Chapter Text
The ship which had been shadowing them was growing closer. Kyle might have had the foresight to fret over this, but he was far too preoccupied with how he would obtain his next meal.
Kyle had very quickly realised he was not a good stowaway. It was damn near impossible to sneak food from the crew, as their portions were all so meagre that they never let it out of their sight, and often wolfed it down in one. The scent of the captain’s soup was one he might have turned his nose up at back home, but two days had now elapsed with nothing but sea air to fill his stomach. Against his better judgement, he was enticed into the captain’s cabin. Perhaps he could nick a few scraps without being noticed.
Kyle slipped in as silently as he could. This was not an easy feat. The old ship’s floorboards creaked and complained whenever so much as a whisper of pressure was placed upon them. He stationed himself beneath the desk and held his breath as he waited for the captain and his meal to arrive.
The squeak of door hinges was drowned out by Kyle’s heart pounding in his ears, so that when a pair of legs appeared in front of him, he was quite unprepared. The captain – Cartman, as Kyle had overheard him called – set his tray down on the table with a grunt and began to tuck into his meal.
Kyle waited until the smacking of chops had subsided, and there was movement no more. He listened closely as Cartman’s breathing softened to one of a sleeping man. Only then did Kyle dare to snake his left hand upwards. His fingers closed around what felt like an unfinished hunk of bread, and his spirits soared, but before he could begin a tactical retreat, a hand was abruptly clamped over his own.
“Gotcha.”
Kyle found himself wrenched upwards by the wrist until he was face to face with Captain Cartman.
“I knew I smelt a rat on board.” Kyle made a vain attempt to run, but Cartman grasped a fistful of ginger curls and jerked him back into place. “Did you really think you’d get away with this?”
Kyle was close enough to smell the stench of Cartman’s breath. Lip curling, he refrained from struggling further. The least he could do was maintain what little dignity he had left. It wouldn’t do to writhe hopelessly in an iron grip like Cartman’s.
“Clyde!” Cartman hollered, and again, when he received no response. “Christ,” he grumbled, “what that man has ever done to earn the rank I’ve given him is beyond me.”
And so Kyle was dragged unceremoniously by his hair out of the cabin and across the deck. Clyde was in the crow’s nest, gazing out to sea with a telescope. Kyle followed his line of sight and found it had settled on their shadow ship. It had grown closer still. From this distance, he could just barely make out the title, painted in white cursive on the hull:
Nobody
There was no time to dwell on this.
“Clyde!” Cartman roared.
Clyde flinched, fumbling his telescope. It tumbled from his hands and hit the deck with a clatter. He peered sheepishly down. “Sorry, Captain! I was—I was just—” He stopped. “Who’s that?”
“Stowaway,” Cartman spat. “Thought he could hitch a free ride to the Caribbean. Thought he could get a free dinner, too.” Cartman twisted Kyle’s head to look at him. “He thought wrong.”
Kyle glared back, unblinking, determined to maintain his obstinate silence.
“There’s a coil of rope up there,” Cartman addressed his first mate. “Bring it.”
Clyde hooked the rope over his shoulder and scampered down the rigging. “To bind his wrists?” he asked.
“And his neck.” Cartman caught the slip in stoicism on Kyle’s face and grinned, displaying his teeth. They were as rotten as he was. “That’s right, boy. You’re going to be our new dangling man.” He shoved Kyle at Clyde. “I’ll gather the crew. We’ll make a real spectacle of it.”
Kyle used the split second of freedom between the transfer to make a desperate attempt to bolt, but Clyde hooked his fingers in his collar and shoved him to his knees with a grunt. He carried on squirming and snarling until a boot was placed squarely on his back and he was pinned to the ground, face smashed against the filthy wooden floorboards.
“There’s no point in trying to run,” Clyde scoffed from above. “There’s nowhere to go.” He made a grab for Kyle’s arms, but they were flailing about so desperately that it took several attempts before he could keep hold of both.
If I’m to be hanged, Kyle thought, as the rough rope bit into his wrists, I might as well be a nuisance about it. He kicked his leg blindly upwards and it collided with some part of Clyde he couldn’t see – but judging by the cry of pain it elicited, it was a tender spot. Kyle struggled to his feet and flew like a frightened pheasant towards the stern.
He didn’t get far. The rest of the sailors had started to gather, like ants to honey, forming an impenetrable wall. Kyle’s flight was brought to an untimely end, and Clyde took him by ear and spun him around.
“You are a handful,” Clyde panted, as he took a good eyeful of him.
