Tales of a Blond Pirate Book Two: Blond Pirate, #2

By Bruce Rousseau

Journey to a realm of lusty steampunk pirates, flying ships, treasure maps, and parallel worlds. Book Two follows our valiant hero as he travels across the strange lands of women who command pirate warships and the brave seamen who serve under them. Experience mysterious volcanic islands, daring sea battles, Viking life, and deadly sea monsters. Tales of a Blond Pirate Book Two continues the rousing adventure of pirate life turned sideways.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bruce Rousseau
• Release date: Jun 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9798223221586

Book preview

Prologue

From my earlier chronicles, you may well remember that I lived for the first 29 years of my life as James Fitzhugh Ashenturn of Boston, Massachusetts. Then in early 1928, having received a sizable inheritance from my wonderful grandmother, I traveled to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil for several months. There, I dedicated myself to enjoying the vibrant nightlife south of the equator, while fully wrapping myself in the warm gaiety of the bustling city. I would be remiss if I didn’t say that I also appreciated the enticing company of so many of Rio’s beautiful and intimately friendly young ladies.

However, as the months drew on and my inheritance funds ran low, I entered into a dubious treasure hunt to an uncharted island in the South Atlantic.

Naturally, the treasure hunt included a map of the island with a bold X to mark the spot. But I was to learn it was no ordinary map, for it led to a cave that contained a mysterious portal to other parallel worlds.

Well, what was an adventurous young man to do? So seeing as there was no glittering gold treasure, I naturally embarked on a journey through the portal to another world. More than one world, actually.

Those worlds were utterly strange and completely beyond all rational expectation. Yet, in many ways those parallel worlds were so nearly identical to each other that I feared bumping into a young man who would be the spitting image of me. Where time travel would have been amusing and even educational, I quickly learned that travel to a parallel world was a dangerous trip down the rabbit hole.

One portal trip in particular, delivered me to a world of organized pirates under the banner of the Black Fleet. And quite unusually, all those sailing warships were under the command of women captains and officers, with men and women comprising the hearty crews.

More oddly still, those sailing ships were unlike any I’d ever seen, as they could also fly through the sky, lifted aloft via giant bags filled with hydrogen. Flying sailing ships, sheets to the wind, cruising along in the night sky in search of adventure—nothing could be better.

But marauding Vikings also inhabited the pirate world. Not exactly the Vikings of old, but brutish modern Vikings. They controlled the top third of the planet, raiding islands far to the south to plunder the villages and towns for any and all they needed, or even desired.

In that world, I was known to my fellow Black Fleet pirates as Long Blond Parrot. An unlikely name, but Long was fitting as I was tall with an athletic build. Blond, because I had become very blond, which was unusual for a pirate. As for the Parrot part, let’s just say my manly parts were given a piratey nickname.

So here my tale continues, as it follows a harrowing series of events involving love, lust, fear, battles, death, and the oddest predicaments imaginable.

New Haven

Eight days after lifting off from the volcanic island of Scourge Crater, the damaged Black Widow warship hovered over the New Haven dry docks. Using our giant bags of hydrogen and the sails, Captain Cat O’ Nine Tails was able to position the hull of our damaged ship directly above the assigned repair berth. We furled our sails, lowered ropes over the sides, and finally the shipwrights pulled us into exact position over our dry dock cradle.

The Black Widow was then pulled slowly down into place. That’s when we heard the crunching sound of our broken hull resting in the repair cradle—a sickening sound as the ship’s splintered wood was called upon to carry the full weight of the tall three-masted Black Widow warship.

Safely down and secured, old Rip Tide used the steam powered pumps to pull the remaining hydrogen gas from the huge bags above the sailing ship’s masts, down into the large brass storage tanks below deck.

We had arrived.

We had survived.

More specifically, this world’s Black Widow ship was now saved, although its original crew was rescued from that harsh volcanic island a month or more ago.

As for our current crew on this salvage mission, it was comprised solely of 25 hard-working women, plus old Rip Tide and me.

