Sailing by Carina's Star: The Constellation Trilogy, #2

By Katie Crabb

What the sea has drawn together, let no man tear asunder. 

 

Nicholas Jerome and René Delacroix once swore themselves inseparable. Now a lieutenant in the English Royal Navy, Jerome is tasked with catching pirates in tandem with Michel Delacroix. When a seemingly insignifcant clue reveals what might be the ultimate betrayal, Jerome pursues it with single-minded purpose. Rene, the brother he lost, is at home with his new family on Ajani Danso's legendary crew—and he's desperate not to be found.

 

Pirates flock to Nassau while Europe is at war. Danso and Abeni cement their place in the lore of the West Indies, determined to keep the newly coined pirate republic safe from squabbling monarchs. The pirates on the Misericorde accomplish ever more daring feats, but Danso's anxiety grows as Jerome's shadow creeps closer, jeopardizing the life he's worked so hard to build. René's burgeoning reputation becomes a story all its own, and when civilization sweeps Danso up in its clutches, both must decide whether to run from the past, or face it head on.

 

Lives that split apart crash back together. Colonial powers show their might. To resist is madness, but Robin Hood and his men will not give in to empires.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kathleen Crabb
• Release date: Mar 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798985563832

Katie Crabb

Katie is a librarian and activist by day, a writer of historical fiction by night, and a lover of musicals always. You can usually find her talking about Les Mis, pirates, Paris, and anything to do with The Phantom of the Opera. Her work focuses on queerness, challenging historical narratives, what makes up a family, and the space between grief and resilience. 

Book preview

Chapter 1

Kingston, Jamaica. April 1707.

Nicholas Jerome has not uttered a prayer since he was twenty-one years old.

He need not beg the stars any longer.

Last time he spoke to them he made a vow instead, and as Orion watched, swore one thing.

I will find you, René. I will hunt you down, however long it takes.

That vow stitched itself into the sky, eternal and unbroken.

He will find that wretched boy.

The night hangs heavy outside his office door. Dark. Moonless. Impenetrable but for pinprick dots of light. Carina shines bright just beyond his cracked open window, silver-sharp against the heavens.

Carina is Latin for keel, Arthur Seymour said once, not long after Jerome first joined Michel Delacroix’s crew. Vela means sails. Puppis is the Poop Deck. All three of those make up the larger constellation Argo Navis. Sailors since ancient times have recognized a ship pattern in this part of the sky in early spring.

Jerome tears his eyes from the heavens. He tears himself away from the memory of Arthur, who always bewildered him. That life is gone. That was before Arthur died. Before René and Frantz ran away.  Before Jerome had any power at all, merely clinging to a place he was not yet bold enough to call home. Perhaps that was his mistake—daring to even think the word, let alone say it. His younger self could never have fathomed where he sits now, freshly inducted as a lieutenant in the English Royal Navy, and finally, finally set to the purpose he’s longed for since that fateful night when Danso and Abeni escaped his grasp.

Hunting down pirates.

They are to begin their work in a month’s time, with Jerome serving under Captain Bennett, and Michel in charge of the Navigator with his newly picked consort captain John Harris on the Polaris, which will sometimes sail with them and sometimes attend to merchant business Michel might not have time for if the anti-piracy work keeps them busy.

Some of Jerome’s sketches hang on the walls of this new office—Michel’s suggestion. A squat bookshelf holds several nautical texts and the gilt-edged edition of The Odyssey Michel bought him years ago. One might comment that there is more life in here than in his home, but the truth is, he is here more often. He shifts in his seat. The new naval uniform is stiff, still, given to him after he passed his lieutenant’s exam with flying colors. Jerome’s entrance into the Navy is not the usual way of things, but the colonies are different, and that has served him well. The coat is not terribly dissimilar to his East India one, with its deep blue fabric and gold buttons. The folded white cuffs are the only difference. It is currently without the markings of a captain, though he hopes that those will one day be his. A slice of candlelight gleams off the nameplate on his half-open door, left so because he is waiting for Michel to come from his own office in an hour. He turns back toward his report, tapping his quill on the desk.

The war over the Spanish succession has added many needed sailors to the ranks of the English Navy, he mutters aloud to himself. But when the war comes to an inevitable ... no, that’s not right. When peace is achieved, care will need to be taken once sailors are discharged, because they are likely to turn to street robbing or piracy rather than looking for other work, especially when the ranks of the merchant marine are overfull.

His fool of a father certainly turned to true piracy after a privateer crew booted him off. Not that he will share that information with anyone other than Michel, but using his insight to hopefully achieve more funds for their endeavor cannot hurt.

