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Caleb Shaw is out of the skiff and flinging himself at the ladder before the little boat even touches the steep wooden side of the Penelope. Scrambling up hand over hand, not bothering with footholds, he hauls himself bodily over the rail and falls to the deck, breathing hard for a precious second before crawling up to his feet and scanning the deck desperately, looking, looking, there--
“Captain!” His breath isn’t back yet and it comes out weak and thready, but he’s already moving and the captain’s head is turning his way, and by the time Caleb reaches him he’s on his feet. Despite the fact that he has three inches of height and a stone of muscle weight on Captain Flint, he’s always been too intimidated to speak to him directly. Now, though, the urgency and anxiety drive any hesitation from his mind.
“Captain, Mr. Silver and Mr. Darby, they’ve been arrested. Just over an hour ago, in the tavern.”
The Shaw homestead is in the Carolina mountains, and before sickness had taken his Pa and the debts had driven Caleb and his brother to sea, he’d done a fair piece of hunting in those hills. More than once he’d watched a mountain lion coil down and freeze motionless before the killing leap, and he has a sudden, visceral sense-memory of that now, watching his captain go abruptly and chillingly still, down to the last flicker of an eyelash.
“Details, man. And give me your name again, you’re new to the crew, yes?”
“Yessir. Caleb Shaw, rigger’s mate. I joined up in Tortuga.” He’s got his breath back and his feet under him, and he has details to give. “There was about six of us, having a drink and a bite in the smaller tavern in town, over on the east side? Quiet as anything, no trouble. Two men came in in redcoats, but we paid them no never mind, not here in Maryland. One of ‘em recognized Mr. Silver I guess, because all of a sudden there was a gun in his face. Mr. Silver, he was smiling and everything, didn’t put up no struggle, and told us all to get back to the ship. The other man grabbed Mr. Darby on the first one’s say-so.”
“Fuck.” It’s spit hard as a bullet, and Flint’s eyes are cold and pale in a face like stone, and Caleb barely avoids flinching. That stillness still hasn’t left the captain, and somewhere in his gut, he knows he’s never in his life been in the presence of more danger than he is at this very second. “There’s an actual British presence in the town?”
He takes a deep breath and dips his head, tries to be smaller. A smaller target. “Yessir. I had a man follow, quietly. There’s a prison in the courthouse, and a barracks that looks new, in the town center.”
Those eyes focus in on him suddenly, diamond-sharp. “You had a man follow? And report back?”
“Yessir. If they gave them the slip we had to be ready. And if not, we needed to know where they are. I’ve two more men waiting with a punt down at the town dock, as a backup, and then the rest of us rowed back here. Barton says he counts ten, maybe twelve armed soldiers in the place, at least what he can see. He didn’t get inside but he’s still there, waiting. He’s quiet-like, no one ever takes no notice of him.”
Flint blinks at him. “Caleb Shaw, rigger’s mate?”
“Yessir.”
“And the men just did as you said?”
“Nobody else was doing much but panicking, if you’ll pardon me for saying so.”
“I absolutely will pardon you for that. You, stay with me.” Flint spins, suddenly a whirl of motion and color where before he’d been deadly still, and Caleb realizes there’s a crowd around them, all in various states of dismay. Darby, he knows, is well-liked. But Mr. Silver is adored.
He’d been hesitant, at first, joining a pirate crew. The merchantmen had been harsh, cold ships, run with fear as much as money, and tales of freedom and prizes had been tempting. The thought of all the killing had given him pause, but then the Penelope had appeared in port, with her pirate crew and her legitimate cargo, and he’d been lured away. Hearing the men talk about their captain and quartermaster--no matter their sleeping arrangements, and hadn’t that been a head-turner!--had sealed the deal. He’s never been on a crew where the men so clearly follow their leaders by choice, not force.
He follows the captain, as directed, but hangs back a little, mingling with the crowd of crew. A few of the older hands, the veterans, don’t appear to be worried, and he’s curious. He nudges one, a gun crew captain who’s missing half a hand, and angles his head towards the cabin where the captain’s disappeared.
