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The sky was an almost painfully bright blue, not a cloud in sight to interrupt the boundless expanse. Major Benjamin Tallmadge knelt on the sun-warmed planks of the Sparrow's quarterdeck next to her captain, first mate, and bosun, a pistol – or, in Ben’s case, a sword – trained on each of them. The rest of the crew was corralled midships, guarded by a handful more of the pirates that had chased them down.
Truthfully, there hadn’t been much chasing involved.
After the cry of Sails! had been raised, and the portentous lack of colours confirmed, the Sparrow’s captain had initially tried to outrun their pursuers. When the futility of the effort had become clear, however, he had reluctantly run up the white flag.
“This cargo ain’t worth my men’s life,” he’d declared, and Ben had swallowed any objections he’d thought to raise about fighting them off. Even with his limited naval experience he could tell that the Sparrow, a merchant vessel, was heavily outgunned. The captain’s choice had proven a prudent, if somewhat galling one once the pirates had caught up to them and accepted their surrender happily, if entirely too sardonically, apparently content to refrain from gratuitous bloodshed.
Not that Ben had necessarily expected them to kill them all where they stood. If growing up with his father had taught him one thing, it was to consider the nuances of any subject on which he espoused his polemics. And his recent studies confirmed Ben's conviction that piracy was merely a symptom of much more complex underlying ills.
Still, one didn’t grow up on New Providence, and especially not with Nathaniel Tallmadge, without being imbued with a certain fear of the dreaded pirate menace – even if it had been quite some time since Ben had been home. In London the past eight years for the purposes of furthering his education and entering a military career, Ben was returning to New Providence at the behest of his father.
So went the polite version, at any rate.
As eager as he’d been to leave for London all those years ago, so reluctant was he now to come back – which had less to do with the place than with who, and what, awaited him there. Not that he could have remained in London. All told, while not much had been able to cut through the fugue state in which he had spent the majority of the crossing, he couldn’t help welcoming this delay as one might a stay of execution.
Even if it did come with the indignity of being held at the tip of his own sword.
The pirate currently wielding it, a woman nearly a head shorter than Ben, had bid him kneel next to the other three men with some relish – but not without drawing his sword from its scabbard first, reaching for his belt with shocking familiarity. Brown eyes had sparkled at him out of a sun-bronzed face as he’d fought a blush, the sharp rasp of sound inordinately loud in his ears.
A swift movement drew him from his thoughts, and he watched as a fellow who’d just leapt up the steps to the quarterdeck spoke to his captain. He was bouncing a little on the balls of his feet even as he stood, his back to Ben, as though unable to contain his exuberance. Likely at the extent of their haul, Ben thought drily. Sweating under the thick material of his uniform he was just marvelling at the pirate's long leather coat, surely too hot for these climes, when the man half turned, following some indication by his captain – and Ben’s jaw nearly dropped clean to the planks.
With the rakish angle of the wide-brimmed hat admitting the sun’s bright rays there was no mistaking just who was standing but a few yards away. The familiar face was more weather-worn and the beard significantly more abundant than the last time they had seen each other, but Ben would know him anywhere.
“Caleb?”