Someone knocks, and though it doesn’t sound like Michel’s firm rap, perhaps he is too distracted to hear it properly.

Come in. He finishes off his sentence before glancing toward the door, which shuts with a quick snap. Hello, Mic— he says, before realizing it is not Michel at all.

His heart shudders. His blood melts. The part of his soul that is still twelve years old twists in two, and he wonders, for a moment, if he is dead. He has long supposed her dead. Even if she wasn’t, he thought her out of his life for good. She abandoned him, after all.

This cannot be. It is impossible.

Who are you? he asks, even though he knows. He knows that face. That long, straight black hair that is so like his own. It has been twenty years, but he knows. She is not dressed in her usual style, though it is not so odd to see her in a gown of the English variety—albeit a simple one—given how often his father forced her into them to avoid having her stand out.

Nicholas. Tiena Jerome remains poised to run, one hand still clutching the doorknob. That voice of hers is so familiar after all this time: deep for a woman and made of velvet. It’s me. Your mother.

He continues staring at her. A music box comes to life inside his head, the faint melody of the lullabies she used to sing him playing with a haunting, dissonant air.

Daj? He hasn’t used the common Romani word for mother since he was very young. His father always thought it would only bring trouble. What are you doing here?

The desk chair gives an almighty squeak when he stands up and pushes it back, laying his palms flat on his desk. Cold sweat drips down the nape of his neck, and yet it is also unbearably hot in here, isn’t it? The quill he was holding falls on top of his papers, and he’s smeared the fresh ink on his report. All this work, and he will have to redo part of it already.

His mother lets go of the doorknob, stepping fully into the room. I came looking for you.

He remains behind the desk, keeping the piece of furniture as a barrier between them in case she is some sort of spirit, though he supposes she would not be so solid if that were the case, and the desk would do him little good. He is not as superstitious as most sailors, but he cannot brush such things aside entirely.

He closes his eyes and opens them again, and she is still there. She is still there, standing in his office.

How did you know I was here? He forces the next words out, fearing he has forgotten how to speak. How did you know I was alive?

I heard you were working for East India in Jamaica, she says, and that is not so ridiculous, at least, though he does wonder how. Once I found that out, I knew I had to come find you. It took me a while to settle some affairs and find passage.

I— He cannot summon words. He cannot think.

I looked for you for years, Nicholas. His mother steps into his silence. I could never find anything, no shred of where you were.

You left me.

Those are the words of a twelve-year-old boy. The boy who broke down crying when he realized his mother wasn’t coming for him. The boy who forced himself to stand up straight and find work. The boy who didn’t say a prayer for a decade. No one was praying for him, in any case. Perhaps she did him a favor after all. If she hadn’t left him he might not be where he is now. After she abandoned him, he shoved his tears, that weakness, deep down where no one would ever find it.

Nicholas, she breathes, "I would never have left you on purpose."

But you did, he protests, his irritation at her argument washing away some of the shock. He cannot give his good memories of her credence. He must not, because it doesn’t change what she did or who she is, the childhood she subjected him to. You left me at that market in Barbados. I waited for two days. After the third morning, I knew you weren’t coming back for me.

She shakes her head. No. When we were separated that day, some magistrate’s men arrested me because they thought I was stealing. I was thrown in jail. They didn’t care that I had a son who would be looking for me, and when they released me I couldn’t find you anywhere. You thought I left you when I didn’t meet you at our spot didn’t you? Left you like your father left us.

Jerome stalks toward her and then thinks better of it, both hands clenching into fists. His breath hitches. Tears sting his eyes. No. No. No. Something pushes him forward again, some part of himself he thought long gone, and he closes the gap between them. Until René and Michel, until Kingston, his mother was the only person he’d ever loved, and losing her broke his heart. Desperate for a home, he offered his heart out once more only to have his so-called brother break it a second time.

He will not take that risk again.

Tiena touches his cheek lightly with the back of her hand. There’s affection in it. A gentleness he cannot bear. He slaps it away.

No.

He doesn’t believe her. Why ever should he? She betrayed him.

"You are a liar."

Disgust laces Jerome’s voice. Anger curls up beneath every syllable. He has not felt this much rage since the night René and Frantz ran away, and he cannot afford to feel it now. What if someone sees her? What if someone hears? He will be ruined. Ruined.

It hardly matters why you left me all alone. My life is better for it. He wanted to hate her and never could, but he won’t tell her that. If it’s money you’re after, don’t bother. You won’t be getting it from me.