“You don’t seem too upset about all this. Mr. Silver and Mr. Darby gone, likely to be hanged as not and quickly, too.”
The man gives a short laugh and shakes his head. “Laddie, ye’re new here. Last time a lover of our Captain was held by the Crown in a town on land, she was killed, and you know what happened to that town? It’s a wee smoking crater they once called Charles Town. Yon Captain shan’t be letting that happen again, and once he sets his mind to a thing, sure and it’s certain it’ll happen one way or t’other. And we didn't even know her, not at all. Nay, we’ll be gone from here and with Mr. Silver and Mr. Darby among us, and the only question is how much of this place will be left standing when we go.”
Caleb’s heard the stories, but he still finds himself more than a little skeptical. One man, a largish sloop-of-war, and a handful of pirates, some barely blooded, against British Colonial troops? He won’t say as much out loud, though, so he just nods in reply.
He’s always liked this ship, from the first time he’d set foot on her in Tortuga. She’s light to the wind and the rudder, and easy under his feet, no sharp movements or heavy, heaving lurches after the sails like the merchant ships on which he’d begun his life at sea. Now even she feels tense, though, taut in her anchorage, stiff to the waves rolling into Chesapeake Bay off the ocean ahead of what looks like a sharp late-spring squall. He kisses his fingertips and presses them to her mainmast. “Easy, lady,” he murmurs. “We’ll bring him back, don’t you fret none.”
“Mr. Shaw, I’d take it as a kindness if you’d stop romancing my ship and prepare to go ashore,” the captain’s voice, dry as dust at his shoulder, makes him jump. He’s not embarrassed, though. They all talk to the ship; a ship is their world, their mother, their bed and home and safety every moment at sea, and this one in particular is special. He nods respectfully to the captain and gathers his small satchel, his pistol, and his dagger from where they’d fallen by the rail, and prepares to go back over into the waiting skiff.
*
The ride back to town is a bit more crowded. Flint’s gathered most of the harder veterans, Caleb can’t help noticing, and they’re stuffed into the skiff like kippers, bristling with weapons. It would all be very intimidating if they weren’t forever poking each other and treading on each other and in one case, sitting on each other, and Caleb drops his chin to hide his smile where he’s tucked into the bow beside the captain.
“There was no time to ready the longboat,” Flint says out of nowhere, and when Caleb looks at him, surprised, there’s actually a smile tugging at his mouth under the red moustache. His jaw is still set like iron, though, and his hands, white-knuckled, are clenched one around the gunwale of the skiff and one on the handle of his saber.
Before they reach the jetty, Flint turns to face the rest of the boat.
“Listen, you lot.” He doesn’t raise his voice, but all motion in the skiff ceases, all eyes pin to him. There is steel in his tone and a note of command that has Caleb’s spine stiffening straight involuntarily. “Odds are, our Mr. Silver has already talked himself free and we’ll meet him strolling back to the tavern to finish his grog. Odds are, he’ll convince them it’s a case of mistaken identity. But I don’t gamble, and neither should you, when it comes to the life of a brother. I want all weapons camouflaged as best you’re able. Split into pairs and threes, and stay quiet, no trouble. Mr. Shaw and I will reconnoiter, gather all the information we can about the situation here, and then we’ll gather tonight by five bells at the town dock for orders.”
His eyes sweep the group.
“I’ll expect your very best tonight, gentlemen. As will Mr. Silver. And for those of you who’ve been thinking that this life is a bit too tame, too quiet for a pirate?” A white, deadly wolf’s grin stretches across his face, and his eyes glitter green in the late-day light, under the shadow of his brow, and Caleb suddenly thinks of Charles Town and his breath catches in his throat, “I believe tonight you will have your fill of action.”
Every man in the skiff is leaning in, nearly quivering with alertness, ready to go, and when the skiff bumps the jetty she’s tied up and emptied with military precision. The pirates fade into the dock crowd seamlessly, quietly, without a ripple, pistols and swords hidden in coats, and Caleb is amazed.