What a sorry sight. Short and scrawny, dressed in tatters. A thin, drawn face smeared with dirt. Even back when he dressed in finery, his physique was far from imposing, but he had always liked to think that what he lacked in brawn he more than made up for in brains. He was not doing such a good job of demonstrating this, however, for when Clyde asked, “What’s your name?” Kyle gave it to him, like a fool.
“Kyle.” He had to stop himself from bowing, as he had been raised to do.
“Do I know you from somewhere?”
Kyle’s heart sunk. “That depends,” he said quickly, grasping for a lie. “Do you frequent male brothels?”
The crew snickered and Clyde’s face soured. “I must be mistaken.” He picked up the rope again and began to fashion a noose with far too much enthusiasm for Kyle’s liking.
The crowd was growing thicker and rowdier by the second. They were after a show. They were after blood. One surged forward and deposited a crate beneath where the noose had been slung, attached to a pole jutting from a mast.
“Come,” Cartman barked. “Answer for your crimes!”
Kyle had hoped for at least some sort of trial, but he should have known better. Such a crowd was too impatient for that. He was manhandled onto the crate with the grace and poise one has when their body has gone as stiff as a board. The noose was adjusted so that it fit just-so about his neck. Kyle fixed his gaze on the heavens and reflected on how rapidly his life had gone downhill. Two days, he thought. Two measly, miserable days. That was how long he had lasted away from home. He had always imagined he might die a more noble death than this. Still, at least he wouldn’t cry. Kyle never cried, not ever, and he prided himself on that.
“Ahoy there!”
The voice cut through the air like a whip. At once, the crowd fell silent. All heads swivelled to the source.
A man stood alone on the bow of the oncoming ship. No, not a man—A boy, no older than Kyle. In his hand he clasped a cone-shaped, crudely fashioned megaphone. He wore a blood red topcoat, over a white shirt with ruffles tucked into black culottes. He tipped his tricorn to his audience, revealing charcoal hair, tousled beneath. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, but could I possibly spare a moment of your time?”
Cartman took this as a cue to step forward. “What do you want?” he sneered.
“I suppose you are captain of this fine vessel?”
“I am.”
“So am I,” the boy said, “of mine.”
Cartman guffawed. “You? But you’re just a boy!”
This seemed to ruffle his feathers. “I’m not just anything.”
“Look, can’t you see we’re in the middle of something here?” Cartman said. “What do you want?”
“Well, I’d like you to surrender,” the boy said, with unexpected sincerity.
Cartman surveyed the other ship. The smaller, unmanned ship. “Why on earth would I do that?”
A smile split the boy’s face in two. “I’m so glad you asked.”
A cannon ball, seemingly from thin air, was fired. All eyes followed its graceful arc as it pitched into the middle mast. It toppled, sending sails and rigging crashing down around them. Shouts of surprise and of pain arose. Kyle thanked the lord he hadn’t been hit – he hardly had the leeway to dodge.
“How dare you?” Cartman cried. “Just what is the meaning of all this?”
“Oh, did I not make myself clear?” the boy said. “We’re here to rob you.”
And at those words, a hoard of pirates spilled out onto the deck behind him. A great sea of them, shouting and swearing and tumbling all over each other, brandishing cutlasses and pistols and wicked looking smiles. A chorus of grenades rained down upon Cartman’s crew, resulting in a crescendo of explosions and thick plumes of smoke. One such cast iron ball landed at the base of the crate Kyle was balanced on. He watched in horror as the lit fuse burnt to the base. He braced himself, screwing his eyes shut tight. The blast reverberated in his bones.
When he opened his eyes, he found the box had not been knocked from beneath him. The only thing that had changed was the ever-thickening smoke, and the number of silhouettes that danced around him. Why, these grenades do nothing but startle! Kyle realised. But none of Cartman’s crew was level-headed enough to figure that out. They were too busy scrambling for their weapons as more and more pirates spilled onto the deck. The sound of gunshots and metal clashing with metal rose above the din of voices, of cries of alarm as each and every sailor was disarmed by their piratical counterparts, one way or another. By the time the smoke had cleared, the battle was over. The boy in the tricorn had forced Cartman to his knees, the tip of a cutlass at his throat.
“Now, how about that?” the boy mused. “Looks like surrendering might have been the best way forward after all.
Cartman’s broad chest was heaving. “Who are you?” he panted.
“Have you not heard of me?” Disappointment flashed on the boy’s face. But he quickly recovered and gave Cartman a deep bow. “Captain Stan,” he said. “Now, rise. I do so hate to talk down to people.
Cartman didn’t move. His eyes remained fixed on the blade poised at his neck. Sweat beaded on his brow.