All good. All good, indeed.

Well, it was bit complicated how this moment had unfolded, but it felt really good to have survived my previous adventures. As for all the amazing women aboard, I’d fly with them any day. And as I had avoided Rip, he avoided trying to kill me.

However, having used a portal map to get to this highly parallel world and this identical island of New Haven, I feared I might bump into a near-perfect copy of myself. On the other hand, I was originally from Boston and newly arrived on the pirating worlds, so maybe I’d never bump into a local who was me.

Or maybe multiple copies of me existed? Hopefully not, as I had enough trouble handling myself.

Among our present crew, Captain Cat O’ Nine Tails, old Rip Tide who was the master of the gas bags, and the young woman, Crow, who’s station was the crow’s nest—they were also originally from other worlds, so maybe they’d never find a local twin. But Officer Slippery Hitch, whom I seriously adored, started life on a pirate world, so . . .

My head swam.

Earth was a big place, and this alternate Earth was known to have tens of thousands of islands in the Atlantic. So it made sense that it would be very difficult to find identical people to one’s self.

Actually, I was happier to not think too much upon the whole concept of parallel worlds. As my pragmatic father from Boston was fond of saying: Play the cards you’re dealt. So I cleared my head as I gathered my few belongings and mentally prepared to step ashore. The world I was presently in must be the world to focus on.

* * *

In the mid-tropics of the Atlantic, New Haven was a bustling coastal town whose main business was building and repairing warships for the Black Fleet. And for a handsome fee, they also repaired huge four-masted merchant vessels that were far too heavy to fly aloft via hydrogen bags. The island, also called New Haven, was only large enough to hold the town, the shipyard, and several thousand acres of forest that provided much of the timber needed for the construction and repair of tall sailing ships.

As for food and supplies, they were shipped in from the mainland and elsewhere. Thus, New Haven was nothing more than a major Fleet shipyard crawling with thousands of seafarers and shipwrights, plus hundreds of shops to cater to the throngs.

Because the Black Widow would require many weeks to repair, the crew disbanded, resolving to come together again when our warship was ready to sail. More likely, most would find a new berth aboard another warship and never be seen again.

However, I had one last duty to perform aboard the Black Widow before I set foot on land. Specifically, I had spent the last several days making a detailed list of improvements to the Widow, and I was determined to give my recommendations to my dangerously beautiful captain.

Well, knowing her as I did, offering any advice was asking for trouble. Yet, I felt I owed it to the ship and her next crew to offer my suggestions. So, assuming the captain would be one of the last to disembark, I went to her quarters and knocked on her door.

A moment later, Captain Cat O’ Nine Tails opened the door looking normal. And as I’d never seen her dressed in a standard captain’s uniform, I was immediately concerned for her mental health.

Her wicked eyes narrowed. What?

Are you feeling well?

Don’t I look well?

She was dressed smartly as a ranking Fleet Officer. Black boots with the flared tops crisply folded down, neat white trousers, white blouse replete with black ruffles along the buttons and at the cuffs, and all overlaid by a black waistcoat. Brass decorations adorned her left chest. A formal cutlass hung from her belt. I’ve never seen you dressed so . . . completely.

She grinned. You mean the lack of cleavage and the delicious slit down the side of my hip?

Aye. Well, her raven hair was somewhat windblown, although it was always so, and her uniform did fit her curves nicely. But I’d openly admit to one and all that her usual attire, with its generous cleavage and the daring cut of her outfits, were completely to my liking.

Don’t just stand there drooling. Come in.

I stepped into her quarters and noted all the sea chests. Packing?

I’ll not have carpenters going through my luscious clothes. So yes, I’m taking these to my temporary quarters until my ship is fit to sail again. Did you come by for a licking, a whipping, or just to annoy me?

I held out the sizable list of improvements that I’d carefully set to paper. I’ve made some detailed notes describing ways the Black Widow could be improved. And as we’re in dry dock for major repairs, I thought—

You can write? She snatched the list from my hand.