Nicholas, please, she begs him, and it doesn’t suit her. Even when she fought with his father she never begged. Don’t do this. I didn’t leave you, darling. I swear it. Not on purpose. I’m so sorry you’ve spent all these years thinking so. I’ll do whatever I can to try and ease that pain if you’ll let me. 

What have you been doing all this time, hmm? he asks, crossing his arms over his chest and ignoring her soft words. In the time between you finding out about my career and showing up here uninvited, I’ve gotten a new commission to hunt down—he meets her eye, and doesn’t let go— pirates.

Stop it, Nicholas. That icy sharpness, his sharpness, edges into her tone. He has his father’s eyes, but he has always been her child, prickly personality and all, though she is more rebellious than he has ever imagined being. Don’t play the officer with me. I didn’t raise you to be cruel, even if the world might be. 

You don’t know anything about me.

I know enough, she says. I see you in this office. I can guess at the things you’ve done to get here.

Oh, having a respectable career is so terrible, is it? he spits. What exactly do you think you know? Please do enlighten me.

I’m proud of you for surviving, she says, and those words are real, somehow. She was always independent and adaptable, so it is not impossible that she might appreciate his industriousness. For being the sailor you always swore you would be.

"Where’s the but, Mother? he asks. There’s always one with you."

Working for the East India Company is certainly a choice I would not have my son make, she shoots back. They get up to some nasty business, Nicholas. Including slavery. In more ways than one.

Questions niggle at the back of his brain. How did she find him now, and so suddenly? There’s no point in asking because she would only lie. Despite their vastly different lives, his mother reminds him of Astra Delacroix, in some respects—they certainly both like keeping secrets.

I’m a naval officer now, but much to your chagrin, he says, the words slick with sarcasm, I’m still working with East India. The Company gave me my career, and I don’t care what you think about that.

You should be—

Ashamed? He steps closer, his face inches from hers, and he’s aiming to hurt her like she hurt him when he was just a boy. No. I’m not ashamed of anything I’ve done. Of other parts of my life, well. Perhaps I am.

Her eyes narrow. You’re ashamed of me? Is that it? I’m your mother, Nicholas Jerome.

Children do not always end up like their parents. Jerome pushes images of René out of his head. He never wanted to be like his mother, but René could and should have aspired to be like Michel. For better or for worse.

I did what I could to keep food in our mouths and shelter over our heads! Her shout reverberates off the walls, which are too thin for this sort of thing. I loved you more than I’d loved anyone in my life, whatever you may think to the contrary.

I have no interest in living outside society like you, Mother, he says, impassive in the face of her emotion. I worked hard. I scraped by and hid the truth about you and about my father’s thieving past. I found a place, an honorable profession. We never belonged anywhere when I was a child. Now I do.

And your friend Commodore Delacroix—she takes a step back— he knows about you, does he?

Commodore Delacroix, Jerome growls, because he will not stand for an insult to Michel’s character, has done a great deal for me. More than my own father. He’s seen fit to forgive my ... accident of birth.

He’s seen fit to forgive it. Tiena shakes her head. "Is that how it works? You are the exception because of his affection for you? You’re different than the rest of us? What will you do when your secret gets out, I wonder? Your life is built on sand and you’re too stubborn to see it."

Jerome has never thought to do violence against a woman. It isn’t proper. That slave—now pirate—Abeni spat in his face and he didn’t raise his hand to her. Volcanic fury rushes through his veins, and he pushes the demon inside him back down. Still, it snarls. Gnashes its teeth. Scratches and scratches and scratches.

Get out of my office, he snaps. Right now.

There’s another knock on the door, the person on the other side not waiting for a response before entering. Right. Michel is coming to meet him. He hopes it’s Michel, at least, or he will have to come up with a story quickly and hope his mother doesn’t argue. He thinks wildly that the only thing that anyone could assume is that she’s a prostitute, given that no woman of good reputation would be in his office alone at this hour. Female convicts are often transported to Jamaica for pick-pocketing and various other crimes, and sometimes for trying to stop press gangs in London. There are certainly brothels in Kingston, and sailors enough to keep them busy. Lord Travers has grumbled about how they lure men from their work, but has never done anything to put a damper on the practice. Jerome never cavorts in that manner despite some comrades trying to tempt him when he was younger, but he would rather say he was than admit that the woman with him is his mother.

Being caught with a prostitute would only be embarrassing. People finding out his mother is Romani would unravel his life.

Commodore Delacroix, Jerome says, his hand shaking in relief when it is, indeed, his mentor who enters. You’re earlier than I expected.

Finished the report sooner than planned.