“Ah, right,” Stan said, and sheathed his cutlass. “Is that better?” He extended a hand for him to shake, but Cartman just started at it as if he were being offered a rotting fish. He looked at Stan like he were a rotting fish, too.
“We have nothing of value to you,” he said. “I have already sold my wares.”
“That’s a lie.” The words slipped from between Kyle’s lips before he had a chance to bite them back.
Stan turned to face him. “Oh, hello. What do we have here?” He laughed. Coming from anyone else, the mirth would have seemed out of place on such a bloodstained deck, or indeed when addressing a boy with a noose around his neck. And yet, it fit Stan just fine.
Cartman answered for Kyle before he had a chance to speak. “Ignore him,” he said, glowering pointedly, “he doesn’t know a thing.”
Kyle raised his chin defiantly. “There are crates upon crates of fine silk below.”
Stan’s eyes lit up. “Wonderful,” he said, slipping his hand inside his coat as he turned back to Cartman. “You oughtn’t to lie, you know.”
“And why’s that?”
“It’s disrespectful.” In one swift flick, Stan drew his dagger and slashed it across Cartman’s neck.
He was dead before he even hit the deck.
“Kenny, Butters,” Stan snapped his fingers at two of his crew, “deal with him.”
Two boys darted forward. The shorter of the two had an eyepatch fastened over his left eye. Together, they began to haul the body away. A long, jagged trail of blood was left in its wake.
“Now,” Stan said, “who here is second in command?” No one volunteered. “Come now, don’t be shy.” But none were eager to meet the same fate their late captain had. And so Stan cocked his head at Kyle instead. “Well?”
“Clyde,” Kyle said, without remorse. He nodded to the man in question, who was quaking in his boots. “Him.”
“Thank you, darling,” Stan said, then beckoned Clyde towards him.
With shaking shoulders, Clyde stepped forward. “Are you going to kill me?” he squeaked.
“That depends.” Stan laced his fingers about the hilt of his dagger. “Are you going to lie to me?”
“No, sir.”
“Then I think we’ll get along just fine.” He drew a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the blood from his knife, before tucking the both back into his coat. “Tell me, Clyde, is there anything else on board that might tickle my fancy?”
“Rum,” he said quickly, “and tobacco. Whiskey, in the captain’s quatres.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all.”
“Do you swear?”
“I swear.”
“There,” Stan patted Clyde on the shoulder. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”
Clyde looked with wide eyes at the mark of blood transferred onto his clothes by Stan’s hand. “No, sir,” he whispered.
“Listen up, everyone,” Stan said. “Here’s what’s going to—”
He was interrupted by an almighty splash from the portside, where Kenny and Butters were brushing themselves off. “Consider him dealt with,” Kenny declared—Or perhaps that was Butters. Kyle couldn’t be sure which was which.
Stan gave a satisfied nod. “Right. Everyone who used to serve under that man,” he gestured overboard, “get to the bow. I want you all in one place. Easier to manage.” There was groaning and grumbling as folk were herded along. “Silence!” Stan roared, and a hush fell over the crowd once more. He began issuing orders to his crew, so fast that Kyle could barely distinguish one word from the next. But his men had no trouble keeping up, for they went scurrying on their way, this way and that. Some remained in place, guns trained on their captives. For the first time, Kyle realised it wasn’t just Stan who was young – it was all of them. None was older than he. Odder still, some of them appeared to be girls.
Without warning, the rope pulled taught about Kyle’s neck. He choked and spluttered, and a hand was placed on his shoulder.
“Keep still.”
The voice was low, gruff in a way that sent tingles down his back. Goosebumps prickled as he listened to the sawing of a knife through thick twists of twine.
“Almost done,” he heard, and then, “there, all finished,” when at last he felt the rope begin to loosen. The loop was slipped quite easily over his head, as did the rope around his wrists.
Kyle stepped hesitantly down from the crate, rubbing his neck where the rope had burnt, before facing his unlikely saviour.
Stan was studying the rope with a thoughtful expression. “You’re welcome,” he said, absentmindedly.
“I hadn’t thanked you.”
“It went without saying.” Stan tugged on the other half of the rope, still hanging, and it fell to the ground. “What was it you’d done to warrant a hanging?” he asked as he picked it up, and began winding it back into a coil.
Kyle frowned. “Shouldn’t you have asked that before you cut me down?”
“Why would I do that?”
“It might have been something dreadful.”
Stan looked Kyle up and down with a sceptical expression. “I don’t think you have it in you.”
Kyle doubted this was a compliment, coming from a pirate captain. “You don’t know that,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height.
Stan was still the taller of the two and took the opportunity to look down his nose at him. “You’d do well not to talk back to someone who just saved your life.”
