Morning mist crept over the water as Captain Bronte Farrow stood beside her first mate, Mr. Samuel Davies. The new crew stood before them awaiting orders.

Bronte turned to Sam and said loud enough for only him to hear, "Ready, Officer?"

He flashed a brilliant smile and turned and addressed the crew. "Look sharp men and prime your lugholes." The men all turned tuned their eyes toward them.

"First off, we'll not be plunderin' any English," Bronte announced. The crew let out a mournful groan and she held a hand up to stymie the protest. "Stow your sniveling! I'm captain here! And lay to it I'll see we get us many a rich catch!" The crew shouted lustily in hearty agreement. "And by my blood I hope you all read the Articles you signed, for rest assured, we'll follow 'em to the letter. Take up grievances with your quartermaster, as soon as you elect one. For now, relay them to the first mate, Mr. Samuel Davies. Pay him what heed you pay me." She paused as she looked over the men. "Now, when I name your post, scupper to your duties!"

"Aye, aye Captain!" the pirates answered as one.

"Adams, take the helm. Clear the harbor and stand by for a heading."

As Blake complied she named the gunners and sent them to stow away the provisions along with Carter, who was assigned to the galley. One by one the remainder of the men branched off to their assorted posts on her orders. Cuthbert and two teenagers remained.

"Cuthbert, can you show these two cockerels the sails and rigging?"

"Aye, Cap'n," he grinned back, but then the sailor's attention was drawn to the deck as the kitten, who Bronte named Fortune, scurried toward him.

She grimaced.

"A black cat!" he exclaimed.

Bronte held her breath.

"Ya shoulda said you'd a black cat, sir; they bring excellent luck."

She let out the breath, relieved, as he continued. "Specially iffen they run up to ya like she just did me," Cuthbert said with delight. "If they turn back halfway, it's curtains for ya," he added seriously. "Ya didn't find it under a basket, did ya?" he asked suspiciously.

She was glad she could answer him honestly. "I did not. I suppose if I had it'd be 'bad luck'?"

"Worse," he said in a whisper and looked around like he didn't want anyone to overhear. "Yer ship would never make port." He gulped.

She hung her head and dismissed him, already regretting having him aboard. She hoped he could make up for it with sailing skills. She watched him take charge of the young men and direct them with the sails. So far, so good.

The rest of the day passed pretty uneventfully as she observed her crew. Blake Adams showed he'd been honest about his skill as he easily adjusted to each heading. Cuthbert proved to be knowledgeable in sailing and was a fine teacher. Sam kept tabs on everyone and made sure they were staying on task as Bronte oversaw from the quarterdeck. She was going to like being a captain. She scanned the empty water as she contemplated her duty: To find and successfully capture heavily laden prey.

If she couldn't do that, no one would sail under her. With such a light crew she'd have to rely on trickery and tactical sailing, rather than manpower. She thought hard of what method she'd use that would result in little blood spilt.

Sam joined her. He looked apprehensive.

"What ails ya, Sam?"

He cleared his throat as he stood next to her at the rail. "The crew ... voted me ... quartermaster," he said slowly.

She was momentarily stunned but shook it off quickly and gave him a slap on the back. "Huzzah! Well done, Sam. I can't be calling you my first mate anymore, eh?"

Sam turned and looked her in the eye. "What does that mean ... exactly?"

Bronte chuckled. "It means, as far as the crew goes, you rank a close second with me. We get the same share of plunder, which you're now in charge of dividing."

Sam's face brightened. "Is that all? I can do that."

"Oh no, there's more to it than that. You also share our rations and act as ambassador for any grievances. You're the first aboard any prize, though I retain supreme command in any hostile act. And if I become meat for the sharks, you're the most likely choice as a replacement."

Sam nodded his understanding. "That don't sound too bad."

"And one more thing, Sam." She watched his face carefully. "All punishments are your duty to deliver."

His face went pale only for a second, but his smile grew back quickly. "That's one thing I won't have to worry about. We got us a good crew here. Did you see, they're better sailors than I could ever tell by looking at 'em."

For his own sake, she hoped he was right.