“We have done this once or twice before,” Flint informs him, checking one last time that the skiff tie is secure, nodding to Old Pete, who always stays with the boat to ensure it doesn’t wander off. He grabs an old, battered hat out of the stern and shoves it onto his head, hiding his hair and much of his face. “Now, take me to Mr. Barton. Discreetly, if you please.”
Caleb feels horribly conspicuous as he leads Flint through the narrow, twisting streets of the small town. His size has always set him apart, and now he’s with a notorious pirate captain on a rescue mission; surely everyone must know? But they make it to the town center without any hue or cry being raised, and the quiet bustle of a normal day flows around them as they stand near the corner of a house, eyeing the courthouse and the men around it. Barton spots them right away, and ambles over.
He really is the most ordinary-looking man Caleb’s ever met. Medium height. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Average skin, average clothes, average everything. If he wasn’t looking for him, he wouldn’t even notice him approaching.
“Cap’n. Mr. Shaw.” Even his voice is bland, but he is far from stupid, and casually leans against the wall, near but not too near. “They took them to the courthouse about fifteen minutes ago.”
“They looked well? Unhurt?” There’s a tight, vicious undercurrent to Flint’s voice that makes the hair on Caleb’s neck stand up.
“Looks like they took Mr. Silver’s leg away and gave him a crutch, but other than that they seemed well enough. Didn’t look too happy, though. Darby in particular looked to be like to spit nails.” Barton spits on the ground, as if in illustration. “Reckon they’re up to the magistrate right now for charges. Little bit I could overhear from the redcoats, Mr. Silver’s claiming he ain’t THAT Mr. Silver, they got the wrong one-legged man. The man what grabbed them, though, he says he was serving at the fort in Nassau under Governor Rogers, he says he knows him, saw him ten times at least. So it’s one man’s word against another.”
“And we all know whose word carries more weight in a colonial courtroom,” Flint finishes grimly. “Right. Well done, Barton.” He runs his hand over his face, rubbing hard at his eyes. “Normally, at this point in the proceedings, I’d have Silver make friendly with a local and determine the layout of the courtroom, get the rough location of the jail cells, at least. Goddammit.”
“I can do that, sir,” Barton says stoutly, still gazing out into the square. “Already got me a passing acquaintance with the man selling meat pies, I do.”
Flint chuckles, rough and grating but honest, and digs into his pocket as he shakes his head, seemingly at himself. “Take this. Pay the man for his pies, and more besides, and keep the rest. You’ve well earned it already, and likely to again before the day is over.” He glances at Caleb. “You and I, Mr. Shaw, are going to find a blacksmith. Then an apothecary. And then we’ll meet everyone back at the town dock. Five bells, Mr. Barton, don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain,” the man nods and wanders away, and Flint shakes his head again, this time as if settling himself, and then leads the way back into the town streets.
*
The approach and assault on the town hall is much more straightforward and less dramatic than Caleb had thought it might be, though it’s complicated by the great heavy set of blacksmith’s shears he’s carrying under his coat. First rule of jailbreaks, Mr. Shaw, Flint had told him after they’d snapped the lock off the smithy door and muscled their way inside to steal the shears. Never assume you’ll find the right key. Caleb, who had been assuming just that, had flushed guiltily, and Flint had slapped him on the shoulder with a smile.
Now they’re just...walking up to the small, low, white-painted building. Around them, in twos and threes, the men are doing the same, casually and slowly, nothing to garner any attention or alarm. It’s after the dinner hour and the last light of the sky barely illumines the street, but it’s enough to see Flint’s face twitch a little as a yelp and a burst of raucous laughter come from the open window of the hall, near where they think the barracks and cells are situated.
He’s been over the plan three times on the walk over, but Caleb still pins himself close to the black leather shoulders of Captain Flint, making sure not to tarry, making those shoulders his entire focus. As Flint makes his way to the door, he falls back just a step, enough for breathing room, and stands ready as Flint knocks.
