adventures that befall them. You and I both know that you would jump at any chance remotely close to that.”

“An itch for adventure hardly puts one in leagues with pirates.”

“Does it?” Diane spun on her heels, pulling her love to follow. “In either case, that still does not answer why you have grown so fascinated with the politics of it all. What’s it to you about the matters of such things?”

“They are wicked men who deserve nothing but swift justice.”

“And what justice would that be?” Diane asked, looking over her shoulder.

“A short drop with a sudden stop.”

The bitter words forced Diane to stop. Her smile faded, replaced with a contemplative scowl. “What a vile thing to say.”

“Vile? Or noble?”

“Vile,” Diane reiterated, unlatching her arm from his and replacing it with the pair atop her waist.

“I disagree,” Edward spat, avoiding her disapproving glare and turning his attention to the sea. “I believe it to be noble. Quite noble, in fact. What man of honor wouldn’t agree with that which aligns to the needs of the crown?”

“Aligns with the crown?” Diane’s posture slumped, her hands sliding down her waist and falling to her sides. She cocked her head to the side, her eyes carefully studying her love as her thoughts scrambled to make sense of what he had said. “Where are you?”

“Where am I?” Edward turned, looking at Diane, his face blank from expression.

“Where are you?” Diane repeated, her gaze softening. “Death to pirates? Aligning with the crown? This isn’t you, Edward! Not the man I know. Where is the man aspiring to see the world? The simple man who didn’t get involved with the pompous rhetoric of politics? Where is the man I love?”

Edward’s shoulders sagged, his chin falling to his chest. He shuffled his feet between thoughts while his cheeks burned to a vermillion hue. “There is more than one way to see the world.”

“Aye.” Diane’s brow arched. “I suppose so. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I enlisted, Diane,” Edward replied, lifting his gaze to meet hers. “I signed the papers this morning.”

The brash knock of knuckle upon wood interrupted Diane’s thoughts. She lowered her hand from the glass and straightened the creases in her dress. “Come in.”

The door squealed open, followed by the quick clips of her father’s cane as he made his way into the room. “Mister Woodes is here. I would very much like you to meet him.”

“I am not interested.” Diane interrupted, returning her attention to the fogged window.

Her father’s brow furrowed in detest of her daughter’s remark. He leaned heavily on his cane as his hand balled into a fist at his side. “He would very much like a word…”

“I’m not interested.” Diane repeated, brushing the strands of hair from her face. “If you would, please, I would like to be left to my thoughts.”

“He would like a word with you.” The bitter words left her father’s lips in a disgruntled huff. He turned to the man in the doorway, offering a look of apology for his daughter’s behavior. “I do believe you should listen to what he has to say.”

Diane remained silent, shifting uneasily beside the window. She ran her hands along the silk of her dress, each index fidgeting along the woven patterns.

Her father sighed in detest. He released the firm grip of his fist and hobbled towards his daughter. Placing his arm around her shoulder, he whispered in her ears: “I know you don’t wish for this interaction. I know you want to be left to yourself. But I implore that you heed what he has to say. It is time to move on, dear. I think you’ll be surprised to find that the pair of you share a common past. So please, darling, hear the man out.”

Diane folded her arms and shook off her father’s embrace. She pursed her lips to protest, but realizing the argument had been lost, remained silent.

Her father shook his head in frustration, turning his attention to Mr. Woodes standing in the doorway. “I apologize for my daughter’s actions.” He offered a half-hearted smile before gesturing for the man to enter.

Mr. Woodes entered the room in two long strides, taking his place at the front of the chamber before surveying the room and admired his surroundings. He nodded his gratitude to Mr. Seegar before clasping his hands behind his back and waited patiently for the old man to leave. “I suppose now would be a proper time for introductions,” Mr Woodes said as the chamber door clicked shut. “But I take it you are not very fond of introductions.”

A small grin grew on Diane’s face as her cheeks burned pink. She hastily unclasped her arms and ran her left hand through her hair to mask her amusement at the man’s remark.

