Chapter Seven: Watling Island

Her hair had been cut off lock by lock, so that now all she had left of a bushy, elbow length thatch was a mop that Flower had trimmed to be level with her eyes. Florencia shivered as a draft blew by and tickled her newly exposed ears.

“I’d best you get you some clothes,” Flower said, sounding and looking apologetic, “Not least because you’ll catch your death in just your petticoat.”

He had unlatched a window in the great bay that sat behind the desk. The smoke thinned as he pushed it as wide as it would go, and out of it, he threw both the broken skull and her shorn hair. He tucked up his sleeves when he finished, and with a final work to stay put, left the cabin.

It was not he who came back first, however, for Storm barrelled in with a healthy jangle coming from his pocket. He had put a new, scarlet frockcoat on, one which had gold edging and epaulettes, and a new lacy hat too that was a grand affair. It had the same gold trim and a large, also scarlet, bow. He lifted his hand and Florencia flinched, but he did nothing other than plonk a plain black tricorn hat on her own head.

“Yer’ll act like a boy when we get ashore,” Storm ordered her, “unless yer wanna get caught. The men are quite partial to little girls-”

Flower bustled in, stopping short when he spotted he spotted his captain.

“Sir”, he said, bowing a little.

The other pirate sneered, and with an order to dress Florencia, he strode off again.

“Best put these on,” Flower told her, “and quickly. We’ll be making berth soon.”

She took the clothes and held them up doubtfully.

“They’re the smallest I could find,” Flower added, shrugging, “so you’ll need that belt to keep the britches up.”

He then turned around with his eyes squeezed shut. Florencia pulled off her shift off without another word and quickly pulled the shirt and breeches on instead. She put her hat back on too, and threaded the belt through before asking wear the shoes were.

“We haven’t got any spares,” the cook confessed, “so you’ll have to go barefoot.”

Florencia removed her holey stockings and added them to the miserable pile of clothes she had. Flower took them away with him when he left. She stood still for a moment, unsure what to do, and as she was staring around, she caught of the chandelier bowl above the desk. Something was sticking out of it, and when she squinted, Florencia realised that it was her stays, burnt and covered in wax from where storm had tried to destroy them.

She had just turned away when the man in question reappeared in the cabin doorway.

“Yer still ‘ere?” He asked, half sneering as he entered and sat down.

Florencia did not reply, but downcast her eyes instead and looked away. There was silence for a while, between them at least, as the crew hauled on ropes and scrubbed the deck, singing and shouting as they did so.

“What’s yer name?”

She jumped, startled, and looked at him in surprise.

“Pardon?”

“I said, what’s yer name?” Storm sounded impatient. He was rolling an onion about as he gazed at her, curious and irritable.

“My name…” Florencia stared hard at the floor. The pirate had not bothered much to speak with her beyond ordering her about, and she worried fleetingly that he might use her name against her if he ransomed her like he said he would.

“Well? Spit it out, or don’t yer ‘ave one?”

She steeled herself, and started, “My name is-”

He threw his onion down, shouting, “If I wanted a parrot I would’ve caught one!”

“My name is Florencia Dolores de Reyes.”

Florencia held herself somewhat proudly. Her surname name had been given to her great-grandfather by Philip III of Spain the century before, according to her father, and it always gave her a sense of malapropos vainglory to know that her family had been honoured so. However, it did mark her out quite parlously from the more bourgeois families like the Velázquez and de Barriga.

Storm regarded with shrewd eyes. He had retrieved his now bruised onion, and resumed rolling it back and forth between his hands.

“Yer a…” he frowned, searching for the right word, “blue blood?”

His manner was like that of a merchant doing business.

She did not deign him answer, and after a glance him, looked at the floor again.

Florencia heard the pirate snort as she fastidiously studied a black knot in the wooden floor. She did not look up, but when Storm said slyly, “Yer must’ve been a good thief then-”, her head shot up and her eyes blazed.

“I am not a thief!”

The brunette balled her fists up. It took great effort on her part not to stamp her foot like a child, as he was amused enough at her reaction, if disgruntled at being talked back to by a mere girl.

“I take then that yer are old money? What are yer, a duchess?”

He leant forward, eying her closely with greed in his face.

“Not old money,” she muttered, almost inaudible, “my father was a Conde.”

Florencia sighed sadly as her dear deceased father’s face blossomed, blurry and nearly black and white, in the forefront of her mind.

Storm was nevertheless impressed. His avaricious expression increased tenfold as he muttered, more to himself than her, “A right aristocrat then…”

He then added, in a louder and firmer voice, “I bet yer King Phil would def’nately pay a lot fer yer-”

Storm grinned wickedly and Florencia crumpled. She did not want to go back to Cuba; they hated her family there, and she feared that she might be sent away like her father’s sister Maria. Her mother had told her that Maria had gone to Spain as a young girl with a Letter of Marque demanding her seizure from the de Reyes family. She had never come back and nobody heard from her ever again.

