Changed Redux Pt. 08

Interlude ~ A Stormy Sea

Emily McAllister sat wrapped in a heavy cloak of suffocating misery as she huddled against the damp, moldering wooden wall of the ship's hold. She was cold, frightened, in pain and utterly alone. In the darkness, she tried to imagine how her life had gone so horribly wrong in the span of just a few short weeks.

Weeks? Yes, she thought to herself, it had been only four weeks since her ordeal had started. Four short weeks for a life so full of promise to be turned to utter ruin and despair. How could it all have gone so wrong?

Clinically she knew how it all came to be, of course. Emily knew every interlocked tragedy, every misstep, every failed roll of the dice that had happened recently. She should, she had been there front and center for all of it. She had lived it, every terrible moment of it.

But sitting alone, cold and damp in the hold of the worm eaten old cargo ship, Emily couldn't help but wonder what she could have done differently that would have made much of a difference. It wasn't as if she had been making poor or foolish decisions of late, in fact, there had been almost no decisions to make. Most seem to have been chosen for her and she had only been following a path laid out for her. It was as if her destiny, her fall into complete ruin, had been preordained.

Emily closed her eyes and tried to block out everything around her. She tried to block out the battered decking of the decrepit merchant ship. She tried to block out the cold damp that had long ago soaked into every article of her tattered clothing. She tried to forget the constant loneliness she now felt throughout her every waking moment.

The ship rocked beneath her and Emily tried to adjust herself into a more comfortable position. After several attempts, she gave up, there was no comfort to be had here. Footsteps and course laughter passed by on the deck overhead and Emily withdrew further into herself. Most of the men had duties during the day so she was usually left alone but on more than one occasion a sailor had come down to sneak in a little 'recreation' while the Captain wasn't paying attention.

Eventually, Emily managed to get marginally comfortable by using an old scrap of sailcloth for a blanket. As she drifted, her thoughts went back to four weeks ago, just before her husband, Caleb McAllister, a retired Captain turned merchant, had fallen ill with a fever. They were sailing to Saint Kitts on one of her husband's trading expeditions. Normally, he would go off alone leaving Emily alone in London for months. This time, she had pleaded with him to allow her to come along. The idea of seeing new lands and, more importantly, getting out of London, was a lure she was finding increasingly hard to resist.

She and her husband were both Irish and despite the small fortune he had managed to build through a lifetime of hard work, there was little chance for them to truly prosper among the rigid social snobbery of London society. A year-long trip to the far fringes of the Empire seemed to present the best opportunity to escape their social standings, at least for a time. It was on this trip, about a week shy of making port when Caleb fell ill. His condition worsened quickly and only two days from port he passed away in his sleep.

Emily had been saddened by his death but surprisingly, at least to her, not truly as much as she thought she should. At the time, Emily had actually felt a little embarrassed at how well she had taken his death. She thought somehow it should be affecting her more but it just didn't. Try as she might, she just didn't feel very much pain at his passing. He had been well over a two-score years older than her twenty years and their marriage was, while pleasant enough, not an ardent one. Emily had been quite fond of Caleb but did she truly love him? Not really, she admitted to herself. He had provided for her, been kind to her and she in turn had kept his home and that had been enough for her. In the end, losing Caleb had been more like losing a business partner than a husband. For Emily, their marriage had been pleasant and comfortable enough, if not terribly enthralling. She suspected that Caleb had a far more optimistic view of their relationship but she had never wanted to hurt him by bringing the question up. Caleb had sheltered her and raised her to a station far above where she ever truly imagined she would reach in this or any lifetime and for that alone she would be forever grateful to him.

But love? No.

In truth, love wasn't something Emily put much stock in or really even gave much thought to anymore. She supposed some people might actually find it but for the average person, it was a luxury that could be ill afforded.

Growing up the fifth daughter of a poor farmer Emily had few delusions about love and happiness. Life was hard and unforgiving. Girlhood dreams of a handsome prince to come and carry her away from the hunger, dirt and backbreaking work of farm life were crushed early on in her life, never to return. She quickly learned that all a young girl should ask for in life was a roof over one's head and food in her belly. Anything more than that just wasn't how the world worked.