One of the young gunners called, saying dinner was served. She felt on top of the world as she entered her cabin to eat, joined by Sam. They sat at a small table with a raised lip along its outer edge (to keep dishes from sliding off) that Sam had constructed out of spare lumber.

Kinney brought a tray in with two plates of ... food? and two mugs of grog. The dinner smelled terrible and looked worse. She eyed the boy who grinned, seeming to say 'don't shoot the messenger', as he turned to leave.

"Fetch me some water," she called after him as she grimaced at her plate.

Sam was already shoveling the concoction into his mouth, alternating with large gulps of grog.

"S'not bad if ya wash it down," he offered around a mouthful.

Bronte's stomach turned as she watched. Carter was one person who'd lied about his skill. He couldn't cook a lick. He might even be worse than Black.

"The grog is top notch!" Sam said, noticing she hadn't touched hers.

"Have at it," she pushed the mug toward him and stood to leave. She hadn't been able to down rum since her first encounter with it, even if it was watered down. She'd been a cabin boy then, and was quite proud of herself for draining half a bottle. Later she'd vomited over the side—and onto an unsuspecting shipmate who'd made sure she remembered why she didn't want to drink it again. She'd suffer the water straight until it turned foul, and hopefully by then she'd have procured some nice Claret or Brandy.

She decided to go below and grab a handful of hard tack; A fitting meal for her first official day as captain.

Later that night, as she lay in her sparsely furnished quarters trying to ignore her growling stomach, a soft rumbling tune drifted in. It didn't sound like your typical raucous pirate shanty.

She got up and opened the cabin door, curious to see who was singing.

As Bronte stepped into the inky darkness the night crowded in on her. There was no moon to light the shadows and no stars to break the blackness. She returned to the cabin for a lantern.

The breeze was slight and the waves imperceptible as the ship cut through the midnight ocean. The only thing separating the sea from the sky was the churning the ship created, and even that disappeared quickly, making it seem as if they sailed through an endless darkness. The creaking and groaning of the ship complemented the tune.

Lamplight revealed the crooner standing steadfast at the tiller. Abnormally white skin reflected the yellow light and his white hair almost glowed, reminding her of the eerie apparition she'd thought he was the first time she'd seen him.

Bronte, shuddering, chided herself internally for her childish notion. He was just a man, like any other.

Black either didn't notice her presence, or didn't care, for he continued singing as she leaned against the rail nearby.

The melody tugged at her heart, and she realized she recognized it: her mother used to sing it when she rocked her daughter to sleep. Bronte realized she'd begun to sway in time.

Eventually he grew silent and the only sound was the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull.

The blackness left nothing for her eyes to settle on and she stared long into the void, searching for something to prove they'd not sailed off the fabled end of the earth.

"Can you see where you're steering?" She broke the silence.

He nodded once.

"You were singing a moment ago?" she tried again.

"Sorry, Cap'n, didn't mean to disturb ya none." His voice was deep and low, and his words slow and deliberate. It reminded Bronte of the warning a thunderstorm gave when still miles away.

"Not at all, Black. On the contrary, it sounded quite pleasant."

"Sir, you're not afraid of me?"

"Should I be?" She wondered that he asked after all this time.

He shrugged noncommittally. "Jes' some church singing."

"Church singing? Have you spent a lot of time in churches?"

"Not so much, but I likes the singin'."

"How about the people? What're they like?"

"Some's good. Some's not. Just like other folk. Las' church I was in the folks was 'fraid of me. They didn't want me 'round. Most places are like that. I stays awhile, then I sees folks whisperen and starin, so's I leave before..."

His voice wavered and Bronte turned to face him. "Before they make you." She'd heard stories of people being chased from villages by pitchfork, accused of harboring the devil. Most times it turned out they only had some birth defect or slowness of the mind that frightened people. "On my soul, you won't have to leave here, Black." She stepped toward him and looked him in the eye. She lifted her hand to his shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. "Not so long as I'm captain."

He cast his eyes to the deck and she heard him murmur a quiet, "Thankya, Cap'n."

Leaving him at the whipstaff she re-entered her cabin and clicked the door softly shut behind her. As she lay in the long bed she thought about what Black's life must've been like. Living every moment in fear of the judgment your fellow man would cast upon you. A person should be judged by his actions—if at all—not by how he looked. She smiled to herself and said to the darkness, "Strange thought, for a pirate."

