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  Johanna leaned into Jack and rubbed the side of her face against his chest. He gave her a light, uncomfortable hug for her trouble, and they began walking toward the Outpost.

  Samuel worked up his courage and leaned over to pet the cat. “Does she bite?” “She does,” Jack said. “Fiercely.”

  Samuel paused with his hand a foot from the cat. “You think she’ll bite me?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  “Even if I’m really nice and gentle?”

  “Even if. She’s quite independent, having survived a ship fire and starvation. Not many can claim that. After I rescued her she coughed up bits of rope and pitch, to show me what she’d eaten to survive.”

  “Devils eat pitch,” said Rose. “They thrive in fiery places, too.”

  George said, “Rose, you’re beginning to alarm us. Henry wouldn’t bring a demon into our midst, would you Henry?”

  “She’s a sweet cat,” Jack said. “A biter? Absolutely. But not a demon.”

  “There you have it,” said Marie. “Now let’s hear no more talk of devils and demons.”

  As they headed down the dock toward the outpost, Jack said, “How’d you know I was coming?”

  They all looked at each other in a funny way, but no one spoke on it.

  Chapter 5

  The cat-or whatever it was-adapted to its new surroundings quickly, and it dawned on Jack that perhaps cats had a natural preference for solid ground, and maybe this had contributed to Rugby’s churlish behavior on board The Fortress. She moved gracefully around the yard surrounding the outpost, or “Stoutpost,” as Jack liked to call it.

  “What’s become of your dogs?” he said.

  “Lost one to a gator, we think. Sold the other one,” George said.

  “That works to Rugby’s advantage.”

  “Till we get the next one, anyway. They wander in here regular, half mad from hunger.”

  Jack smiled at Johanna.

  “Rugby’ll be fine. She can hold her own.”

  Johanna returned the smile.

  George and Marie’s tiny house and store were the southernmost dwellings on St. Alban’s peninsula, a land mass of roughly thirty-six square miles, bordered, in part, by the Little River.

  The men sipped their whisky at the table and watched Marie and Johanna tend the dinner pot. Rose had wandered off somewhere, and Samuel and Steffan were sharpening dinner knives.

  “How’s she fitting in?” Jack said.

  “Johanna? She’s a blessing.”

  “Any problems with her father?”

  “Haven’t seen him nor the wife since you threatened to kill them if they ever came back.”

  “That’s good. I meant it. There’s no excuse for a man to beat his children.”

  Jack stared at Johanna, thinking about the type of woman she’d grow up to be. She was too young for Jack, at least in his mind, but in a few years she’d be an ideal wife, devoted and grateful to him, and would probably be a wonderful mother to a brood of children as well.

  George had noticed him staring at Johanna. He said, “I’ve only got the one bedroom.”

  Jack nodded. “That’ll do.”

  George arched an eyebrow but said nothing.

  Johanna, whose hearing was excellent, smiled at the comment, but didn’t trust herself to peek at Jack. She was a thin, fair-skinned girl who’d come a long way from the waif he’d met two months earlier. Johanna had filled out some, thank the good Lord, and her face had gained color. She was a fine specimen, Jack thought, with her fair, unblemished skin, large green eyes and wavy saddle brown hair made lighter by the scorching sun. The work dress she wore every day was gray and made of stout, twilled cotton that seemed too course for her delicate features. She had an easy smile and calm disposition, which was hard to fathom, given her past history of physical abuse by her parents. He’d been many places, seen many things, but not so many domestic scenes or settings. It was nice to see this healthy family working together to get food on the table.