When Emily was fifteen her parents and many of her siblings had been taken by a sickness that swept through their village. After their death her uncle had come in and claimed their farm. He kept the boys to work the land and evicted the three surviving girls as being essentially useless. Her two younger sisters had been fortunate enough to be taken in by other families in town but Emily hadn't wanted to stay in a place that had given her so much misery. With no fanfare, she kissed her sisters goodbye and slipped out of town that night.

Over the next month, she had made her way to London where she eventually found work in a tavern as a serving girl. To her surprise, she found that overall the work, while long and largely thankless, was actually notably more enjoyable than farm work had been. She was warm and dry and the cook, a portly, older man that favored red-haired girls, kept her reasonably well fed.

She worked in that tavern for several years until one day she caught the eye of a wealthy ship captain who was in the city on business. He became instantly smitten with the pretty, befreckled, Irish girl with the curly red hair. Over the next few weeks, he had come into the tavern daily and courted her relentlessly.

At first, she was a bit frightened by all the attention from a wealthy older man. She was used to the attention but most of it came from drunken sailors and dock workers who looked bad and smelled worse. Having attention lavished on her from a wealthy, older but not unattractive gentlemen was an entirely new experience for Emily. Finally, after several weeks, Emily had given in and agreed to marry him and from that moment on her life had been forever changed.

Her barmaid's dress was changed for a lady's gown and she moved into a large townhouse in a fashionable neighborhood in London's West End. She had servants, fine jewelry and rode to church in an elegant carriage. It was far more from life than a dirt-poor, orphaned farm girl had ever expected to have.

Then came the fateful journey and Caleb's untimely death.

Upon making landfall in Saint Kitts, the local governor found out about his passing and immediately canceled all Caleb's contracts and had all his property confiscated, leaving Emily destitute. When she protested, he declared that as Irish peasant woman had no legal right to claim property or hold contracts in this colony.

Emily had at first tried to reason with the Governor. When that failed, she argued, screamed, and in the end threatened to bring legal proceedings against the Governor but that only seemed to amuse the pompous oaf. It quickly became apparent to Emily that in the current situation he held all the cards and she had no options. Her looks and accent gave away her humble background and this far from London, the Governor's word was law. Her only recourse would be to somehow get back to London and seek legal recourse. She had eventually managed to convince the Governor to at least let her keep enough coin to get a trip back to London. He had finally appeared to agree but unbeknownst to Emily, the arrangements that had been made for her return were nothing but a ruse. He had her delivered to a ship he owned where she was essentially given to the Captain as a gift. A Cabin Maid, as she heard the Captain say jokingly.

Ever since the day she had been dragged on board this ship, the Parrot, her life had been a constant misery and her nights had been filled with seemingly endless humiliation, pain, and helplessness.

Pushing memories of the last few weeks aside, Emily had finally managed to drift off into a restless sleep only to be awakened a short time later by the thunder of running feet on the deck overhead and the sounds of men yelling. The ship heeled over hard and even in the lower hold Emily could hear the rigging creaking under the strain. What on earth is going on up there? she wondered.

Cautiously Emily crept up the ladder out of the hold then turned and went up the forward ladder to the main deck. She crouched there and surveyed the main deck from the relative safety of the companionway. To her eyes the main deck was a scene of complete chaos. Sailors ran in every direction while the officers yelled orders that no one appeared to be listening to. Emily wondered what had happened to stir the crew to such a state?

After watching for a few moments Emily could see that most of the activity was clearly centered on the six cannons, three along each side of the main deck. Crewmen readied covered buckets containing the charges of gunpowder while others stacked iron cannonballs and cotton wadding in racks beside the guns. Other crew members were busy loading long muskets and stacking them along the rails while others were pulling hard on lines, trimming the sails.

Emily got it. They were about to be attacked but by who? The French? Spanish? Hope began to swell alongside the fear that now constantly resided in Emily's breast. Would she be rescued if the ship was taken by a naval vessel? Would the other Captain take pity on her and return her home? She began to try to think of some way, any way that she might aid in her own rescue. Only moments later her hopes were dashed when she heard one of the crewmen say a single word, "Pirates."