The soldier who answers the door can’t be much older than Caleb, twenty at most, but he has a livid scar down his cheek that pulls his mouth up into a permanent smirk. He stares at Flint in his battered old hat, and Caleb behind him. “Do for you?” he bites out, not moving from the door, which is only partially open.
“We’re here to bring food and clothes to the prisoners,” Flint says politely. “Seems your magistrate has arrested the quartermaster and second mate of the merchant ship Penelope, and as her bosun, it falls on me to make sure they have the necessaries. We’d have come earlier, but word just got back to the ship.”
“The pirates?” The soldier barks a laugh. “That mouthy cripple and the other one? They’ll hang tomorrow, but if you want to pass them their things, I suppose that’s in order.” He eyes the bundle in Flint’s hands with clear avarice.
“I’d rather give it to them myself,” Flint demurs, still terribly, awfully, perfectly polite. Caleb chews his lip raw, hearing it. “Some things of emotional value, that’s all. And our Captain will want to hear the charges and evidence, of course. Bad for morale, having pirates on board.”
“Fucking merchants,” the soldier mutters, and turns away from the door, looking over his shoulder. “Sergean-”
Flint strikes. It’s so fast that if Caleb hadn’t been staring at his shoulders he wouldn’t have seen it at all. A dagger, up under the ribs and straight into the heart, and the soldier falls like a puppet with its strings abruptly severed. The silent mass of their men, still in the shadows and alleys around them, suddenly presses forward, and they’re in.
It’s faster and more brutal than anything he’s ever imagined. As they charge the room, four men push up, startled, from a low table in the mess, and they’re cut down, two by Flint, one by Caleb himself who swings wildly with his cutlass and is shocked motionless by the thunk and stick of it as the blade slices through a neck and hits bone. He has to tug twice before it will come free, and staggers back a step, not looking down at what he’s done, then forces himself after Flint, who’s already fighting two more men in a desperate struggle in the far doorway. Somewhere, someone is screaming, there’s a whistle blowing, a man shouts for the guard, and a gun goes off behind him. He can’t stop, so he doesn’t, and steps over two bodies to shoulder down a long hallway.
It’s dark in here and the doors are solid. The pie-seller had been right, and these are the cells. Flint moves frantically from one to the next, peering through the slide-holes, and then raps one. “Mr. Darby, here,” he barks out at Caleb. “Get him loose, now now now.”
Caleb wrestles the shears out of his coat, and fits the great sharp ends around the smallest part of the lock. Leaning all his weight on the handles, he says a prayer and shoves them closed, and the lock shatters. “Thank Christ,” he mutters.
Darby is standing on the other side of the door, his eye black and nose bloodied, looking anxious but otherwise well. “Mr. Silver?” he asks urgently, even as he’s pushing through the door and scanning the hall. A soldier breaks through the doorway and charges them; Darby grabs Caleb’s gun from his belt and in one smooth motion raises it and shoots him between the eyes. “Fucker,” Darby spits, and shoves his bloody blond hair behind his ears.
“Over here. NOW, goddammit,” Flint’s voice from the end of the hall has them moving fast, Caleb with the shears and Darby reloading the pistol. Caleb doesn’t even look, just gets to work on the lock. It’s harder, against the wall like this and with no good angle, but his Ma had told him once that God had given him all that size for a reason besides eating her out of house and home, and maybe this is it, because he grits his teeth and braces against the door and forces the shears to close.
The lock breaking free is the sweetest sound he can imagine.
Flint has the door open instantly and is moving inside. “Fuck, fuck!” he’s chanting, and this can’t be good, so Caleb follows him in.
Mr. Silver is chained to the wall by both hands above his head, hanging with most of his weight on his wrists. With only one leg to support him, he’s twisted cruelly trying to hold himself up. But most tellingly, there’s a rope gag tied punishingly tight around his head, forcing his mouth open. One of his eyes is swollen shut, and the other seems barely to focus on them as they move.
Flint’s at his side in two great steps, one arm around his waist and the other his chest, lifting him out of his slump and taking the pressure off his arms. Silver makes a harsh, pained sound in his throat and Flint murmurs something quiet to him that Caleb can’t quite hear.
