continued, became more heated. Jameson threw his entire body into the flogging, laying the whip across the bleeding man’s back, again and again and again… I finally looked away, afraid I would faint.
“Stop! I beseech you, pirate, stop!”
I looked up. A Cadogan sailor had made his way to the front and was speaking to England, his hands balled into fists. He wore a Monmouth cap over his black hair, a clubbed tail hanging from the back. He was dressed in tatters – a frayed linen shirt and patched breeches, a waistcoat that had seen far better days. His feet were bare. He would have been quite a sorry sight, if not for his straight, fearless posture and fiery eyes.
England signaled to Jameson to stop, and he did. Skinner’s head hung limply, his back in bloody shreds. England looked at the sailor with interest. “And who are ye, dog, to tell me my business?” he asked gruffly.
The sailor looked England straight in the eyes, never faltering. “I be Howel Davis, first mate of the Cadogan . And you said you’d kill him, not torture him. Skinner is ruthless scum, to be sure, but there be no need for this inhuman treatment, for the pleasure o’ sick men!”
Howel Davis. This was the guy England would gift the Cadogan to. From where I stood, I could just see his profile, the square set of his shoulders, the tense muscles in his back. England’s gaze was piercing. “Do ye call me a sick man?” he asked, his voice dangerous.
Davis grinned. “Aye, I do. You and your kind.” And with that, he spat on the deck at England’s feet. Holy God, this guy had a death wish. England continued to stare as the pirates grew restless, grumbling and brandishing their weapons in Davis’ direction. England then looked at Jameson and, with a brisk nod, ended Skinner’s life. Jameson pulled a pistol from his sash and shot the Cadogan captain in the head.
I clapped my hand to my mouth to keep from screaming, squeezing my eyes shut at the gory sight. As I tried to compose myself, Skinner’s body was thrown overboard, the blood mopped up quickly. All the while, Davis and England stood assessing each other unflinchingly.
“What ho, Cap’n?” Jameson asked, looking daggers at Davis. “Shall we lay ‘im open?”
England smiled. “Nay. This kind of mettle is rare. I’d have ‘im join us.” He grinned at Davis. “What say ye, Howel Davis? Will ye sign the Articles?”
Davis bared his teeth. “I’d sooner be shot to death.” He gestured at the cutlass on England’s hip. “And since you’d make sport of me anyhow, you may as well give me a weapon and fight me, pirate.”
England laughed aloud. “Ye are mad, sailor, to challenge a pirate to a fight! Jameson, give the man a cutlass, will ye? We’ll see if he’s a fighting man, or just full o’bluster.”
Jameson flipped a cutlass in the air, and Davis caught it adeptly by the hilt. England said, “A student of the sword, are ye, sailor?”
Davis clasped both hands around the grip, the curved blade glinting in the daylight. He replied, “Ha! Me? Not likely. But I’m awful good with a cudgel.” He grinned insolently.
England moved suddenly, and the duel began in earnest, cold steel clashing together. England clearly was the more educated swordsman – he moved the way I’d seen Olympic fencers move, and he skillfully controlled Davis’ blade while cutting and thrusting. Davis, on the other hand, moved like a Highlander, wielding the cutlass like a Scottish broadsword. While I knew that neither man would die – not unless the book was wrong – I still found myself pressing my knuckles against my teeth in anticipation.
Before I realized what was happening, Davis had been backed into a corner. He dropped his cutlass with a clatter and opened his arms, panting. “Run me through, then, pirate, and I’ll see you in hell!” he hissed.
England pressed the tip of his cutlass against Davis’ chest threateningly, then smiled and lowered his arm. “Ye’re a
“Stop! I beseech you, pirate, stop!”
I looked up. A Cadogan sailor had made his way to the front and was speaking to England, his hands balled into fists. He wore a Monmouth cap over his black hair, a clubbed tail hanging from the back. He was dressed in tatters – a frayed linen shirt and patched breeches, a waistcoat that had seen far better days. His feet were bare. He would have been quite a sorry sight, if not for his straight, fearless posture and fiery eyes.
England signaled to Jameson to stop, and he did. Skinner’s head hung limply, his back in bloody shreds. England looked at the sailor with interest. “And who are ye, dog, to tell me my business?” he asked gruffly.
The sailor looked England straight in the eyes, never faltering. “I be Howel Davis, first mate of the Cadogan . And you said you’d kill him, not torture him. Skinner is ruthless scum, to be sure, but there be no need for this inhuman treatment, for the pleasure o’ sick men!”
Howel Davis. This was the guy England would gift the Cadogan to. From where I stood, I could just see his profile, the square set of his shoulders, the tense muscles in his back. England’s gaze was piercing. “Do ye call me a sick man?” he asked, his voice dangerous.
Davis grinned. “Aye, I do. You and your kind.” And with that, he spat on the deck at England’s feet. Holy God, this guy had a death wish. England continued to stare as the pirates grew restless, grumbling and brandishing their weapons in Davis’ direction. England then looked at Jameson and, with a brisk nod, ended Skinner’s life. Jameson pulled a pistol from his sash and shot the Cadogan captain in the head.
I clapped my hand to my mouth to keep from screaming, squeezing my eyes shut at the gory sight. As I tried to compose myself, Skinner’s body was thrown overboard, the blood mopped up quickly. All the while, Davis and England stood assessing each other unflinchingly.
“What ho, Cap’n?” Jameson asked, looking daggers at Davis. “Shall we lay ‘im open?”
England smiled. “Nay. This kind of mettle is rare. I’d have ‘im join us.” He grinned at Davis. “What say ye, Howel Davis? Will ye sign the Articles?”
Davis bared his teeth. “I’d sooner be shot to death.” He gestured at the cutlass on England’s hip. “And since you’d make sport of me anyhow, you may as well give me a weapon and fight me, pirate.”
England laughed aloud. “Ye are mad, sailor, to challenge a pirate to a fight! Jameson, give the man a cutlass, will ye? We’ll see if he’s a fighting man, or just full o’bluster.”
Jameson flipped a cutlass in the air, and Davis caught it adeptly by the hilt. England said, “A student of the sword, are ye, sailor?”
Davis clasped both hands around the grip, the curved blade glinting in the daylight. He replied, “Ha! Me? Not likely. But I’m awful good with a cudgel.” He grinned insolently.
England moved suddenly, and the duel began in earnest, cold steel clashing together. England clearly was the more educated swordsman – he moved the way I’d seen Olympic fencers move, and he skillfully controlled Davis’ blade while cutting and thrusting. Davis, on the other hand, moved like a Highlander, wielding the cutlass like a Scottish broadsword. While I knew that neither man would die – not unless the book was wrong – I still found myself pressing my knuckles against my teeth in anticipation.
Before I realized what was happening, Davis had been backed into a corner. He dropped his cutlass with a clatter and opened his arms, panting. “Run me through, then, pirate, and I’ll see you in hell!” he hissed.
England pressed the tip of his cutlass against Davis’ chest threateningly, then smiled and lowered his arm. “Ye’re a
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