  In Jack’s experience, American born men and women were more pleasing to the eye and healthier than their European counterparts. Jack had twice been to London and seen the horrible living conditions. Everything about the city had the foulest stench. The people were permanently filthy, as no one took baths, including the wealthy. Poor families stitched their children into burlap clothes to be worn day and night through the entire winter. The houses, pinched together side-by-side in endless lines, cramped up against the edge of streets and roads, and men urinated freely onto the streets from second-floor windows. Avoiding the random soakings required careful planning. One couldn’t just move to the center of the streets, for that’s where the latrines had been dug. Women pitched the contents of their chamber pots into the streets daily, without offering the slightest pretense of embarrassment. The refuse and human excrement would be scattered across the dirt or cobblestones awaiting the next rain to wash it into the latrine. Therefore, at any given time, the streets were cesspools so filled with urine and horse manure that no one bothered to avoid stepping in it. Worse, it soaked and clung to the hems of the long dresses and coats worn by women, to be slathered throughout their homes and the commercial establishments they frequented.

  If the living conditions were bad, the faces were worse.

  Ninety percent of the population had suffered from smallpox or chickenpox at one time or other, and their faces and bodies were riddled with deep-pocketed scars. Rashes, funguses and open sores could be found on nearly every face, at any time. By age twelve, most had rotting teeth. Those who managed to live past the age of thirty did so without their teeth. Infection and oozing pus adorned the vast majority of necks, backs and buttocks; and boils and carbuncles were constant sources of annoyance and pain.

  Of course, the major cities in America were filthy, but towns such as St. Alban’s, while nasty in certain areas, benefited from the lack of dense population. Though George and Marie’s faces were pockmarked and their teeth bad, they still managed to look ten years younger than their European counterparts. And thanks to the rural living conditions, healthy food, and medicine supplied by their good friend Jack, Johanna and the Stout children appeared healthy and clear-skinned enough to be a different species altogether.

  “See any pirates when you were fishing?” Samuel said.

  “Not this trip.”

  “We like pirates, don’t we, Father?” Rose said.

  George and Marie exchanged a glance. They knew Jack was a pirate, but it wouldn’t be safe for their children to know.

  Jack said, “I think all colonists are fond of pirates, or privateers, as they’re currently called. Reason being, English taxes are so high these days, the colonists lose money on every crop. They have to traffic with pirates to survive.”

  “Do you know any pirates, Henry?” Rose said.

  Jack could feel all eyes on his face. “It’s possible, since there are pirates everywhere these days.”

  “How come?” Samuel persisted.

  “With England at war with Spain, they want pirates to sink Spanish ships. So they passed a law that lets pirates keep 100% of their plunder from enemy ships.”

  “England likes pirates?” Samuel asked.

  Jack laughed. “England tolerates them for now. But when the war is over, that will change.”

  “What will happen then?”

  “The governors will go back to hanging them.”

  Chapter 6

  The outpost was connected to the main house by a heavy wooden door with iron banding. The main room contained a couple dozen shirts and pants, assorted ropes, netting, hammers, saws, nails and other hardware, much of which had been previously used. The medicine and knives weren’t kept in this building, but in locked trunks in George’s bedroom. Behind the service counter, another door led to a small bedroom that George and Marie rented to customers by the night. Those who slept here were usually too sick to travel, so it was more of a treatment room than a hotel.

  After suppe
r, while the men talked at the main table, Marie and Johanna put some linens and a blanket on the guest bed and set out a clean chamber pot. Rose fetched some well water for the basin, and Johanna placed a towel and hand mirror beside it.

  “Do you have any questions about what might happen tonight?” Marie said.

  Johanna blushed.

  “I know you’ve probably seen it done, but this will be different.”

  Johanna looked down at her hands in her lap.

  Marie said, “Well then, I’ll just let nature take its course. Tomorrow, if you want, we can talk about what happened.

  “Okay.”

  Marie walked to the doorway, turned, and smiled. Johanna said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Stout. Everything will be all right.”

  Marie looked at the young girl sitting on the bed, her work dress caked with grime from the day’s cleaning. Johanna’s hair was a tangled mess, and soot smudges from the fire wood covered her hands and right forearm. There were random smudges on her forehead where she’d wiped her brow. Her legs and ankles were bruised and cut from the brambles and saw grass, and there were chigger bites on her cheek and neck.

  It was a pitiful sight to behold.

  Marie sighed. “Here, child, let me work on you a bit.”