“Even after they punched him in the face a few times, he wouldn’t stop talking,” Mr. Darby says grimly, getting to work on the gag with his dagger, careful near Silver’s hair and his ear. Caleb starts in on the shackles, his own anger, always so slow to rouse, finally heating a coal-fire in his belly and his mind and making his heart hammer hard and slow and mean. They did this to Mr. Silver for talking?
“He never stops talking. Hey. Silver. Are you with us? John.” The captain has his hand on Mr. Silver’s face and is leaning in, so close, and his voice is an aching quiet thing, and Caleb can’t look, it’s too private.
“Izzat Billy?” The cracked, hoarse voice brings Caleb’s eyes around even as the last link breaks, and Silver’s one open eye is fixed right on him. He looks at Flint. The Captain’s face is chalk white, his eyes blazing. He looks like Death. And who the fuck is Billy?
“That’s Caleb Shaw. Billy’s gone. Come on, we have to get out of here. Come on, Silver.”
“He’s not walking anywhere, not like that,” Darby offers from the door. “Hallway’s clear for now. Sounds like the fight’s moved out into the main hall.”
“Good men,” Flint says, and then grunts as Silver slips and staggers, falling against him heavily.
“Dizzy,” he slurs, his hair all over his face and head hanging down, and the despair and pain on the captain’s face are as clear to Caleb as if they were written large on a page.
“Captain? I can carry him.” He can’t believe he’s saying this. Mr. Silver will famously slice anyone to bits with his tongue for so much as offering him a hand in assistance boarding the ship. But these are dangerous times and Jesus, the man can’t come to more than Caleb’s shoulder, and they really need to get out of here now.
“Do it,” Flint orders, that desperate look sliding off his face as if it had never been, and Caleb leans down and gets a shoulder into Mr. Silver’s midsection, then stands up as easy as anything, gets an arm around his legs, and strides towards the door. He weighs about as much as some of the big deer Caleb had hauled home off the mountain ridges just this same way, and he’d been no more than sixteen, then.
“The big ones do come in handy, don’t they?” he hears Mr. Darby say behind him, but he’s too focused on not stepping on dead soldiers to pay much mind.
Behind him, a quick scuffle, a choked-off scream, and then they’re clear of the mess room, and then the door, and they’re out into the street. He can hear distant shouts and inside the building there is still fighting to be heard, clang of steel, cursing, the crash of something large being broken. Mr. Silver is limp over his shoulder and Caleb takes a quick moment to make sure he’s still breathing.
“Get him back to the ship.” Caleb turns carefully. Behind him, Flint is standing by the doorway, saber in one hand, pistol in the other, pure wild fury on his face now that the rescue is nearly complete. “Old Pete has the supplies we got from the apothecary, make sure Silver sees DeGroot right away, he’s the closest thing to a surgeon we have.” Flint grins, and it’s all teeth and blood. “We’ll be joining you shortly.”
“Aye, Captain.” Darby throws a quick, sloppy salute, and Caleb starts an easy jog-trot back towards the docks that he hopes won’t shake Mr. Silver’s poor head too terribly much.
They have to duck and evade running town guardsmen twice, though they see no more Colonial Regulars in their red coats. By the time they get to the docks, Caleb is breathing hard, and his shoulder is aching, but he hasn’t slowed.
More than half of the men have already returned, scattered around the dock, waiting. Some are in the skiff already, and Caleb makes his careful way to them, not even really noticing Mr. Silver shifting around a little until the voice against his ribs says, quite clearly,
“What the fuck?”
Caleb almost drops him, but recovers in time. One more step and he’s crouching down on legs that only tremble a bit, and shouldering Mr. Silver across to waiting hands in the skiff. A low, nasty murmur runs through the men as they take in their quartermaster’s condition, as they ease him into a comfortable semi-sprawl in the bilge, propped against knees and given space to breathe. Caleb hops in after him, protective and hovering, and leans down to confirm that Mr. Silver is indeed awake and in his right mind.
“Someone tell me what’s going on, right fucking now.” His voice is weak and rough, but aware, and Caleb breathes out hard in relief.