Mr. Woodes’ eyes beamed at the response, knowing he had succeeded in piquing the woman’s attention. He joined in her game, averting his gaze from the embarrassed woman and directing his attention to the bookcase behind him. He leafed through the titles displayed, his fingers running along the leather bindings until it reached a rather large volume. “I suppose we can forgo that part of the interaction,” he continued as he plucked the book from the shelf and cracked it open. “If I am to be honest, I rather detest them too.”

Diane shifted her stance, turning her head just enough to catch a glimpse of the man in her room. He was a tall man; a confident man. He stood proudly, his two long legs planted firmly on the ground. His posture was perfectly straight, yet it wasn’t uncomfortably forced. He was impeccably dressed and groomed, with his pants pressed flat and his face cut clean. He was a younger man marked with the faint lines of wisdom of a man whose youth was fleeting.

“Odd tradition, they are,” he continued, lifting an eye from the book to meet her gaze. “Wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you mean,” Diane replied, her brooding glare retreating back to the window.

“They are the furthest from introducing oneself. It’s merely an excuse for men to ramble on and gloat about their conquests. It doesn’t give an inkling of an idea as to what kind of person they are.”

“Of course it does,” Diane scoffed.

“Oh?” Mr. Woodes asked, snapping the book shut. “How so?”

“It’s not the meaning of the words but how they are said,” Diane remarked, pushing herself from the window and spinning to face him.

“How they’re said?” Woodes quizzed with a grin. “Please explain.”

“If he gloats proudly and rambles on endlessly, then he is conceited and only cares for themself. If he shrugs off his achievements and passes the conversation off too quickly, then he is weak in confidence and cares too much for the opinions of others.”

“And if they speak humbly of their conquests but heed the other’s words with intent ears? What of them?”

Diane’s brow arched, her eyes narrowing on the man as she studied him carefully. “What is it you want, Mr. Woodes? Why play these games? You have yet to state what it is your intent is. What do you want from me? Who am I to you?”

“Companionship.”

“Companionship?” Diane’s head cocked to the side as her arms crossing once more against her chest. “You know nothing about me. I am naught but a stranger to you.”

“I admit we are strangers,” Woodes said, replacing the book in the proper place back on the shelf behind him. “But I have learned a great deal about you from your father. More so about your past.”

“My past? What does my past have to do with anything?”

“We share a similar story,” Mr. Woodes explained, his hands retreating into the pockets of his trousers. “I had a wife once. A beautiful woman; quite clever and beyond intelligent. I dare say she was my better half.” Woodes’ feet danced back and forth along the floor, his chin inching closer to his chest as he continued on in his prose. “Fever befell her and, needless to say, she didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But I still don’t see how that matters to me. I am not interested in wedding a man whom I know so little of.”

“I am not asking for your hand in marriage, but simply for your ear in counsel. A conduit for my thoughts and an advisor to my decisions.” Woodes lifted his gaze from the wooden floorboards and began to pace about the room. “Let me tell you another story. A story that hasn’t quite come to pass. You see, I have been offered governorship of a small island in the East. Perhaps you have heard of it: Roebuck Cove.

“It has been territory of the crown for decades, but has fallen from the queen’s control due to bribery and corruption. It has since become the berth place for pirates and illicit trade. Words can’t describe how much money is lost by not dealing with this serious issue. It has become a festering thorn in the queen’s foot; not only are we losing an important trading depot, but it also shows a weak hand to the enemies of the state.

“I have proposed a plan to take the island back with little to no force. It is quite simple, in fact. We offer pardons to the pirates, bringing them back in favor with the crown. They will go about conducting business on legitimate terms and the goods will continue to flow. It’s the perfect plan.”

“That’s a fine idea, really,” Diane interjected. “But you are barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Woodes. I know very little about politics, let alone of governing, for that matter.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret,” Mr. Woodes replied, spinning on his heels. “None of us have a clue what we are doing. If anyone did, they would never sign on for the job. You are a bright woman, Diane. You have proven as much to me in our little interaction. I’ll fill you in on the important bits and you’ll pick up the rest as you go.”