  She dipped the towel in the water basin and scrubbed Johanna’s face, neck, and arms, then rinsed it off.

  She stepped back to survey her work, frowned and shook her head.

  “Take your shoes off.”

  Marie scrubbed the girl’s feet, rinsed the towel again and handed it to her, saying, “I’ll leave the room a moment while you clean the rest of you.”

  Marie closed the door behind her and went to one of the cabinets in the store. George and Marie didn’t stock luxury items like dresses, but they did have a couple of night shirts. Marie chose one, shook it out, and put it to her nose. It smelled slightly of mildew, but was a vast improvement over Johanna’s shift. She waited a couple minutes and knocked on the door. When Marie entered the bedroom holding the night shirt, Johanna jumped to her feet and hugged her tightly.

  “I love you, Marie,” she said.

  Marie smiled and patted her back. “Well, it’s the least I can do.”

  After Marie left, Johanna changed clothes and sat on the side of the bed to wait for Henry. A moment passed and she heard the slightest movement under the bed. She jumped to her feet. Her eyes darted around the room searching for any type of weapon she could use to kill a snake or rat, but found nothing. Fine, she’d use her shoe if she had to. Johanna grabbed a shoe, set her jaw, knelt beside the bed, lifted the low-hanging edge of the quilt and carefully looked beneath it.

  She gasped and drew back.

  It wasn’t a snake or rat.

  It was Rose.

  Johanna grabbed her by the foot and pulled her out.

  “You monstrous child!” she said. “What were you doing under there?”

  “Why, waiting for you and Henry to fornicate, of course.”

  Chapter 7

  The Fortress had been anchored a hundred yards off shore for nearly two hours and the men were getting surly. Those who owned spyglasses had climbed high up the netting to focus them-not on the south side of St. Alban’s, where smoke would be visible had the Captain uncovered a plot to capture them-but on the docks of Sinner’s Row, where the whores were hooting and hollering and showing off their wares. The spotters were whipping the crew into a frenzy with their running commentary.

  Pim frowned. The Captain specifically said to wait four hours for a signal. On the other hand, The Fortress had torn a sail back in Shark’s Bay and that had set them back nearly an hour while they waited for Martin to repair it. So technically they had waited nearly three hours since lowering the Captain’s dory.

  “C’mon, Pim,” Roberts said. “If there was a fire, I’d have seen it by now! Give the order, and let’s go ashore!”

  Pim had full authority to act in the Captain’s absence. Like the Captain, a pirate ship’s Quarter-Master was an elected position, worth an extra share of the booty. Pim’s job was to represent the interests of the crew, settle their differences, and maintain order. He also distributed food and medicine, and divided up the booty. Pim was as eager to go ashore as any man on board, since he intended this to be his final shore leave, should Darla agree to give up whoring, settle down and marry him. He had reason to believe she might. They’d grown close over the years, and he regretted not asking her two months ago like he’d planned. He called to Roberts in the crow’s nest. “Give ‘er one last, careful sweep with the scope. If she’s clean, we’ll put the first boat ashore and watch what happens. If that goes well, we’ll move in another fifty, aim her sideways to the port to show her guns, and go ashore, ‘cept for the skeleton crew.”

  One long minute later a cheer rang out among the crew when Roberts confirmed the absence of smoke. An hour after that, Pim and the last landing party were standing on the pier at Sinner’s Row. By then, all the prostitutes were occupied, so Pim and the others split up into smaller groups of gamblers, drinkers and shoppers. Pim made his way to the Blue Lagoon, entered, and took his usual seat in the far corner. He looked around the place with anxious eyes.

  Pirates weren’t allowed to drink before battles or while under sail. Nor were they allowed to drink to excess at any time while on the vessel, and Pim was no exception. But on shore, he was an accomplished drinker with a particular fondness for Puerto Rican rum and a thick-waisted whore named Darla. After four years of shore excursions it was common knowledge that Darla and Pim were a couple when he was in town. Though pirates in general were a hard lot, only the drunkest of the tough would think to challenge Pim on this or any other issue, since Pim was known to have a long memory and it fell to him to discipline the crew at sea. An affront on shore could mean the difference between being lashed or keelhauled at sea, and, though neither was pleasant, on a ship as large as The Fortress, keelhauling was often a death sentence.