Michel shuts the door, gazing at Tiena in confusion for a moment before a spark of realization makes his eyes pop wide. I don’t believe we’ve met, madam.

My mother, Jerome responds, before she can say anything. He can’t lie to Michel, and there’s nothing else to say. He just wants this to be over with. An unexpected visit.

I didn’t— Michel fiddles with his cravat, clearing his throat. Are you ... staying? I know Nicholas has long been separated from you.

He doesn’t say it’s his pleasure to meet her. He doesn’t press a kiss to her hand as he usually does with women of rank. He only bows slightly, lost, it would seem, for any sort of proper greeting. Michel is usually leading the way, but tonight, Jerome must.

She was just taking her leave. Jerome grits his teeth even as his hands keep shaking. It would be helpful if his emotions would stop veering one way and then the next, the damned things. She can’t stay, you see.

His mother shuts her eyes, taking a deep breath before focusing back on Michel. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Commodore Delacroix. Please take care of my son where you can. I’m afraid you are the only one from whom he’ll accept such a thing.

A noise of protest dies in Jerome’s throat as Michel continues studying Tiena, giving a single nod in answer. No one moves. No one but her. She dares to grasp Jerome’s hand for a fleeting moment.

He can’t tear himself away.

Goodnight, Nicholas. She squeezes his fingers before releasing him. Take care of yourself, my boy.

The words my boy melt the tiniest corner of Jerome’s heart, but it’s not enough. It could never be enough. She’s gone after that, shutting the door behind her, and he wonders if he imagined all of it. He wonders if someone put something in his tea and he’s simply hallucinated or dreamt the entire thing.

Jerome only realizes after his mother is gone that he didn’t ask her where she was living, that he doesn’t know where to look for her if he changes his mind, and the part of him that will always remain twelve years old wants to chase after her to find out. But no. No. He doesn’t need her. She left him, whatever her lies to the contrary, and she will ruin his life. Everything he’s built. He only hopes no one saw her leave his office. It’s late, at least.

I’m sorry, Michel, Jerome says. I certainly did not expect her on my doorstep. I thought she was dead. Or at least not interested in seeing me again.

Nicholas, are you certain—

I’m certain, Jerome snaps, instantly regretting it. He has not ever used such a tone with Michel, but it’s not quite gone from his tongue after fighting with his mother. I’m sorry. My manners seem to be escaping me.

It’s all right. I’m sure you’re shocked.

Michel comes over, putting a careful hand on Jerome’s back. Jerome’s father was never so gentle. Honestly, he was more inclined toward a slap or a shove than something like this.

Don’t worry yourself over it, Michel adds. Sit? You’re shaking. I can pour a drink if you have something.

Heat rushes into Jerome’s cheeks. He should be offering such things to Michel, not the other way around. Sir, you don’t need to—

Michel puts up a hand with an affectionate smile. Let me, my friend.

Jerome nods, returning to the seat behind his desk. I have a fresh bottle of gin and some glasses over on the bookshelf. I hadn’t put them away yet.

Michel retrieves the gin, pouring two healthy servings before taking a seat across from Jerome, a strand of fair hair fallen loose and framing his face. Michel is so tidy that even this small thing worries Jerome, but that is not so unusual now. He’s been worried about Michel every day for the past two years.

Jerome takes a long, lingering sip, entirely lost for words.

Did your mother say how she found you? Michel asks, easing into the conversation.

Jerome shakes his head. No. Only that she heard of my career. She insisted she didn’t abandon me as a child, told me some story about how she was wrongfully arrested. The gin is a pleasant burn at the back of his throat as he takes another swig. I suspect she heard of me and wanted money. I’ve no reason to believe otherwise.

No, Michel says softly. I suppose you don’t.

A father’s grief rests in his words, the tiniest unspoken are you sure, but that no doubt tussles with the opinion he must have of Tiena. They’ve only talked of Jerome’s parents a handful of times since Michel found out the whole truth, and Jerome wants it that way. His childhood embarrasses him, and he would rather not remind Michel of it now, when Michel is the only person he can entirely trust. His love for his mentor, his friend, scares him. Love can be exploited. Used as a weapon. René was proof enough of that. He loved that little boy as his brother, and that boy left him lying on the sand.

Do you want to talk about it? Michel questions, prodding just a touch. I promise, you may confide whatever you like, and it will remain safe with me.

Jerome stares out the window again, his eyes catching on Carina as some of the earlier panic dies down, replaced with a slow-simmering rage.

Only to say that my mother is a liar, he whispers, keeping his voice low so that no one walking by will hear him. And I am certain I do not care if I ever lay eyes on her again.