Finally she was able to let sleep claim her.

***

Breakfast was as unappetizing as last night's dinner but she was hungry and choked it down. As she took a drink of tepid water to dislodge a piece of leathery beef she decided to have a word with Carter. Sam sat with her again, looking over sketches she'd made for wooden sandals with tacks in the bottoms.

"Can you make them?"

"Course, but do you really think it'll work?"

"One way to find out."

"I'll have 'em done in the space of a couple days." Sam tucked the drawings in his waistband. "Bronte, we're still going to try to take our prizes without bloodshed, right?"

"I swear on this ship we'll only do what's necessary," she confirmed. "That's why we're making the sandals." She studied him a moment. What would he do if bloodshed did prove necessary? It just might happen that the violence would be amongst themselves. They'd been sailing for about three weeks without so much as a piece of driftwood in site and the crew was getting restless. They needed to find a ship to take soon or Bronte would have a mutiny on her hands.

Days later, as they sat at another unappetizing breakfast, she finally heard the sound she'd been hoping for.

"Sail ho!"

She flew out the door, leaving her unsavory meal and sprinted to the rail. She took out her telescope. "Where away?"

"Nor, nor west."

Perfect. It was a Dutch merchant and they'd come up on her windward side, the trade winds blowing in their favor. Her plan should work perfectly. "Look to your priming, boys!"

Sam joined her on deck.

"Have you the sandal's ready?" she asked.

Sam nodded. "I'll pass 'em out and get set for the rest your plan."

Her heartbeat quickened as they drew near.

"They're calling for a show of colors."

"Wait," she ordered.

Minutes ticked by.

"They're running out their guns!"

Bronte held her hand up and waited as they drew within firing range of the ship. "Run up the Jolly Roger!" she cried as she dropped her hand, the signal Sam was watching for.

Three of the crew let loose a cloud of chalky powder from bags held aloft and she ordered gunners to fire as the cloud enveloped the merchant. The ship shook with the explosion as all seven of the Huntress's cannon on her larboard side reported in quick succession. Bronte immediately ordered the ship to turn and face the enemy with the starboard guns. By the time the obscuring cloud cleared they were ready for another blast.

When Bronte observed the gaping holes in the Dutch ship she ordered a cease fire. The enemy captain stood on deck, looking incensed. Dozens of his crew tread water below. They'd either jumped or fallen in when they were blinded. Bronte hoped that would happen. They'd undoubtedly mistaken the flour for quicklime—a likewise white powder sometimes utilized by pirates. The difference was, if quicklime touched any moist part of the body, like eyes, it'd burn sulfur hot. Though half his crew was overboard, the Dutch captain showed no sign of surrender. He signaled his remaining crewman. He was going to fire.

The Huntress's crew threw another blinding batch of flour into the wind as Bronte ordered Blake to come alongside. When the dust cleared again the pirates let the grapples fly in unison and heaved the ships together. Now for the hard part. She and Sam joined half the crew as they leapt aboard the other ship.

The surprised captain wiped flour from his face as he scanned his enemy. Still he did not surrender. When he realized he only faced a half-dozen pirates, he grinned. He shouted a command she didn't understand and the hatch flew open as more than twenty sailors, all armed, flew out.

The Dutch captain smiled smugly as he eyed Bronte and her pirates, who were quickly surrounded. He was hauling a large number of men for a trader. Was he more than he appeared?

"Now!" she shouted back to the Huntress.

The remaining crew onboard let fly large buckets filled with water and soft soap that ran over the merchant's deck. The Dutch crew looked surprised as they began sliding over the deck, most falling down. Bronte's crew tromped around easily in their tacked sandals and relieved the soapy crew of their weapons. The Dutchmen insulted the pirates in all manner of ways as they were rounded up. Some of the pirates threatened back, but mostly they ignored the Dutch crew.

The smug captain was sitting unceremoniously on his bottom as Bronte sauntered over and offered him a hand. Instead of accepting he tucked both of his hands under his arms and turned his nose up at her.

Too thrilled with their victory to care about his rudeness she turned away and met Sam's crooked grin.