  The way it worked, the victim was tied to two ropes that were looped beneath the ship. One was tied to his wrists, the other around his ankles. Then he was thrown overboard, and dragged under the keel and up the other side of the ship. Since the keel was encrusted with sharp barnacles, sheets of his skin would be scraped off in salt water, which is even more painful than it sounds. Some who lived were subjected to a second trip, if their infraction warranted it.

  The Blue Lagoon was owned and operated by a large, nervous man known as One-Eyed Charlie Fine, who got his name after betting one of his eyes on a ten-high straight in a poker game with a pirate named Ginhouse Jim. Jim had a full house, sixes over one-eyed jacks.

  Charlie owned a piece of the unnamed whorehouse next door to the Blue Lagoon. As the primary beneficiary of Pim’s inebriated generosity, Charlie had learned long ago that it made good business sense to pull Darla from the lineup when The Fortress was in town, to waitress Mr. Pim till closing. As this had become a time-honored tradition, Pim was surprised to see a different waitress standing before him.

  “Darla’s gone,” she said.

  “Gone? What d’you mean, gone? Gone where?”

  “She died. Want a drink?”

  Pim blinked a couple of times and shook his head as if to help her words make sense.

  “You mean to tell me Darla’s dead?”

  “Dead as a brick, yes sir.”

  Pim tilted his head, as if the world were somehow askew, and this would help him see it better. He cleared his throat and swallowed. It didn’t make sense. Two months ago she’d been radiant, full of life. He forced his voice to work.

  “What happened?”

  “Cramp Colic.”

  So out of the blue her appendix had burst and killed her and he’d had no chance to say goodbye. Pim had always assumed that one day he’d give up piracy and make an honest woman of her. And now…

  “Sir?”

  He looked at her.

  “I know Darla’s gone, but I can take her place.”

 
Pim’s mind seemed to be floating away. He could barely make out her words.

  “Take her place?”

  “I can serve you till you’ve had your fill, then, if you want, I’ll go with you upstairs like Darla used to.”

  Pim tried to comprehend the magnitude of his loss. Darla, the only woman on earth who cared what happened to him. He briefly tried to contemplate a life without Darla in it. But the woman standing in front of him had said something he didn’t quite catch. He tried to focus.

  “I’m sorry,” Pim said. “You’re what?”

  “A good whore, sir.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mr. Fine picked me personal, ‘cause I get no complaints. And if it suits you, I’ll stay all night in your bed, just like Darla did.”

  Pim stared at nothing awhile longer before finally letting out a huge, mournful sigh. Then he said, “What’s your name?”

  “Grace, sir.”

  “Did you know Darla?”

  “Know her?”

  “I mean, were you friends?”

  She looked confused by the question.

  “We don’t get much opportunity to have friends here, sir. And there’s some competition for the half sovereigns and up. But Darla, well, she was pleasant, never stole nothing I know about.”

  Pim nodded slowly.

  “Grace?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Yellow rum.”

  “Okay.”

  “And lots of it.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Chapter 8

  Two hours of drinking had done nothing to diminish Pim’s sorrow. He waved off Grace’s offer to sit with him while he drank, and Charlie Fine stopped by the table to offer his condolences. But in the end Pim put his hands over his eyes, bent his head to the table and cried like a baby. When Martin and Roberts entered the bar and saw their enormous friend sobbing fit to bust they fled the premises as if frightened by fairies. Charlie Fine told Grace to get Pim upstairs before he chased off the rest of the customers.

  Grace reluctantly approached the red-haired giant and patted his back. She pushed one side of her blouse down her shoulder and revealed a breast of adequate size and smoothness, which she rubbed against the side of Pim’s impossibly hairy face. He lifted his head and she moved her breast to his lips.