Chapter 2

From the Journal of René Delacroix

(Co-written by Ajani Danso)

Tortola. May 1707.

W e shouldn’t have let them go on their own.

Danso, Abeni chides, not without fondness. Flora and Jahni and the others are a few streets over. They’re fine.

I should have stayed on the ship. Anxiety weighs Danso down despite Abeni’s reassurances. A wanted poster bearing his visage stares at him from across the street. There’s too many flyers of me around lately, and we’re here to get information on Chantal. I don’t want to distract from that.

Searching for Frantz’s mother has been no easy task. Frantz’s only lead was his Uncle Matthew’s shipping company, so that’s the one they’ve followed, tracking Seymour goods around the West Indies and looking for clues—in-between taking prizes.

Doing so led them here, and if someone were going to hide a kidnapped woman anywhere, sleepy Tortola would be a good choice. They’re set to speak to Lawson tomorrow, the part-time customs officer they know who sells shot and powder to pirates by night. There’s also a tavern owner in what could generously be called town who buys their stolen rum, having made contact with Ebele right around the time Danso joined the crew. Chantal might be on a plantation toward the interior of the island, and they need to have as much information as possible before attempting anything. Tortola, deeply rural and populated by more slaves than settlers, is easy enough to make port in, but getting onto a plantation is something else. Daring in a way they have not yet been.

Abeni wanted to drop some coins at doorsteps while they were here—just a little something they do to help the locals—and convinced Danso along. Maybe that was a mistake.

"It’s Tortola, Abeni protests. There’s a reason we get our ammunition and gunpowder from people here. Because people in power forget it’s here."

If they spot me, Danso mutters, then we’re going to have a problem.

Danso. Abeni says his name a second time—never a good sign— and clutches her remaining pouch of money tight. It’s fine. She grins in the moonlight, pointing up at the sky. The stars are out. It’s a lovely night. Besides, even if someone caught us, I think we could outdo them. There are no soldiers here.

Danso can’t help but smile at his trusted quartermaster, trying to take her advice. He breathes in the pleasant night air that is, for once, not so hot. He pulls out a piece of eight from his pouch. The unevenly rounded coin looks brighter in the starlight, standing out against the deep brown of his palm. When he lived in Barbados, the people in his community took care of one another as best they could, sharing not just food but money between them. Back then, having extra money to share with strangers wasn’t something he could fathom, so he likes giving what he can now.

They reach their last house, both of them laying their pouches down. A slice of the crescent moon’s glow strikes the tattoo of Olokun on Abeni’s arm when she steps into the thin pool of silver-white light at their feet.

See? she says, giving him a wink. Nothing went wrong. Our brood will return in a moment and we can go back to the ship.

Not a minute later, a voice cuts through the air. Someone shouting this way.

He quirks an eyebrow. You were saying?

Abeni crosses her arms over her chest. That could have been anything.

Danso looks out into the night. Maybe Abeni was right. Maybe he’s worrying too much. Footsteps approach. Urgent footsteps.

Or perhaps not.

Flora runs toward them, her boots kicking up sand and her curls bouncing along behind her.

Abeni stops teasing, catching Flora’s hands when she reaches them.

Darling, what—

We ran into some young men on the street near the tavern, Flora explains, tugging her mother forward. They were running from the people who guard the small jail they have here.

Wait, jail? Danso asks, Flora’s panic pumping through his veins. What for?

A funny question, given his profession and his past. He supposes he shouldn’t care what for unless it was something awful, and it probably wasn’t. He’s only concerned about it drawing attention to their presence, and to René, Frantz, and Auden in particular.

Having the three highly sought-after young men on his crew has also not been easy, but he doesn’t regret it.

Flora lets go of one of Abeni’s hands and takes one of Danso’s, urging them on. I’ll have to explain later. We found an abandoned house and we’ve been hiding there for about twenty minutes waiting for the coast to clear so I could come find you.

It is, Danso thinks, very like their gaggle of children to help anyone with whom they cross paths. Of course, they would all object to being called such. Children, that is.

The three of them start running, keeping to the edges of the ramshackle houses and as close to the shadows as possible. Flora leads them to the abandoned building she mentioned. It looks like it could collapse at any moment, the wood worn from water damage and almost entirely covered in plant overgrowth. Jahni’s reassuring whisper greets them.

We’re looking to fill out our ship’s crew, he says, no doubt to one of the young men Flora mentioned, and I’m sure my uncle would be happy to take all of you on if you’re interested. Don’t worry, Uncle Ajani and Abeni will figure out a way to help.