Aye.

Captain Nine started reading through the items. And I suppose you can also read, so now you’ll want a promotion.

I’d settle for the items listed.

It’s a bloody long list. She looked me up and down as her eyes narrowed. Were you dissatisfied serving aboard the Widow?

I knew better than to ever tell the captain no. She’d allow any words, even my most lustful thoughts, but seamen only lived to say no once. It was an honor, and I’d proudly serve aboard her again.

Even if the Widow never received any of these enhancements? You’d like her just the way she was?

Aye.

I’ll take your list under advisement. Anything else?

Again, it was a trap for me to say no. I’ll be on my way.

As you wish. My riding crop is still unpacked. If you’re in need of a final sting, I’d be happy to make time for you.

Much appreciated, captain. I stepped to the open door. Perhaps another time.

Done. As soon as you return, I’ll thrash you to our mutual delight.

Her delight, not mine. I walked out the door.

Wait. Do grow your hair. I was fond of the blond ponytail.

Aye, aye. I knew the she-devil liked pulling me around by my hair, my ears, and another body part.

* * *

Having spent the last two months marooned in an ancient black volcano and previously aboard one sailing ship or another, I naturally needed a shower. But as I had become a moderately normal pirate, I headed to a bar first.

Allow me a moment to explain that the pirates of this world were all in the Black Fleet and sworn to protect the islanders in the Atlantic. Therefore, we were not the bloodthirsty cutthroats I had read about back in my homeworld of 1920s Boston. No, the Black Fleet never raided and pillaged—although we did commandeer needed supplies from the islanders from time to time. One could hardly call it theft. Yet, it was true that some islanders hated to surrender barrels of rum, dried meats, assorted sweets, pocket watches, colorful scarves, and other such supplies, as any brave Fleet sailor might need.

It was an unspoken fact that we were the only force standing between the peaceful islanders and the hoary Vikings that pillaged without so much as a please and thank you.

Yes, the Black Fleet always said, Thank you, as we carted away needed supplies. A few of us even said, If you please. Or, Please step aside. Or, If you please, I’ll be takin’ your fine cask of ale. Oh, and all that fresh baked bread and fresh churned butter would please us most greatly. We thank you, and you’re quite welcome for our brave service protectin’ you from those cruel Vikings who pillage as they see fit.

We flew no Jolly Rodger, although we sailed black ships, carried across the seas by black sails, and flew a long pennant of black atop our mainmast. Thereby, we stood out against the white sails and brown hulls of merchant ships and fishing boats. And we were known to one and all as the only force that could protect their freedom.

So some in my home world of Boston might have called us good pirates—even though we were known to be a bit rougher than good. To my own mind, we were a motley mix of devious angels and polite devils. Or perhaps we were just men and women who favored a smoking hot cannon under a flag of black—those who feared not to engage the enemy.

My feet firmly on dry land, I set out to see what New Haven could offer a thirsty lad.

Arriving at the first establishment that I came across, I entered and found myself a table. The waiter came over with a hand-printed menu. Greeting to you, sir. Care for a meal? Or will you just be heading for a pint of ale?

I took the menu, which indicated that I was literate, and read slowly over the short selection. Give me a minute to decide.

Would you be wanting to start with a drink?

I looked up. I’m expecting a friend. Let’s just wait a while.

He took the bad news in stride and left me to my private dilemma—being the complete lack of money.

Normally, Black Fleet crew members were paid in part when they signed on. I foolishly enlisted by following Captain Nine’s splendid ass onto her ship. So no money there.

Then crew members were given final payment in silver coins when their duty ended and they left the ship. But nothing is ever simple with me, so I somehow I had walked away with nothing but a change of clothes in a small duffel bag.

No money, so no food or drink for me. Just an empty table at my disposal. There had to be a way.

I looked around, but there was no one from the Black Widow, and no one looked like they could use a new friend.

Being blond didn’t exactly ingratiate me into new friendships. Being well-built and somewhat handsome did help with women. But blonds were known to be of Nordic blood, and that put me in the category of the Viking’s ancient ancestors, and that aroused suspicion.