"Lock the crew in the hold with a promise to rest 'em under some shady palms as thanks for allowing us to relieve them of their treasure."

As her crew went into the hold, she strode into the captain's cabin. He'd fine taste. It'd spruce things up nicely in her quarters, she thought, as she stepped onto a thick Persian rug. The furniture was matched in a rich cherry and beautiful artwork was nailed to the walls. The bookcase was filled and she looked forward to reading the varied selection. And most pleasing of all, piled atop the bed was a pair of soft feather pillows.

French curses rang from the doorway and Bronte turned to see Sam holding a gentleman dressed in rich clothing, trying to fight his way out of Sam's grip.

"What have you there, Sam?"

"I found this fancy fellow below. I'm thinking he was hiding something."

As the man eyed her she noted with curiosity that one of his eyes was gray and the other, brown. He wasn't dressed like a sailor. He must be a passenger—a rich passenger, she thought, as she noted his finery.

"I'll be bound you're right. To the quarterdeck with him and tie him up. We'll have the truth from his wily tongue soon enough."

The Frenchman's eyes glittered with hatred.

Bronte quickly perused the captain's charts and took a few she found useful, and setting them aside she went outside. Bright sunshine made Bronte's eyes water after being in the dim cabin. Soon enough she caught up with Sam, who, with his perpetual smile glued on, leaned against the rail watching the Frenchman sitting on the deck, feet tied and hands bound at his back.

Bronte stepped up to the man and squatted down to meet his dual colored eyes. Her own image was reflected in his pupils dilated in fear? or anger?

It didn't matter. They'd have what they required soon enough. The pirates slowly gathered around, interested to see what was about to take place.

"Pirates," she addressed the crew as she stood but kept her gaze locked with the Frenchman, "this here gentleman, be hidin' some of our hard earned treasure."

Resounding sounds of growling and disapproval spread throughout the small crowd. Sweat beaded on the Frenchman's forehead.

"But I think he'll be tellin' where it is. The captive's eyes flickered briefly, but otherwise he made no sign he'd understood.

"But Cap'n, what if he don't be speakin' English?" Cuthbert asked.

"Why, then perhaps we'll take a peek at his brain. He'll understand the language we pirates know best, eh?

Sam caught her eye and she reassured him of her intention with a wink. He nodded in understanding as he stepped to her side.

Sam ran a hand over his whiskers and looked toward the heavens, as if contemplating which form of torture they should use. Nodding slightly he turned to face Bronte. "I say we hang 'im by his thumbs and take turns whacking him until he confesses."

The crew nodded and murmured their approval amongst themselves. A large drop of sweat rolled off the Frenchman's head but his lips did not part.

Bronte eyed him with interest. "No. That'll take too long. I say we light fuses between his fingers and toes. Much faster."

The Frenchman shifted and swallowed.

"True," Sam agreed, "it would be faster, but such a waste of fuses. We're on short supply. Let's keelhaul 'im. That doesn't take too long."

Bronte paused as she seemed to consider, letting the Frenchman mull over the idea of being tied to a rope, thrown overboard and dragged underneath the ship's bottom covered with razor sharp barnacles. The Frenchman started to breath in quick nervous intakes.

"That won't do. Most people don't survive, and we need him alive. You know, I've always wanted to try woolding. That shouldn't kill him."

The Frenchman actually looked as if he might start crying and Bronte knew he'd tell them where to find whatever it was he'd hidden. But just to make sure....

"Have you ever done it?"

"Woolding? I don't believe I'm familiar with the term. Do explain," Sam asked.

"It's simple enough. Take some cord, enough to fit around his head with a mite to spare." Sam stepped over and fit his hands around the man's head to measure what length he'd need. Then he cut a piece of line from the rigging and held it for Bronte's approval in the Frenchman's line of vision. She nodded and continued her instruction. "Then you—"

"No monsieur, I will tell you!" The Frenchman pleaded, in English.

"Quiet dog!" Bronte gave him a harsh gaze. "I'm explaining something to my quartermaster here. Now, wrap it tight around his head."

Sam did as she described.