“You aren’t hearing me, Mr. Woodes. I don’t want to govern, nor do I wish to advise. I have no interest in such things. I’m just happy where I am.”

“It’s a fresh start,” Woodes continued. “A new life in a new world. I think that is precisely what the two of us need. And your father agrees. You don’t have to love the idea. Just consider the opportunity it presents. You never know. You may come to find that you fancy the adventure.”

Water spewed from Thomas’ lips, rushing to escape the fleshy prison that held the liquid captive. Coughing and sputtering brought the man to consciousness. He lay on the damp floor, clutching his pained chest while his lungs screamed for air. A rancid smell permeated the bleak, room, causing him to gag further as he struggled to breathe. Where am I?

A small ball of matted fur squeaked as it scurried across his leg, the beast’s tiny claws tearing into the damp cloth of his breeches and poking at his skin. Thomas lifted his arm to shoo the rodent away, only for the metallic chink of iron to halt his movement. Shackles. Wonderful.

“Don’ worry bout lil Ralphie, mate. He don’ bite.”

“Who’s there?” Thomas’ strained voice cracked as he dragged his body off the floor, slumping it against the mildew infested wall behind him. “Where are we?”

“Easy, mate,” the voice answered. “Bout time you woke up. Yer in the galley of the Trident’s Torch.”

“The Trident’s Torch?” Thomas followed the cadence of the voice to the dark outline of a hefty man slouched against the wall to the left of him.

“Aye, the crew brought you down here last night. Somethin’ bout finding you in the water.” The clanking of chains echoed off the wooden walls as the man lifted a gnarled hand from his side and reached out towards Thomas. “Name’s Cookie.”

“Thomas,” he replied, struggling to shake the man’s hand. “Why are we down here?”

“Well, can’t rightly say for you, mate. But me? The crew grew tired of me soup. Aye, guess it’s what ya get cookin’ fer pirates.”

“Pirates?”

“This ain’t no merchant’s brigantine,” Cookie chuckled. “No, sir! The Trident’s Torch is host to some of the most ruthless cutthroats outside of Roebuck Cove. Mighty nasty crew, the lot of ’em.”

“Great,” Thomas sighed, recounting the grim events of the night before. “More pirates.”

“More pirates?” Cookie asked, moving closer to Thomas. “What’s this, mate? More pirates?”

“The last thing I remember, our ship was attacked…”

A deafening squeal of wood lifting on rusty hinges interrupted Thomas’ thoughts. The flicker of a soft flame emerged from the deck above, the ember wavering in the sea of darkness.

“Shh,” Cookie whispered. “Wonder who they’re bringing down this time.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound of thick leather soles slapping against damp wood filled the room with dread. Shivers ran down Thomas’ back, his heartbeat falling into rhythm with each pounding step. He squirmed against the wall behind him, itching to be as far away as possible from the flickering light.

“So he’s awake,” a voice rich in tone, but dark in emotion, called from behind the flames. “Boys…”

Thomas’ breath froze. His feet flailed against the floor of the hold, frantically trying to push himself further away from the voice. With a loud clank, the shackle’s chains pulled taut. Beads of sweat rolled down his brow as he waited helplessly against the pull of the iron chain.

“Bring him.”

Cries of cackling laughter erupted from beyond the flame. Burly hands reached out from the darkness, latching onto the chains tethered to Thomas. With a mighty pull, the dark figures dragged the helpless man towards them as the flickering light floated back up the stairs.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Salt sweetened the air, floating atop the sultry breeze and filling Tristram’s nostrils. His shoulder-length braids swayed against the cool sea breeze as he stepped onto the weathered boards of the dock. His breath left his lips in a drawn out exhale as he admired the delicate features of the city. It was good to be on land.

“Sir, when will we be arriving in Damascus?” an older gentleman asked through labored breaths, having launched himself over the ship’s plank and was jogging down the dock as quick as his stubby legs would let him.