“We done rescued you,” Old Pete cackles from where he’s straddling the stern thwart, hand on the stern line and ready to cast off at a word. “Right from under their stinkin’ noses, we did.”
“You did fuck-all,” someone grumbles from the dock, and the men are trickling in close, Silver’s arrival signaling that the night’s action must be nearly over.
“God, my head,” Mr. Silver groans, and his shaking hand touches his closed eye gingerly, then flinches away. “Tell me, gentlemen, and tell me truly: do I look as bad as I feel?”
“Oh, worse, lad,” Mr. Darby informs him cheerfully, and then a massive BOOM and roiling red cloud of flame and smoke jerk them all to attention towards the center of town.
“That’ll be the Captain, then,” Old Pete says thoughtfully.
“He was right pissed,” Darby agrees, getting comfortable in the bow. “Never seen him like that before, really. Course I wasn’t there at Charles Town.”
“Oh shit,” Silver whispers, and then struggles to sit up, and finally makes it, though he’s swaying a little and his hair is still all over his face, making him look deranged. “Shit. You left him there? Christ. I like this town!”
“Aye, we did. And if they hadn’t been such bloody cunts to you and Mr. Darby, we’d likely have left the place standing. But you know how he gets.” Barton shrugs. He had been at Charles Town, Caleb recalls hearing.
“Did we ever meet with the harbormaster?” Darby asks Mr. Silver, who has to think about it for a moment or two before shaking his head once and then wincing himself still.
“No, thank god. The Penelope can stay the Penelope and not break our captain’s literary heart. You, me, half the crew, though. We might have to pick new names again.”
“Look on the bright side, lad. Maybe none of them are left alive!” Darby grins at him, and Caleb laughs and is immediately and completely appalled at himself.
“And you.” Mr. Silver’s attention is now on him, which he really had hoped to avoid. “May I remind you that--”
“Captain’s on his way in!” A hissed whisper from the dock is followed by a surge of men into the boat, and Caleb does a quick head count. They’re missing just one, that’s better than he’d hoped, and there, at the very last, there’s the Captain. He’s lost his hat and he’s bloodied to the elbows, but he looks fifteen years younger and his smile is real, now, as he glances into the boat and sees Silver sitting up, the men arrayed around him, and Silver smiles back.
“Back to the ship,” Flint orders, landing lightly in the skiff, though there’s barely any room at all. “We’ll need to catch the tide and beat this squall out of the harbor if we’re to avoid any unpleasantness.”
“You’re a madman,” Mr. Silver tells him wonderingly, even as Old Pete casts them off and six of the stoutest bend to the oars with a good will. Then he--and Caleb blinks to make sure he’s not imagining it--kicks Captain Flint. With his one foot. Twice. “A madman! You couldn’t just sneak in and break me out quietly?”
“Now where would be the lesson in that?” Captain Flint still hasn’t stopped grinning, but he crouches down by Silver’s hip, and reaches to stroke wild black curls away from Silver's face, and Caleb looks away, gives them what little privacy he can in this crowded skiff, in the dark, surrounded by the killers who would die for them.
*
Later, in open water, running before a strong easterly wind and with captain and quartermaster tucked up safely in their cabin and not seen nor heard from in nearly a full day, newly-promoted Bosun’s Mate Caleb Shaw seeks out the old gun crew captain he’d spoken with earlier.
He finds him on second watch in the late afternoon, checking the gun transoms and doing something complicated with the wheels that Caleb really can’t quite understand. He hands the man his rum ration, an offering, and when he gets a raised eyebrow in return, he sits on a barrel of powder and shrugs.
“I didn’t quite believe you, before. When you said not to worry. But I get it now.”
“Ach, laddie.” The veteran grins at him, showing gaps of missing teeth. “I woulna have believed it myself if I hadna been there. And that’s not even the best of the stories. I’m sure you’ve heard tales of the Urca gold? Well, from one who was there, it’s a fair tale and wilder even than the legends. Let me tell you a story about a Spaniard named Vasquez…”