It did occur to me that I could eat and drink my fill, then suffer through an unknown duration of dish washing. But as this was a town crawling with motley seafarers, they probably had actual physical punishment to discourage freeloaders.

So I stared at the door as if one of my female officers from the Widow might walk in to join me. Or one of my female shipmates. Or even any female who thought I looked like a lost puppy that needed a pat on the head and a few table scraps.

That’s when a tall officer in dress whites walked in. I naturally stared at her because she was so stately. She returned the look, probably because I was a very rare blond and somewhat cute, and because I looked desperate in so many ways.

Then she surprised me by walking directly to my table. Long Blond Parrot?

I remembered my manners and got to my feet, but didn’t salute as pirate crew only did that under the most dire circumstances. Aye.

She gave me a simple smile, then sat at my table.

Having lived through a few miracles, it was refreshing to know it could still happen.

I smiled hopefully and took my seat. Thoughts of pleasant company and good food filled my head.

Her posture was formal. Fleet has been looking for you.

So maybe this wasn’t a friendly visit? Well, you found me.

We have a position for you.

Position? My mind raced through the possibilities.

We should discuss this in private.

Naturally, being a piratey male, I was very interested in a position with her in private. But maybe after a shower, as I was quite a bit salty. Or more likely, she was talking about a different sort of position. I haven’t eaten a square meal in two months.

Then follow me. She stood and I followed her up the grand back stairs. The dining area on that floor was quite nice, the tables were much better, and the general decor was dark wood trimmed with fresh white paint and laced curtains. There were even blush-colored flowers on the tables. Seeing all the women in starched white, this floor was obviously for officers only.

I got some looks as I followed her to a secluded booth in the back corner. A well-dressed male waiter appeared and presented me with a completely different menu. So I ordered a nice meal that even officers don’t get at sea. Dessert was limited to some sort of lady-tart bits, so I passed. But I also ordered a wonderful pint of amber ale to wash it down and hopefully put a smile back upon my forlorn lips.

Of course that put me on the hook to accept whatever this officer was offering.

She looked me over for a moment. You sailed with Captain Cat O’ Nine Tails aboard the Black Widow. Correct?

Aye, and I’ll warn you that’s where I aim to stay.

She nodded. Nine’s a fine captain. Along with her crew, she was rescued off that black volcanic island when her ship was wrecked in a storm. Then she disappeared, most likely thinking she had been disgraced by the loss of her ship. But now . . . now she has gallantly recovered her ship and brought it here for repairs. She’s a fine captain, indeed. A credit to her gender and to the Fleet. She finished by giving me an odd look, as if gauging my reaction.

Did she really think Captain Nine was a credit to her gender?

True, I knew that Captain Cat O’ Nine Tails was the best captain in the Black Fleet when it came to engaging enemy warships. But I also knew her idea of intimate relations was intertwined with the devil’s idea of pain. Aye, she’s a fine woman . . . in her own unique way.

It was clear that this world’s Captain Nine had wrecked her ship and likely disappeared in disgrace. But I knew a secret . . . that my Captain Nine had arrived with me from a very parallel world to recover the ship. Now people in this world thought their disgraced Captain Nine was the same Captain Nine who had recovered the damaged Black Widow.

At first blush, this bit of misinformation was very convenient—Fleet only thought there was one Captain Nine. But at the same time, knowing that two Captain Nines were now in the same world seemed exceptionally dangerous.

More thoughts of parallel existence ran through my head, but the waiter set my ale on the table so I took a long swig to steady the endless spiral of my confusion.

No more thoughts of parallel world or what secrets I needed to hide. It was time to focus on the moment.

She gave me a coy smile. Then you still want to continue serving under her?

Under her? With Captain Nine Tails on top of me? So many leading questions. Aye.

