“I don’t suppose you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing me, now, have you?” I replied, with the sweetest face I could muster.
“Sure enough, I don’t suppose I have,” he said, stowing his weapons in his belt.
He walked to me, then, his eyes never leaving mine. He unfastened the red sash from his shoulder, and slowly wrapped it around my chest, covering me up. He was as close as many a man had been before, but I had never felt quite like this from someone’s nearness.
He seemed to see me…gentle, understanding, challenging and strong, and all at once.
My cockiness all but gone, I grew still and stared into his eyes, which seemed to darken to the colour of midnight under my gaze. I felt his fingers tie the sash behind my head and brush lightly against my neck. My heart thudded, matching a pulse I saw throbbing in his throat. Then he stepped back and graced me with a smile like sunshine after the fiercest of storms.
Jack appeared alongside me, both pistols levelled at the man’s chest, a look of sheer amazement on his face.
“Well, blow me down,” Jack said. “It ain’t the first time I’ve seen a fella conch-struck by my Bonny-Anne, but I do believe it’s the first time I’ve ever seen Bonny-Anne silenced. Can you tame the Kraken, too, son?”
Loud laughter rang out around the deck from the rest of the crew, who had gathered to watch. The man pulled his gaze away from me and had the good sense to join in with the mirth. As any good seafarer knew, once their vessel’s crew was bettered, if they did not unite with the victors, they would soon be thrown overboard and used as target practice.
“What’s your name, son?” said Jack, slipping his pistols into his belt.
“Mark Read.”
“You’re a fine fighter, Mark Read. Not too many a man who’d try taking on the William alone. Besides, anyone who can tame our Anne deserves recruitment.”
Another ripple of laughter spread across the deck. I rolled my eyes and huffed out my displeasure, feeling the colour rise in my cheeks. Embarrassment was a new experience for me.
“The name’s Captain Jack Rackham. Some call me Calico Jack,” he said, ignoring me and extending his hand. “Seems we’re in the market for a couple of new men, thanks to you. Our aim is simple: take small ships, avoid King’s ships, drink and be merry.” The crew erupted with their customary roar of approval. Jack smiled. “What do you say to joining our happy band, Mister Read?”
Mark slid his eyes to me for a moment then nodded, shaking Jack’s hand. “I reckon I feel right at home already, Cap’n.”
“Then welcome aboard.”
Jack clapped Mark on the back and put an arm around his shoulders. The crew broke into cheers and rowdy calls went up for a rum punch welcome party that evening. It seemed this mysterious young man could indeed charm just about anyone.
The crew searched the sloop for booty, booze and food before we loaded her with the dead, set her alight and, finally, adrift. Night was falling and I stood with Mark, aft of the mainsail, watching the blazing ship recede into the distance. Some of the crew moved around the deck, lighting the ship’s port, starboard, quarterdeck and forecastle lanterns in preparation for the evening’s merriment. Mark held a five-stringed guitar and a knapsack he had brought on board with him and stood perfectly still at the taffrail, a picture of calm.
I took the time to study his profile. A warm offshore breeze whipped his hair around his face, more chestnut now in the dimming light. Candlelight from the lanterns flickered in his eyes. As he became aware of my gaze, a corner of his mouth lifted, revealing a tiny hollow in his smooth cheek.
“Have we met somewhere before, Mister Read?” I asked.
He shook his head, turning to me. “I’d remember.”
4
In the weeks that followed, we sailed to Jamaica and scoured the harbours and inlets of the east and south of the island, taking seven or eight small crafts with few men and not much booty, but we plundered just enough supplies to keep us satisfied. A military man, Mark’s fighting ability was a great advantage and he spent many hours teaching me to parry and lunge, vastly improving my swordsmanship. Our early lessons were a source of great amusement for the crew; Mark’s calmness and physical grace pitted against my impatience and fiery temper proved hugely entertaining, especially for those who enjoyed seeing me bettered.
Our very first lesson took place on a beach in Hispaniola, just after our first take with Mark as part of the team. He had almost single-handedly won the fight for us and the crew were clamouring to shake his hand and congratulate him. Even Jack could not hide his admiration.
We had dropped anchor in a large sandy cove along the abandoned north-west coast of the island to take stock. It was late afternoon and the sun hung low and large over Cuba and the Windward Passage. Jack ordered six of the crew to row ashore in search of wood and water for the ship, including Mark and me. Once landed, we sent the other four lads off to collect firewood, while Mark and I trudged through the jungle to locate a water source. Mark seemed to be a born water diviner, too, and within an hour we had filled a dozen wineskins and hauled them back to the beach, to wait for the wood party to return. The tide was receding fast, revealing vast stretches of sea grass sprouting up from the sand, like whiskers on a smooth chin.
Not one to sit about and do nothing, Mark lugged the wineskins to our rowboat and began hauling the vessel over the wet sand towards the waterline, which was