Danso nearly knocks his head on the low ceiling when they enter, giving a quiet gasp of surprise. Three young men—aged around four and twenty or so, he suspects—wait there, and they’re watching him in awe. Perhaps he should have made a more elegant entrance.

A pirate legend, indeed.

What have we here? he asks.

Jahni puts a hand on his arm. We were dropping off our last coins when we ran into these three. He jabs his thumb in the direction of the unfamiliar trio. They were on the run from some of the jail guards.

Danso forces himself to keep calm. Did anyone see you? His eyes flit toward René in particular, whose face featured most prominently on the missing flyers that have not entirely vanished from the islands. Lore lives in the West Indies, and it never lets people go.

No. René shakes his head, picking up on the concern. We all had our scarves on, and Elliot, Benoit, and Chema had already lost the guards by the time they ran into us.

By the time they nearly bowled me over in the street, you mean, Auden chimes in, though there’s a twinkle in his eye.

Elliot here was previously in the French Navy, Jahni explains, smiling over at the gangly, freckled young man nearest him, who, Danso realizes once his eyes adjust in the dark, has a prosthetic leg below the knee where the limb has been amputated. The lower half of it is metal, covered at the top with leather and a buckle that must go around his thigh. It’s better made than the usual wooden legs Danso’s seen before.

And he and Benoit—Jahni points at a tall, bald young Black man with dark brown skin and a friendly face—and Chema—he gestures to a broad-shouldered chap with wild brown curls and a bushy beard— were arrested for a tavern fight.

Wrongfully, Chema says, his Spanish accent thick. Chema Guerra, Captain Danso. Sir. My friends are Elliot Roux and Benoit Martel, as your nephew said. He brushes off his breeches. I rather thought you were a myth, you know. At least mostly.

What he means, the one called Elliot adds, is that we’re very pleased to meet you. The stories are incredible! We’ve been looking for a way to Nassau, the three of us, you see, so that we might join a pirate crew, but couldn’t find a ship to take us there. And I’m very sorry we ended up causing you trouble. He turns toward Abeni. Are you the famous Maid Marian?

Abeni bows. The very same. You can call me Abeni. So you’re an escapee from the French Navy?

Elliot bites his lip, looking delighted despite his circumstance, and he runs a hand through his auburn hair. "Escapee isn’t quite right. Reject, more like, as they released me from my service about four months ago. There was an accident not quite a year ago, and I had to have an amputation from below the knee down as you can see. I was able to do my surgeon’s work perfectly well after, but was limited in some of my other duties, and so they saw fit to end things. Benoit was an old friend and gave me a place to stay, and we met Chema later on."

Well, at the least we can get you to Nassau, Abeni says, and Danso catches Jahni smiling even in the pitch-black. Danso—

Shouts and footsteps echo somewhere in the not-too-far-off-distance, and Danso’s chest constricts. If they have to fight their way out they will, but he would prefer not to cause a disturbance given their business here.

Quiet now, Danso whispers. Get low, out of view of the windows.  

Everyone obeys, and Danso keeps an eye out as well as he can, the orange haze of torches coming near and then disappearing again. The voices fade away too, but they’ll need to wait a few minutes before attempting any sort of escape. The Misericorde is anchored in a hidden little cove not far from here, the spot barely deep enough for them to maneuver into.

Once they’re on their way, Danso puts Abeni at the front of the group to lead while he brings up the rear, with René just in front of him. They snake around by the water and he counts each of them, making sure they’ve got the scarves over their faces at the least. Abeni, one. Flora, two. Jahni, three. Auden, four. Frantz, five. The three new lads six seven eight. René, nine. It’s a half-mile to their cove. Not too far, but far enough. As each minute passes, more sweat slides down Danso’s face, though Abeni seems perfectly at home in this situation. He’s not sure why his nerves are so acute tonight—a few angry men from a tavern are not such a threat. Abeni looks back every once in a while, setting her pace to match Elliot’s so he doesn’t feel pressured to go any faster than he can, though he seems practiced with both his prosthetic and the cane he has for support.

The ocean is in fine form, rough waves crashing down on the shore and drowning out their footsteps.

Until it doesn’t.

Several things happen at once. Benoit’s foot catches on something hidden in the sand. A rock, probably. He falls. Elliot tries to catch him, but can’t do that and keep the right balance on his metal leg. Danso steps past René to help Benoit up. Elliot assists Danso, and the way he intertwines his fingers with Benoit’s, the way he speaks to him, says that the two of them might be like Robins and Collins, who are off on their own sloop now but still dear friends of the crew.

Benoit’s only just professed a thank you when something else happens. A noise in Danso’s ear. Metallic. Sharp. Close.