The mysterious officer tapped the table as she considered her options. Excellent. The Black Widow will be fully repaired and she’ll continue serving the fleet. We will also keep Captain Nine Tails as her master and commander, as she has redeemed herself in grand manner. But as the Black Widow will be undergoing repairs for many weeks, that puts you without a ship. If you accept the position I have for you, then I’ll see that you are placed back aboard the Widow when she is ready to sail.

I took another long sip of my ale. This temporary position . . . it comes with pay?

She actually smiled. It does indeed.

I returned her smile. How much might that be?

Fifty gold pieces.

I nearly dropped my glass. It was a small fortune! No man’s effort was worth such a sum. Why so much?

First and foremost, you must be successful. Failure nets you nothing. Additionally, you must survive to collect your payment.

Survive? Maybe you’d best tell me the details.

My name is Storm Chain. My rank is unimportant, but I work for Special Details. Blond is what I seek.

Well, that was me.

As I ate the grand meal, she described how the murderous Vikings would accept me as one of their own. Ginger hair being the mark of a true Viking, while blond was the fair color of their Nordic ancestors. Blond also being very rare, even in their own lands.

I was to be delivered north to an island near Viking waters. There, a ginger haired girl had defected, saying the Viking life was not for her. Fleet suspected she was a spy, possibly scouting the island for attack and conquest. More importantly for my mission, the girl was from the vicious Clan Vilgar, a Viking clan known to take island women as their slaves.

That stopped me from eating. I thought they only took women they could seduce with their broad shoulders, stout muscles, and their short furry britches—their animal skin kilts. Things such as that.

Storm Chain looked at me like I was so innocent. Most clans don’t take slaves, but some have started to do just that and it must be stopped. Vikings are loosely united. The bonds within a clan being much stronger than the bonds between clans. As for slavery, it’s rare, but they do hold themselves superior to all non-Vikings. Clan Vilgar takes only women, but slavery in any form is vile beyond all civility. This evil must be ended at any cost.

What do they do with the slaves?

They’re savage Vikings—they probably do as they please. Use your seaman’s imagination.

Oh.

We want you to talk to the ginger girl, gain her confidence, then admit you feel that islanders are too soft and that you want to join the Viking life and return to your ancestors’ roots.

That didn’t sound easy. She’ll want to know how I came to be an islander.

Aye, and you might say you were raised by islanders far to the south. Say that you never knew your blond parents, or even how you came to the dark-haired couple as a baby. Say that you suspect your blond Viking parents were killed by islanders, then as an orphan you were raised by those very same evil people that killed your blond parents. Deliver a story along those lines, but make it believable. And make it sound most cruel and heart wrenching. As the Vikings despise those with brown or black hair, paint us to be the worst of villains, and thereby gain their trust.

Then I try to get into that clan? On their island, wherever that is?

Aye. They’ll bring you to a Viking island where you’ll blend into Clan Vilgar as the lost son of true Nordic Vikings. You will learn the location of our islander women being held as slaves. And then you will lead them down to the shore at night where we’ll have a fast warship waiting unseen for the rescue.

Unseen?

The details are still being decided. But imagine a small black ship on a moonless night, hidden behind a tiny island that is little more than a spit of rock. At the appointed time, our ship will move in for the beach rescue. Then you and the women will be evacuated to safety.

How many slaves do they have?

At least 10 were spotted by our secret overflights. The actual number is unknown to us, but could be 20 or more, based on reports of abductions and missing women. Vilgar is not a large clan, maybe 12,000 Vikings at most.

What if I can’t gather all the slaves?

Save as many as you can.

That put a frown on my face. It would be cruel to leave any behind.

It would be more cruel to not save any.

I poked at the scraps on my plate. There’s a reasonable chance I could die on that Viking island.

Aye. It’s entirely possible you would come to that end. You should know that your death would be more humane if you died fighting. They respect a brave warrior in battle much more than a cornered rat. Storm Chain waved to a waiter and pointed to my ale, then held up two fingers.

And if I die . . . Fleet keeps the 50 gold pieces?