Pirates. Emily's hopes withered and died. No rescue was coming. In all likelihood a band of pirates would be even crueler than the sailors on this vessel had been to her. Her hands began to shake as a wave of despair rolled through her. She sank to the side of the small companionway no longer caring if the crew saw her on deck. What would it matter at this point anyway? Could they really do worse to her than they had already done? A mirthless chuckle rose in her throat as she realized that quite possibly they were all about to die anyway. Serves the bastards right, she thought.

The Captain's bellows carried over the general noise and Emily stood, craning her neck to look at the cretin standing by the rail on the sterncastle. Every few moments he would turn around nervously and look at something off the starboard stern. The look sternward was followed by a reflexive check of the ornate cutlass strapped to his waist.

He's scared. Emily said to herself with grim humor. Good, let the fat, pompous bastard have a taste of how it feels.

Once all the preparations that could be made had been made, the activity on deck calmed down somewhat and the crew members that were not actively tending the rigging started to stand by the starboard rail and look to the stern. Cautiously, so as not to attract attention, Emily crept from her hiding place and moved towards the rail. At the four corners of the main deck there were small stairways leading up to the fore deck and the sterncastle. Under these stairways were small open areas where ropes, buckets and other such items were stored. Emily slipped into the storage area and looked out through the small opening between the underside of the stairs and the rail.

Not far behind was another vessel. It appeared to be smaller than the one she was currently on. It had only two masts to this vessel's three but this smaller ship was clearly faster. Even with the crew pulling on the lines constantly trying to catch every puff of the strong breeze, their pursuers were quickly closing the distance.

"Can you see the flag?" "What flag does she fly?" "What ship is it?" Emily could hear the crewmen asking each other.

"Saunders, you've got the best eyes." Bellowed the Captain holding out a brass tube. "Take this glass up and tell me what flag she flies."

A small, reed-thin man grabbed the brass spyglass and swiftly scurried up the rigging to the first spar, there he stopped and set the tube to his eye, studying their pursuer.

"French flagged Cap'n." Saunders yelled down. Then a moment later. "Wait, they just ran a new flag up the mainmast."

"What kind!" Screamed the Captain.

"Black flag, Cap'n!" He yelled down.

"I can see that ya bilge suckin' twit!" He cursed up at the seamen. "What's on it? What be on the flag?

Looking again, the seamen called, "Looks like... looks like a... flower?"

The Captain's face went dead white. "A flower?" He said almost too softly for Emily to hear over the waves and wind.

Emily craned her neck to look up. The crewman in the rigging looked confused. "Aye. It's a flower I think. One o' them fancy ones, like a lily. All white. "

The Captain stared at nothing for a long moment and then turned back to the other ship. It was closer now, the distance closing fast. "The Noir." He muttered.

Almost instantly whispering began among the crew. "The Noir." "Black Mena." They muttered. "The Black Bitch herself."

"Who is the Black Bitch?" Someone asked. Emily thought the voice sounded terribly young but couldn't see who spoke.

Another sailor answered gruffly, "Curse your damned eyes for a fool. That bitch be one of the most ruthless cutthroats to ever walk the earth or sail the seas. She's the damned daughter to the Devil 'imself. Said to have taken a hundred ships and killed o'er thousand men."

Emily looked back out ant the approaching ship. She? Were they calling the ship a she, or were they talking about the Captain?

"What do we do Cap'n?" One of the crewmen called out nervously.

For several long heartbeats, the Captain didn't answer. Finally, he turned to his crew, "We fight you bloody imbeciles! Get your bleedin'...!"

His budding tirade was cut off by a loud boom from the other ship, followed by a sharp whistle and finally a splintering crash overhead. Emily looked up in time to see a section of one of the spars on the main mast falling towards the deck trailing ropes and canvas behind. The sound of snapping ropes and tearing sailcloth was deafening. Emily looked up in a kind of shocked horror as the huge mass seemed to twist and roll ponderously downwards. The spar didn't fall all the way to the deck but after a few frightening moments, stopped, suspended above the deck by a mass of tangled broken rigging and torn canvas.