“Return?” Tristram chuckled, continuing his waltz down the path. “We just pulled in! Relax, mate. It’s not often men of the sea get to sink their toes in soil. Get yourself a hearty meal. Find yourself a nice lady friend. And you mate…” Tristram trailed off as he glanced his anxious companion over. He was a mess of a man: his silken clothes half buttoned and crooked; his usual waxed hair, matted and in knots; even his complexion was marred with a green tinge of uneasiness. “You could use some comfort in the arms of a gal.”

“But sir…”

“Or a not so nice one,” Tristram laughed, slapping the gentleman across the back before continuing down the path. “Whatever fits your fancy, mate. A few coin could get you any gal you desired in these parts. And we both know you have some coin to your pocket.”

“But sir!” the gentleman exploded, shaking off the notion and pulling Tristram to turn and face him. “I don’t think you understand the urgency of the situation. We must get to Damascus as soon as possible.”

“Aye,” Tristram nodded. “And I told you I would get you there. But first we unload. We refill our supplies. And my men rest their feet on land. It has been a long voyage. I will not deny them their right to a night of rest. It would be in your best interest if you didn’t either.” The captain turned, stepping off the deck and onto the sandy dunes of the beach. His lungs taking in a deep breath of the stale sea air. He exhaled slowly, admiring the bustling city before him. “Land ho, friend. Land ho.”

Thud!

The deafening crash of the thick oak door slamming shut reverberated throughout the small cabin as Thomas was thrown to his knees. The bustling arms of his captors pulled his torso upright before releasing their grip and waiting silently for instruction.

Thomas’ chest heaved with fear as he studied his surroundings. Pale moonlight filled the room, casting an ominous glow against the single lantern lighting the room. It sat atop a large tattered map, pinned to a mahogany desk by three short daggers. Stacks of rolled scrolls and volumes of various literature littered the room, filling every chair and surface available.

“Leave him,” a dark figure bellowed from the far corner of the room, his back turned to the group. The two men obliged, hastily remarking their respects and slamming the door behind them. “Now then. Who are you?”

“Who am I?” Thomas spat. “Wouldn’t you know? You’re the pirate bastards who sank us.”

“Aye, pirates,” his captor replied, stepping into the light. “That we are. But attack you? Nay.”

Thomas stayed silent, studying the face of his captor curiously. He was a tall man with skin tinged by the kiss of the sun. He was fairly well groomed, with the faint stubble of a mustache filling the gap above his lip. A crude crimson cap adorned the man’s head, the cloth accompanied by a black leather patch covering the man’s right eye. He was much younger than Thomas expected, appearing to be in his twenties.

“Are you deaf?” the man bellowed, growing impatient by the silence. He took a seat at the table and pulled a leather drawstring pouch from his breast pocket. “Who are you?”

“Thomas. What do you want from me?”

“Answers, the man casually said, opening the pouch and lifting a bent pipe overflowing with tobacco from within. Strands of leaf fell from the bowl as the man ran his thumb atop the charred rim. He pressed gently atop the cluster of leaves, taming the pack before pulling a small box of matches from his coat. “Yes, Mr. Thomas, what I seek is information.”

“What information?”

“As you said, pirates attacked you. What I wish to know is who and why. These pirates weren’t interested in loot. They left those trinkets to the sea. Neither were they interested in commandeering the vessels, for they left those in shambles. Which brings to question why? What were they after, Mr. Thomas? And who has the firepower to take on three ships? Two of which, might I add, were fairly armed themselves.”

“I don’t… I don’t know who,” Thomas stuttered, struggling to regain his courage. “And if I did, why would I tell you? We both know I’m a dead man walking.”

“Mr. Thomas, I’m offended,” The pirate shook his head, clicking his tongue against his teeth as he pulled a small match from the box and flicked it to life. “How could you think so poorly of me?” He lifted the pipe to his lips, taking three sharp puffs as the flame hovered above the bowl. “I saved you, Mr. Thomas. I pulled you from the chilly grips of the sea and denied Davy Jones your spot in his locker. Why would I go through so much trouble to just slaughter you but a mere few hours later?”

“Why did you save me?”

“I told you,“ the man replied, snuffing the fame of the match with a shake of his wrist. “Information.”