Not to worry, Long Blond. The Black Fleet will sing your praise. A valiant effort is no less an act of bravery.

Then you’ll find another blond and try again.

Blonds are far too rare. All the hundreds of Vikings clans combined only have a few dozen with the blond trait. As for our islands, we have almost none—you being the only fighting man. Besides, there’s only one chance to surprise Vikings with a Nordic liberator. If you fail to any degree, we’ll be forced to send in a strike group. There will be hundreds of deaths. Viking women and children will most certainly die, as they are known to fight when pressed. Of more concern, that could ignite a widespread war with all the clans. Think of yourself as the surgeon’s fine blade—a clean extraction is exactly what we need. Failure would bring out the butcher’s cleavers and endless rivers of blood.

That gave me pause. I knew they took our islands. I didn’t know some took our people as slaves. Why don’t Vikings just stay on their own lands? Why can’t we just draw a line in the sea and each keep to their own side?

Because their gods gave them the whole world, therefore the world is theirs to use—and misuse. In many areas they have over hunted and over fished. But mainly they have deforested their lands to build countless villages and ships, and to burn that wood to heat their homes and smelt their metals. Their relentless expansion is a simple matter of gaining new resources as they deplete what they had.

Then . . . I’ll be acting alone on that clan’s island?

That’s the way of it. Captain Nine Tails did say you had backbone—not that you were consistently bold. But as the need arose, you hardened to your duty.

She said that?

She also said you liked to dress up like a bird and dance before a crowd, and act like a dog. She said quite a few things about you. That’s why the Black Fleet is keen to gain your service today. She painted you as a bold man who enjoyed an unusual act—quite a few unusual acts. No need for me to recount them all, but I found your previous activities quite interesting.

We talked over ales for over an hour. I certainly liked the idea of freeing slaves. My own world of 1928 America was not that distant from a time when slavery was condoned as necessary for business. So despite the lack of reassuring details, I agreed to do my best to befriend vile flame-haired Vikings and liberate the islander women.

After lunch, Storm Chain escorted me to my new quarters, saying a charted yacht would soon take me north to the island of Stanton where I’d be met by Fleet agents with further instructions.

As she was about to leave my quarters, she turned and shook my hand. An odd gesture, as no one in these pirate worlds had ever shaken my hand before. Therefore, Captain Nine had probably also told her I was originally from a very different world—a world where shaking hands was normal.

She looked a little worried by my surprised expression. Did I do that wrong?

No. It’s just that I haven’t shaken hands with anyone since my home world.

I hope the shaking of hands means what I think it means.

I grinned. What meaning is that?

Respect, mixed with inner affection.

My smile widened. That’s the meaning I received.

She seemed to hesitate, but then planted a quick kiss on my cheek. Bring as many home as you can.

I will.

As she left my temporary quarters, I noted a guard posted at my door.

After a long hot shower, the rest of the day was spent napping and wondering what Crow and Officer Slip would do if I never returned.

Moon Runner

After dusk turned into night, there was a knock at the door. I opened it to see a young lad, barely old enough to shave.

He took a moment to look me over. Yer the Parrot?

Aye.

Lay hand on yer gear then, and follow me.

Well, as I was to become a spy, I was already wearing the plain white seafaring outfit I had found on the bed, which was accompanied by a note from Captain Nine saying she knew my size in intimate detail. Yes, the note included her red lip print and tongue print, probably using the blood of a hapless donor. As for my old Fleet clothes, they weren’t worth wearing anymore. I’m all there is.

He nodded his head like he’d known that all along. I got orders you should wear this. He handed me a gray knit cap such as fishermen wore.

I put it on.

He pointed to the back of the cap. More. It’s gotta cover all that blond.

I pulled it down to his satisfaction, and we were on our way.

A brisk five-minute walk placed us on a harbor pier right in front of a clean white racing yacht. Lanterns were hung along the pier near her, while two lanterns were hung on the yacht, showing me her clean racing deck. The bow was sharply angled as it met the water and she was long from stem to stern but narrow across the beam. Three jibs in the fore, one tall double sheet on her mainmast, and some kind of strange aft sails that were rigged like I’d never seen before. I caught her name to be Moon Runner. She looks fast.

