The Dust of 100 Dogs - A. S. King [64]
Two months later, the Emerald docked in Campeche. She sent David to the shipwright to arrange repairs to the hull and a full careening, and gave strict orders to her crew to stay quiet and act like modest sailors—an order they had no trouble obeying once the whole lot of them became ill from a feast of bad shellfish. Most of the week was spent vomiting rather than drinking.
Emer found a small room in a tavern where she could watch Campeche’s dock. The three recruits had been right. The town was busy each day with ships loading and unloading precious cargo collected from tribes of the new world beyond the Main. As she sat in a plush chair by her window, embroidering, she observed Campeche’s people. African slaves were abundant, their white eyes and bare pink feet a contrast to the wealthy men in buckled shoes. These rich men lived in numbers here, larger numbers than Emer had ever seen.
Twice she watched as the governor of the town, a man of many rings and medals, came to the dock to inspect crates of pearls, gems, and gold. Something changed when she fixed her eyes on her first large sapphire. It was the size of a small apple and sparkled like nothing she’d ever seen before, making her squint through the lens of her scope. As she watched the governor cup it in his soft Spanish hands and imagined stealing it from him, she asked herself, “Why waste any more time coveting a long-lost Seanie Carroll when I could actually have things like this? If I have no option to be happy and good, then why not be as bad as I can be?”
When the ship was repaired, supplies were loaded and the crew was summoned from the small village. The Emerald set sail for Havana. They anchored about a hundred miles southwest and waited to rob ships traveling from the Spanish Main—which is exactly what she did for the next year.
A ship came every week, sometimes twice a week, toward Havana, the last stop before the long journey back to Europe. The ships were usually loaded with luxury items intended for King Philip, which Emer and her crew would pillage after a bloody battle. Deciding that reputation was paramount if she was eventually to become a feared and famous pirate, Emer began a quest to find her trademark. Some pirates etched their initials into the backs of victims, some liberated ears and tongues. Some disemboweled or hung or keelhauled, and she’d heard of a man who would feed his victims parts of their own sinew and flesh. Emer tried a few of these things, and eventually found that she enjoyed ripping an eye from the men she killed. Especially the men who’d glared at her body. It was a way to remind them to never underestimate a woman, she figured. One less eye to ogle with.
Over that year, they plundered nearly sixty ships and returned to port only when they needed supplies or crew. In the Caymans, she traded the Emerald for a 150-ton frigate christened the Vera Cruz. Twice they visited Port Royal and sampled its famous rum and wickedness. They were safest in Tortuga, though, where they cashed their booty in what had become a bustling, well-stocked pirate haven. Emer hated being there. It reminded her of Paris, her useless coins, and her worthless virginity. But after a year of ripping eyeballs out of Spanish officers, it was best to stay secure.
The captain’s quarters on the Vera Cruz were spacious. Emer had room to twirl around in her capes, to practice her jousting, and to find new sexual positions with David—who, after their last year at sea, had convinced Emer that this was the most obvious solution to their problems. Emer figured it was either that or embroidery, and stitching could be tedious at times.
“You understand, David, that I cannot love you?” she asked.
“It’s not love either of us is after, I reckon,” he answered.
“I just want you warned, is all.”
“Consider me warned,” he said, though he’d been lying. How could he not love her? She was the most amazing woman he’d ever met, even if she was ten years his junior, as young