A knock on the door disturbed her worrying. This time it was Rufus, not Newland, who poked his head in. He stooped respectfully as he asked, “We’ve weighed anchor, sir-”

“Belay that!” Storm roared, throwing the onion across his cabin.

Rufus flinched, and disappeared from sight with his captain on his tail. They left Florencia standing by herself, cooled by the air blustering through the open window. She edged closer to the door, which had left open; peering out, she saw that Storm was bellowing at Greer. The rest of the crew were deeply engrossed in their work, and sensing that they would not see or heed her, Florencia slipped out.

It was a close and muggy day. The hot sun had burnt away the fog and left a pale blue sky and largely cloudless sky in its place. She walked up to the handrail and looked closely at the island that was slowly appearing off the starboard side.

The town that grew bigger as she watched was not the shanty colony made from driftwood that Florencia had expected to see, and neither was it clinging to the rocky shore. There was not a hovel in sight; nearly every building had a palm-frond roof and was lovingly plastered and whitewashed. Some were also brightly painted and all were single storied but for the cluster of Baroque houses lived in by those rich from piracy. The warehouses on the quay, however, were left bare; their bare, cream-grey limestone frames stolidly bore every squall and hurricane thrown at them.

Flower had called it Free Town; people were milling like ants along the bustling waterfront. A forest of masts and cloud-like sails filled the shallow harbour as the town stretched out beyond it like a white hive dotted here and there with green.

Greer dropped the anchor overboard for the second time as Storm finally agreed with the scurvy man holding the lead-weight overboard. He jerked it up as the iron anchor splashed down in the turquoise water; peeping over the handrail, Florencia caught sight of the cloud of sand that was thrown up by it hitting the seabed. The ship rocked a little but nevertheless came to a stop, bobbing slightly.

Florencia heard Taffy, the Welshman, say that they were not quite a mile offshore. The ship had been anchored in the middle of gaping bay that had a small, if rocky, beach. A low limestone cliff jutted from it, topped with green shrubbery. She looked away to see the crew heaving a rowboat over the side as another team fiddled with the one; both were watched avidly by Storm, who barked at them to quicker about it.

She found herself pulled forward by the pirate in question when he came over and grabbed her by the upper arm. He propelled her to the first boat with his broken-nosed navigator in tow. Florencia shrieked as Greer swooped, scooped her up and carried her overboard. He dropped her for the couple of feet to the rowboat and hauled himself back up; in his place, Flower clambered down with his caged marmosets. They were squealing and jumping around in terror as he smiled wanly at his companion.

“Betty and Harry don’t like to be moved, not least over water,” he explained.

Florencia smiled back weakly, suddenly feeling nauseous. She groaned whenever the jollyboat rocked, and tried to concentrate on something. She watched the other boat be loaded up; first a barrel, then a chest followed a fearsome black slave. He was manacled to the keel and though he glared at everyone, he kept his dignity by remaining silent. His female fellow, however, wept in silence as she was carried down and chained up beside Florencia, who recognised her as the Negress from the closet by her soulful brown eyes. She felt a stab of pity for her go through her heart. The woman had clothed herself in a grubby toga made from tattered sailcloth; Greer nearly squashed her with the great black sow when he lowered the latter down.

A single, thick rope tied the first rowboat to the second. The former rocked a lot when Greer climbed in. His captain followed him and had Newland station himself in the second boat before Greer used his unusual strength to row them away from the Dark Horse.

Storm seemed happy that neither of his slaves could throw themselves over the side, whilst Flower, who appeared almost mournful about their plight, occupied himself with try to calm his cage of creatures down.

It seemed to take an age for them to row to the craggy headland and then around it. The limestone had turned grey, and the cliff-tops were coated in green-yellow shrubbery. Florencia sweltered under the sun. She took of her felt hate and fanned herself with it, soon noting how red and itchy the skin on her arms grown. Flower was sweating, and like Newland, he pulled a rag out and mopped his brow, but Storm refused to show such discomfort. His grey eyes were shaded by his hat’s wide brim, but his frockcoat was made from velvet.

“Where the ship is,” Flower leant in and told Florencia very quietly, “is a mile and a half away from the main quay, but we’re not going there.”

She looked at him curiously, but the cook said no more. She returned her gaze to the island and saw something other than sundried foliage.

There was a tiny, secluded harbour a little beyond the headland where the water was calm and shallow. The beach was smooth and backed by a small jungle of lush greenery and trees-Greer rowed them into it and beached them with a spray of wet sand.