"PLEASE! No Monsieur! Capitaine, I 'id jewels in ze—"

"SILENCE!" she railed. He whimpered. "Where was I? Oh yes, of course. Twist the cord and as it gets tighter and tighter, their eyes pop right outta their head!"

"Ah," Sam gripped the piece of rope and twisted ever so slightly. "I have it!"

A puddle streamed from the Frenchman's bottom and Bronte sidestepped it with satisfaction. The man's whimpers turned to cries as the pressure on his head increased.

"Le lit, under ze berth in my cabin! I 'id zem zair. Veuillez, please..." he sobbed.

Bronte drew her cutlass and sliced through the rope binding his ankles. Sam dropped his piece of rope and jerked the man to his feet. The Frenchman snapped his eyes to her as he was jerked up.

"Lead the way, monsieur."

They took him to his cabin and he indicated where the jewels were hidden. His eyes again gleamed with hate as Sam spilled the pouch onto the berth and whistled at its sparkling contents. Assorted sized rubies, emeralds, and large diamonds gleamed and Bronte smiled with satisfaction.

A pirate scuttled by the door and she transferred the gentleman to his care. "Lock 'im with the others." She started to hand him off, but then stopped. "Hold one moment. Give me those cowhides."

"Capitaine?" the prisoner asked.

"Your boots! Take off your boots and hand them over," she ordered impatiently.

The Frenchman plopped down on the bunk and pulled of the tall leather boots, shoving them at her unceremoniously.

She grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him into the waiting pirate's hands. "Come back for this trunk as well, gents!"

As Sam scooped the precious jewels back into the pouch she swept the rest of the tiny cabin with a glance to see if there was anything else of value. The trunk she referred to rested on the opposite wall and she threw open the lid. Sam peered in from behind her. Various changes of clothing including a deep red short-coat lay inside, which, Sam snatched up and donned immediately. Rummaging through to the bottom Bronte found nothing else of apparent value. A small book lay on the very bottom of the chest. Bronte withdrew it.

"Contes Et Nouvelles En Vers," she read. She rifled through the pages. "French poetry. "For wooing the ladies," she winked conspiratorially at Sam, "if you can read French." She made to toss it back in the trunk but Sam snatched it from her hands.

"Lemme see." He opened the cover and thumbed through the pages.

"What're you going to do with that? You can't read it."

Sam smiled with a familiar twinkle in his eye. "Practice makes perfect."

Bronte rolled her eyes and snapped down the lid of the trunk as she turned to leave.

As they paced across the deck Sam asked, "What made you so certain he could speak English?"

"I've seen him before at a tavern, only not dressed so dandy. You don't forget eyes like those. Kept company with a widow; probably wooing her with that book."

It took most of the afternoon to transfer the treasure. They procured trunks of exquisite silk dresses dyed blue, green, deep garnet and every other color of the rainbow, crates of fine wine, books, spices and rugs. And of course, the requisite chests full of moidores, sovereigns and pieces of eight completed the hall. They stripped the ship bare finishing with the captain's furniture. They separated from the ship and as they sailed away, Bronte watched the ship explode into two pieces, each sinking below the surface. They'd set powder to go off, since now, thanks to the hulk slipping beneath the waves, they'd some to spare.

She turned to Sam as he finished scratching down the inventory taken from the merchant ship. Later they would sell it and divide what they made among the crew.

"Be sure to subtract the furniture from my share," she said. Ironically, pirates had little tolerance for anyone stealing from them. "And those stinking, too small boots," she added with disgust. "Never known a man with such small feet."

"I didn't think we'd fit all that loot aboard."

Bronte nodded as she observed how much lower they were sitting in the water. "Aye, but I think this ship could take a bit more. That hold is bigger than it looks. We're not quite loaded to the gunwales!"

"Let's get these sailors dumped off at the nearest island, before Jackson convinces them he really will skin 'um alive!" Sam commented. "The last thing we need is a prisoner's revolt."

"If they don't shut their ugly maws and quit throwin' out insults, I just might let him!" Bronte quipped.

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Sorry for the short chapter last week, but here's a 9.5 page chapter (well, that length in Docs).

Please consider voting and/or leaving feedback. That'd be awesome since I'm not sure if anyone's reading this book and Id love to hear anyones thoughts.