Danso doesn’t have time to think further, spinning around with the rest of the group. René stands in front of him now, cutlass crossed with a stranger’s, and another two men running up from a short distance away. Abeni whispers in Flora’s ear, and then she’s there at his side, pulling out her dirk.

As it turns out, there’s no need.

René slides his sword out from beneath his opponent’s, backing up just enough to draw him into another attack that René immediately parries with a fluid, circular flick of his wrist, swinging his leg around and kicking the man’s feet out from under him. The first part was Jerome’s tutelage, but the second was Danso’s own.

Wow, Chema says.

Attacking people from behind is bad form. René points his cutlass at the man who attacked, the tattered red ribbon he often wears half-fallen out of his long fair hair.

They started a fight in our tavern, the man insists, getting up from the sand with his hands in the air.

My right hook is not something to be admired, Benoit quips. So believe me, we didn’t.

They say they didn’t, Danso echoes, making his voice go even deeper, one hand resting on the hilt of his cutlass. He looks at the other men who’ve just approached, and two pistols cock behind him. Jahni, most likely, and Frantz too. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Auden and Flora with their dirks. He gazes at the trio of faux-soldiers, his single step forward making them jump. Are we done here, gentlemen?

The men go pale. One of them makes a choked noise.

Then, all three of them run clear off in the other direction.

Good lord, Auden laughs, earning a giggle from Flora. I believe you made that man piss himself, René.

A smile tugs at the corner of René’s mouth when he sheathes his cutlass.

All right, my lad? Danso asks, clasping René’s shoulder.

René nods, his smile growing brighter at the term of endearment. I’m fine.

Come on, Danso says, gesturing them all forward. We’ll need to make your visit with Lawson surreptitiously tomorrow, Abeni.

They make their way back toward the ship, passing one last shut-down shop before they enter safer territory. Jahni’s stopped in his tracks, gazing at something tacked to the outside of the building.

Jahni? Danso asks. What’s wrong?

That’s when he sees it: a flyer with his face on it. He had been worrying over that earlier, but it is still strange, seeing one all the way out here, especially when they can largely do what they like on this island. What happened tonight isn’t enough to make him stop coming, not when they can trade more easily and get ammunition.

Wanted: Dead or Alive.

The Pirate Robin Hood, also known as Ajani Danso.

There’s a sketch of his face below, and though it’s an older drawing, smudged and faded over time, it’s somewhat accurate. His locs are shorter and his nose much larger than in life, but it might do for someone to recognize him. Abeni’s gaze sticks on the smaller words, and his woman quartermaster Maid Marian, written below the sketch of Danso’s face, though there’s not one of her own. She looks almost angry about that, or perhaps disappointed.

Jahni rips down the flyer in one swift movement, rolling his eyes.

Acoironi, he says to Flora—the Kalinago word for throw—before tossing it over to her.

She catches it, throwing it down as requested and stomping it directly into the damp ground beneath her feet until the face and the names are unrecognizable.

Danso smiles at her, even as his heart races. Didn’t like the drawing, I take it?

Flora huffs, giving it one more stomp, her boot heel shredding the remaining paper to pieces. They can’t even get your face right.

Danso shakes his head fondly before leading them back to the ship. There aren’t as many people after Elliot, Chema, and Benoit as there were after Abeni and himself that night in Kingston, and it’s hardly as serious, but a faded version of that old fear fills him up to the brim in remembrance. If Astra hadn’t hidden them, he doesn’t know what might have happened. Nothing good.

Danso talks with some of the officers once they’re aboard, asking them to let the men know what occurred on shore. The moment he steps into his cabin, he’s met with a stream of excited arguments in favor of the new trio joining the crew.

Elliot’s a surgeon who’s also been trained up as a physician! Frantz exclaims. His voice is lower than normal, no doubt with anxiety over his mother, but that endearing thread of enthusiasm still runs through. He said he’d be glad to teach me some things, and then we could have more hands helping when we need it.

Benoit is a swordsmith and has some experience with ship carpentry, René adds. Laurent could teach him, he continues, referencing the Misericorde’s longtime carpenter.

And Chema’s father was a pirate! Flora clasps her hands together, always excited at the prospect of new friends.

Danso laughs. You don’t have to convince me, you lot.

I speak for all three of us when I say we’d be happy to join your crew, Captain Danso, if you can afford it, Elliot says, his freckled face more visible in the better light. I’m happy to lend my medical knowledge, and Benoit I’m sure would be very helpful. I don’t know if you’re in need of it, but Chema is an excellent cook. And a good sailor, whatever he might say to the contrary.

