The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [58]
That night, Captain Foley had to make a tough decision. He knew his ship was no place for Emer. Neither his loyal crew nor his new recruits would be able to resist her during the long journey from Martinique to the Spanish Main—the Spanish-owned coast of the new world of Central and South America. He half thought of leaving her at port, but knew what became of women stranded on small Caribbean islands. They were sold as slaves, worked as whores, or captured by pirates not unlike the shipful she had just helped destroy. There was only one option—to give her the brig and some loyal crew and let her make her own way.
For the next year, Emer sailed around in the Emerald looking for answers. Looking for an escape, or a home, or herself. Once, in Jamestown, she overheard two Irish men speaking of their home in a rocky place called Connacht.
“Well, at least it hasn’t sunk into the sea,” Emer thought, even though she half wished it had. What good was a homeland like Cromwell’s Ireland? What point was there in even thinking about it?
Her first mate, David, a young Welshman who knew the Caribbean’s waters better than most, had been Foley’s best officer and friend. It was David who Emer sent ashore to recruit men, and it was he who procured supplies and ammunition. He steered the Emerald into ports and familiarized Emer with the arts of navigation and map reading, secretly, by lamplight. As far as any of her crew knew, David was their captain—which was a fair assumption, because they never saw their mysterious leader. She often stayed below deck for days at a time, and only came out in the middle of the night, while they slept.
The crew are itching for a fight.”
The sea had been quiet for nearly two weeks, and the Emerald was stuck in the molasses of light air. Not a passing seagull, no porpoise or sharks, just calm, still water and no breeze for fourteen days. Her crew was starving and Emer knew she had to do something about it, but she still hadn’t figured out what. She prayed for the wind. She prayed for answers.
“I say, the crew are itching for a fight, sir.” David said, sipping brandy from a small flask.
Emer continued patching two holes in her trousers and didn’t answer.
“They grow bored with the little money they make shipping. Some speak of finding another captain, one who will fight against the Spanish.”
“Do they threaten mutiny?” she asked, still concentrating on her sewing.
“The last two ships we met could have paid us all for our troubles.”
“I’m no pirate, David. You know that.”
“It sure is a waste.”
“A waste?”
“A waste of talent.” David answered, swigging the last of his brandy.
Emer looked up from her needle. “This is talent. How I make perfect stitches and hide them in the hem! How you were able to teach me so many useful things! Good English! Good navigation! That is talent!”
“But aren’t you bored?”
Emer dismissed him to his quarters. She finished stitching her trousers and placed the needle and thread in a small sewing box and went to bed, thinking about what David had asked her.
Frankly, she was bored. She’d accomplished very little in the year she’d sailed the Emerald, and she could do worse than become a pirate of the Caribbean in 1661. Surely she could take on any ship and win. What did she have to lose? Seanie was already gone. Her family was already dead.
She called David back into her quarters.
He arrived, half dressed and quite drunk. “Yes, sir.”
“You say the crew is bored?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And not just because of the wind?”
“No, sir.”
“So, what are they complaining about?”
“Well,” David stuttered, “well, there are three sailors we recruited in Port Royal. They tell the others tales about Spanish treasure.”
“Spanish treasure? What about it?”
“Well, they fancy getting their own ship one day and pirating the waters west of Havana, sir. They say working the Emerald will do nothing