“I hardly think you’ll kill me now,” Kyle said.
“What makes you so sure?”
“It would be a waste. You’d have dulled your blade for nothing.”
A smile played on the edges of Stan’s lips. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Kyle,” said Kyle. “And you’re Stan.”
“That’s Captain Stan to you.”
“I thought proper captains went by their last names.”
“Well, this one doesn’t,” Stan said, a little ticked off.
“Why’s that?”
“I’m not such a fan of mine. It comes with rather the wrong reputation. Anyway, nice job changing the subject.” He jabbed a finger at Kyle’s chest. “Tell me. What did you do to risk your neck?”
“I stowed away,” Kyle said plainly. “And I tried to steal the captain’s dinner.”
“Ah.” It seemed Stan had been looking for something rather more exciting than that. “Well, I suppose that’ll do it.”
Kyle glanced portside, and then to the captain’s cabin. “I might go finish it now, actually,” he said, “seeing as he shan’t be wanting it.” And he began to march determinedly across the deck, weaving his way between pirates, carrying cargo to and fro.
Stan stared at him, rooted to the spot in disbelief. “Now, wait just a second,” he called, “I wasn’t finished with you!”
“What else is there to say?” Kyle said, before ducking inside the cabin. There were a few other pirates inside, rummaging through boxes and desk drawers. They raised their heads when he entered, but Kyle just waved a hand to dismiss them. “Don’t mind me. I’m only after the food.” He plucked the tray from the table and made a swift departure before anyone could contest his claim. He returned to the wooden crate and took a seat. The bread was stale. The soup was cold. To his empty stomach, it was the best meal he’d had in years.
Stan glowered down at him as he ate, arms crossed.
Kyle looked up from his food. “Can I help you?”
“You’re not in the least bit impressed by me, are you?”
Kyle studied Stan. His polished knee high boots. The gold thread of his topcoat. The too few buttons done up on his shirt. “No,” Kyle remarked. “Not particularly.”
Stan narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know why I bothered sparing you.”
“Was that all you did it for?” Kyle returned his attention to his meal. “So that I might grovel at your feet, and tell you what a brave little boy you are?” He heard an indignant huff but did not look up from his food until it was snatched from his grasp. “Oi!” he cried, springing up and making a grab for the tray.
Stan was too quick for him, darting backwards with a mischievous glint in his eye. He handed it to the nearest empty-armed crew member, with nothing more than a, “Deal with this.”
Kyle tried to follow his food, but Stan blocked his path. He stood on his tiptoes, peered over the captain’s shoulder as his food was carted away. “I was enjoying that!” he said in dismay.
“We have better food than a dead man’s meal on my ship,” Stan said.
“Bully for you. But I now have no food at all,” Kyle grumbled. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Funny, that.” Stan tilted his head. “You don’t strike me as the begging type.”
Kyle swallowed. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Stan scrutinised him a moment longer, before pivoting on his heels. “Come along then,” he said, as if Kyle were just another one of his crew. “We’ll find you something nice to eat.” He paused and scanned the deck. “Where is she?” he muttered to himself, before cupping his hands to his mouth, and calling, “Craig?”
Kyle couldn’t tell who this ‘she,’ was, for it was a boy that was summoned. One with dark hair and dark skin and very, very dark eyes.
“Yes, Captain?” His voice was melodic, lilted with an accent Kyle couldn’t quite place. Spanish, perhaps?
“I’m taking this one back to our ship,” Stan said, gesturing to Kyle. “Keep an eye over the rest of the crew and make sure none of our captives get any big ideas about liberation, won’t you?”
Craig shot Kyle the kind of look that suggested if Craig had been in charge, he might not have been so generous as to cut him down from the gallows. But he said only, “Yes, Captain,” and returned to his work.
“Who was the ‘she’ you were looking for?” Kyle asked as he followed Stan across the gangplank.
“That was her,” Stan said as he hopped back onto his own deck. “Craig, my first mate.”
Kyle craned his neck back. “That’s a girl?” Craig wore clothing loose enough that Kyle couldn’t pinpoint anything about her tall figure that was decidedly feminine.
“All of us dress like that,” Stan shrugged. “Long hair’s no good in battle – too easy to tug. And don’t get me started on sword fights in a skirt. Absolute nightmare.”
“Do all the girls have boy names too?”
“Just her.”
“Why?”
Stan sighed impatiently. “It’s all very complicated. Ask her yourself.”
Kyle thought of the death stare Craig had given him. Somehow, he didn’t think she’d appreciate his curiosity. He didn’t like the idea of facing her right now. Not on an empty stomach.