Storm leapt out and bounded across the beach. He started clawing his way through the undergrowth as Flower stepped out and came over with Florencia following him. The first pirate soon exposed a very overgrown path, and turned back to them with a grin.

“Get over ‘ere!” He shouted, “Newland! Find a cart!”

His small fellow scurried off into the bracken as Greer began unloading each rowboat. It was some time before he came back.

“That the best beast yer could get?” Storm sneered, as Newland led a greyish horse over to them.

“She’ll do us, cap’n,” he pulled on the reins, trying to look confident, “She’ll do.”

He helped Greer manoeuvre five hogsheads onto the cart before the bigger man added the barrels of salted pork and six firkins of butter. The bigger man also hefted the sow and calves up, hemming them in with the barrels and chests of clothes for good measure. Newland meanwhile took ahold of the slaves and tied them to the back of the cart, on which Florencia found herself deposited.

“Yer keep yer trap shut an’ sit tight,” Storm hissed at her. He threw his spice- and-sweat smelling frockcoat over her before moving to the front.

The cart juddered along. Florencia was whacked with branches as they passed through the small jungle, after which the road became smoother. She peeked out and saw a neat row of houses on either side of her; each had a garden blooming with life. One house was being painted bright blue as they passed by, and she heart somebody shot. The cart paused momentarily, but Storm hit the driver and they went on.

“We could get in trouble,” Flower said, sounding muffled.

“I’ve brought plunder,” his captain sneered, “Bill can’t refuse that-”

The cart stopped again. Florencia heard more horses and Storm jumped down, shouting in Patwa for something.

“Don’t wander off,” Flower muttered near Florencia, who jumped, startled, “This place’s dangerous-if they aren’t drunk they’re bloodthirsty or worse. You stay with whoever the captain tells you to, you hear me?”

He sounded fatherly; concerned firm.

“Why can’t I go with you?” She whispered back.

She supposed he had shaken his head, as his reply was, “The captain’ll want somebody who can defend you, and who hangs on his every word. I’m telling you now-that man’s not me.”

He patted where he thought her shoulder was; instead he caught her head, but she did not correct him. She listened to his shoes crunching over compacted sand, and heard him pick up his caged monkeys before walking away from the cart. His departure was overridden by the sound of hooves charging along the road; they got closer and closer and finally clopped to a halt beside them.

“Thatch!” A man roared in a baritone voice.

Florencia could not resist a peek. The man was tall and mounted on a glossy chestnut horse that tossed its head restlessly. He had a grizzled beard and hair beneath his tricorn hat, and wore a black justacorps with silver embroidery.

The man received no reply. However, Storm came forward, for Florencia heard his familiar heavy walk grinding the sand down beneath his feet.

“I thought yer were ordered to bugger off?” The first pirate boomed.

From where she was watching surreptitiously, Florencia saw the cab-driver look away and smack his boy for not doing the same.

“There was no navy ship,” Storm replied belligerently.

His fellow buccaneer snorted.

“Bill, I’ve brought me booty-”

“And anchored offshore and not near the quay and yer’ve only brought stuff that perishes!”

Storm grinned, impressed with himself.

“Yer’ve evaded the port tariff, the fee fer makin’ berth, and the tax fer yer men an’ yerself!”

“Me ship’s too big ter make berth ‘ere-”

The horse whinnied as the man, Bill, jerked hard on the reins.

“Yer might be right, Thatch, but yer thief nonetheless!”

Bill kicked his horse and made it move closer.

“’Ow many men ‘ave yer?” He demanded.

“Two,” Storm lied.

“With you, that makes three! And those two, that’s five!”

“Their slaves, they’re tax deductible-”

“Then they’re covered by port tariff!” Bill trotted around in a circle, “And what ‘bout that man down the road?”

“What man?”

Florencia winced as the poor horse had its head pulled on.

“The one with the monkeys that walked down the road-!”

“Not mine. ‘E bought ‘em off me.”

Storm sneered confidently, and Bill’s face darkened. He came closer to where Florencia was, making her drop the coat hem and crouch very still.

“What yer got ‘ere then?” He said, prodding her with a stick.

“It’s fruit,” Storm lied again, as easily as water off a cormorant’s back. He moved around to Bill was and pushed Florencia down flat, “I covered it so the stuff wouldn’t spoil in the sun.”

Florencia sweated under the great velvet coat, which was more like a tent than a garment. She tried her best not to breathe very loudly, which seemed to work, as Bill snorted and moved away.

“It’s a shilling fer every man,” he ordered, “and if yer pay for them slaves, yer don’t ‘ave ter pay the tariff on the rest.”

“Done!” Storm agreed, readily and happily. There was a clinking sound as he counted out the money, and without so much as a goodbye, Bill cantered off.

“Bastard!” Storm spat.