"Chain shot." One of the older men muttered in disgust, then spit on the deck. "Won't be no escapin' from the Bitch in this rotten' old scow. We should be strikin' the colors now and prayin' to the Good Lord that the Bitch is feeling generous today."

Emily wanted to ask what a 'chain shot' was and as luck would have it the young, wide-eyed crew member asked for her. She now recognized his voice as the one who had asked who the Black Bitch was a few moments before. She wondered if this might be his first time at sea.

The older man didn't turn to look at the younger sailor but shook his head. "Damn pup," he muttered. "It's two balls connected by a chain. Takes out the riggin'." He pointed up lazily. "Slows 'em down so they can't get away."

The boy looked over the rail at the other ship. "We can't get away?"

"No one escapes from the Black Bitch."

Emily looked at the older man more closely. She didn't recognize him as any of the men who had violated her over the last few days. The faces of those men were forever burned into her memory and nightmares. This old sailor had a tired, worn down, haggard look about him as he stood by the rail, hand on a battered knife at his hip. He looked to be a man who had lived a long time and seen a lot. Perhaps seen too much.

The Captain appeared to have roused himself a little more from his initial shock and he began bellowing orders again. "Get those God damned cannons pointed aft you bleedin' rats. Move! What you all be standin' around gapin' like a bunch of landed fish for?! Come on lads!"

The men struggled and cursed but it was obvious the cannon could not be turned far enough to fire at the pursuing ship. "Can't Capt'n! She's too far a stern!"

"That's cuz she knows her business." Muttered the old man again to the men standing around him at the gun. "Not like this damn fool of a Capt'n we got here." He spit again.

Another boom split the air and a loud whistling sound could be heard sailing overhead but no damage was done.

"Ha!" yelled the Captain. "A miss! Damned fools couldn't hit a mountain!"

"They already hit us once you bloody fool!" The old man shouted. "Any second now we're goin' to be in range o' the rest o' their guns. Strike the colors before we all get kilt!"

"No, we'll fight the bastards!" Shouted the Captain, pulling his cutlass. "Ready the guns lads, into the rigging with the rest of ya! We'll come about to starboard. When we do you'll have a clear shot!"

Emily looked dubiously at the pursuing ship, now only a few hundred yards behind. Yes, she thought, turning would allow the guns to bear on the other ship, but they would be looking bow on. Not a very big target. And once they were fired it took time to reload. That would give the other captain time to turn and fire at them broadside, making a much bigger target. She looked over the crew. If she could figure this out surely they knew it as well?

"Starboard!" The Captain called.

The ship rolled as she began a hard turn. Emily looked out at the pursuing ship now dead to starboard and closer still. Strangely, Emily realized she felt almost no fear of what was coming. What could the pirates do that hadn't already been done to her? Kill her? That would almost be a relief at this point.

She found herself wondering about this pirate. Black Mena they had called her. The Black Bitch. A woman pirate captain? Could that be true? What would a woman who commanded such fear and respect be like? How could any woman maintain control over such vicious men? She found herself looking at the other ship for answers but found little to help her. The other ship looked far more well maintained than this old trader. It's black hull shone in the water and it's gleaming trim was painted in white with touches of red. An elaborate wooden figurehead depicted a nude woman, one hand to her breast, the other reaching forward with what appeared to be a black flower in her hand. A wave and curl of seafoam artfully curled up her legs and covered her most intimate areas. The ship was beautiful, Emily found herself thinking.

"Fire!" the Captain yelled, interrupting her thoughts.

The noise of the first cannon firing was deafening and Emily reeled back in surprise. The huge black iron tube leapt backward straining against the heavy ropes holding it as a cloud of acrid black smoke filled the air. As soon as it stopped moving the crewmen around it started preparing it for another shot.

The other two cannons fired off only moments apart but Emily's ears were still ringing from the first and they didn't seem nearly as loud. Heavy smoke filled the air burning her eyes and searing her lungs. Emily surveyed the oncoming ship but it didn't appear to have taken any damage at all.