Chapter Text
Blackbeard – the Kraken – stands tall on the deck, whip in hand. Three days, the first mate has been skulking belowdecks, neglecting his duties, and he will receive three dozen blows.
‘Door’s locked, Captain,’ says Ivan, returning. ‘But he says he’s coming.’
First Blackbeard hears the tap of that stupid cane, then a shuffling, scraping sound. The assembled crew are silent, then Frenchie gasps.
Izzy Hands is unwell. His face is bone white, cadaverous; his cheeks sunken and his eyes bulging. One hand is tightly twisted around the handle of the cane; the other, clad in its customary leather glove, twitches. But no-one is looking at his hands or face. His left leg is mottled black and purple with gangrene, the foot black entirely, and raw red flesh visible from a badly tied bandage just below the knee.
He meets Blackbeard’s eyes. ‘Yours to the death,’ he says, then his eyes roll back and he falls to the deck.
Blackbeard’s lip curls. He is trying for disdain, which he doesn’t feel; or disgust, which he does, though as the seconds pass it is flooded out by a tide of fear, remorse and sorrow: feelings he thought he had sunk fathoms deep.
‘Um, Captain?’ Frenchie is kneeling by Izzy, feeling for a pulse. He looks afraid, as though Blackbeard might reprimand him for having moved.
‘Is he dead?’ There is still no emotion in his voice.
‘No Captain.’ Frenchie gently touches the bandages. ‘I think he tried to cut his own leg off, sir.’
‘Take us to a surgeon.’ He shouts it at Fang and Ivan, who look up at him aghast. Blackbeard knows as well as they do that there is no surgeon within a hundred miles, but the Kraken cannot conceive of giving a command that is not obeyed.
Rage drowns out the softer feelings. Rage is terrible, but it is an old friend, and easier than love.
Stede Bonnet is an educated man, a man of reason, and his reason tells him that they are all going to die on the desert island. He is also a man of sensibility, much given to feelings: to sadness, guilt, regret, though as the hours wear into days, such complex sentiments are smothered by hunger and desperate thirst. But there is a third thing too, beyond what he thinks or feels. He knows that Ed will come back for him. Stede Bonnet is a man of faith, and his god is love.
So when he sees the sail on the horizon, there is a tiny part of him which is not surprised.
When Stede he sees Ed over the taffrail. His heart flutters and his parched face relaxes into a smile. ‘You’ve come for us,’ he says.
Ed is sporting a new look – perhaps a tad too much eye make-up, but fetching nonetheless. He holds on to the ladder with one hand, muscles taut, as his eyes rove among the crew. Then he points. To … Roach? ‘You!’ He says. ‘You’re coming with us.’
‘Ed …’ says Stede. But it is as though he is invisible.
There is a scuffle on the deck. Ed looks up to see Jim peering down. They are holding a gun, but are not pointing it.
‘Are you … threatening me?’
‘No,’ says Jim. ‘But we will take Olu too.’
Blackbeard glares, but gives the nod.
Frenchie, still on the Revenge, raises a hand. ‘Um … can we take Pete? He owes me some money from a bet.’
There is some murmuring. ‘Actually,’ says Ivan, ‘Wee John owes me as well. And the Swede.’
‘Shall we just take them all and sort it out later?’ says Fang.
Blackbeard grinds his teeth, but he doesn’t say no.
Back on the ship, Stede has to walk past Blackbeard to get to where the others are gathered, passing round two skins of water. For a moment they are close enough that Stede feels the warmth from his body, and his heart does something funny. But Blackbeard turns away his face, looking upward.
Stede barely feels the water as he gulps it down.
(‘But I don’t owe you anything,’ the Swede is muttering slowly.
‘You do now,’ Ivan hisses. ‘You owe me your life.’)
Roach protests as Blackbeard takes his arm and pulls him away. ‘Um … boss,’ he’s saying. ‘You know I’m not a real surgeon? I don’t think I can–’
‘You are the nearest thing to a surgeon within a hundred miles,’ says Blackbeard. ‘And if he dies, you will die.’ His eyes scan the crowd again. ‘You will all die.’
‘I will need more water and some bread,’ says Roach. ‘My hands are shaking. And then some men to hold him down.’
Stede steps forward to volunteer.
For the first time, Ed looks at him: a small, disdainful glance. ‘Men,’ he says. ‘Not you.’
Stede paces the deck. Frenchie is bringing out plates of bread and fried fish; pitchers of water and tea. Ivan and Fang are assisting Roach. Jim and Olu have gone off somewhere, and the others sit around in small groups, eating and drinking. What talk there is, is hushed.
‘Do you really think he’s going to kill us all?’
‘I think he’ll try.’
‘Maybe Izzy will live.’
‘You didn’t see him.’
They all hear him though. A shout. A curse. A scream quickly muffled. Another scream, shrill, then worse noises, broken, heavy, heaving.
Stede’s heart hurts. He doesn’t exactly like Izzy Hands, but that’s not the point, is it? How did everything get so broken, he wonders.
‘Poor wee fucker.’
‘Will they be done soon?’
‘How long will it take for his leg to grow back?’
‘That’s not how it works.’
‘Like teeth?’
‘Like teeth.’
‘Fuck.’
‘He wouldn’t really kill us all, would he? He doesn’t like killing.’
‘He killed Lucius.’
He … what? Stede looks up.
But then a door slams, and Ed stumbles up to the deck, staggering to the taffrail. He heaves a few times but is not sick, then he slumps down and sits with his back to the side of the ship, legs apart. ‘Izzy told me to fuck off,’ he says, to no-one in particular.
‘Ed …’ But Stede doesn’t know what to say next. I’m sorry? At least he’s his usual self then? Where is Lucius?
Instead he sits down next to Ed – not too close, but close enough that if Ed reached out, they could hold hands. Ed does not reach out.
‘I kind of went a bit crazy when you left,’ says Ed. ‘Do you know what happened? To Izzy, I mean?’
‘Sort of?’
‘What kind of mad fucker makes their only friend eat his own toe?’
‘I’m your friend.’ Stede supposes that isn’t the point, but it came out before he thought about it.
‘No, Stede. You’re not. And then I told him to clean himself up. But you know what Izzy’s like at self-care. He limped around for a few days … well, half limped, half strutted, because you know Izzy. And I could see the wound going bad, the rot spreading, but I was so fucking wrapped up in myself that when he went and holed himself up in the linen closet I thought he was sulking.’
‘Everyone makes mistakes.’ It sounds weak, even to Stede. ‘Don’t be too harsh on yourself.’
Finally, Ed turns to him. ‘I’m not, Stede. It was you who made me crazy. I’m being harsh on you.’
Roach staggers more than walks onto the deck, blinking in the sunlight, his apron daubed with blood. Ed springs up and takes him by both shoulders. ‘Well?’
Roach shrugs. ‘Leg’s off,’ he says. ‘He wants me to ask you if he’s supposed to eat that too. And if he throws it up, whether he’s supposed to eat the vomit.’
Ed groans. ‘Can I see him?’
‘You’re the captain, Captain. But if you try, I think he’ll try to leap up and rip your throat out, which would probably bust the stitches.
From below they hear a long-drawn-out cry, high and weak.
‘Um … Captain,’ says Roach. ‘He said I was to say it’s a real question. About the leg, I mean. Do you have an answer?’
‘Of course I don’t want him to eat it. Throw it overboard before Buttons gets hold of it. Is Stede allowed below?’
Roach shrugs again. ‘He didn’t say anything about Stede.’
Ed’s eyes blaze. ‘Go,’ he says, directly to Stede. ‘Go and look at what you did.’