Aye. She’s won a race or two. None faster in these waters. He motioned for me to step aboard.

On deck were three other men, looking middle-aged but fit and likely to be quick tacking the sails.

The lad who had fetched me acted like he was also part of the crew. I’m Thain. That’s Sill and Jon. Shad is over by the bow.

We all traded nods instead of words, as men often do. I’m—

He’s Cargo.

I turned around to see a trim woman in an unmarked white uniform coming up from below deck. We’re just calling him Cargo. We don’t say anything more about him or describe him to anyone. That’s the law of this run.

She turned to me. I’m Captain Fair East. Skipper on the Moon Runner. Off getting supplies is my first mate, White Quill. You’ve met the rest of my crew. Welcome aboard.

Glad to be aboard, captain.

We’re not supposed to know this, but rumor has it you’ve sailed aboard a Fleet warship. Would that be close to the mark?

Aye.

Good, then I’ll not have to keep you clear of the lines, or keep you from stepping off the deck as we tack in the dark.

I looked around. The yacht had long handrails on each side, but they were only a few inches above the deck—more of a last chance handhold than a real handrail. As for the deck, it slopped off like the back of a whale. She looks all about speed.

Aye, she truly is. No warship ever built can match the likes of her in the water. She’s a beauty and I’m lucky to have her under me.

Captain East stepped near a hatch. It’s tight quarters below, but I’ll give you the half-coin tour while these men get us underway.

Down the steeply angled ladder, there was one bright lantern showing me that Captain Fair East was middle aged, slender but firmly set, and looked every inch to be a skipper.

This serves as our galley, lounge, map room, storeroom, and just about everything else. Mind your head. A bit forward here, she walked down a very narrow hallway, two men bunk on stacked cots to this side, and two to this side. A few steps later, she pointed out two heads. Men use the port head, women get the one to starboard—no exceptions. But as valued cargo, you’re neither fish nor fowl, so you get whichever is free. But if you’ve no sense to keeping things clean, you’ll be required to aim your bilge pump to port.

I nodded as I pulled off my cap. She was direct, and very clear.

She paused to look at me, apparently never having seen a blond. As for Quill and me, we double on the one large bed in the bow. She casually put a hand on one side of the tight hallway, effectively blocking my access to the officer’s bunk. Any questions?

None. Cargo goes aft of the stairway.

She grinned. Aye. It does. And you, being the cargo, get the aft locker space. But this being 10 days to the Isle of Stanton, give or take, and this yacht not being a vessel built for more than a day or two at sea, you’ll get whatever part of the galley you can sleep in. I’d double you into Thain’s bunk, but I have to live with these crewmen until my contract is up, and you don’t. So I won’t be inconveniencing them any more than absolutely necessary. Any problems with that?

None. It’s better than sleeping on cannonballs and powder kegs.

She dropped her hand from the wall. Then we’ll do just fine. Any cargo that knows its place and doesn’t roll about, is welcome aboard my boat.

A young woman I took to be Quill came down the ladder with something heavy wrapped in a rain jacket.

Captain East brushed casually past my chest to talk with her. You have it?

Aye. Though they dearly wouldn’t let go of it. Quill set her load on the galley table and uncovered a small rum keg.

East turned to me. Now don’t go getting any ideas. Aboard my boat there’s no drink for the crew, except a drop or two before bed. Foul weather and worse luck can strike at any time, as any seafarer should know. So a drunk in bed is as good as a drunk on duty when every hand is needed. But seeing as you’re able-bodied cargo, a few extra drops can be justified.

I’m White Quill, Captain East’s first officer . . . only officer.

Pleased to be aboard, Officer Quill. I’m Cargo, late of the warship—

East stepped in. There’s no talk allowed of who you are or even where you’ve been. She turned to Quill. "The man’s Black Fleet if you