“I don’t have any.”

“Oh, but I’m certain you know more than you are letting on.” The pirate puffed slowly on the pipe, filling the room in a creamy aroma of baked wheat. “Judging by the soiled rags you wear, I’d wager you were more than a cabin boy. Am I wrong? A military man, I presume?”

“Navy,” Thomas reluctantly agreed. “What’s it to you?”

“What transpired is quite troubling, Mr. Thomas. For a pirate to go through the bother of sinking the ships that they did, as well as managing to sail away seemingly unscathed, can pose a significant problem. A pirate with a vendetta against the crown will only bring further ire our way. A war with the royal mistress is not in our best interests. Not to mention, we are still pirates. What’s stopping the said buccaneers from attacking my crew?”

“I suppose that is troubling.”

“Then you understand my interest in this particular dilemma.” The captain lifted his feet and plopped them atop the table, droplets of soggy mud falling from his leather boots creating a stain on the ancient map below. “I may think poorly of my pirate brethren, but they aren’t daft, Mr. Thomas. No. They know better than to hunt for sport. So the question falls on why? They wouldn’t go through the trouble for silk, leaf, or pieces of eight. No, they were after something far greater. And that, dear Thomas, is what I seek to know. Do you understand, my boy?”

Thomas stood silent, his glare locked on the thin grin growing on his captor’s face.

“Now, what is a navy man such as yourself doing on a merchant’s vessel?”

“They ordered us to escort the ship.”

“And a fine job you did at that,” the pirate laughed. “Steep price for one measly vessel. What was the cargo?”

“Why would I tell you?”

“Well, Mr. Thomas, it’s your lucky day. It just so happens I could use another man on deck.”

“Piracy is treason,” Thomas scoffed.

“Oh, it most certainly is,” the pirate chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “But it’s better than death, wouldn’t you agree? Now, if you may, what was on that ship?”

Thomas’ head lowered, his glare fading as he contemplated the man’s offer.

“Time is running out, Mr. Thomas.”

“I-I don’t know,” Thomas stammered, lifting his gaze from the floor, his eyes wide in a plea for mercy. “They told us it was cargo from the East. Nothing special about it.”

“Nothing special doesn’t deserve a military escort. What was in the cargo?”

“I don’t know!” Thomas screamed. “It was just cargo.”

White smoke fell from the pirate’s mouth as his face hardened. He lifted the pipe from his lips and spun it along the palm of his hand. “Then, Mr. Thomas, I do believe we are out of time.”

“Wait!” Thomas pleaded, struggling to pull himself to his feet. “There was this man.”

“A man?” The pirate’s brow arched as he studied his captive with intent. He placed the pipe back between his teeth, drawing the wisps of smoke into his lungs. “Go on.”

“There was this man. Some garland fellow. John, I think. I believe his name was John.”

“You’ll have to give me more than that, Mr. Thomas.”

“He was an older fellow. Had a glass eye and a nasty scar. Walked with a limp.”

“Details, my boy. Details. What is so important about this Garland fellow who walks with a limp and can barely see.”

“We were ordered to protect him.”

The pirate’s eye widened. He pulled his feet from the table, leaning closer to his captive with interest. “Continue.”

“Orders didn’t say why. There were rumors, though. Something about treasure. Some of the crew believed he was some kind of treasure hunter. Said they saw him with a map.”

“A map?”

“Aye, but it wasn’t complete. It was only a fragment. It didn’t have a destination.”

The pirate’s face soured to a sullen brood. Smoke exploded from his nostrils with each breath he took. He glared at his captive, studying the sailor in thought. A growl formed beneath his breath before he lifted himself from his seat, turning to the window behind him.

“Sir?” Thomas stuttered, taken aback by the pirate’s odd reaction.

“Welcome aboard, Mr Thomas,” the pirate softly replied.

Thomas studied the man carefully, still uncertain of what to expect. After a brief moment, his gaze fell to his shackles as his thoughts debated if his decision was rash. “Sir, if I may ask… Who are you?”

“Cutler. Captain Cutler.”