Mediocre, Chema argues, earning an eye-roll from Elliot.

Chema may be a mediocre cook, but I am a better-than-than-average swordsmith and fairly good at ship carpentry if I can learn more, as René said. Benoit winks at Chema, tossing an arm around his shoulders and grasping Elliot’s fingers. I’m at your service.

We’ll have you sign our articles in the morning. Danso shakes each of their hands before nodding at Jahni. I’ll let all of you get them settled. He looks at Elliot and Benoit in particular, giving them a smile. Naming their relationship is too forward at the moment, but he wants them to know they won’t be treated ill. You’re very welcome here.

Jahni presses Danso’s hand before gazing around at the rest. Let’s see what we can find to eat, I say, and then we’ll find our new friends some hammocks.

Danso’s left alone with Abeni, who faces him with a wide grin that bears a striking resemblance to a pleased cat.

What? Danso gripes. You have no right to that grin, you were wrong.

Oh, please. She scowls, but it’s playful. "I wouldn’t say things went wrong, would you? Not as expected, perhaps, but not wrong. We gained three crew members to fill out our ranks, and delightful lads they seem to be. With skills we need to boot."

I know. Danso sits down in his desk chair, fiddling with some loose papers. But maybe we can’t let Flora, Jahni, René, Frantz, and Auden out on their own like that just yet.

Danso. Abeni sits down across from him, folding her hands on the desk. They aren’t children. We have to trust them. They did what we taught them to do: help people who need it. Besides, René scared the daylights out of those men. I’ll be laughing at the looks on their faces for a month. The boy’s just turning seventeen here soon, so imagine what he’ll be like in a few years. Terrifying, I’ll bet, with that sword in his hand. No one will cross him.

Danso keeps staring at his papers, unable to argue with her. René has blossomed since joining their crew, and he is talented, there is not a single doubt, talented enough to have stories told about him one day. Frantz is an astonishingly skilled navigator. Auden’s charm has won over the whole crew—Danso’s sure he’d make a fine quartermaster one day. These three are not easy to hide for many reasons, and he worries because perhaps they won’t always want to be hidden. He already worries about Jahni and Flora wanting to be officers when they’re old enough, and people hurting them to get to him.

Abeni reaches across the desk, tugging on his hand and making him look up at her.

They’re not children by age, at least not to most, she whispers. But they’re your children.

Danso swallows but can’t quite answer, each of her words landing on his chest with a deep, resounding thud. Sometimes he wonders if it’s the several years he has on her that makes her less prone to worry, but then, maybe not. Maybe she’s just not a worrier by nature. He always has been.

I know exactly how you feel, Abeni tells him, and this brings some sense of relief, even though he already knew it. But we have to let them live. They might even start joining the boarding parties sometimes. Jahni already does, and the others will want to. They’re smart, Danso. All of them.

I know, Danso echoes. I just—

What he wants to say won’t come, and once again Abeni finds a way to say it for him.

I’ve told you this before, but you didn’t fail your nieces and nephews, she says, comfortable with her emotions in a way Danso envies. I hope one day you’ll believe me. And you won’t fail these children of ours. But it’s not the same, Danso. You have more power to affect the outcome than you did then. We both do.

Danso squeezes her hand tight, that one small touch containing more than words can express. That’s what worries him most, he supposes. He does have more power. But is that small, stolen amount enough to protect the people he loves from the power of civilization itself?

All he can do is try.

He thinks of that night on the Agincourt when they escaped. He thinks of meeting Abeni and he thinks of the fact that if she hadn’t shot that gun into the air to distract Jerome he would probably be dead now. He almost didn’t let her come with him. He kept pushing her away even after that, afraid of being close to anyone. But now? She is the friend and partner he never expected, and he’ll be trying to thank her for the rest of his life.

I’m going to make sure the new recruits get settled. Abeni stands up, undoing her bright yellow neckerchief, which is damp with sweat. You stay here. When I’m done I’ll come back and beat you at cards. How does that sound?

Danso smiles, that heavy feeling in his chest dissipating. Who says you’ll beat me?

Abeni laughs that full, loud, gleeful laugh he knows so well. She knocks the hat off his head in retaliation before she goes, but Danso smiles anyway.

Danso pulls his locs out of their usual black ribbon and looks at the stars through his window, spotting Carina off in the distance. When he was a convict all those years ago, he never dreamed of something like this. But he saw the awe in the eyes of those three young men they helped tonight. The awe that only a soul-stirring story can bring. The kind of story that sits in your bones and never leaves. Somehow, some way, he stands at the center of